Spring in Hell

Homen Borgohain

(1)

Just as he was about to enter the lane, he seemed to hear somebody call out his name.
Surprised, he stopped. Looking back at the face of the stranger, he responded in his naturally
harsh tone, “Calling me?”
The man answered politely, “Yes, I’m calling you. Would you keep a request?”
Frowning a little, Himadri pondered awhile. He doesn’t like such soft voices at all.
Moreover, the man’s dress, his appearance, all seemed quite suspicious. In other words, the
man seemed to be just like a gentleman. What would Himadri have to do with a gentleman?
Surely, he has mistaken Himadri for somebody else. In a graver tone, he enquired again:
“Are you sure you want me? Do you know me?”
“Of course I do. You’re Himadri. You’ve just had your meal in Bedi’s hotel. You’re going
home now. Obviously, I’m not familiar with your house.”
The man looked at Himadri and gave a disarming smile. And taking the cigarette
packet from his pocket, he handed one to Himadri, and said “I’m Sankar. I’m new to this place.
I mean, just been here for these two-three days. I’m staying at a hotel.”
This was a surprise for Himadri. Surprise, because a newly arrived man in town was
aware of his name and identity; he was surprised by the man’s manner of speaking, and most
significantly, he wondered what this man could have to do with him. His emotions, however,
weren’t reflected in his appearance easily. As earlier, he queried nonchalantly again, “But what
do you have to do with me?”
Sankar lit his cigarette and inhaled deeply. Then, placing a hand on Himadri’s shoulder,
he said in a rather intimate tone, “Let’s first go to your place. We’ll discuss things there. It’s a
very important matter.”
His place? Himadri was almost dumbstruck. It would be demeaning to call his place a
‘home.’ Involuntarily, his face had a worried look. As if shaking off something unsavoury from
his body, he said in a frustrated tone, “There’s no place to sit in my house. Tell me whatever
you have to say here itself.”
“No, I don’t need your space to either sit or sleep. Let’s first get a move on.”
Sankar held Himadri’s hand and pulled him forward.
Bewildering. The man’s motive? As he walked through the dark lane, an unspecified
doubt started to prey on his mind. What if the stabbed him in the back? He tried to recall all
his potential enemies.
The sudden sound of a man’s fall behind him astounded him. Has someone stabbed
Sankar now? Turning around, he could discern Sankar on the ground – he had fallen down as
tried to negotiate his way through the mud in this dark road. He took Sankar’s hand and
enabled him to stand on his feet.
Eventually, after traversing the dark lane between the two large double-storied houses,
they arrived at a basti. As Himadri abruptly stopped there, Sankar too had to do the same.
“Why don’t you tell me about your actual intentions?” Staring Sankar straight in the
face, Himadri clarified “You see, I’m not involved in petty businesses.”
Sankar got the import of Himadri’s comment and glanced around the decrepit houses
of the filth-ridden basti. The moon was already up, and odours from the toilet at the basti gate
and also the marshes were quite strongly felt. An old man was sleeping on a makeshift
mattress on the ground. The moonlight made it clear that this was a diseased man; as if his
body was the site of pain. It was an experience that almost stopped Sankar’s heartbeat. Just
then, the effervescent laughter of a woman drew his attention. He had never come across
such laughter before. It seemed that for a moment the waves of this highly fragmented laughter
also served as a proxy site for the most intense suffering.
 “Himadri” – Sankar’s response came after quite some time, “I’m seeking shelter in your
house for a while. I shall inform you more about myself in due course. Just let this night pass.”
There was a sudden change in Himadri’s face. Observing Sankar’s appearance in the
moonlight, Himadri pondered awhile. After spending some moments in this fashion, he said:
“I don’t really understand what you want. You’ve surprised me immensely – okay, let’s see
how things turn out.”
The room Himadri occupied was at the last one of the three-roomed house, which
incidentally was also at the basti’s end part. Opening the door, he lit a candle, and invited
Sankar in. Bending down, Sankar somehow managed to get in. Except for Himadri’s bed,
there wasn’t any other furniture in the room. Some of his clothes were hung at the string by
his wall. Himadri pointed towards the bed and told Sankar, “Have a seat.”
Sankar obliged. Himadri removed his spoilt clothes and put on a lungi. Then, looking
back at Sankar, he enquired: “Have you taken your meal? As you are aware, I take mine in
the hotel…”
He wanted to say something else too.
“I have had my fill. Don’t worry about it. I know everything about you,” replied Sankar.
“What do you know about me?” – Himadri’s query was tinged with anger and discontent.
“You paste cinema posters; distribute hand-bills. Gamble whenever you can; take your
meals at the hotel and spend your nights here.”
“But – you said – you have been in Jorhat for just two days. How do you know so
much?”
“You can know everything through observation. There’s nothing special about it.”
“But, from amongst so many people, why did you choose to observe me?”
“I was on the lookout for a man just like you. That’s why. Don’t ask me everything today
itself. Let’s go and spend sometime outside. It’s quite hot in here.”
Both remained seated for a long time – in silence. The ten-twelve basti houses were
cramped in just a little space. The weak cries of an ill and hungry child rent through the air;
the obscenities of a Hindi-speaking woman could also be heard. The soft voices of a troubled
couple filtered in from some distance. Most of the houses were embalmed in darkness; they
must have gone to sleep.
Sankar glanced askance at Himadri. His gaze, directed at the distant emptiness,
seemed to suggest the search for some still undiscovered celestial body. Himadri wasn’t going
to talk, unless a conversation was initiated; in imitation, Sankar too looked up at the sky. The
moon was now almost overhead. This was perhaps the moment when some young town girl
sung out from the windows of her house in full rapture – “My thoughts have lost their way this
full-moon, O see how it flies, how it flies like the winged star on the banks of the Sindhu.”
Another young student, petrified and dazed by thoughts of the ensuing exams, perhaps
recollected some lines from Keats’ Nightingale Ode and was lost in his own world. In some
far-off village, the soulful tunes from the flute of some young man by the river-bank breezed
in, and his sounds caused a quiet riot in the newly-married bride’s heart, even as she remained
in the close embrace of her companion. And here, in this basti, life was caught up in the painful
breathing of the diseased, in the anguished cries of the hungry child; and in the odours from
the toilet and the pit, in the foul-smelling sweat of the exhausted harlot, in the stench
emanating from the blood-vomiting frustrated drunk; it was caught up in the chaotic, tormented,
hatred-ridden ugly shrieks.
Sankar lit a cigarette.
“Aren’t you feeling sleepy?” Himadri enquired.
“No. Are you?”
“It’s quite late, however,” replied Himadri.
“You know everybody around here?” asked Sankar unexpectedly.
“I do. But why do you need such information? Do you belong to the Police, the C.I.D.?”
“Does enquiring about neighbours make one a C.I.D.? You are a very suspecting
character. Have you killed somebody, somewhere?”
 “It is you that I suspect of doing such deeds; otherwise, being the educated gentleman
that you are, why have you come to a place like this? Why did you not put up at the hotel?”
Sankar laughed out loud on hearing such comments.
“Think whatever you want to. I have no problem with it. But tell me about the people
who live here, their whereabouts, their activities – tell me about them one by one.”
Himadri replied, “I can tell you about those who have lived here from an earlier time.
Some have come recently; I have no idea about them. Simuni and his woman, they live in that
house at the far end. They are childless. He’s a porter. A very nice man, but his wife isn’t.
She’s an ill-reputed woman. Pachu lives in the next house. He makes his living as a daily
wage-labourer; he lives with his wife and two boys. Julie, who comes next, is a harlot. Pachu’s
elder son is her tout, and does other odd jobs as well. Dal Bahadur and his wife Lakshmi live
in the next house. Dal Bahadur is a chowkidar in a bank, his wife sells country liquor and
makes extra earnings at night. Rahim and Manohar occupy the house after them. Both of them
ply rickshaws. And on this side it’s me, of course there’s nothing to add about myself. Over
there lives Joy. He hasn’t returned yet; how he earns his bread, however, nobody knows. Joy’s
the most handsome person in this basti, and he has the best clothes. People fear him too,
he’s a big ruffian. Then you have the man with his illness living with his son. The son steals,
begs, does menial jobs in people’s houses and leaves them whenever he can make a haul.
Regarding the others, I’m not yet familiar with them.
Expecting Sankar to respond, Himadri remained silent. After some moments, he got
up abruptly and told Sankar, “It’s quite late. Let’s go to sleep.”
Both got in. by this time the candle had extinguished itself. “I don’t have another candle”
– Himadri’s voice floated in the darkness – “We’ll have to manage in the same bed; it will
perhaps be uncomfortable for you.”
“I haven’t come to you seeking comfort,” replied Sankar. And something else almost
slipped through his tongue, but suddenly he became conscious and remained quiet.
Both of them went to sleep in the same bed.
Himadri’s snoring began soon afterwards. They can go to sleep without any difficulty;
this is what he liked so much about them. He, however, doesn’t fall asleep so easily.
Sometimes, the entire night passed by without a wink. It seemed that thousands of invisible
poisonous bugs had nested on his brain and as he restlessly tried to confront their gnawing,
the entire night would be over. A very filthy stench emanated from Himadri’s bed, which was
quite unnerving for Sankar at the beginning. It may have not been washed for quite some time;
for want of soap perhaps. Or maybe this was for the want of the refined sensibility required for
envisaging a beautiful life. Trying to fall asleep in vain, Sankar wondered if anybody else in
this basti was also awake at this late hour. If so, what would be going on in his mind? “If only,
by the grace of God, I could earn a little more tomorrow” – surely this must be Simuni the
porter’s train of thought. At the end of a back-breaking hard day (followed by the customary
drink), as Ram and Manohar lay down like exhausted beasts, the animated moments of
distorted sexual pleasure with some imagined woman must have preyed on their unconscious.
The painfully-pleasant emotions of love that incite the mysterious in minds of young men –
there’s no possibility of Rahim and Manohar experiencing such passions in life. For thousands
of years, the amazing anguish of youth has been the source of so much poetry, and so many
paintings, but Rahim, Manohar and their ilk have been deprived of such sublime human
experience forever. The wonderfully fervent emotions of the poet for some Vivienne do not
ignite the passions in their blood-stricken hearts. Their flights of fancy are confined to the realm
of Julie’s breasts. What’s going on in Julie’s mind? Tonight, on this amazing phagun night,
when the lamps are lit in the homes, when the caged parrot has gone to sleep, as has the
sentry at the door, when the incense-fumes and aloe fragrance incite the whole body – some
beautiful girl, pulling the jade-hued aanchal over her full bosom, gazes into the lonely highway
in a state of trance. Why couldn’t Julie be this girl? Lying like a corpse in this cold bed –
dampened by blood and sweat – for whom does she wait eagerly? What youthful fantasies
silently sleep over the closed eyelids of Pachu’s twelve-year old son?
 (2)

The basti that lay like a foul-smelling corpse in the quiet cremation ground sprang to life
in the morning. Sankar moved to the door as he wanted to observe the people. Himadri wasn’t
up yet. An ugly middle-aged woman, perhaps Simuni’s wife, was taking a bath in the open
space at the far end of the basti. Dal Bahadur’s good-looking woman nonchalantly puffed a
beedi in the front plinth of their house. Moments later Pachu’s wife emerged with some dirty
utensils; with pox-marks all over her face, she had a mischievous gaze. She began cleaning
the utensils at the very spot where Simuni had taken her bath. The men must have gone to
work. Julie’s door wasn’t open yet. It is only natural that she woke up late. The diseased old
man was sleeping in the same place as yesterday. His entire body was covered with some
unsightly skin disease. The golden hues of the morning light made his bodily appear all the
more grotesque.
The sun was up in the ashen-blue sky. The early morning of springtime; a cool breeze
sometimes swept across one’s face; the southern wind carried the pit-odour: this was spring
in the basti. ‘Whose gates does the cow break though today, for whom is this sunrise a fruitful
one?’ – the sound of Rabindra Sangeet floated across from the hotel near the basti. Opening
her door, Julie sat down for some moments in the front plinth of her house. She was clad in a
yellow-coloured sari and a sleeveless blouse. Her cheeks and eyes had a swollen look,
perhaps because she had a late night. With the chignon untied, her hair fell across her back.
The folds of her untidy sari bore signs of fatigue. Her breasts weren’t very upright; they slanted
downwards like those of child-bearing mothers. Her blank, empty look showed no sign of
expectation. On seeing her it seemed that she had just left the side of her husband in bed.
Her quiet and composed bearing had a pleasant softness, similar to that of a housewife having
a family with husband and children. Sunlight sprayed across the curves of her body. She stood
up attentively for some moments, maybe she was listening to the song: ‘for whom is this
sunrise a fruitful one?’
Sankar was staring at Julie’s face, as if was seeing something he had never encountered
before. Then, suddenly, their eyes met. Surprised, Julie fixed her gaze on Sankar for some
time, the newest import to the basti. His appearance and clothes, however, didn’t resemble
that of the basti’s residents. As the element of surprise in Julie’s eyes deepened, Sankar was
compelled to withdraw his gaze.
Just then Himadri got up and came forward. With a long yawn, he rubbed his eyes and
without even glancing at Sankar, asked: “Have you been up for a long time?” And then, without
waiting for Sankar’s answer, he moved towards the toilet.
Sankar lit a cigarette.
As she washed her face with water from the kettle she had brought from inside, Julie
suddenly shrieked out – “Boltu, Boltu!” Rubbing his eyes, a twelve (or fourteen) year-old boy
came out of Pachu’s house; a dark-skinned, thin boy with uncombed, unkempt hair. Seeing
Sankar before him all of a sudden, he lifted his eyes and then continued to remove the
discharge from his unwashed eyes. He did not have the innocent curiosity for every new thing
that was naturally discernible in young minds. The vile experiences of life had already aged
him in his young years. He was indifferent towards everything in life, mocking its superficiality.
After washing her face, Julie took out a one-rupee note from her aanchal and handed it
to Boltu. Taking the kettle in hand, he quietly moved towards the lane, perhaps to fetch tea.
Wiping his face with the edge of his lungi, Himadri returned and looking at Sankar, said,
“Let’s go and have some tea.”
Himadri directly went to work after having tea. There was a new movie at the hall, so his
work load had increased. Sankar came back. The inside of the house was dark even during
daytime. It was not possible to remain outside in the face of such stench. After spending
sometime at the door, he wondered how he could spend the time. Then, his eyes fell on Boltu.
He was quietly sitting at Julie’s door like a sentinel. Sankar gestured him to come forward.
Boltu came to him in an instant. His eyes sparkled in his greedy smile. Perking his ears
towards Sankar, he shook his legs and stood up.
 Sankar smiled inwardly on seeing Boltu’s crazy antics. And then, facing him, queried,
“Ei, what’s your name?”
“Boltu.”
“Which one is your house?”
Boltu indicated it with his finger.
“Who’s there in your home?”
“My mother, father, Poltu and I.”
“Why are you sitting at somebody else’s door?”
Boltu now looked at Sankar sharply. His face had a look of arrogance, as if he had
caught Sankar red-handed. After looking around for some moments, he whispered, “Let’s talk
inside.”
Sankar laughed and went in with him.
Sitting on Himadri’s bed, he asked Sankar pointedly, “Tell me, what will be my share?”
Pretending not to understand anything, Sankar asked back, “What do I have to give
you?”
Shaking his head, Boltu answered like a seasoned businessman, “I won’t allow you to
go to Julie’s house if you don’t give me anything.”
Putting on the mask of intense surprise, Sankar said, “But I didn’t tell you anything about
going to Julie’s house. Who’s Julie?”
Boltu gaped in shock for some time. It was as if he found it difficult to believe Sankar’s
words. Adjusting himself to the unexpected situation, he asked after some moments, “Why did
you summon me then?”
Sankar thought about something for a few moments and did not answer him. This
fourteen-year old young boy, what a striking way of life he had chosen for himself! He isn’t
interested in anything but business. Taking one of Boltu’s hands in his, Sankar asked him
once again, “Have you been to school?”
“No, I haven’t. Tell me what you have to say quickly, I must leave.” Realising that there
was no possibility of a business deal taking place, he became restless to leave.
Sankar took out one and a half rupees from his pocket, and handing it over to Boltu,
said, “Bring me a packet of Gold Flake cigarettes for one rupee twenty-five paisa, and rest is
for you.”
Boltu’s face lit up. He kept looking at Sankar with a great sense of pleasure and surprise
and then, like a young calf, bolted out of the house.
As he had nothing to do, Sankar stretched out on the bed. Fed up with the train of chaotic
thoughts that coursed through his mind as he lied down, he took out a book from his bag and
began to read. After reading some lines, he closed the book. At this time, Boltu arrived with
the packet of cigarettes. His face displayed a great sense of excitement.
Seeing that Boltu waited on, Sankar asked, “What’s the matter? Do you want to say
something?”
“Julie asked me about you,” answered Boltu with a mystifying smile.
“What did she ask?”
“Where have you come from? What did you discuss with me? – such things.”
Sankar wanted to ask Boltu something else too, but he didn’t as a man appeared at the
door. Boltu also looked towards the door. Suddenly his face paled in fear. He ran off by the
side of the man in a flash.
Sankar had a hard look at the stranger. He was about six feet tall. His eyes had an
extremely reddish tinge, like those of a consistent drunkard. He had a handsome structure
and his cheeks were covered with small bristles. He must have got up from bed just now. With
an unlit cigarette between his lips, he looked at Sankar indifferently. Then, slowly moving
inside, he mockingly questioned Sankar, “Who are you?”
Sankar got up from the bed. How should he identify himself, this thought perplexed him
a little. Moving to one side of the bed, he looked at the man and said, “Please sit here.”
The man sat down. “Do you have a match?” He asked Sankar. “I haven’t washed my
face yet. I came to Himadri only for a match.”
 Sankar gave him the matchbox. Lighting the cigarette, he exhaled a puff of smoke and
queried Sankar once again, “I haven’t seen you around this place before. Where have you
come from?”
“I’m new here. Do you also live here?” Sankar returned the question in order to change
the context of his identity.
“I live just on the other side of the wall. I’m Joy, you know. There’s no one who doesn’t
know Joy here.”
“I’ve heard about you immediately on reaching here. I was eager to know you. What do
you do?”
“Nothing. A lot of people in this world lead comfortable lives without doing anything
themselves. What’s wrong if I too live like that. Wait, let me go and wash my face. We’ll talk
afterwards.”
Joy went out.
Sankar kept looking in direction of Joy for quite some time. Some people seem to
symbolise some of the unknown mysteries of life. There are so many different manifestations
of the mysteriousness of human life, which are reflected through different people. This strong,
well-built man has found the ultimate satisfaction of life in his brigand self – that too in this
dark, filthy basti. People fear him. Neither love, nor respect, it’s fear. They give him food at the
hotel for free, the vendor gives him cigarettes and the harlot opens her door for him – all out
of fear. But the crown of life’s beauty, man’s beautiful heart – he does not possess the key to
its closed door. A group of frauds have withheld and hidden that key from people like Joy.
He must have seen the variegated external lives of the people in this hellish place by
now, wondered Sankar.
But then, this is only the outside.

(3)

Sankar remained inside the whole day.

He had come to know about Monimala.
Monimala lived at the house situated at the far end of this basti, at a slight remove from
the other ones, and she had managed to maintain the precarious lower middle-class “prestige.”
In Himadri’s opinion, they weren’t the basti’s residents, but rather lived at the margin.
He had discovered a new world in the last twenty-four hours. The life-force in that world
was not love, not beauty either, or even the simplicity of human relationships, it was hunger –
the primitive hunger of ancient men and beasts. The hunger of the belly, the yearning of the
senses. Fathers promote sons as harlot-agents, husbands look forward to additional revenue
from their wives, housewives and prostitutes live side by side.
He got much more than he had bargained for. He came looking for Monimala and
discovered her life’s ambience. It was in Pandu that he first came across Monimala. That was
the time when the exodus of migrants from East Bengal to Assam was at its peak. In that spurt
came Monimala, along with her father and brother. Sankar was then serving as an assistant
editor of a daily newspaper. Monimala and her father and brother had taken shelter in a house
of one of Sankar’s friends, one who worked in the railways. That was how they had come to
know each other and soon this acquaintance developed into a deeper relationship of love and
affection.
Monimala’s father was already quite old, and suffering from asthma, he was just
waiting for the final moment. Her brother was also very young. They just couldn’t make ends
meet. At the same time it was not possible to stay in other people’s houses forever. Monimala
sought Sankar’s aid.
There wasn’t any way out, however. Sankar gave it a lot of thought but could not find
a way at all. They could seek some aid from the government, but how would that suffice for
any kind of settlement? Wouldn’t they exhaust that money if they just idled about? He could
marry Monimala, but her father and brother would then be his liability forever. He was not in a
position to afford it in his present circumstances. There was no way out except waiting for a
better, more promising future.
After a lot of thought, Sankar told Monimala, “I will give you some money from the little
savings that I have. Try to manage with that for some time and in the meantime, let me see
what I can do.”
“How long will we continue to live upon your grace, Sankarda?” – Monimala tried to
cover up a meaningless self-veneer and said, “Why don’t you give us some poison instead?”
It was Niranjan who came forward with a proposition, Monimala’s ‘poison,’ so to speak;
he was the son of the man in house they were living now. He too worked in the railways, in
Mariani. Understanding the entire situation, he said that if Monimala was willing, he would
make arrangements for the establishment of a small grocery shop with governmental aid in
Jorhat. Her father could look after it with her brother assisting him.
After mulling over the matter, Monimala agreed to go with Niranjan.
When Sankar learnt about it he told Monimala, “You have really earned my respect by
your decision not to live by the grace of others, it is a sign of your courage and honesty. But
please remember, for women, all kinds of livelihood are not always respectfully seen. If there
is any such crisis, please think of me. I’ll certainly be by your side.”
Monimala and her father and brother went away with Niranjan.
Almost a year elapsed since then and although during this time Sankar wrote
numerous letters to Monimala, he did not receive any reply. The letters were addressed in
Niranjan’s care, however. Meanwhile, the paper he worked in closed down and he too was
left without a job. It wasn’t easy getting a new job immediately. And, for him, the time for a
government job was well over. It was all dark for him and he could not think of a way. Suddenly
he thought of Monimala. He had lost his sense of direction even though he was a man, and
how was she, a woman, making it? He was not unaware of the reasons behind Niranjan’s
sudden philanthropic interest in a beautiful vulnerable and needy girl. At the least his curiosity
would be satisfied – keeping that in mind Sankar decided to go and meet Monimala.
On reaching Mariani he went straight to Niranjan. Niranjan turned away in disgust
when he heard Monimala’s name. “It’s very difficult to know the reality of these women, you
know, Sankarda? I rented a friend’s house and opened a shop for them there in the hope that
their lives would look up; in a few days, she exhausted all the money and joined the real
money-making business. She has left the house I arranged for her and now lives in a ‘famous’
lane. I had gone there once to enquire but she didn’t even come out to talk.”
After some more spite, Niranjan stopped his tirade against Monimala. But even once
he didn’t mention about the circumstances under which his friend allowed Monimala to live in
his house for a pittance and how in the pretext of this ‘helpful’ friend he had himself made life
hell for her. Sankar, however, understood everything. He took Monimala’s address from
Niranjan and started for Jorhat in search of her.

(4)

Sankar had a friend in Jorhat. With the aid of his friend, Sankar found out the basti
described by Niranjan. But when he wanted to enter it, his friend was perplexed and looking
around said, “Spare me, my friend. You’re new to Jorhat and so you don’t really know about
it. But if people see me entering this lane during this time of the day, they are sure to think
otherwise.”
Sankar was startled and stopped in his tracks. Monimala lived in a lane where no
gentleman dared to enter in broad daylight. What’s there in that basti? Keeping quiet for
sometime, he resolved to go there alone. Not only that, he would pierce through the darkness
of the basti, and see it from the inside. Quietly he felt the excitement of a mysterious adventure.
It isn’t enough to come across Monimala. He would have to see where society had pushed
her and also observe how she was adapting herself to the new situation. He located Himadri
with the help of his friend.
Monimala too was a part of that basti now.
 Sankar had seen Julie, and Dalbahadur’s wife Lakshmi, and Pachu’s son Boltu too –
and then there were Joy, Rahim and Manohar, he had seen them too. Had Monimala become
another Julie? Sankar began to feel an anguished loathing towards her. He had in fact wanted
to save them from this abysmal world of sin; she came here to make a living by dint of her
own labour. Now she was living on her own labour, just as Julie was managing on her own.
All principled people should earn their own bread by their own sweat. Shaw had rightly
commented: “As all profit-making ways were closed to women, a lot of them were compelled
to indulge in flesh trade. Then why do we despise them?” Sankar found an answer to this after
giving it a lot of thought. We actually fear them, just as an ugly-looking disabled person hated
his own face in the mirror. They were like our mirrors – we can see the ugly side of our
diseased souls there – even after centuries of civilisation this was the unfulfilled, patched up
and somewhat botched sex-consciousness that reflected crisis-ridden society’s fear in all its
consciousness.
Why were you afraid of coming here in daytime, my friend? They are guilty of just one
crime – poverty. Staying alive is the foremost priority. Everything they do is due to their
struggle to stay alive. Affluence is like a polish; all moral filth can be covered by it. Thousands
of rich and famous people indulge in sexual misdemeanours and other immoral acts regularly,
but their polish prevents you from seeing it. But in the case of these hapless people here, just
as they have no food in their bellies, or clothes to cover their bodies, in everything else too
they don’t have anything to hide.
Himadri had told Sankar about Julie.
She had come from a Muslim village in Golaghat. Her name was Julekha. An orphan,
she grew up in the house of her maternal uncle. Rahim, an immigrant, was their farm-boy. In
time they came close to one another. She wasn’t really loved by her uncle’s family – in fact,
her aunt was quite oppressive – but then, they weren’t willing to give the girl to their farm-hand.
Rahim eloped with Julekha. They loitered around for sometime and her uncle too got tired of
enquiring about her state. And then the couple arrived at this basti. Rahim managed to get a
rickshaw and in the house now occupied by Julie, they began their new life.
Julie loathed the basti the moment she entered it and was terrified by its atmosphere.
What a hell did Rahim bring her to? Even though she was an orphan brought up in a different
home, Julekha was a village girl. The limitless expanse under the clear blue skies, the width
of the green woods, the freedom to imagine and to visualise – this was her view of the world.
She was accustomed to the experience of immensity. The huge sun rose in the morning sky,
set in the reddish waters, from an unseen distance the wind blew in, to one standing at an end
of the fields, the other end seemed to merge with the horizon. But as she crossed the dark
lane and entered the basti, she felt that the vast outside world was well behind her. Surrounded
by brick walls and with tall buildings around, the sky from the basti was just a patch,
everywhere vision was disrupted and reflected back, as if the entire basti was a horrifying jail.
Gradually she faced more difficulties. Apart from lunch time, Rahim did not stay at
home. She was compelled to confine herself in the constricted space of small room from
morning till night. She had nothing to do. For someone whose existence meant begging and
surviving, what would she have to do? Man’s life was the accumulation of work of the senses.
But one whose senses remained inactive, what was the value of life for her? The eyes and
ears of the people in this basti were always in a state of starvation. She was afraid of even
striking up a conversation with these people because of the look in their eyes. Moreover, she
didn’t understand their language. As she didn’t have anything to do and not even two yards to
move about she was compelled to remain immobile. Unbearably frustrated, she felt like going
mad. People feel a sense of freedom by being involved in some kind of physical or mental
activity. If this natural process is disrupted then one is forced to traverse the path of darkness.
Julekha awaited Rahim’s arrival the whole day with great anticipation. The intense sexual
fulfilment eventually made existence worthwhile for Julekha.
Soon she became acquainted with the people there. She found it very difficult to
converse with them at the beginning and as she wasn’t very familiar with either Hindi or
Bengali. All the people here, young and old, men and women, used a language that was
sarcastic yet meaningful at the same and which made it possible to utter everything with ease
– it was a language that demanded a complete transformation of personality. When Pachu’s
woman told – “the manager of the hotel that you see over there, he is ready to give twenty
rupees and if you’re willing I’ll inform him today itself” – Julekha could make nothing of such
symbolic language and kept on looking at Pachu’s wife. It was only much later that she came
to know that even a five-year old child in this basti was familiar with such a language.
Gradually, she began to draw the attention of the people there. She became the
subject of discussion in every house and everybody talked about her beauty. The young men
began looking at her house, at most times with reason. Julekha, however, came to know about
this under very strange circumstances. She was taking a bath in the afternoon one day. She
had observed that for the women in the basti modesty didn’t matter and they hardly cared
about their bodies being viewed by others. Women in the villages bathed in the wonderful
shade of nature and the urban women had their bathrooms. But the basti’s women – who
hardly had any space to live – they had no option to quit all modesty and bathe in the open.
As she was taking her bath, Julekha felt something slip on her back. Taking it in her hands,
she realised that it was a ten-rupee note. When she lifted her eyes she saw a face staring at
her from a second-storey window of the hotel. Seeing her look back at him, the man made an
obscene gesture and moved away.
Julekha clearly understood that a conspiracy surrounding her was being hatched. It
would continue till her dignity as a human being was quashed to dust. It wasn’t simply due to
her beauty; her poverty was also responsible for it. Affluence is like a weapon. When
barbarians become prosperous they don’t rest till all human dignity is destroyed. Cuddling up
to Rahim’s bosom, Julekha tearfully told him everything that happened that day. “Let’s get
away from here. We would rather do a family’s chores in some village, which is much better
than being here. This isn’t a place for people to live decently. I’m afraid of something terrible
happening during your absence.” Julekha had hoped that at least Rahim would console her;
instead, he changed sides and stormed, “Why are you making such noises at this hour? Where
will food come from if I remain on your guard the whole day? That’s pretty good. You earn on
your own now.”
Julekha felt a sudden hit on being hurt with such brutality. Rahim always came home
drunk. She wouldn’t have taken offence if he doubted her character and hurt her in a drunken
state. But this coldness, this indifference, this was the sign of growing distance between them.
Her last link with ‘life’ snapped today. In spite of being his woman, she was free to do whatever
she liked? Did the purity of human relationships have no value in this basti? Hot tears flowed
down her cheeks and it was the last time she cried in life.
Ignorant as she was regarding a lot of things, Julekha also didn’t know that Rahim
never believed her to be a woman of integrity the moment they arrived at the basti. Treading
the right path in such circumstances was actually unnatural here. Who doesn’t know
Dalbahadur’s wife Lakshmi? He knew quite well. As long as they didn’t see it with their own
eyes they had nothing to complain. Engaged in the perennial struggle to tackle poverty, they
were no longer sensitive to emotions of love and affection and were not motivated enough to
be envious at all.
Some days passed by without anything irregular happening after that night’s
confession. Nowadays, as she bathed, her eyes always looked at that window and she could
see the stranger’s face with his obscene smile. Pachu’s wife always came with the hotel
manager’s proposal. A young man always came to her during Rahim’s absence, engaged in
vulgar talk and tried to pull her dress. He was Joy. Even when Julekha threatened to tell Rahim,
he wasn’t afraid. And there was no neighbour to alert by raising any hue and cry – after all,
only Pachu’s wife, Lakshmi and that old man were her neighbours.
Joy was sitting beside Julekha one day. Suddenly he took out a ten-rupee note in the
midst of his conversation and getting hold of her palm tried to put in her hand. And suddenly
Rahim appeared on the scene at that very moment. He had come to take his umbrella because
of the falling rain. Seeing Julehka grapple with Joy, Rahim remained dumbstruck at his door
for some time. Julekha awaited the imminent tempest with great trepidation. The storm did
come, but in a very unexpected way. Stepping forward with a dramatic movement, Rahim
looked at Joy and said, “Joy, are you really interested in her? You can keep her if you want.
I’m bored of her.”
Then he left with his umbrella.
Joy remained silent for some time. Then, smiling enigmatically at Julekha, he placed
the ten-rupee note on the ground and went away.
Julekha’s head started to spin and everything seemed to move around her with
tremendous force. She closed her eyes, she was in a daze. And when she opened her eyes
she saw the ten-rupee note lying in front of her. She took it in her hand and was just about to
tear it up, but then she suddenly stopped. “You can keep her if you want. I’m bored of her.”
Coward. Impotent. Even when you saw another man lay his hands on your woman you kept
quiet. Why couldn’t you slam him straight in the face? After this, what right do you have to call
me yours? Squeezing the note in her hand she sat there for some time.
Rahim came home earlier than usual that night. Immediately, without a word he started
shifting his things to Manohar’s house nearby. Julekha observed him in silence. Once the
shifting was done, Rahim came to her and said, “I’m leaving this house to you, see? But don’t
sever all relation with me. I’ll need you sometimes.”
Julekha remained seated in the same spot the entire night. The following morning the
people realised that Rahim had left Julekha and was now living in Manohar’s house. Nobody
seemed to be affected by such a pathetic event of a home being torn apart. It was as if there
was nothing more natural than this and everybody accepted it as a normal occurrence. In fact
they had imaginatively assumed that Rahim had brought Julekha from some filthy place.
Consoling her, Pachu’s wife said that whatever God did was for the good, with her beauty
Julekha would make a fortune in a very short time. Julekha didn’t pay any attention to the
people around her the whole day and remained in the same spot without even having anything.
She was unable to concentrate on anything. The man who entered her room that night was
not her husband; the temporary physical relation between them was not based on human
values.
Julekha put the sweaty ten-rupee note inside her blouse and moved onto the bed,

(5)

Monimala got Sankar a cup of tea.

You are getting a cup of tea for your guest with your hard-earned money, money
earned by the sweat of your brow. Not sweat, blood – the blood that perpetuates the human
race. You are independent. You have not starved to death. You’re alive. Being alive is the
most important thing. If women too had equal job opportunities as men and if they were treated
as respectfully as men, and given the same liberties – you too could make a living in a
profession where beauty mattered. It’s much better to live through the labour of your body
than either committing suicide or living like a dog on rotten food.
Dispelling the loathing and irritation for Monimala that occupied his mind moments
earlier, Sankar looked at her without artifice, directly.
Monimala was still as beautiful as before. Pain and suffering had not been able to
affect her beauty. The pain on her face, like the rain-clouds in the sky, in fact added another
hue to her face. Sankar observed her quietly for some moments. Suddenly he saw kiss-stains
made by different men on her smooth cheeks, the nail-marks made by many fierce beasts. He
could see clearly that she didn’t have a future. Her youth would dissipate one day, and she
would never experience the beauty of life, love and affection at all. Like her, thousands of
other refugee girls in their quest for survival must have followed this path to hell; and with
these thousands of girls becoming commodities in the market a dharmarashtra was being
formed. When girls like Monimala cry out under the weight of the lusty barbarian for a petty
ten rupees, does it not stall the aajan of even one masjid in Pakistan? Has the right to sacrifice
cows during Bakri Id made the crores of people of one country favourite sons of God? Sankar
suddenly became aware of the most ironic tragedy of civilisation through Monimala’s situation.
 “What are you thinking about so much, Sankarda? You’ve been just so stolid from the
moment you came.” Monimala was the first to respond.
Sankar gave a weak smile. Yes, he hadn’t enquired about them all this time. But what
was there to enquire? Who would like to touch rotten wounds? “Came to see you, Moni. You’re
alright, it seems.” He replied eventually.
“Alright?” Monimala echoed his words. “We’re alright, certainly. What did you expect
to see from such a long distance? Perhaps you thought that we were begging in the streets.”
Monimala’s last statement was tinged with irony.
“Thank God that you’ve not had to roam around in the streets. I came across two Sindhi
refugee girls roaming around in a hotel the other day. They were seeking money with an
appeal in their hands. Then I saw one of them move with the manager to his bedroom. A
begging girl of the street in a gentleman’s room, that too during broad daylight – perhaps the
begging profession has improved nowadays.”
“Oh Sankarda! What’s the meaning of talking about such things before me? It’s good
that you’ve come to meet us. But why are you insulting me like this?”
Monimala’s face was red with embarrassment and anguish.
Perhaps it wasn’t proper to talk about it in this fashion. He wondered quietly. But he
didn’t try to pacify Monimala either. He lit a cigarette and sat in silence for some time.
“If you don’t take offence” – he queried after a long silence – “I’d like to ask you
something. How are you making a living?”
“What’s the meaning of this?” Monimala asked in response.
“Nothing. Just curious. You may not answer if you wish.” Sankar replied indifferently.
“I actually had no wish to answer. But if I don’t reply after the way you have started the
conversation, you’ll go back with some ugly doubts in your mind. Do you remember, you had
told me when we left Pandu – all professions are not respectable for women. I haven’t done
anything unrespectable till now.”
“You answer’s not at all satisfactory. I wanted to know about your means of livelihood.”
“We had some savings; we’re living on that.” Replied Monimala, with clear signs of
irritation on her face.
Monimala didn’t want to say anything else. She however realised that she had not
answered Sankar’s question properly. How much savings did they have which enabled them
to make a living of that for this past year? They didn’t have a certain source of income. And
there was an old father and minor brother in the house. How a helpless young girl manages
to make ends meet – if Sankar has such a question in mind, there’s nothing to be surprised
about. But then, there’s no straight answer to such a question. When one has to go for days
without food, when there’s no certainty about the next meal, if then a gentleman comes and
says, ‘Take these twenty rupees, Monimala, you don’t have to do anything for it, just sleep
with me for half an hour –,’ do you know what comes to mind at such a time, Sankarda?”
That’s when I think, twenty rupees will get me a maund of rice and with it we’ll survive for
twenty more days. Staying alive is the most important thing. Only after that comes your
integrity and beauty. At the initial stage, under the banner of morality, you may draw self-
satisfaction by throwing back the twenty rupees at the gentleman’s face. But the relentless
pressure of scarcity will overcome all your resistance. You are bound to submit. I’ve lost
Sankarda. But, please, in God’s name, don’t call me a prostitute. Poverty is the greatest sin.
All poor people are fallen.
Monimala wanted to say everything: your suspicions are correct Sankarda. I’ve not been
able to live a decent life. I’ve stood naked before many men just in order to clothe myself, I’ve
spent a lot of sweat and blood just for the sake of a meagre meal. But you’ll loathe me if I start
telling you all these things. You will go away loathing me, I can’t let that happen. Since you’ve
yourself come close to me, I must escape this hell with your aid.
“What are thinking about so much, Sankarda?” Suddenly she asked Sankar and came
closer to him.
“Hm!” – as if he had got up from a deep slumber – “I’m thinking about a girl. She lives
here in this basti. She had left the security of her home for the love and trust of a man and
even though they almost occupy the same house, she isn’t his wife any longer. Beneath the
sheen of culture and civilisation of this beautiful city lies a mysterious world where the dignity
of human relationships have no value, where just a few words can end marriages, where
parents encourage their minor children to serve as touts of prostitutes, where the leper’s child
keeps close to his chest. If I had brought her like this to live in such abject poverty of the basti,
I’m just wondering, what would have been my emotional feelings towards her? Love, beauty,
integrity – these are very good ideas; but they don’t have any value as ideas unless they are
tested in practice in the actual world.” Sankar’s final words were like a soliloquy. He almost
forgot that Monimala was standing near him. He suddenly stopped on hearing footsteps and
looking up at Monimala he could see her face turn pale in indescribable horror. The footsteps
could be either her father’s or brother’s – but why was she so terrified? Sankar looked towards
the door.
The door opened slowly. And before the man could enter, Monimala went forward.
Sankar, still deep in thought, remained seated in the same spot. Then he wondered – why
leave this much after I have seen everything else?
It is easier to be cruel than to smile at Monimala’s far-fetched imaginary explanation.
Following Monimala, he saw her gripping Boltu’s mouth with a hand, while he was trying to
get free. Seeing Sankar all of a sudden, Boltu wrenched himself free from Monimala’s grip
and told him with great hope, “Oh, you’re here. That’s why she didn’t allow me to say anything.
Now I know why you don’t go to Julie. Hee, hee, hee, hee! I’ll tell that man that he can’t come
today.” And saying so, he jumped out to the street.
Both Monimala and Sankar stood face to face. You needn’t say anything else Monimala.
I was aware of all this from much earlier. Now you can’t even lie. Sankar wondered in silence.
Boltu knows you? And Julie also? Monimala thought, stunned. Why have you come to me
then?
Suddenly Monimala turned violent in a fit of jealousy. Looking Sankar straight in the eye,
she asked harshly, “How much will you give me. Go and wait for me in Pachu’s house. I’ll be
there shortly.”
A soft smile passed through Sankar’s lips. He felt like embracing and loving her deeply.
How much do we know about one another? Nothing. Nothing. The struggle to make life
beautiful is the greatest thing in the world. But one can’t struggle alone. You need company,
you require tradition. Seeing Monimala confused at his smile, he held the door ajar with one
hand and told her, “Come in Moni, it’s cold outside. I’ll tell you Julie’s story today.” Like a
motorised doll, Monimala followed Sankar inside.
Boltu was still observing Sankar and Monimala from a paan-shop by the street. Seeing
them go in, he twisted his face in an ugly gesture and laughed out loud. He had not learnt to
smile from his birth, the smile which comes from the beautiful human heart.

Translated by Bibhash Choudhury