We Decided

Nidhu Bhusan Das : We are now in Saharawardy Udyan, opposite the Arts Faculty of Dhaka University. It is our arbor, the Twicknam Garden of many other young lovers of the university. The shade of the Krishnachuda in the sultry mid-June afternoon is an excuse for us to be here away from the library which is our avowed destination. We smell each other, and it is intoxicating, no perfume or body spray, but the natural aroma after the perspiration dries in the shade and breeze beneath the tree. No mechanical sound and din of the downtown, the chirp of the birds, buzz of bees greets the tender hearts who flock here to know each other and decide on a lifelong relationship. The intimacy of two nightingales on a horizontal branch in our view provokes Nilu to ask,’Do we know each other much, as they do?’ Punctuated by a silence she said, diffidently, ‘Perhaps not.’ I said, ‘Then we have much to explore, and if we find we are not compatible, then?’ She bit the tip of her tongue, shut my mouth with the palm of her left hand and said,’ Don’t say so. We are childhood pals. We played, bathed, ate and slept together. What more space is required to explore!’ ‘But much time has flown between the childhood and the teens. We are now youths and remained apart during the adolescence, the most important period of psychic development,’ said I, philosophically. She asked, ‘Have I changed much, do you find me behaving differently with you? Don’t I breathe warm on you even now?’ She leaned on me as she would do under the mango tree in the south-east corner of the meadow in front of their sprawling residential complex in our village, as it were, to breathe her tender feeling into my heart. I smiled and asked mockingly, ‘Haven’t I changed much? I now shave every morning, think of love and physical union, and also of a career. I am urbane in gait and talk. Is it not significant? I understand you need explore the change and its meaning for you if you are interested about me.’ She took my right palm and boxed it within her two warm ones. The feelings of the childhood union in the meadow revisit me, and now awareness of the physical touch thrills. The taste of the fruit of forbidden tree brought in Adam and Eve, it is said, the awareness about their nudity. The fruit was, perhaps, aphrodisiac. The touch of Nilu now is likewise aphrodisiac. ‘How do you feel?’ I asked her, eagerly. I see her eye lids drop down like dew drops on the blades of grass in late autumn in Bengal. The trees are beautiful, the grass is lush green, and the birds are busy chirping their joy. We are older by three hours now. Is it wise to be carried away by emotion? I know Nilu is by heart good, but mercurial.ShouldI tell her about this my thought. Perhaps not. She would be hurt. I should not discourage her exuberance. ‘Well Nilu,’ I told fingering her black hair, ‘we may take time to decide if we are made for each other….. Need not be in a hurry.’ ‘Swapan, it is rude. You lack courage and would like to escape. Can’t dream like me and feel I am for you. How many extra miles should we travel to decide?’ she asked, evidently, disturbed. Nilu is soft spoken. She sighs but cannot retort, sobs but cannot cry. But she has inner beauty and strength, and would not unhand what she grips. I tried to test her strength: ‘Nilu, dear, it’s a fact we belong to two different religions, often taken to be antagonistic. How would we come to terms with it?’ She replied, instantly, ‘Have you seen any inhibition in me and in any of our family? Does not everyone in the family take you as one of us? Don’t my parents love you as one of their children?’ ‘That’s true,’ I said, ‘but what will be the religion of our children?’ She said,’ Why, they will have our religion.’ ‘What is that?’ I asked, puzzled. ‘Don’t we believe Ishwar and Allah are one and the same? Love is divine, and we are in love, are not we?’ I cannot contradict. We have decided. The naughty sun has disappeared. We are in union.

We Are Together

Nidhu Bhusan Das : Look into my eyes. What do you read? ‘No – thing ‘, said I, doubtful. She smiled, her pomegranate lips trembling. She said,’ Yes, you are right. An emotion cannot be a thing. ‘In the Suharawardy Udyan, adjacent to the Arts Faculty of Dhaka University, under a tree we were face to face. She took me there across the Mymensingh Road. She said she had something important to share. I was at first taken aback. Though we were childhood pals and read at the same school at the primary level, we were not intimate at the English Department we belonged to at the university. Rather we avoided each other. That day it was a different story. In the morning after the tutorial class, she said she would be in the library at 3 p.m. She expected me. I could not disoblige. I said,’ Well, I will come.’ That was all, after so many years. She left our school after class V and studied at Holy Cross School and College in Dhaka. I saw her after seven years at English Department where we took admission, unaware of each other. We saw each other but did not talk. I thought I should not until she came forward. She also thought in the same way, as she told me that day. She is a five feet four inches blonde, her complexion tawny. During our childhood we played and studied together, quarreled, and again cuddled each other. That was an innocent phase. Now we were experienced. O, when she asked me to be with her in the library a train of thoughts and emotions ran through me. I came back to the residential hall, bathed and had lunch in the dining room.I was delighted. At last Nilu asked me. But why? Back to my room, I lay on the bed for a couple of hours. I could not find any definite answer to the question. Excited, I could not sleep. I was also afraid –‘If I sleep I may miss the tryst ahead.’ Five minutes to 3 p.m. I left the room and turned up at the library on time. She was there in the magazine section on the ground floor leafing through a journal.As soon as she saw me, she rose and we came out of the library. ‘Let’s go to the Udyan,’ she suggested, as we walked side by side, smelling each other, after years. The Mymensingh Road running between the campus and the udyan is always busy with fast vehicles wheezing down. In the July afternoon when the sun was in the west we crossed the road and went into the arbor where many other university students already had occupied cozy spots under the trees. We sat under a krishnachura. Nilu broke our silence: ‘Then you are confused as to why I have called you?’ I said, ‘A bit.’ She said,’ Do you remember what your uncle, our teacher, and my father decided one morning while we were in our math session?’ ‘Yes, but that was a joke,’ I said. ‘Not at all. You are still a simpleton. They were serious and meant business.’ ‘How do you know?’ I asked her. ‘Your uncle is no more. My father has come to Dhaka. He loves you. Papa asked me last night how I rated you, and if I remembered what he shared with your uncle regarding you and me.’ She blushed as she was reproducing the conversation. She told her father she distinctly remembered and was not averse to see their wishes being materialized. So, she would like to know my opinion and fathom my emotion. She looked at me, her face brightened, and said,’ What do you read on my face?’ I could not say anything. I took her beautiful hand into mine and kissed on the back of it. She leaned on me and we had lips on lips, and again she enjoyed the touch of my wet lips on her rosy cheeks. We were there till sundown, and before parting she told me her father would be waiting for having breakfast with me at their flat near our hall next morning. I turned up at their flat at 8 a.m. Her father, our beloved teacher, was waiting with other members of the family, including her mother, the tender hearted lady. At breakfast the issue was raised by her parents. They were straight: ‘Will you tie knot with Nilu to honor the wish of your uncle? We are ready.’ I am willing if Nilu has no reservation,’ said I , frankly. ‘Why reservation?’ asked papa. ‘Because we belong to different religions,’ I said. He laughed and said unequivocally that was no problem. That day we were engaged and after one year we were married. We have one daughter, living in Maryland, the USA, still single. Nilu says our daughter will settle as and when she finds the right person to partner with for life. I agree.

She Notices Me

Nidhu Bhusan Das : She notices me even to-day. She is younger than I, by seven years. I am 57. Mother of four, Jharna has still those profound eyes though the moderate wrinkles on her face betray her dream remains unfulfilled. Her hair is graying. Five feet four inches, she does not have the grace in movement she had in her twenties. She smiles only when we are face to face, and feels free to talk to me. In fact, we often meet. We talk about the days when we were in our twenties. The other day, we had the same nostalgic stance during the routine tryst. ‘You are so nice, madam’, I said. ‘Don’t try to pamper, I know what I am. You didn’t care --- to know my mind.’ I would not say she is wrong --- accusing me unreasonably. During my university days I would come from time to time to our village to meet my widow mother. She would live alone at Ghagra, our village, two hours away from Dhaka by train. We have the same family tree, and the district board road separates our house from theirs. Jharna would regularly cross the road to visit my mother in the afternoon. In one such afternoon she came to my study with a cup of tea. She would make tea for my mother. Sipping , I said , ‘ Your tea is so intoxicating.’ ‘Is it? ‘she asked , taking interest. ‘ I am not lying ,girl --- it is true’, I sought to assure her. ‘ Let me see’, she said taking the cup. She sipped and smiled betraying her joy at sharing the cup with me. We dwelt on the tea for some time, and this led to what you would say philandering and amorous advances. Meanwhile, she was leafing through my Shakespeare, leaning forward close to me. We were breathing hot and quick. She broke the spell of silence: ‘Will you take mother away from the village when you have a job once university study is complete?’ ‘I have the mind’, I said candidly, and noticed her smile had vanished. She rose to leave, eyes brimming with tears. This happens in case of a village maiden that cannot hold back emotion. I began to rub her head embellished with long dark hair made into two neat and tidy buns. In a moment, we were kissing and cuddling on the couch. How long, I cannot remember. But the memory lingers. I postponed my return to Dhaka the next day. Jharna came to know about the postponement. She heard I had bathed at noon and swam across the river as we did during our school days. Many of my school mates are now working men but our friendship remains. After lunch I was lying on the couch. I was brooding over the closeness with her last afternoon and its significance when she crept into the study and planted a kiss on my forehead, desperately. I reciprocated. ‘Why have not gone to Dhaka?’ she asked, smiling, triumphantly. I felt ashamed and said laboriously, ‘I thought I should stay with my mother one day more.’ She chuckled and softly said ‘Is it? An obedient boy, indeed! When will you return then?’ I asked, ‘Are you eager to see me away from the village? ‘Do you think so?’ she snapped, her cheeks swelled. I pulled her and kissed indiscriminately for a few minutes. She gave in and lay on my lap, holding my stooped neck with two hands. I said, ‘Tomorrow.’ She said, frankly, ‘I love you. Will you remember?’ I smiled and kissed the village girl, saying ‘I shall remember and be with you for ever.’ She was assured. But the parents of the girl would not like to see it happen. The next 25 Baishakh ( 8 April) wedding songs greeted my classmate Rekhan who exchanged garland with reluctant Jharna and reddened her forehead with vermilion the next morning. It was a negotiated marriage in which the bride did not have any say. I dared not go and take her to me for life. We did not forget the tea party that afternoon and what followed . I remember, she said, ‘ I love you.’ Last night we met and again vowed , ‘ We love.’ On Facebook regarding status our profiles read : In relationship with --- .’ We are in dream. Though in different countries, we dream and love.We go back to our twenties.

The Myth and Aura Will Pass Away

The Myth and Aura will Pass Away Nidhu Bhusan Das The Mamata myth appears to be waning rapidly after Ms Banerjee has become the Chief Minister of West Bengal. The Chief Minister tends more to play to the gallery than to be serious about steering the state clear of the mess she inherited from the left rule of about 35 years. She deserves credit for the ouster of the Left Front from power. It was she who pulled down the left edifice which once was thought to be impregnable. Her sustained movement against what was seen as left misrule earned her the credibility which ultimately catapulted her to power in the state. Once in power, she is in a hurry to project herself as the Santa Claus to the people, and heaps promise upon promise to keep the people in good humour.Even she squanders money in the form of donations to the clubs of the state and her government organizes gala festivals while roads and highways remain degraded. Siliguri has begun to be illuminated on the occasion of the North Bengal Festival which she will inaugurate at Kanchenjunga Krirangan (stadium) on 10 February next when many roads of the municipal corporation are in terrible condition. The corporation is under their coalition rule. This is like building Tajmahal ignoring the fact that many impoverished subjects were unfed. Mamata is seen to be honest personally. But many of her party men during their eight months in power could have proven that given the scope they could be corrupt and corruptible. They have already had the arrogance which goes with power for those who enjoy power and tend to abuse it. Quite a number of them have become paper tigers and seek to use the media for projecting themselves. This, perhaps, cannot augur well for the party and its supremo. Mamata and her party call their coalition partner Congress the B team of CPI(M) but in case of North Bengal University it is found that they are so far apparently on the same wavelength with CPI(M) in respect of alleged corruptions galore. During their eight months in power, permission could not be granted for filing charge sheet against a registrar against whom the university lodged an FIR during the left rule alleging corruptions involving crores of rupees. This irony of situation may not be without reason, politically significant. If the charge sheet is not filed in time, the case against the person will become infructuous. People, in the know of the affairs of the university, may read the meaning in it in their own way. If Mamata allows scope for such reading and go on with her populism, the myth about and the aura around her will pass away. She may continue in power but will lose authority and goodwill she earned after a long and ceaseless struggle for the cause of the people.