Till Death Do Us Part

The faint glow of the setting sun glistened on the ripples of the Jhelum, as the ripples moves away one by one. The wind coming from the North-westerly direction, murmured as they passed through the Chinar leaves. As far as her eyes could see, the banks on both sides of the river Jhelum was green with Eucalyptus and Chinar trees. The fields extending beyond the banks, were aflame with ripened wheat. Cornelia was savouring these few moments of peace with herself, before Cleon would eventually come back with the message that she already apprehended. ‘She stood by the palace window, tall and still, gazing absently at the blurred distance. She had two choices: both unattractive, out of which, she would have to take a decision.’ Her mind flitted back to the horses that she had seen with the pair of horse-traders who had come to the palace grounds the previous morning. The trader had promised to return with a white Arabian horse. Horses were Cornelia’s passion. As a princess, she had by default taken military lessons, and unlike her timid step-sister Loudois, she was very skilled at horse-riding.

Dusk was descending on the valley, like a pall of gloom. Her heart was held hostage, and she felt like she was struggling to break free, just like that pigeon, which was enmeshed in the fine nets covering the terrace. Before she could make a move, Cleon was already by the bird’s side, gently disengaging its claws from the net. The very small golden capsule attached to the bird’s neck, came to both the maidens’ notice almost simultaneously. The looked at each other with amazement, while the white messenger pigeon sat on Cornelia’s shoulder as her white downs glistened whiter in the fading light.

“Prince Antiochus has dispatched general, Hector, with the permission of the Emperor, who will be arriving at the palace by the Jhelum in a couple of days and has asked for the privilege of audience with princess Cornelia, my Lady,” Eugene, the other, lady-in-waiting, bowed. Cornelia’s eyebrows furrowed. The very name of Antiochus, made her blood boil. Antiochus, her eldest step-brother, and Cornelia’s own mother were engaged in an illicit relationship. The Emperor had found his son and his second wife Stretonis in bed, and his weakness had not allowed him to punish either of them. Antiochus was his first born from the Persian princess Apama and he loved him dearly. So instead of punishing them, Emperor Seleucus Nicator had married off his legal second wife, Syrian princess, Stretonis to his eldest son and had given him the governorship of the Babylonian part of the Seleucid empire. Cornelia had never known, what it was like to have a mother. All the motherly love that she had ever received was from, her step mother, Apama, Antiochus and Loudious ‘s mother. The very name of Antiochus and Stretonis brought up varied distasteful memories, it brought bitter bile up her throat, and today, that very Antiochus had, had the audacity to force his choice, ‘Hector’ as her probable suitor. Hector was a general in Seleucus’s army and was loyal to Antiochus. Cornelia, had every reason and the will to rebel against this choice, but it had come to her ears that, an Indian ‘Satrap’ who was not of aristocratic bearings had defeated the great Mauryan emperor Dhanananda, who ruled over the entire North and North Eastern part of India, killed him in a battle with the able guidance of his minister cum mentor, Chanakya, and had sent a messenger to her father’s court, asking for her hand in marriage.

Cornelia was forced to wind up her memories, as it was time to light the lamp at the Temple of Apollo. She was torn by the desire to read the message that the messenger pigeon carried, but her sister Loudois, stepped into her room at that moment. Loudois, picked up the golden cylindrical object from Cleon, and exclaimed in astonishment, “this seems to be a message” and excitedly, she wound the knob on the top of the cylinder, and took out a rolled-up piece of paper. To the amazement of all present, a replica of Cornelia was drawn on the paper, that was all that was there, and it was simply signed off as ‘your secret admirer’.  Loudois, Cleon, Eugene, all stared at Cornelia. Cornelia was even more amazed than the other three. It seemed to be straight out of a fairy tale. The details of her face had been depicted almost perfectly. One thing was quite evident. The sender of the message was not an ordinary person. He seemed to have considerable artistic skills as well as substantial money and power. It was not within the ability of a common man to acquire, tend to and train messenger pigeons, that too with gold cylindrical message capsules.

It was already dark and the tiny lights on the boats plying on the Jhelum. The blind goat herder was playing his flute like every other day, as he walked back to his mud dwelling. Such uncomplicated, existence, Cornelia thought as she yearned for a simpler life. She had craved for love and affection all her life, wished for an uncomplicated way of life, hoped to wake up in the arms of the person who would love her, unreservedly, but she shook her head with a wane smile, it was Not to be! Never to be! She was the princess of the mighty Seleucid Empire, a pawn in the power game. She gathered herself and held Loudois’s hand as the sisters came down the stairs and walked up the steps towards Apollo’s temple.

Emperor Dhanananda, of the great Nanda dynasty, of Pataliputra, had once insulted and thrown out one of his ministers, Acharya Chanakya, who was one the ablest of administrative advisors to Dhanananda, for what he considered as arrogance on the Acharya’s part. Chanakya left the court in search of livelihood but never once did the idea of getting even with mighty emperor leave him. He had once spotted a few boys playing in the fields, one of the boys had dressed up as a king and had regal bearings. Acharya Chanakya’s instincts told him that the child had promise. He enquired about the boy’s antecedents and came to know that his father Sarvartha Siddhi Maurya was the chieftain of a small principality and that his mother’s name was Mura, both of whom had been killed by Mahapadmananda. Chanakya picked up the boy and asked him, “will you be my disciple?” to which, the boy had answered “yes, if you help me kill, Dhanananda.”.

More than a decade had passed and Chandragupta had established the Maurya dynasty in Pataliputra, after routing the Nanda dynasty completely. He had married Durdhara, his cousin. It was evening, and the Nagchampa flowers were in full bloom near the window, outside his chamber. Oil lamps adorned the heavy brass chandelier that hung from the ceiling. The pillars were lightened up with oil lamps placed in their grooves. Chandragupta was resting with his hands behind his head. Mandakini was near his feet, playing the Veena. His mind fluttered to a vision. He was doing the rounds of his empire as a commoner, disguised as a horse-trader. Acharya Chanakya was with him. He was in the habit of executing this exercise intermittently, so as to check on the corruption in his kingdom. They had wandered towards the western flanks of his empire by the Jhelum and had come upon a palace, facing the Jhelum. Chanakya had warned the emperor that it apparently was a Greek palace. It was then that Chandragupta had chanced upon this vision, a vision that he was never to forget. A Greek Goddess in flowing white robe with her curly golden mane was wandering up and down the terrace. The sunlight had washed her entire being and she did not seem human. That vision reminded him of the legend of The Helen of Troy. “This was how, Helen must have seemed to Paris, when he had first chanced upon her, Chandragupta mused. From that day onwards, that light falling on the golden hair of the lady on the terrace never left the Emperor. In his waking hours, in his dreams, that vision lingered in his mind.

The emperor seemed restless and interrupted, the rendition. “Mandakini, do you know of anyone who knows Greek well?” Chandragupta asked as he sat up on the chaise. Just as she was about to answer, Mandakini, saw the reflection of empress Durdhara entering the room. Durdhara was expecting her first child. Mandakini bowed before the royal couple as she left the room. Durdhara seemed very agitated. She had met the spiritual Guru of Chandragupta, an Ajivik seer named Bhadrabahu, who had foretold that, the child that Durdhara was carrying would lose its life because of a cat. “I want you to kill all the cats in your empire, my Lord” Durdhara pleaded to Chandragupta. “Do you hear me, My Lord?” she repeated. Chandragupta was lost in his thoughts, and Durdhara’s sharp words seemed to break his trance. “I shall certainly see that your wishes are carried out, Maharani”, Chandragupta pacified her. “Meanwhile you need to rest as it is quite late.”

After Durdhara left, Chandragupta’s chamber, Mandakini sneaked in again, this time with another lady. “Maharaj” Mandakini, said while pointing out to the new entrant, “this is Shivani, she was captured by Alexander and served in his army as a lady-in-waiting and she knows Greek, quite well.” Shivani prostrated in front of the king.  Chandragupta said, “I need you to do two things for me, Shivani, but before that, I need you to swear complete secrecy, not even the Acharya must know about this.” Shivani stood nervously before her emperor. There was nothing that she would not do for her king. She had been saved by Chandragupta, and now she was leading a comfortable and respectable life in the palace premises. She knelt and looked up at Chandragupta, “your wishes are sacrosanct to me, my king, I shall never divulge your secrets, even if I am faced by death.” “Shivani, I need you to teach me Greek, but before that, right now, I want you to write a letter for me in Greek”. Shivani sat at the foot of the chaise, where Chandragupta sat, with a paper and a duck feather pen in her hand.” Chandragupta started off by “My beloved, from the time, that I have set my eyes on you…”

Cornelia was seated in her royal attire with her ladies in waiting, as General Hector, sent by Prince Antiochus, entered her chamber. He saluted the royal lady and transferred a royal note from the Emperor Seleucus Nicator himself.  The letter stated that, since the times were not favourable and that because a pall of war hung in the air, Seleucus had started withdrawing and consolidating his troops from the far ends of his empire to Seleucia, his capital city, and for the very same reason, he wanted Cornelia and Loudois to return with General Hector to Seleucia in a week’s time. This meant that Cornelia and Loudois had to leave with the entire household within a couple of days. Cornelia was doleful. She loved to stay in this palace, by the Jhelum, far removed from the aristocratic pageant and display of wealth and power. She loved the quiet life by the Jhelum, her morning spent in the gardens, her evenings on the terrace or at times on the royal boat on the Jhelum. She cherished her time spent alone at the temple of Apollo. She doted on Loudois’ daughter Hermes with whom she spent a lot of time and entertained her, as Hermes’ father, Nicomedes another general in Emperor Seleucus’s army was away in Persia. Cornelia wanted to spend her last evening in the royal boat on the Jhelum. The cool breeze soothed her mind. She wistfully looked around the ethereal settings and wished that she would one day, come back here. She was so engrossed in her thoughts that she did not notice a white pigeon with a similar gold cylinder tied around its neck, sitting atop the mast. Loudois was the first to notice and it tamely flew down and sat on Loudois’ hand. The message was extracted from the capsule which read, that Cornelia’s secret admirer was enamoured by her beauty. Not a moment passed that he did not think about her and that one day they would surely meet. The message was in Greek and left Cornelia wondering. By this time, she had started taking an interest in the writer of the letter. The anonymity of the writer intrigued her, but she was sure about one thing, that, someone of extremely high calibre was doting on her.

General Hector was attracted to beautiful Cornelia and as the party proceeded towards Seleucia, with Hector at its head, through forests and plains, with heavily armed guards surrounding the convoy, Hector kept up a conversation with Cornelia. Hector had been promised Cornelia’s hand, by Antiochus and he felt that he had already gained right over her. General Hector was famed for his bravery and like most of the Greeks, he was very handsome. His sword glistened as he rode alongside, Cornelia’s horse. The convoy had stopped for lunch, and Loudois, Cornelia and Eugene, along with Loudois’ daughter Hermes were seated beneath a tree. Lunch had been laid out and Hector was about to join them. The murmur of the leaves reminded Cornelia that she had left behind precious memories, perhaps to none of which, she would be able to go back again. She would never know who her secret admirer was, who had observed her so keenly that he had succeeded in drawing her face so flawlessly. Surely, he would never find her again, as she was leaving her location at a very short notice. She sat absent-mindedly and picked at her food. Loudois observed her sad face and urged her to complete her lunch as they still had a long way to go. Meanwhile, hector joined them at the makeshift table and in a blink of an eye, there was a sword to his throat.

All of General Hector’s guards were on the ground, weapon-less and totally helpless. An Indian contingent of highly skilled soldiers had surrounded the entire convoy. Loudois clasped hold of Hermes and Cornelia and held them to her breast while shaking uncontrollably. There was chaos all around. The man who was holding a sword at Hector’s neck, asked all the ladies to calm down, all asked Hector to surrender his weapons. Hector instantly abided by his orders. The man who was holding Hector seemed to be the leader had his face covered by the end of his turban. He spoke softly “I will only need a few minutes with Princess Cornelia”. As Loudois gasped and clutched onto Cornelia even more tightly, the man assured them that no harm would come to any of the ladies. He then lightly took Cornelia’s hand, while another soldier held on to Hector. The man gently guided a shaking Cornelia to a distance and uncovered his face. It was a very handsome face, but the most striking factor in the face was the pair of eyes. The eyes were very deep and said that this person could be relied on. The man spoke as he knelt before Cornelia, “I am Chandragupta Maurya, The Emperor of the Mauryan dynasty, and I have loved you with all my heart, dear Helen, from the time, I have set my eyes on you. I could have taken you away today, this instant, but because I respect you my Princess, I shall take your hands with your father’s consent, either by love or by force”. He added, “from today onwards, you Helen, are betrothed to me”. With these words he stood up, held his Helen close and kissed her hands as the rays of the fading sun remained a mute spectator and a witness to a royal love that would go down in the annals of time.

The rest as they say, is history.

Author: Jayeeta Sen Roy

ছোট হাসি, ছোট ব্যাথা - ১

পালং শাক ও ব্রেনোলিয়া


জীবনে প্রথম বোর্ড পরীক্ষা তিন বার দিলাম। না না! সৎ পাত্রের দ্বিতীয় সংস্করণ ভেবে বসবেন না যেন। খাড়ান…বুঝিয়ে বলি। ১৯৮৭ সালে এক্কেবারে প্রথমটা। সেবার অনেকটা এর গুরুত্ব আর তাৎপর্য না বুঝেই দিয়ে ফেলেছিলাম। সেই সময় পরীক্ষার্থীর বাবা মা এর এমন পাগলপারা দশা হতে দেখতাম না। তবে এর ব্যাতিক্রম ও আছে, যার উল্লেখ সময় পেলে পরে করবখন। দ্বিতীয় বার দিলাম পুত্রের সঙ্গে, ২০১২ সালে। সে বার আশঙ্কা, উদ্বেগ, জোশ, সবই তুঙ্গে। রাত দিন এক করে ছেলের সঙ্গে লড়ে যাচ্ছি । তখনো ওয়াটসঅ্যাপ এর পান্ডেমিক দ্বারা পৃথিবী আক্রান্ত হয়নি। উপদেষ্টা মণ্ডলী তখন মুঠোফোনেই যথেষ্ট সক্রিয়।

ওয়াকিবহাল মা এর দল, নিত্যনতুন গাইডলাইন প্রচার এবং রটনাতে ব্যাস্ত। আমাদের মত গুটি কয়েক মা, যারা বাচ্ছাদের গেটে ছেড়েই হন্টন দেয় বাড়ির দিকে, গোল  টেবিল সম্মেলনে যোগদান না করে, তারা তখন বাকি মা দের করুণাপ্রার্থী। 

বার বার তিনবার।কন্যার প্রথম বোর্ড পরীক্ষা শুরু হয়েছে।এবার উঠে পড়ে লেগেছি। যে সব কিছু প্রথমবার করা উচিত ছিল আমার, কিন্তু করিনি বলে পরে হাত কামড়েছি, সেই সমস্ত করিয়েই ছাড়ব। মেয়ের মধ্যে কোনও আশঙ্কা, উদ্বেগ অথবা সংশয় গোচরে আসছে না। আমি চেঁচামেচি করে ফেলছি, আমার সুকোমল প্রবৃত্তি গুলোতে কর্কশতা প্রকাশ পাচ্ছে, এই পরীক্ষার গুরুত্ব বোঝাবার চেষ্টা করছি আপ্রাণ। কন্যা হেলা ভরে তাকিয়ে বলে উঠছে “চিল মা, টেনশন নিও না” । সবাই বলে দিয়েছে এত বড় মেয়ে কে বেশি বকাঝকা করা চলবে না, মায় আমার বাবা পজ্জন্ত বুঝিয়েছে আমাকে, যে বেশি বকাঝকা করলে কোন কথা আবার মনে আঘাত দিতে পারে, (সেই বাবা, যে বাবা সন্তান শাসনের ক্ষেত্রে একমাত্র ধাঁইধপাধপ পদ্ধতিতেই আস্থা রাখতেন, বেশি কথা বলে শক্তিক্ষয় করাতে উনি বিশ্বাস করতেন না।) আমি দাঁত কিড়মিড়  করতে করতে স্বগোতক্তি করছি “তুমি সামান্য টেনশন নিলে তো আমাকে আর টেনশন করতে হত না বাছা”।

এই সময় গুলোতে সামান্য দার্শনিক ভাব দেখা দেয় আমার মনে। আমার মনে হয় যে আমরা একটা ‘স্যান্ডউয়িচ জেনারেশন’, আজ পর্যন্ত বাবা মা এর উপদেশে ঘাড় ডান দিকে কাত তো ছেলেমেয়ের নির্দেশে ঘাড় বাম কাঁধ ছোঁয় । আবার মূল বক্তব্য থেকে বিপথে যাচ্ছি,(বয়স যে হচ্চে তার লক্ষণ)। বয়স হবার আরো দুটো লক্ষণ প্রকট আমার মধ্যে, এক-পুরনো ছবি ঘাঁটা, দুই-পুরনো ঘটনার স্মৃতি নিয়ে নাড়াচাড়া করা।

সেই সুত্র ধরেই মনে পড়ে যাচ্ছে আমার প্রথম বোর্ড এক্সাম এর সময়ের পরীক্ষার থেকেও ভীতিদায়ক কিছু স্মৃতিকথা।

আমরা, মানে আমি এবং আমার দুই ভাই চক্ষু মেলা ইস্তক দেখে আসছি যে আমাদের পরিবারে, হোমিও আর আয়ুর্বেদ এর ওপর অগাধ ভরসা। একদিন নিমপাতা কাঁচা চিবিয়ে খাওয়া, তো পরের দিন চিরতার জল লম্বা গেলাসে বরাদ্দ। উইকেন্ড হাইলাইট ও ছিল। হু হু। ছাড়াছাড়ি নেই কো। আমার ঠাকুরমা, যাকে দাদি বলে ডাকতাম, তিনি, কালমেঘ পাতা বেটে এমন সুচারু ভাবে বড়ি দিতেন রোদ্দুরে, যে সেটা প্রায় শিল্পের পর্যায় চলে গেছিলো। এই বড়িগুলো আমাদের রবিবার সকালে বরাদ্দ ছিল। এরকম অনেক অনেক উদাহরণ দিতে পারি আপনাদের, কিন্তু আপাতত ‘আই সি এস ই’ আমার প্রথম বোর্ড এর সময়ের গপ্পো। ক্লাস টেন এ উঠতেই আমার মা কার যেন পরামর্শে একদিন ‘ইউরেকা’ মার্কা হাসি নিয়ে একটা কালো বোতল এনে আমার বিছানার পাশে টেবিলে রাখলো। বোতলের গায়ে লেবেল সাঁটা, লেখা আছে ‘ব্রেনোলিয়া’। মা শুনে এসেছে যে এটা নিয়মিত সেবন করলে ‘মাথা খোলে’। শুরু হল সকাল রাতের অত্যাচার। বিশ্বাস করুন, মুখে রা কারিনি কখনো। সাহসই ছিল না। কেমন খেতে ছিল, সে নিয়ে আর নাই বা কিছু মন্তব্য করলাম।

পরীক্ষা আরো এগিয়ে এলো। আমাদের সময়ে দিনে দুটো করে দুই ঘণ্টার পেপার হত। প্রথম দিন ছিল ইংরেজি প্রথম ও দ্বিতীয় পেপার, স্পষ্ট মনে আছে। আমাদের ছিল হোম সেন্টার। পেপার ওয়ান দিয়ে বেরিয়েছি, বন্ধুদের সঙ্গে আলোচনা করতে করতে।গেট এর সামনে অনেক গুলি উদবিঘ্ন মুখের মধ্যে আমার মায়ের মুখটাও চোখে পড়ল। হাতে টিফিন বক্স, কাঁধে ফ্লাস্ক। গেট এর পাশে দারোয়ানের ঘরের সামনে এক চিলতে জায়গা তে পাম্প স্টোভের ওপরে ছোট কড়াতে তেল গরম করছেন এক কাকিমা(এক বন্ধুর মা), লুচি ভাজা হবে গরম গরম। আলুর দম সাথেই এনেছেন উনি। মার্চেন্ট অফ ভেনিসের মলাটের ব্যাসানিও, শাইলক, পরশিয়া, অবহেলিত হয়ে ফ্যাল ফ্যাল করে একে অপরের দিকে চেয়ে আছে। সব বন্ধুরা কাকিমা কে ঘিরে ধরেছে।গন্ধটা নাক অবধি পৌঁছনোর আগেই মা আমাকে টেনে নিয়ে গিয়ে বসালো, প্রিন্সিপাল এর অফিসের সামনে চওড়া সিড়ির ধাপে। কয়েকজন বন্ধু গুটি গুটি পায়ে আমার টিফিন বক্সের দিকে। পর্দা উঠল, মানে, আমার টিফিন বক্সের ঢাকা খুলল। কয়েকজন ঝুঁকে পড়লো... ভিতরে পালং শাক সেদ্ধ, নুন গোলমরিচ ছড়ানো, অল্প মাখন দেওয়া, আর ছোট্ট একটা স্টীলের কৌটো তে একটা সন্দেশ। যাঃ এটা হতে পারে না, আরো টিফিন কৌটো আছে নিশ্চয়!... ফ্লাস্ক এর মুখ খুলে এক গ্লাস ‘ট্যাং’ অরেঞ্জ ড্রিঙ্ক, মা পরম মমতা ভরে এগিয়ে দিলো আমার দিকে। চারপাশে বিভ্রান্ত দৃষ্টিতে চেয়ে দেখলাম, যেমন ডুবন্ত মানুষের খড়কুটো ধরতে চায়, অনেকটা সেরকম। কিন্তু আশপাশ দেখলাম নিমেষে শুনশান। আমার ব্যাক্তিগত বিপর্যয়ে কেউ পাশে দাঁড়ায়নি আমার। শুধু সেদিন না, যে কদিন পরীক্ষা চলেছিল, একদিনের জন্যেও মেনু তে কোন বদল ঘটেনি মায়ের। সোনামুখ করে খেতে হয়েছে। পরবর্তী পেপার গুলো কে যত না ভয় পেয়েছি, বোধহয় তার চেয়ে বেশি ভয় পেতাম টিফিনের সময়টাকে।

পরিসমাপ্তিতে একটা কথা। আমার মায়ের আজো দৃঢ় বিশ্বাস যে আজ আমার আর ভাইয়ের যেটুকু ‘ব্রেনোচিত’ উন্নতি, সেটা শুধু ওই পালং শাক সেদ্ধ আর ব্রেনোলিয়ার গুনেই। একেবারেই অকাঠ্য যুক্তি, বিরোধিতা করার কোন জায়গাই নেই!

কলমে : জয়ীতা

THE CALL OF TIME

The gurgling of water soothed my senses. The mild cool breeze was playing with my hair. Sitting on a boat, dressed in a white dhoti kurta, typical of a Bengali babu, I was cruising down a river, when a cacophony caught my attention. There was a gathering of people on the next ghat, and their loud shouts and hurried moves made me strain my eyes. A small hut and the shrubbery around it near the river bank was on fire and as I neared the river bank to take a closer look, my boat was engulfed in flames too. The flames were catching up with the bow, it was lapping up the oars. A harsh discordant mixture of sound seemed to get louder. Some people from the bank were gesticulating towards me to jump into the river. The fire was feeding on the breeze and inching towards me slowly. I could smell its hot breath. Its tongue was tasting my face in light gentle licks. I turned towards the river and jumped into it. The cold water broke my stupor.

Sunlight was pouring in through the window and swathing my torso. I could still feel the heat and smell the burning timber. I gazed up to the monotonous circular movement of the ceiling fan. The intermittent screech that emanated from it, grilled into me that this was reality, that I was actually here. Where else was I supposed to be in? Why did this thought even cross my mind? The past few days I have been sleep deprived. A good night’s deep sleep was something that would heal me and it is something that I am yearning for. But that sleep has been evading me for days now. I am actually dreading my sleep time. Every sleep episode meant a dream episode, where, I was being traumatized. For the past week, I have been plagued every night with nightmares. Nightmares that seemed too real, memories of which crawled under my skin and gave me goosebumps. Vestiges of those larger than life dreams always kept a part of mind occupied. I rubbed off the droplets of perspiration on my forehead, and was lost in contemplation, when my Sneha, my daughter came and nudged me. “Papa aren’t you going for your work today?” I was a senior research fellow at The Archaeological Survey of India and was serving a tenure as a guest lecturer at Jadavpur University.

Hours at the University offered me some respite. It steadied my spirit and inspired me. The excitement associated with youth, youngsters brimming with energy lightened my burdened mind. Hectic schedules, classes took my mind away, temporarily, from the recurrent dreams, which was a breather for me. There was a gap between two classes, and I decided to spend time at the library in order to utilize that time leafing through some reference books and taking down notes for my next class. This was happy space for me and I was deep into notes and books when my focus was diverted by an acrid smell, which seemed to pervade the hall. Curiosity pushed me up and made me walk towards the source of the smell. To my utter consternation, I came upon a bookshelf in flames. The dry pages were on fire and were making a crackling sound. I shouted out at the other people in the library but everybody else excepting myself was engrossed in reading or in undertone conversations and nobody seemed to notice. I reasoned with myself that this must be another of those spells of mine, that I must have dozed off at the reading table and I was experiencing one of those undefinable string of dreams again. I tried to be logical even though I was in a dream. I tried fervently to dismiss it from my thoughts, but the acrid smell kept growing stronger. This was becoming much too weird for my comfort and in order to end the controversy in my mind, I stretched out my fingers to touch the burning books. A sharp cry woke me up from my dormancy. My fingers were red and scalded, and the amazement and bewilderment that I felt was much more than the pain that I experienced. I was living in a half-awake and half- asleep environment. I couldn’t discern between the real and the unreal world. Which was real, my scalded finger or the fact that I had dozed off?

I was scared as I took short steps to the area behind the departmental building which was unkempt with overgrown shrubs, grasses and trees of every variety. Perception battles were being fought in my mind and I needed solitude. I sat down at the corner of a bench, opened my shoes, put my chin on my knees and settled down to think and to collect my thoughts and to try to rationalize.

The strangest thing about this strange journey is that it began with a word. “Pratigachchhati”, somebody whispered in my ears. the word was like the swishing of the leaves. I looked around, startled “Pratigachchhati” this time a little louder. A man in ochre robes, dirty and frayed was peering at me from a bench below a mango tree. His head was clean shaven and he was seated in the lotus posture. “Pratigachchhati” this time he beckoned to me. I was drawn towards him. “you need to go back, son”, he uttered in a very mild voice. “Back?!” I asked perplexed. “Are you asking me to go back home?” I asked. He had the kindest of smiles. “I am asking you to go back to your Mula” he replied. I looked up quizzically at his face. “What exactly do you mean by, mula, baba?” I asked again. He smiled benevolently. “mula…roots” he said. Then without a word more, he slithered down the bench and walked away as suddenly as he had come, into the darkness, where the trees were jostling for space. I needed to go back home, but something was pulling me back.

A bearded royalty was groaning in pain. The setting was that of a palace. Brass lamps and chandeliers illuminated the room and the light of the lamps reflected from the golden walls. Vulgar opulence was present all around. Intermittently he was cursing his wazirs and shouting out for his Hekim, who was trying to help him. Here I was again, in a dream-like reality, where I was able to see, understand and realize so many things, but was unable to interfere in any way. “Devdutta” somebody called out and I walked towards him. I was walking the corridors of an enormous building which seemed like a University. Countless students were crisscrossing each other’s paths. The Dharmaganja, the central library of the university towered over all the other buildings, sparkling in the golden hour. A gong sounded in the distance and the students and monks in orange robes quickened their steps towards it.

“His Holiness Acharya Rahul Sribhadraji wants to meet you at Ratnasagar of Dharmaganja, Devdutta” a shraman, bowed before me before delivering this message. Ratnasagar was one of the three famed libraries which constituted the Dharmaganja, the other two being the Ratnodadhi and the Ratnaranjaka. It was all coming back to me. I was a Bhikkhu at the famed University of Nalanda. This was where the individual and collective history of mankind was made. The University breathed life into the knowledge compilations accumulated over time immemorial from across the world. Subjects ranged from Ayurveda, Hetuvidya or logic to Samkhya, Atharvaveda to Philosophy Law, Architecture and City Planning.

Acharya Rahul was seated at the feet of the Siddhartha Gautama. A brass lamp was burning in front of him. The atmosphere was distractingly beautiful as Gautama’s kind and benevolent gaze wiped out all uncertainties that I suffered from. The air was heavy with incense, and the smell of Champa drifted in through the window. Acharya’s face was peaceful like always. His Citta followed the ekayana magga or the direct path to moksha. Moha or delusion had failed to divert his stride towards nibidda or disenchantment. “I shall entrust you with a very crucial task, Devdutta” he pronounced, while looking straight into my eyes. “I need you to lace the pages of Quran that the Tehsildar, Bakhtiyar Khalji reads five times every day, with this powder”. “I need you to enter his jenana and to carry out this confidential task” he added as he handed out a glass jar half-filled with of white powder to me.

News was all around that the tehsildar Bakhtiyar Khalji was on his death bed and his hekim had failed with all the medicines in his armory. Acharya Rahul Sri Bhadra had been summoned to the court of the tehsildar and had been ordered that the Acharya needed to cure the tehsildar without administering any medicines. To this outrageous order, The Acharya had simply asked the tehsildar to read his Quran regularly. As the tehsildar thumbed through the pages, and touched his lips with his fingers, he took in the medicines inadvertently, which the pages of the Quran had been laced with. The tehsildar was cured. Instead of being pleased, the Tehsildar was infuriated with the fact that the medicinal knowledge of Buddhists were superior to that of the knowledge of the Hekims in his court. To add oil to fire, I was soon discovered and dragged out from the jenana and with the excuse that he had been cheated.

On the pretext that he has been cheated, Bakhtiyar Khilji, the tehsildar of Mirzapur torched Nalanda. As the inferno roared and engulfed in its flames, it withdrew from the history of mankind, every bit of knowledge, skill, philosophy and wisdom, that man had acquired and accumulated tenaciously, through many sacrifices over hundreds of years, so as to make it available for the future generations. The bhikkus, sramans and acharyas were made to kneel in front of the main building and they were beheaded by quick swishing of swords. The roar and the glee of the mass murderers after each murder was curdling my blood. It was as if my blood was flowing in form of my tears as as I watched haplessly.

Nalanda burned for days and for months. The corner of each of the pages of the books curled itself up in the fire and turned into black soot, and took away with them ancient and valuable knowledge that would take many more years to reach again. My world was being pulled apart, as I stood like a ghost in midst of the glow of the orange burning embers. I was born into this world and will be born into another and will always be at the cusp of unavoidable disaster. I was walking the beaten path to another world where my realization and my experiences would always haunt me.

I woke up from my untimely slumber, and from that moment on wards, as I realized the reason behind my painful dreams, the dreams kept recurring lesser and lesser, till they stopped haunting me forever. I was forever relieved of my past burdens. I was back from my journey, a spectacular one. One which had taken me to the deepest corners of my subconscious, forwarding me to my mundane existence.

ভাষা কে ভালোবেসে

                          ঘটনাক্রম-১                     

২৩ ফেব্রুয়ারী ১৯৪৮ সাল। কন্সটিটুশানাল আসেম্বলি অফ পাকিস্তান এর দ্বিতীয় অধিবেশন বসেছিল করাচীতে। পাকিস্তানের রাষ্ট্রভাষা কি হবে সেই নিয়ে চলছিল জোর বিতর্ক । এখনকার বাংলাদেশ তখনো বাংলাদেশ হয়নি, ছিল পূর্ব পাকিস্তান। মহম্মদ আলি জিন্নাহ ছেয়েছিলেন যে উর্দু পাকিস্তানের রাষ্ট্রভাষা হোক, কারন, তার মতে, উপমহাদেশের মুসলমানদের দাবিতে মুসলমান রাষ্ট্র পাকিস্তান এর সৃষ্টি, এবং তাদের ভাষা উর্দু । ফলেই, পাকিস্তানের ছয় কোটি নব্বই লক্ষ নাগরিকের মধ্যে চার কোটি চল্লিশ লক্ষ মানুষের ভাষা বাংলা হওয়া সত্ত্বেও, উর্দু পায় রাষ্ট্রভাষার তকমা, আর বাংলা কে সরকারি ভাষা হিসেবেও কোন স্বীকৃতি দেওয়া হয়না।  এই মর্মে ১১ই মার্চ ১৯৪৮ এ, বাঙালিদের আপত্তি এবং সোচ্চার প্রতিবাদ সত্ত্বেও এই ভাষা বিল গৃহীত হয়। এর থেকে প জন্ম হয় বাঙ্গালীর জাত্যাভিমানের।

১৯৫২ সালের ২১ ফেব্রুয়ারীর সকাল। মায়ের ভাষার সন্মান রক্ষার্থে, ঢাকা বিশ্ববিদ্যালয়ের ছাত্ররা ধারা ১৪৪ অমান্য করে আন্দোলন শুরু করে।  ঢাকা মেডিকেল কলেজ এর সামনে আন্দোলনকারী, সালাম, বরকত, শফিক, জব্ব্রর, রফিক, আরো কত নাম না জানা মায়ের ছেলেরা পুলিশের গুলিতে শহীদ হন। এরপরে সাধারন মানুষ কে আর আটকে রাখা সম্ভব হয়নি, নানান নির্যাতন সহ্য করেও তারা বুক চিতিয়ে দাঁড়ায় । ভাষা আন্দোলন এবার তীব্র গতিতে ছড়িয়ে পরে। এই হত্যাকাণ্ড, মাতৃ ভাষার দাবিতে গড়ে ওঠা আন্দোলনকে আরো ইন্ধন যোগায়।

অবশেষে ১৯৫৪ সালে ৭ই মে গণপরিষদের অধিবেশনে বাংলাকে পাকিস্তানের দ্বিতীয় ভাষা হিসেবে স্বীকৃতি দেওয়া হয়। মাতৃ ভাষা নিয়ে এই আন্দোলনই সেদিন বীজ বপন করেছিল বাংলাদেশ নামক একটি স্বাধীন রাষ্ট্রের।

                           ঘটনাক্রম -২

১৮৩৮ সালে ব্রিটিশ প্রশাসন, ইংরেজির সঙ্গে বাংলাকেও সরকারি ভাষার স্বীকৃতি দেন। ১৮৭৪ সালে, ঠিক ৩৬ বছর পরেই, তাদের ভাগাভাগির খেলা শুরু হয়। তারা অভিভক্ত বাংলা কে ভাগ করে গোয়ালপাড়া আর শ্রীহট্ট এই দুই জেলা কে নবগঠিত আসামের সাথে জুড়ে দেয়। একটি অঞ্চলের মানুষের দীর্ঘকালের স্বকীয় পরিচিতির তোয়াক্কা না করে তাদের ওপরে চাপিয়ে দেওয়া হয় অন্য অঞ্চলের ভাষা আর সংস্কৃতির ধারক হবার বোঝা।

১৯৪৭ সালের গণভোট শ্রীহট্ট জেলার ওপরে আবার আঘাত আসে। গণভোটে বরাক উপত্যকা ভারতে থেকে যায়, বাকি চলে যায় পূর্ব পাকিস্তানে। দেশ ভাগের পরে মূলত হিন্দু উদ্বাস্তুর ঢল নামে  পশ্চিমবঙ্গের সাথে সাথে আসামেও। আসাম প্রশাসন প্রমাদ গোনে। তাদের জমি ও জীবিকার ওপরে চাপ সৃষ্টি হওয়া তে, এবং সংখ্যাগরিষ্ঠতা হারানোর ভয় তাদের কে নিরাপত্তাহীনতায় ভোগায়। এর ফলে, প্রশাসন সিদ্ধান্ত নেয় অসমিয়া ভাষা কে সঙ্খ্যাগুরুর ভাষা হিসেবে প্রতিষ্ঠিত করতে হবে। এর ফল স্বরূপ, ১৯৪৮ সাল থেকেই আসামে শুরু হয় জাতিদাঙ্গা। ১৯৫৫ সালে এই দাঙ্গা চরমে পোঁছয়। ১৯৬০ সালে ঘোষণা করা হয় যে আসাম রাজ্যের ভাষা হবে শুধুই অহমিয়া। এতে ক্ষোভে ফেটে পরে বরাকের সংখ্যাগরিষ্ঠ বাঙালিরা। এর প্রতিবাদে গড়ে ওঠে ঐতিহাসিক ১৯ এর ভাষা আন্দোলন। বরাক উপত্যকার বাঙালিদের ওপরে অহমিয়া ভাষা চাপিয়ে দেওয়ার বিরুদ্ধে প্রতিবাদ করতে ১৯৬১ সালের ৫ই ফেব্রুয়ারী ‘কাছাড় গণ সংগ্রাম পরিষদ’ নামক সংগঠনটির জন্ম হয়। ১৯ মে, শিলচর, করিমগঞ্জ ও হাইলাকান্দি তে হরতাল ও পিকেটিং শুরু হয় ।

একটা  রাজ্য সরকার, তার রাজ্যের অন্য ভাষাগোষ্ঠীর ওপর তার পছন্দের ভাষা চাপিয়ে দিতে চেয়েছিল। তার প্রতিবাদে বরাক উপত্যকার বাঙালিরা উল্লেখযোগ্য ভূমিকা নিয়েছিল। এই প্রতিবাদ দমন করতে রাজ্য পুলিশ রাজ্য প্রশাসনের অনুমোদনে গুলি চালালে ১১ জন আন্দোলনকারী শহীদ হন। প্রথম মহিলা ভাষা শহীদ কমলা ভট্টাচার্যও এই বরাক আন্দোলনেরই ফসল। এই ঘটনার পর অসম সরকার, বরাক উপত্যকায়, বাংলা ভাষা কে সরকারি ভাষা হিসেবে ঘোষণা করতে বাধ্য হন।  

এতো গেলো তথ্য আর সংখ্যা নিয়ে কচকচানি। কিন্তু এই তথ্যে পরিপূর্ণ নিবন্ধে আবেগ এর জায়গা কোথায়? যে আবেগের তোড়ে খড়কুটোর মত ভেসে গেছিলো সমস্ত নৃশংসতা, সমস্ত প্রতিরোধ। পৃথিবীর বুকে আমরাই একমাত্র জাতি, যারা তাদের ভাষার সন্মান রক্ষার তাগিদে আমরা রক্ত ঝরিয়েছি । যে ভাষা এত আকুল করেছে বাঙালি জাতি কে, যে ভাষার জন্যে জল মাটির শরীর থেকে গর্বিত লাল রক্ত ঝরেছে, যে ভাষা আমার, তোমার চেতনা কে সজীব করে রেখেছে, সেই ভাষার প্রতি আবেগ, ভালবাসা আজ এত তলানিতে কেন? যে ভাষা কে জীবিত রাখতে, যার সন্মান তুলে ধরতে আমরা রক্ত দিয়ে তাকে সিঞ্চন করেছি, সেই মুখের ভাষা কে আমি, তুমি, চলো, বুকের ভাষা করি। আগামী প্রজন্মের সামনে আমাদের ভাষা আন্দোলনের গৌরবময় ইতিহাস কে তুলে ধরি, চলো ।

উনিশে মে আর একুশে ফেব্রুয়ারি

~ কবি অমিতাভ দাশগুপ্ত

বুকের রক্ত মুখে তুলে যারা মরে

ওপারে ঢাকায় এপারের শিলচরে

তারা ভালবাসা-বাংলাভাষার জুড়ি

উনিশে মে আর একুশে ফেব্রুয়ারী

সিঁদুর কুড়িয়ে নেওয়া যায় এক আলো

প্রাণের পুণ্যে হয়ে ওঠে জমকাল

সে আলোয় দেয় মারের সাগর পাড়ি

উনিশে মে আর একুশে ফেব্রুয়ারী

সে-আলো টলেনা মৃত্যুর কালো ঝড়ে

তর্জনী তুলে জেগে থাকে ঘরে ঘরে

দুলিয়ে গলায় তাজা বুলেটের মালা

পার হয়ে শত শ্মশান ও কারবালা

হাজার মুখের মিছিলে দিয়েছে পারি

উনিশে মে আর একুশে ফেব্রুয়ারী।  

তথ্য সৌজন্য – গুগল।

THE CHANGING SEASONS

Supratik, the Chief of Police and Internal Security at Ujjain, walked rapidly up to the riverside, just as the body was being fished out. The officer supervising the operation turned around and saluted his commander immediately. Supratik returned the salute and treaded cautiously towards the slippery slope of the Shipra.

‘It’s a lady, sir, around twenty to twenty-five years of age, must have belonged to an aristocratic family, sir’, the supervising officer started his brief, as he followed Supratik around, closely. The upturned body now lay on the sandy embankment. Black hair matted with wet clay from the water covered her naked shoulders and her back. Two men from the police force were in the process of turning her face up. Her diamond nose-pin glittered in the sun. Her orange red choli and dhoti were wet and dirty from the dirt and muck, but in place. ‘Apparently there are no wounds or marks on the body’, the officer continued.

Moonlight flooded the white terrace of the palace. It spilled through the lattice work on the boundary wall on the terrace, forming intricate patterns. It flowed from the trellis of the Madhvilata vine, which wound its way up the pillars to the small temple of Shiva on the corner of the terrace, where Mahadev was seated in eternal trance. It cascaded down the black hair of the Mahadevi and swept up to her white, lotus petal like toes, who was seated on a marble pedestal, supported by four lotuses. Her regal face bore a mark of anxiety as her friend and confidante Madhavsena was ailing and unwell and indisposed for the past few days. In addition to that, her husband, Maharajadhiraj was away, fighting the Kshatrap Rudrasimha. Word was on its way, that their victory was imminent. However, she could not stop worrying till, she was wrapped securely in her Chandra’s arms. The administration of the kingdom was de facto in the hands of the wise Mahamantri Dasrath Sharma, who was the principal advisor to Maharaj Chandragupta Vikramaditya.

The palace and all its female occupants were under the care and control of the Mahadevi, the queen, Dhruvasvamini, and their well being was topmost on her mind. One of her hand-maidens, bowed and stood before her, waiting for her permission to speak. ‘yes! Speak up, Mitra’, the Mahadevi, Dhruvasvamini said. ‘Mahamantriji, seeks your audience, Mahadevi’, Mitra uttered. Mahadevi Dhruvasvamini, looked upon Dasrath Sharma as a father figure. From the time, she had set foot in this household, five years back. Dasrath Sharma was a very kind and benevolent man, and the Mahadevi, accorded him with a lot of respect. She quickly walked down to the audience room, where, the Mahamantri, stood up and bowed. ‘Mahadevi, I bring some ominous news’ he uttered. ‘I was informed by the chief of the police forces, Supratik, that a body of a royal lady had been fished out from the Shipra river, near the Mahakal temple. Upon further enquiry, the identity of the body has been established and it seems that it is the body of Chitra, the chief maiden of Madhavsena.’ ‘But you must be mistaken, Mahamantriji’ retorted Dhruvasvamini, her face aghast. I spoke to her only yesterday night when I had been to Madhavsena’s quarters.” Mahamantri, kept his head bowed and kep silent. Mahadevi, clapped for Mitra and asked her to bring Chitra to the audience room. But Chitra was nowhere to be found even after multiple searches by the ladies in waiting.

Mahadevi, slowly sank down to a settee. She looked up blankly to the Mahamantri. ‘The body has been sent for autopsy, but apparently there does not seem to be any mark on the body, excepting for a very small cut mark near the neck’, Dasrath ji added. ‘Mahadeviji, I ask you to keep your eyes and ears open, something here is not right.’ ‘How is Madhavsenaji, doing now?’ The aged man enquired…are the Ayurvedacharya’s medicines, reaching the palace on time, regularly, Mahadevi?’ Dhruvasvamini, nodded in assent.

Mahadevi Dhruvasvamini was in a pensive mood, as she sat on her bed. Madhavsena was her friend, from childhood, when she was the princess of a small principality in Saket. Madhavi, as Dhruvadevi, fondly called her friend was like a sister to her, and she was very sick and not responding to medicines by the ayurvedacharya. Her fever was not subsiding and she had stopped taking any food for the past couple of days.

Dhruvadevi, was alone in the half-lit rooma, the aroma of nagchampa incense swathed her chamber. Despite the cool, air from the balcony, she tossed in her bed. She went back to her childhood, and the images that came to her seemed larger than life.

Madhavi holding her hand as they are running across yellow mustard fields…Madhavi and Dhruva, worshipping the Rudra on Mahashivratri…Madhavi, eyes red, after Dhruva is delirious in fever after a bee has stung her…Maharaj Samudragupta asking for Dhruva’s hand in marriage to his son, the crown prince Ramagupta, after seeing her practicing archery, when he had stayed for a night in their palace on his way to Magadha…Madhavi accompanying her to her new home in Ujjain, never leaving the young, timid bride’s side as Dhruvadevi accompanied the young and dashing Ramagupta to Ujjain. All the pictures were so vivid. The first few months of marriage were like a dream. Ramagupta was besotted with his new wife. Those months were months of romantic balladry. The cruises down Shipra, on moonlit nights, the evenings filled with musical soirees by eminent musicians, the gems from Ceylon, for her, new jewelleries for the new queen each day, hunting trips to the nearby Pradesh. Life was moving in a whirl for Dhruva until one day, when life left her grounded again. Through the fine mesh curtains of her bedroom, in the warm yellow clay lamp lights, in the same aroma of Nag Champa, Madhavi’s lean naked body was wrapped inside Maharaj Ramagupta’s embrace, as their lips hungrily seeked each other’s. Dhruva’s tears flowed down her face for the entire night.

The next morning, she was a different person altogether. Life had given her the first lesson about the changing seasons of life.

Memories of that fateful day sharply invaded her string of thoughts. Ramagupta, Dhruvasvamini accompanied by the king’s younger brother Chandragupta had set out for mrigaya, a hunting trip. They had strayed into a deep jungle near Ujjain, when they ran into a small army of Rudrasimha, the Kshatrap king. The realised that they had strayed into enemy territories. The Kshatraps were Sakas whose power and authority were in the wane and they had suffered many a defeat in the hands of Samudragupta. They were more in number and circled the small band of hunters. The Kshatrap king Rudrasimha was smitten by the beauty of Dhruvadevi and offered to grant the entire Gupta hunting party a safe passage, only if they left Dhruvadevi behind. Dhruva’s eyes glowed like amber in the dark, as she remembered Ramagupta, her husband, the custodian of her pride and security, give in to Rudrasimha’s demand without even batting an eyelid. The only person who protested was Chandragupta, her brother-in-law, but his voice was not heard by Ramagupta. That night, when Dhruva was being decked by the Kshatrap women to be taken to Rudrasimha’s tent, Dhruva’s tent was invaded by Chandragupta and a few of his closest aides. The held the Kshatrap women prisoner and asked Dhruvadevi to sit quietly in her tent in the dark. Meanwhile, Chandragupta, dressed up in Dhruva’s attire, left for Rudrasimha’s tent and killed him there. The Kshatraps were without a leader and put up a sordid defence, which Chandragupta won with ease.

Back home, in Ujjain, Dhruvadevi still remembered her disgust and the sickening feeling when Ramagupta tried to get intimate with her without even the slightest of remorse. ‘I am your husband and your body is mine, either by your will or by my force’ Ramagupta retaliated when she tried to push him back. That was when she asked to see her father-in-law, Maharaja Samudragupta.

The memories were like a cascade now…one after the other, they came to the sleepless eyes of the Mahadevi. ‘I do not consider your son, Ramagupta, as my lawful husband anymore, Maharajadhiraj’ Dhruvadevi spoke out to Maharaj Samudragupta, in his court. There was pin-drop silence, as the nobles waited for the fateful declaration of death sentence from the Maharaj’s lips. However, to everyone’s surprise, and to Ramagupta’s consternation, Maharaj Samudragupta, granted Dhruvadevi a chance to argue her case as to how and why the marriage should be nullified. In an unquavering voice, Dhruva, pointed out, that according to the dictums laid out by the Mahamati Chanakya, a wife could nullify a marriage on five counts, for five reasons, one amongst them being, if her husband deserted her. Since her husband had left her in the hands of the enemy, their marriage had dissolved that very day, as Ramagupta had given her up. She further declared, that she did not wish to continue with her marital vows and desired freedom from this bondage, which did not have her soul sanction anymore.

Samudragupta, being the man that he was, listened to both sides of the argument, not only granted annulment of the marriage to her, but also asked for her forgiveness, on behalf of his coward son and requested Dhruva to stay on in Ujjain, not as Ramagupta’s wife, but as a princess of Ujjain, as Samudragupta’s daughter.

The curtains of her memory rose to the day, when she became fatherless, after the passing away of Maharaj Samudragupta. Ramagupta was to ascend the throne, and fearing for her security, dignity and life, Dhruvadevi, requested, Chandragupta to accompany her to Saket, her paternal home. As plans were afoot for the royal escape, Ramagupta came to her room one night and claimed her by force. She is brutalised by him. The next day as she lies in pain, her entire body aching, she contemplates ending her own life after suffering such indignity. Madhavi comes to her chamber and sits down beside her after a very long time, applying balm on her bruises. In the past year Madhavsena had gained a lot of importance in the royal household, owing to her proximity to Ramagupta. Dhruva looks up startled when a drop of warm water falls on her face. Madhavsena was crying, just like old times, at her pain. The two friends, hug each other and cry their heart out. Their hearts which had drifted, comes back together to forge an even stronger bond.

The curtains raise again, as Chandragupta stands with his head bowed in front of Dhruvadevi. ‘I consider this my personal shame, Devi! I shall surely avenge this insult’. Chandragupta is stooping down on his knees, crying. As Dhruva holds his hand, Chandragupta asks her, if she would accept him as her husband. The glow of that memory, blinded all the dark spots that her life had harboured till then.

Shift to next scene, crown prince Ramagupta is found dead in his room a few days after the death of Samudragupta. There are no bruises or wounds on his body, excepting for a small cut mark near his neck. It is quite obvious to all that it is the doing of Chandragupta, but nobody seems to be too unhappy about the unfolding of events. Chandragupta ascends the throne and assumes the title of Vikramaditya. He marries Dhruvasvamini or Dhruvadevi and she assumes the title of Mahadevi. Dhruva finds the man that she has been looking for all her life in Chandra.

Dhruva is soon going to be the mother to an heir to the throne. She is cherished by Chandra. Madhavsena has been taking care of her. It’s her bedroom again, the same smell of Nagchampa incense, the same glow of clay lamps, the same Madhavsena, this time trying to entice her Chandra.

Dhruva is jolted out of her reverie, as morning lights touch her eyes. She takes a bath in cold water and changes into a white cotton blouse and dhoti. With  Champak flowers and incense, she climbs up the white marble stairs to her Mahadev. Dhruva bows down before her Lord and asks for forgiveness. ‘I am a weak hearted soul, my Lord. My trust in my love is not strong enough. I am not strong enough to forgive. I should have able to renounce the sin, instead I chose to abandon the sinner. Please forgive my sins.’

Dhruva knew that, Madhavsena would die that very day. The last dose of the mild cobra venom slowly administered to her to give her maximum pain had been administered the day before. Chitra was unfortunate indeed. She had stumbled upon a conversation that she was having with Ayurvedacharya, about the ‘how’ and ‘when’ of doses that were to be administered to Madhavsena. Hence, Chitra acquired a quicker death. The venom had been placed on the small cut on her neck. ‘Ramagupta’, the thought of him, brought the blaze back into her eyes again. He had struggled to free himself, when she personally administered the venom to the cut in his neck. Four men had to hold him back, while she worked on him. A smile returned to her face, as she chanted the Surya Pranam to the Sun rising in the sky. News had arrived that, her Chandra was on his way back home after a victory. She wanted to be ready for her husband, she wanted to be available for her child. She wanted to live her life with love and passion, just like any other woman. If this was a sin, she was ready to ask for forgiveness, for each of the sins that she had committed. But this was her life and she would never allow anybody else to run her emotions or her life. She felt a sense of peace that she had never experienced before.

THE PHOENIX

A slate-coloured sheet was rolling across the sky. A low rumble was moving around the entire sky from all sides like a surround sound system. Fine mist like rain covered my hair, as I peered over the terrace to see whether Adi was visible at the bend in the lane. The smell of the drops on the hot terrace were encroaching on my senses and distracting me. The season’s first showers were now soaking me unabashed. The horizon was blurred and gloomy, and I kept peering over the parapet.

Two hazy entwined figures formed a water colour greyish black painting at the end of the lane. I hoped and hoped that one of them was Adi, my son. I glided to the front door and stood outside the open door, waiting for Adi. He came through the gates, limping, holding on to another boy’s shoulder who was about a couple of years older than Adi.

Adi was in pain. His left ankle was swollen and there were cut marks on his knees. ‘His leg went into the hole by the field, Madam ji’, the boy beside Adi murmured. I remembered a number of construction workers, drilling holes beside the road, to put up a glow sign. They must have left their job unfinished. The boy beside Adi looked vaguely familiar. ‘This is Nathu’ Adi volunteered. ‘He lives with Birju bhaiya’. I faintly remembered having seen the boy at our apartment complex caretaker’s place. ‘How are you related to Birju?’ I asked Nathu, in midst of tending to Adi. He kept quiet and started scratching the floor with his toes.

On coming back into the drawing room with antiseptic and bandage, I found Nathu near the terrace, looking up with wonder at the steady stream of water falling on his outstretched hands. The innocence of teenage touched me. He seemed so similar to Adi. I returned with a plate of sweets and urged Nathu to take them. His shy grateful smile as he hesitantly took the plate, did not fail to move me. A lump rose in my throat.

Adi was limping his way back to normalcy and Nathu was becoming a constant figure in our home. He rang the bell shyly during the afternoons and peeked into Adi’s room almost daily. He hardly spoke, and listened with full attentiveness as Adi narrated Harry Potter stories to him or stories of his visit to France and Italy the previous year. I often found the two heads together as they played games on the laptop. We slowly and steadily started getting relaxed in each other’s company. Nathu, however, maintained his elective mutism, and rarely spoke out. Throughout my career as a teacher and a child psychologist, I had researched and treated a phenomenon known as elective mutism, an emotional disturbance, occurring in children mainly. Many of them speak a little, with whom they are most comfortable with.

My Husband Dilip was an officer with the merchant navy and majorly lived away at his ship. He was docked in Shanghai and had called up to enquire about Adi and me. ‘I would advise you against allowing Adi to get emotionally attached to Nathu’ he said. ‘He has tasted the thrill that comes with committing a crime, once. He will be prone to repeating it.’ ‘Keep Adi away from that boy’ Dilip warned me again. 

I called over, Birju, my caretaker one particular day, after his job hours. He looked as if he had made an effort to look as clean as possible. His hair was parted and brushed and though, most of the buttons on his shirt were missing, he had buttoned up the rest of them. ‘Boliye Madamji’ He asked tensely, as I asked him to sit. ‘Has Nathu been up to his pranks? Why do you allow him to come to your apartment so frequently, Madamji? He is not a normal boy at all. You should not allow him to mingle with Adi bhaiya’

I gathered from Birju that Nathu was his neighbour’s boy, back from his village. When he was thirteen, he had attempted to rape a girl of eight/nine years in the village, after pulling her to the shrubs beside the road, when the girl was returning home from school. He had punched the girl and beaten her black and blue. He was remanded in police custody and later shifted to correctional facility for adolescent boys. After four summers of trying to cope with his further misdeeds, the administrative body had informed Birju, who was Nathu’s local guardian and contact person to come and get him as they were ready to release him. So Birju, it seemed, as a good Samaritan, had taken Nathu in, till his father came over from the village to take him back. Presently, Nathu ran small errands for the occupants of the apartments.

Nathu kept coming back repeatedly. It was now almost a daily norm and Adi started looking forward to Nathu’s visits. I decided to go ahead with a few informal sessions of psychtherapy with Nathu. One day, I gave him a few puzzles to solve. He was quick to solve the puzzle. Next day I engaged him with an activity book. He seemed genuinely interested. I asked him about his education. ‘Till standard Seventh’ Nathu replied. Why did you stop going to school after that? Nathu withdrew again. For the next couple of days, Nathu did not come to visit us. I was worried and asked Birju after him. ‘He is not keeping well, Madamji’ Birju replied.

Nathu came the very next day. He seemed tired and withdrawn. ‘I drew something for you’ he retorted suddenly. It was the drawing of two men lying on the road. Bones stuck out where the legs should have been. A bird was sitting on the bone of one of the men and pulling out a piece of meat from the body cavity. Blood was split all over the road. It was a horrible and frightening picture. It was shocking in its incredible attention to detail.

‘That is what I am going to do to my stepfather and Birju one day. For the next few days, Nathu obsessively kept drawing many pictures. I encouraged him to express himself through them. One day he brought a drawing of a young boy naked, lying spread-eagled on a bed. It was becoming increasing clear that the young boy had been sexually assaulted by his stepfather back home, and perhaps by Birju as well.

At the back of my mind, a concern was growing. Had I unleashed a monster from his self-imposed prison? One day he drew a picture of a little girl about seven to eight years old. ‘That is Munni, my sister” he added. ‘Once I had made her a doll from rags. My stepfather snatched it away from her and set it to fire’. The corners of his eyes glistened with emotion for the first time in so many days. As he stood up from the floor, something slipped and fell from his pocket. ‘what’s that?’ I asked. ‘It’s a knife’, Nathu said gently.’ I made it myself from a piece of a rusted iron window rod’. There was a hint of pride in his voice. He took hold of my arm and ran the edge of the knife through my inner arm. ‘See how sharp it is!’ ‘I am going to split his guts on the road one day.’

When I came back home from the market one day, I found Nathu drawing a picture with full concentration in Adi’s room. Adi had gone for his Science tuitions and was to be back shortly. ‘I have something for you Nathu’ I said as I stood in the kitchen and rummaged in my bag of groceries for the water colour set and paint brushes that I had bought for Nathu. I suddenly sensed a presence behind my back. I glanced back to find Nathu, behind me, between me and the door. ‘Nathu, what do you want’ I asked. He responded. ‘I hate you.’ He was succumbing to gutter level. The lights went out as I shouted out sharply, I heard him move towards me. I could smell his hot breath. A sick stench of fear hung in the air as I felt his hands on my shoulders and on my breasts. We struggled in the dark for a few minutes, before I hit him on his jaw squarely. It gave me space to reach out to the light switch. Nathu was sprawled on the floor and he was crying.

When you decide against someone, everything thereafter, tends to confirm that prejudice. I concurred with my logical self. Nathu was too dangerous for me to handle and I forbade him from entering my apartment, ever again.

The rain is relentless. I hear it thrumming on the metal roof and running down the broken pipe into the mud, and I moisten my cracked lips with my tongue. I wonder if they’ll bring me food and water. I wonder if they’re coming at all…I tried to open my eyes, which seemed heavy. There was not a single movement or sound excepting the incessant pitter patter of rain. A pointed light showed up from perhaps a crack in the boarded-up windows. I remembered with a shudder, the heavy breathing of a stranger, in the darkness in my bedroom, before I blacked out after a dull thud to the back of my head. I kept shouting out. ‘Help’, all the while knowing that nobody would hear me as this was far away from human settlements nearby. I was very hungry and my body ached all over. I did not know, where Adi was. Was my husband informed at his ship? Was he on his way? I had no clue about what was happening.  

There, suddenly was a creaking sound on the roof as if someone was walking on the roof stealthily. Why would these men walk on the roof when they had the keys to the door? I strained my ears and fought with myself to keep me awake. There was a lingering drowsiness which was difficult to fight. The sound of the creaking, exceeded that of the beating of the rain drops on the metal roof. Now, I was all ears. I was shivering both from a chill that I felt was seeping into me from the cold floor, as well as a cold that was emanating from within. My hands and legs were tied with a rope that was cutting into my skin as I tried to wrench open my hands. I was mulling over the course of my next action, when there was a scuffling sound at the window that was barred black with boards, perhaps. ‘Madamji!’ were my ears playing with me? Again, someone called out to me in a hushed undertone. ‘Madamji…are you there?’ It sounded like Nathu. But how could Nathu be here? I was hallucinating perhaps! Nonetheless, I replied. ‘I am here’. The scuffling sound at the window grew louder and in what seemed a lifetime, light entered through the window, and Nathu’s face was barely visible through the window rods.

As I was recuperating, the police were carrying out investigations. Birju, the catetaker, Maya, my maid were all hands in glove. It seemed that Maya had spiked my food with a date-rape drug. But the highlight of it all was my husband Dilip’s association with the whole plot. He had actually masterminded the entire operation from his ship on the sea, and if Nathu had not overheard Birju talking over the phone to Dilip, and had acted promptly, I would have been raped and murdered that very night. All because of one and half crore Rupees worth of a life Insurance Policy, that Dilip had opened in my name.

I admitted Nathu to a neighbourhood school and he stayed with Adi and me. We were secure in each other's company. He still ran errands for the occupants of the apartment and did odd jobs, but he was also focusing on his studies with Adi's help. Nathu was spreading his wings, slowly but surely. He drew for me a picture of a captive bird spreading its wings. I was not apprehensive of Nathu’s next phase of life’s journey anymore. He was a phoenix and we would surely rise from his ashes.

AMBROSIA

There was a couple sitting at the café when I walked in. As the light was low, I didn’t know who they were until the woman turned around, and I saw it was my wife.

…Hi! Arin, she waved at me

…come over and join us!

…meet Dr. Bramhadutt, the assistant director of our lab.

A gust of whining icy wind was forced out as I shut the door behind me. As I walked over to their table, and stood beside Mila, my wife, I was checking out, the latest addition to about a dozen members of the Indian community here in this remote town of Tromso, in Norway.

The man who was standing across the table, stood out, because of his height. He barely reached Mila’s shoulders, had a rounded paunch, but the feature that stayed with me, were his eyes, which were so rich and brown that swiss chocolateers would be vying for them.

…Dr. Bramhadutt, this is my husband, Arindam Sinha…Mila declared, as the stranger stretched his hand towards mine.

…Arin is a geologist at the offshore oil and natural gas rig at the Barents Sea, near Tromso Harbour, Mila added.

…you must be a proud husband, Dr. Sinha…your wife Sharmila is an asset of our Molecular Biology Department at the University of Tromso…she is assisting me in a very vital project, Dr. Brahmadutt smiled and quipped.

For the past two and a half years, Sharmila my wife and I were staying at Tromso, Norway. We were married for the past three years, and just after our marriage we had relocated to Tromso. I was here in my capacity as a geologist as part of a collaboration project between Norway and India. Sharmila was a post-doc fellow at the department of Radio-Molecular Biology, and she was working on a project in Gerontology, the branch of science dealing with longevity.

The town of Tromso, was located on the island of Tromsoya, about three hundred and fifty kilometres north of the Arctic Circle. Tromso to me was like a dream setting. Despite being at the heart of seemingly harsh weather conditions, it nevertheless offered a plateful of its own unique beauty. The warming effects of the Gulf Stream allowed for a much milder climate than elsewhere within the same latitude. Despite its very high latitude, the place was splendidly green in its short summer months. The avenue that ran alongside the Tromso Cathedral, down to where the main wharf was, was lined with Polar Willows and Birch trees. The yellowing birch leaves formed a crunchy carpet below the straight-lined white barked birch trees. The wind passing through them, made a whistling noise at times, a companion to the lonely traveler, on the deserted road. The road crossed a park, loaded with colors of children, in their afternoon bests as it winded down to the main wharf area, which was beside the boarding area for the helicopter, which carried me on a weekly basis to the oil rig.

Every Friday evening, I trudged back on this road to the town center, to my home. And every Monday morning, I made my way back through the same road, lined with pretty, cosy wooden cottages, to where I boarded the helicopter.

From Mila’s descriptions, I gathered that Dr. Brahmadutt must have rented one of those cottages near the farmer’s market.

Back home, the next Friday, I returned home to Mila, busy poring over some papers, with her laptop open next to her on the bed…get your cuppa coffee, Arin, it is still hot…

She looked flushed and flustered…some docs are missing from the bunch, sweetie, I need to find them…she looked up toward me with bloodshot eyes.

…Hey Mila, you don’t look too good…are you running a temperature, dear?...

I asked Mila, as I touched her forehead with my upturned palm. Her forehead was warmer than normal and she was perspiring. She did not seem to understand me and stared back with a blank look, while murmuring to herself that she needed to find those papers immediately.

I brought over two cups of coffees from the coffee maker, set them on the table, on the balcony and gently removed her documents from her hand…come Mila, it has been ages that we have sat down to a cup of coffee, together… But I need to find the papers, first, Arin…she kept muttering...You will be better equipped after a cup of hot coffee with me, and a paracetamol, later…I urged her. There was still a lot of sunlight left around nine in the evening in June, in Tromso. The weather was balmy. The wild flowers were blooming in our backyard, and its aroma was heady. The swishing of the leaves in the woods behind our cottage was lending a sense of tranquility, of being at home, of belonging. I was savoring the taste of peace, with Mila’s hand in my grip, when, Mila suddenly uttered…It was the cat!..

What?...I exclaimed!

…It was the tabby at Dr. Brahmadutt’s cottage, the other day…she showed me the scratch marks on her left wrist.

…did you visit him?...I asked her, mildly surprised, as Mila was not a person with exceptional social skills. And to visit somebody, who was barely known to her was a rarity indeed.

…Yeah! Dr. Brahmadutt had left behind a few analytics in his P.C. which was required the next day…he invited me over to his home in the evening and offered me coffee and cakes…I was taking out printouts and that is when the tabby jumped at me, unprovoked…

…Dr. Brahmadutt was totally apologetic and abashed and administered to me the first dose of anti-rabies regimen…so nothing to worry about on that ground…the next dose is scheduled for next Wednesday, in a row of another four, she added.

…He is a bachelor, Arin…quite lonely…He, his tabby, and his books, heaps of them…she mused…oh, and a very interesting collection of miniature dolls from all across the globe…she livened up when she shared this piece of information.

…You must check out his miniature doll collection, Arin…it is truly incredible…

I was worried for her health, as her temperature was not subsiding even after she had taken a paracetamol tablet. She barely touched dinner that night, but by the next morning, she seemed fitter. After breakfast, we decided to drive down to the farmer’s market to stock up on our weekly veggies and poultry. Between the cackle of poultry and conversation of farmers peddling their fare, we discovered a farmer’s wife, selling fresh homemade lemon meringue cheesecake, beneath a big colorful umbrella.

…This surely needs to tasted, Mila grinned…her sweet tooth was an issue of an occasional friendly banter between us. I was only too happy to see Mila, in her elements and settled down on the wooden bench with her. We looked around the market, as we waited to be served. It was a pleasant summer day and the warmth of the people around, in a place, where we barely get to see another person, lifted my spirits. As I was biting into my cheesecake, there was a tap on my shoulder. I turned around to the beaming rotund face of Prof. Brahmadutt.

…look, Mila, who’s here…Mila turned around and asked Dr. Brahmadutt to join us. He sat down beside Mila and in between short conversations of the political status back home, he kept peering uncomfortably into Mila’s face minutely.

…you see Dr. Sinha, he addressed me…I believe that, there will be doers and there will be the talkers, and I would like to associate myself with the former group…he laughed aloud.

…that makes two of us…I said!

…I am so embarrassed about what happened at my house, last Wednesday…you see…Dona is so fiercely possessive about me…

…Dona? I asked quizzically

…my cat, Dona…he answered…I smiled back…that was just an accident, not intended…I reassured him.

…Is Sharmila, better now?...He peered into Mila’s face again, too close for comfort.

This man was sort of encroaching into my space, I was not feeling comfortable in his company, though I was not sure, exactly why.

…Soon it will be time for a riot of colors in the sky, the northern lights…nature’s magic…Prof. Brahmadutt…A spectacle, worth waiting for, a lifetime…I offered.

…yes, yes! Waiting eagerly for that…he smiled remotely.

…You should join the bi-annual meet of the Indian Community, in Tromso, next month…we are a closely bonded community here…I tried to be nice again. But Prof Brahmadutt was openly staring at Mila. I was feeling annoyed and impatient now.

…Oh no, thank you for the invitation, Dr. Sinha, but I covet my loneliness…he smiled a smile, which did not touch his eyes. It was almost sinister. I was queasy now and cut Mila’s meal short by curtly saying…we need to be going back home now, Prof…see you later…

…that man sure is a weirdo…I told Mila…maintain a safe distance from him…I warned her…

…maybe so, but he is a name to reckon with in the field of gerontology and to top it all, he is my guide, in my post-doc thesis…I can barely avoid him…

On my next visit home, the next weekend, Mila was again down with fever, this time she could barely sit up. I made some soup for her which she scarcely touched. She was delirious and kept muttering about shadows and statues. I called the hospital emergency service and shifted her to the hospital. Over the weekend, her fever subsided, and since there were no findings, she was discharged with a few medications.

Mila was sleeping like a baby on the couch, she seemed thin and shriveled up. I felt a sense of unconditional love for her, as I sat by her and gazed at her face. I had taken a week off from work, and tried to be by Mila’s side all the time.

Dr. Brahmadutt came calling the next day and said that Mila needed to be administered the third dose of the anti-rabies injection, which he had brought over with him, which he injected into Sharmila’s arms. After he left, a query arose in my mind. In Norway, over the counter drugs or medications were not available. The very next day, I paid a visit to the Prof’s lab.

…Oh Hi, there, Dr. Sinha, how is Sharmila doing now? … he seemed concerned.

…I am curious about one thing, Prof. Brahmadutt, how did you procure the anti-rabies, injection without a medical doctor’s prescription?..

…Oh, that?!... he seemed amused…I keep a stock of that, because of Dona…as I said, she is fiercely possessive about me, and this is not the first time that she has lashed out at my visitors…

…Then perhaps you should keep her in leash, or not invite people over to your place…His casual approach and air of nonchalance irritated me further.

…I have come to apply for a week’s leave on Sharmila’s behalf…I said.

…Please don’t worry about that…he assured me.

Mila was not keeping well and she had stopped taking any food. She seemed so small, almost like a little girl now, all shriveled up. Whenever she was awake, her big eyes followed me. I applied for another week’s leave, but my leave was cancelled as some unnatural seismic activity was detected near the oil rig.

I had to be present at the rig for three more days, before the unnatural seismic activity ceased to be. I kept calling Mila, but every time I called her, her voice seemed more and more feeble. On Wednesday, all my calls went unanswered, I started getting ominous vibes. I was air lifted on Thursday early morning, and as I rushed back home, the last stretch seemed unending. Mila was not at home.

…where was she, in such a physical condition?... I was sick with worry.

I rushed to her lab. Neither Mila, nor Dr. Brahmadutt were present at the lab. I obtained the Prof’s address and took a cab to his place.

It was afternoon when I arrived at his cottage. The front door was slightly ajar.'

…welcome to my den, Dr. Sinha…A voice sounded in front of me, as my eyes tried to adjust to the relative darkness of his living room.

…a pleasure to have you here, with us…

…have you met, Mila, yesterday, or today?... I asked him…I was panting, out of breath, scared to death.

…oh, Sharmila! she is right here…

I followed him to an even more dimly lit room. Show cases lined each wall of that room. The cabinets had multiple alcoves fitted into them. In each of the alcoves, there were miniature statues of humans from all over the world. Each of them was so convincing, so realistic and so detailed and precise, that I gasped.

…There is your Mila, Dr. Sinha…the Prof. pointed out at one of the alcoves. A miniature, Mila, about a foot in height, her body still, but her eyes moving and silently crying out for help was standing in one of the alcoves.

…Just the right temperature for preservation, Dr. Sinha…Here is your Mila…yours for life…Immortal!...I heard, the Prof. saying before darkness engulfed me.  

Author: Jayeeta Sen Roy