Kill You, Sure (3)

              Kill You, Sure (3)

                                        Nidhu Bhusan Das

               After dinner, Anik’s in the library. At JNU the library functions round the clock. He isn’t alone there. Many other students are engrossed in study. But he doesn’t have the mind in the book. It hovers over Dhaka where she is now. He doesn’t know much about her and her parents. The book he’s before him deals with the history of the evolution of the society in Bangladesh. The reason’s obvious. He cannot explain to himself the logic behind the reason. Subjective choice cannot contain objective logic.” I’m afraid I’ve become subjective, but what else could I be? She’s simply so enchanting,” he thought.”No, the physical beauty isn’t the reason. She’s a personality. Not a michelangelo, but an adorable personality. Time glides, doesn’t keep the usual pace. Don’t know when the vacation will end. I see her, does she see me? God knows!”Anik’s uncertain. It’s natural. He’s addressed the air in the space that has separated them. She hasn’t interacted, anyway. Yet the pride of Jat patriarchy isn’t hurt. True, he doesn’t share the traditional Jat pride of this kind. But anyone can feel hurt when ignored. Not Anik, in this case.

 “True, she doesn’t betray any emotion other than the pursuit of knowledge. She prefers to be lonely in the company of books. This is a rare quality which makes her personality unique. She’s an elusive dream for me,” the emphasis is on ‘elusive’ as he thinks.

 “Her eyes’re green.”

 Sure, the colour of the eyes has made him get lost in them. “Green-eyed people have an incredible zeal and zest for life and for living life to the fullest,” he believes the idea’s perfect.

 “They are passionate about many things.”

 “They tend to be very attractive and beautiful,” he’s sure.

“Her brown hair points to her independence and self-reliance, competence and stability,” he tends to be analytic like a psychologist with his head propped with two elbows and cupped between hands.

“She’s a heart face. It’s characterized by a wide forehead which is widest at the temples and hairline.”

“She’s prominent cheekbones,” he observes like an anatomist.

“Her thin lips reflect a personality endowed with strong mental acuity.”

 “A girl with such a face could be ambitious realistically, quirky but shy. Her thin lower lip suggests she’s reserved and the thin upper lip means she’s secretive,” he analyzes, as it were he’s a biological anthropologist.

“What are you upto?” asks Divya, his chum since college days in Haryana.

The question punctuates the thought of Anik.He’s been so absorbed he’s been unaware of the presence of others in the reading room. Looking up, he faces Divya Lal who belongs to a farming family, and is an excellent student. She’s doing her masters in Linguistics.Anik perceives she adores him. He likes it but never have they gone beyond academic matters.

“You’re dozing, perhaps. Let’s go and have tea,” she suggests.

Anik cannot resist the temptation. He follows Divya.

Sipping the tea she says, enquiringly,”I wish you weren’t morose!”

“No, no…just thinking,” he defends.

“Okay dear! Then what’re you thinking about,” she’s eager.

“Maybe, I don’t know, exactly.”

“Any new hypothesis, say on impact of new media on social relations?”

“I don’t think so. Know anyone with green eyes?”

“Green eyes! I’ve heard some Irish people have green eyes.”

“I’m occupied with green eyes, you know.”

“Interesting, really! You may read a book on Irish people for that. I’ve seen a book in the catalogue of the library.”

“Thanks for the suggestion.”

“Recently I’ve read a novel that deals with Irish society, their love-life.”

“The heroine green-eyed!”

“That I cannot remember, exactly.But she’s very nice, has fidelity.”

“Won’t you tell the story, please?”

“Well, in a nutshell, she’s Holly, a very young widow. Her husband died a year back. Gerry and Holly, sweethearts since childhood, married in love. She doesn’t respond to many amorous advances. None can replace Gerry in her life, she thinks.”

“She’s like an Indian widow.”

“But there’s a difference, very important.”

“What’s that?”

“She could have married, quite a number were there to pick and choose. No inhibition and prohibition there for widow remarriage. Her family wouldn’t mind. Even Gerry in one of his notes addressed to Holly to be received after his death tells her to remarry. She refrains on her own.Self-regulation, you may say,” Divya explained.

“A strong personality!”

“Moral strength, a rare quality. This is her choice, not imposition as it’s in our society, despite the reform efforts of Vidyasagar and Ram Mohan in the 19th century and enactments.

“Modern Indian girls don’t tend to go by such social tenets, I believe,” said Anik, doubtful.

“Why should they? They’ve the choice to make like Holly. Law’s there on their side,” Divya asserted.

             They’ve three cups of tea each. Divya rises to go back to the reading room. She doesn’t show she’s stirred at the interest Anik’s shown in green eyes.Anik follows her.

“Why is Anik scared about green eyes?” she continues to think even when her eyes’re on the page of the book. She’s an avid reader, but now she cannot proceed.Anik’s brooding on green eyes intrigues her:” Has he developed tenderness by now, that too to someone with green eyes?” She saw Bithi in the reading room, but it’s casual look. She doesn’t care for beauty as she knows in her heart she herself is beautiful. “Still why, Anik!” she is puzzled.( continued on 16 July 2015)

Kill You, Sure (2)

            Kill You, Sure (2)

                                         Nidhu Bhusan Das

      

             Anis Chaudhury met Reba Kennedy at Harvard. He studied at Kennedy School of Harvard Master of Public Policy (MPP) and concentrated in International & Global Affairs (IGA). Reba’s in the PhD programme in Social Anthropology. When she’s born at Mount Auburn Hospital in Cambridge, Massachusetts the pediatrician and the obstetrician said, the baby’s royal, elegant, beautiful and awesome. So, they chose the acronym Reba for her name. Besides, Reba’s mother Salma Aga might have in mind the name of the river Reba, the other name of the 1300 km long Narmada which rises near the Amarkantak peak of Mahakal range in Madhya Pradesh-Chhattisgarh and flows between Vindhyan and Satpura ranges in a narrow rift valley. It meets the Gulf of Khambat near Bharuch (Broach). This river forms no delta.

          Salma’s from Sindh in Pakistan where they’re known as Mohajir, migrants from India after partition. George Kennedy’s from Ireland. They met at a Broadway Opera and came to love each other. The happy couple prospered in their grocery business and offered their only child the best possible education. The family doesn’t have any religious inhibitions and Reba grew up in an egalitarian and secular family atmosphere. Anis Chaudhury’s from Barisal where their family’s well-known as a cradle of liberal ideas and for philanthropy. They decided to come into wedlock with the consent of the Kennedy family. It’s decided Reba would retain her US citizenship and Anis would be a US citizen. They would practise the religion of humanism.Anis’s a visiting faculty at Harvard, and Reba runs a thinktank.Also they’ve established Dhaka Study Circle, a deemed university. It’s a research institute with special emphasis on South Asia. They stay in Dhaka five months a year.Bithi’s also a US citizen but likes the Bengali culture. She’s devoted to cross-cultural study and her area of interest also covers the folk ways of Ireland. She’s the mind to pursue doctoral study at Harvard.

         Bithi’s abed after lunch. The word “Kill” continues to haunt her mind   and stir the thought. Well, she’s an idea:” Why not search in the internet,” she decides and is now online on her laptop. Wikipedia says,” As a body of water, a Kill is a creek.  The word comes from the Middle Dutch ‘kille’, meaning "riverbed" or "water channel".The term is used in areas of Dutch influence in the Delaware and Hudson Valleys and other areas of the former New Netherland colony of Dutch America to describe a strait, river, or arm of the sea. Examples are Kill Van Kull and Arthur Kill , both separating Staten Island, New York from New Jersey , Dutch Kills and English Kills off Newtown Creek, Bronx Kill  between the Bronx and Randalls Island , and used as a composite name, Wallkill River  in New York and New Jersey and the Schuylkill River in Pennsylvania. Fresh Kills is the primary waterway that leads to the former Fresh Kills landfills which serviced the city of New York in the second half of the 20th Century and was once the largest landfill in the world.”

“Kill” began to be used to mean ‘a stroke, a blow’ in early 13^th century. Since 1814 it’s being used as a verb. In Boxing Jargon ‘The Kill’ is being used to mean ‘the knockout’ since 1950. But Anik doesn’t use the word in any of the senses, she understands.

“He smiles when he says - kill you, sure. Why the smile?” she’s perplexed.

“Is he a cool murderer? They say there’re killers who can kill, smiling.”

“But how can a studious and polite boy be like that?”

“I’m not his friend or friend-turned-enemy, right?”

“We say – Don’t kill time. Here it means waste time.”

“How will he waste me? Does he mean he’ll beat me academically?”

“May be. Well, let me see.”

             Back at JNU hostel, Anik knows what he means. He’s already infatuated to Bithi.Her look, her gait, the way she speaks, her aristocratic behaviour, and the sum total of these – her unique personality has stolen his heart. He hasn’t thought of her country, religion and language. He’s developed tenderness to her – the person and the personality per se.He hasn’t analyzed what constitutes the essence of her personality, he isn’t interested either. He feels a kind of loss in the absence of Bithi in the campus. Why should he? It isn’t long enough that he has come to see the girl like many others in the university.” Three months isn’t enough for understanding classmates, is it?” he thought. “Yet I feel I’m alone even when there are many around. Don’t know why,” a voice within murmurs.

             She’s again on her back in the bed with the head on a downy pillow.” I’m there to study, not to compete. So, no question of being beaten by anybody. Then how can one kill me? Not possible. I shouldn’t be scared. I’m there to learn, not to take fancy. If I learn, I’ll have an edge over others. “Kill you” is nonsense, absolutely,”Bithi concludes. Drowsiness grips her, the eyelids fall. She dreams of the Irish meadows and mango groves of Bangladesh. Mango is her favourite summer fruit. She sees the meadows adorned with lush green grass and beautiful flowers after the snow has melted away. The ripe mangoes, red and yellow, hanging from the trees in their small orchard invite her to pick them up.

           Before sundown, Anis Chaudhury goes into the room of the daughter and planted a soft kiss on her forehead. When you’re in dream, even the fall of a petal may induce you to open your eyes.”Papa, you’re again so naughty, I was dreaming, you know,” says Bithi like a child, lengthening her syllables.

“Dreaming of what, dear?”

“Meadows and mangoes.”

“Oh! That’s it. Very nice.”

“Not child, your mom, understand?”

“Well, let’s go into the cool of the garden to have tea. Your mom waits there.”

“That’s fine, after a long time,” says she, delighted and jumped off the bed to run out into the sylvan garden.

          The tea‘s ready and they begin to sip together the Darjeeling with delicacies prepared by Rabeya. Halfway through, she rises and goes to a mango tree. She hugs the tree and asks,” Won’t mind if I kill the tree sure, will you, papa?”

“Not at all, because I know you love it so much,” says the papa, affectionately.

“You’re right, my wise papa.”

“Finish the tea,” calls her mom.

        Bithi’s gone into a kind of reverie over the link the papa’s drawn between ‘kill and love’.(   continued on 9 July 2015)

        

Kill You,Sure

                   Kill You,Sure

                                                 Nidhu Bhusan Das

           Bithi’s on her way back to Dhaka to spend the summer vacation with parents. Now in the region of cloud, she’s very much down-to-earth, instead of being ascending high in dream. “Kill you. Kill you, sure. What does it mean,” she thought and remembered,” Heard ‘killjoy, but it’s noun and ‘kill’ is a verb, the two cannot be the same, can they?” She isn’t sure. She knows one meaning of ‘fire’ is to dismiss from job. Is ‘kill’ has such a meaning? She’s puzzled, she’s contemplative while the plane’s nosing its way down the cloud-way to destination where her parents are waiting to receive her. When he tells her “kill you” he wears a gentle smile and maintains inviting eye contact. It isn’t grim like that of a killer. The difference’s significant. Really. She understands it. Yet she’s clueless. She felt the urge to contact him right now to ask what he meant. But her cell phone’s in airplane mode. The cloud’s floating on the vast expanse. She’s smiling in the sun, looking for someone she wishes to meet, maybe it’s a rendezvous with someone she loves. Her eagerness suggested that.Bithi doesn’t have any such eagerness. She isn’t jealous of the floating lover. She doesn’t have such tenderness for anybody. Yet she cannot but dwell upon the tender warning “Kill you”. Anik repeats the warnings every time he meets her at the Department.They’re doing Anthropology at JNU. Anik Lal’s from a kulak family of Hariyana.The grand lineage and heritage are the pride of their family, and wouldn’t shed their greatness at any cost.Bithi doesn’t know this. In fact they’re in the early phatic phase of their interpersonal communication. But the smiling face of the Aryan face of the boy often surfaces in her mind.

          At theShahajalal International Airport lounge Anis and Reba Chaudhury frequently look at the watch with their ears cocked to the announcement for the landing of the Air India flight from Delhi.Bithi comes. It’s a great joy for them …their only child and cause of pride. She’s beautiful; she’s different having academic excellence.

         Bithi read Dickens and Tales from Shakespeare, Saratchandra, Manik Bandyopadhyaya, Tarashankar and science fictions, City of Joy and Da Vinci Code. She analyses them in the social context. Her interest lies in sociological study. If you talk of something romantic she, unlike her friends, would say digging the past and looking into the future flashing forward as in science fiction is romantic. To her, the story of Romeo and Juliet is romantic because it takes her to the ancient Roman world and feudal pride and feud there. On 20, she hasn’t till now understood the primrose path her friends are eloquent about. But right now the warning “Kill you” intrigues her. Available dictionary gives the literal meaning, and she cannot find it compatible with what Anik might have meant.

         The pilot’s announced they’re hovering over Dhaka and it’s time to land. Bithi’s meditation’s ceased. Her parents have pattered into her mind. She comes out of the plane and looks around to see the parents who wave to her. The brief time for customs clearance seems to be hours to the girl and her parents. This is affection, she understands, and that much. She rushes to the parents and kisses them. They’re now on the latest version of Toyota Raum which heads to their beautiful bungalow at Uttara, a posh residential area in the burgeoning mega city. The hitch’s the traffic snarl which slows down the movement to tortoise-pace. However, it couldn’t slow down the tender interaction between the daughter and the parents.Bithi’s all praise for the academic environment at JNU and the fast life outside the campus. The openness at the campus, a knowledge hub, is the primary experience of the girl she’s eager to share with her parents. The sultry summer hasn’t come in their way of a lovely chat in the AC car. Summer’s scorching now in ever expanding Dhaka which brims over.

        Bithi jumps out of the car as it’s pulled up in the driveway in the symmetric bungalow.The gardener Prafulla, the cook Mariam and domestic helps Rabeya and Rafique are the other residents in the complex. They’re a happy lot, and don’t feel aloof from the Chaudhury family.Bithi’s also their loving child. Her return has brought no less joy from them. She skips along the driveway and hugs the exotic plants that adorn the huge lawn.

“Come baby, let’s go in. We’ve the evening to be here for tea,” calls Reba like she calls a school-going girl. Her papa takes her hand and patters up the stairs to the drawing room followed by others.

Lolling on the sofa Bithi fondly says,” Mom, am I still a baby?”

“You’re and will always be to us, dear –our little child,” says Reba fondling the daughter.

“They call me little Bangladeshi!” Bithi giggles.

“Is it? They’re right, perhaps,” pokes the father.

“You’re so naughty, papa. Silly it is, you should say.”

“They don’t know you’re the little mom of Anis Chaudhury, right?”

“Maybe, how should they? Am I like a mom?”

“You aren’t, true. Just 20, not the time to be mom. Yet you’re our sweet mom.”

“But not little, at that!”

“Little of course when it means ‘dear’. Aren’t you dear to us?”

“Everyone around knows I’m your dear dear baby.Papa, is there any such out-of-the-way meaning of ‘Kill’ when someone says, probably endearingly, ‘Kill you, sure’? They use it in the campus.”

“Let me think, mom.Is it love? Not sure. We won’t tell so, your mom and I.At Harvard! You know, jargon differs from place to place.Could you guess anything, dear?” asked the father, eager, to understand.

“I haven’t. Trying.”

Mariam calls,” Lunch is ready. May talk at the table.”

“Well mom, get ready, have a quick bath. What’s there, Mariam, for my mom to have for lunch?”

“Pineapple ilish, katal kaliya, chicken curry…”

Bithi rushes to the bath tub, with tongue watering. She’ll have a real Bengali dish after a gap of three months and that too at home with mom and papa. ( continued on 2 July 2015)

*  Dear readers,
This is my new novel for your consideration. please read,comment and share.Also give suggestions.