Shibani Phukan

New Delhi, India

Something was wrong. Moni could sense it in the already stultifying 7 am air. As Moni struggled to open her sleep-heavy eyes, the reassuring sounds of the city coming alive - the cries of the pasoliwala, the rhythmic tap-tap of water dripping into the mop-bucket, the clanging of steel utensils being scrubbed clean by Bai - made a feeble attempt to suppress her growing sense of unease. Moni’s feet had just touched the cool of the floor, her sleep-smudged face veiled by the mosquito-net, when the door of her bedroom was opened by Bai trailing a broomstick. Suddenly the sound of agitated voices reached Moni’s ears and left her wide-awake and puzzled. “Ma and Deuta are fighting? What’s wrong?” she asked herself. Of course her parents fought, but usually over silly, regular, insignificant things - Deuta forgetting to cover the teapot with the tea-cosy, Deuta forgetting to switch-on the water-pump the night before and consequently Ma’s bath getting delayed, Deuta forgetting to pick-up a loaf of Homa and Ma having to then quickly figure out what to pack for her tiffin instead of the usual sandwiches … yes, it was usually Deuta messing up; Ma was annoyingly perfect. But, today, it was Deuta’s voice, louder, angrier, over that of Ma’s that now Moni clearly heard. “I can’t let you do that! I will not allow you to do that!” Deuta shouted as Moni tried to slink into the kitchen quietly. “Your job! Can you stop thinking about it for a day? A minute? At least on a day like today?” Ma’s angry, almost tearful voice countered Deuta’s. And then Moni remembered.

There was a procession a few days back. Well, there is one almost every day in most parts of Assam nowadays. Guwahati, Moni’s city, was of course at the epicentre of the Assam agitation led by the All Assam Students Union. But on that day the swelling crowd of old and young was lathicharged by the police and a 8-year-old boy accompanying his mother was injured in the stampede that ensued and shortly succumbed to his injuries. As a mark of protest, AASU had given a call for “Ronoxinga” today - a unique form of musical protest where people stood outside their homes playing some instrument, drumming on tablas, dhols or upturned tin buckets, clapping cymbals; while many marched in groups singing songs like “Aaah aaah ’o alai aah, xojag jonota … come come, come out of your homes you enlightened people …” Of course, Ma was going on one such protest. How did Moni forget! Ma, belonging to a family of freedom-fighters was increasingly drawn into the agitation. Ma, or Anima Baideo as she was addressed by most, was a Geography teacher at the Lahori Barua Senior Secondary School in Rajgarh, a forty-five minute walk from their home in Jyoti Nagar. Ma had started going for these meetings with her colleague Hema Baideo, and even before anybody realised, she was in the thick of things - attending meetings often after school, participating in marches, becoming a founder member of this small women’s cooperative that supported a bunch of young girls who made everything from nimki to pitha to embroidered table-cloths, and retailed them from a small room in Hema Baideo’s home. Moni sometimes accompanied her mother on her visits to the cooperative, and would look forward to eavesdropping on the delicious chatter of the young girls and the many treats they would always offer her. It was at Hema Baideo’s house that Moni first heard about the “Ronoxinga” protest a couple of days back.

Initially, Deuta just stayed out of Ma’s way, listening to her animated, fiery talk but restrained himself from commenting on her views about AASU, the agitation or their demands. He was a quiet man, devoted to his job, a man of few words who let his work speak for itself which did not necessarily bring him the accolades he deserved in a job where lip-service tended to count more than one’s dedication. Growing up in the small-town of Sibasagar, in a lower-middle-class household; Deuta took a great deal of pride in his central-government job, and the prestige that came with it. He did not have any other interests, he did not need any other interests. Often, even on a Sunday evening, Moni would find the dining table littered with files, Deuta quietly working on them till it was time to clear the table for dinner. With the changed mood of the people of the state, Deuta was anyway under tremendous pressure because any work, even in a completely professional capacity, done for the central government, was seen as a sign of betrayal. His very allegiance to his own people was seen as suspect and once Moni even overheard something about “threatening letters.”  But Deuta had no time to worry about these potential threats because his mind was preoccupied with more immediate threats.  Every decision he took was under the scrutiny of his Boss at the Centre. An Assamese man in an important, influential position at the height of the agitation, was not a man the Centre could blindly trust. Never mind the twenty-odd years of unblemished service! So how could he afford to look away while his wife actively participated in marches, protests and sloganeering! Against the very people he was unanswerable to!

But Ma had made up her mind. She was going to participate in the people’s march that would begin at Judge’s Field and head towards the oil refinery. Moni had barely finished her glass of milk when Ma entered the kitchen, kissed the top of her head and left the house. Moni sat on the murha placed by the drawing-room window, looking out beyond the barred windows, at Ma’s fast receding back, as always dressed impeccably in a crisp white uka silk Mekhela and a white cotton Sador with an embroidered purple border. Moni reluctantly moved away from the murha as Bai moved into the drawing-room to sweep and mop it. As Moni moved towards the kitchen to see what her mother had left her for breakfast, her mood brightened. “No school!” Moni gleefully shouted. Not that schools being shut was an uncommon occurrence in these times, but one day less of the tyranny of school never did anybody harm, or so Moni believed. As she entered her bedroom, the excited cries of her cousins Rontu and Jintu grabbed her attention. Moni’s aunt, Bhonti Pehi, lived right next to them and the best part was that Moni’s bedroom window looked into Rontu and Jintu’s bedroom, and many plans were made across this space. “Are you ready for “Ronoxinga?” shouted Rontu. “Which instrument are you playing?” Jintu shouted over Rontu’s excited voice. Slowly, a smile began to spread on Moni’s face. Moni would not only be saved from the boredom of a whole day of Maths and Assamese classes; but she could now be out in the streets with her cousins for the whole day clapping cymbals and beating on drums, and generally running around without any supervision from adults! The day was indeed looking better!

Moni along with her cousins parked themselves on the side of the road and each one began playing on their chosen instrument with gay abandon. Soon a feeling of festivity enveloped the neighbourhood as more people moved to the main road and joined in the fun. Soon narikol laddoos and bhujia and nimki were being passed around. The gumti, the ramshackle tea-shop, was doing brisk business. As the day went on, the sound of conversation punctuated by laughter and the occasional swear-word drowned the now faint strains of the instruments. A little bored by now, Moni wondered what was there for lunch and if she could quietly escape unnoticed to Rontu and Jintu’s place where she had learnt that chicken curry-rice was being served for lunch. Moni’s reverie was abruptly broken when suddenly the shouts of slogans rendered the air - “Ai jui jolise, joliboi lagibo! Tez dim! Tel nidiu! Joi aai Axom!” Soon a procession of old and young, men and women, came into view, enthusiastically beating instruments without much harmony, and carrying placards and banners. The mood of the neighbourhood swiftly shifted from one of quiet conviviality to a more sombre, interested and charged one. Things were beginning to look interesting. There was a slight tension in the air. Just then Rina Ba, the house-help walked towards Moni with urgency and firmly asked her to go inside as lunch was ready. Rina Ba was just a few years older than Moni and a good sport usually, but something about her demeanour discouraged Moni from arguing with her. Reluctantly, Moni walked back to her home. Serving Moni a lunch of dal, xaak-bhaji and fish fry; Rina Ba said, “Sir had called. He has heard of trouble brewing. Stray incidents of stone-pelting etc. Sir asked me to bring you home immediately.” Since there was no question of being allowed back into the main road, Moni soon settled down with an Enid Blyton till her rice-induced drowsiness overtook her and she fell asleep. Moni had no idea for how long she had slept when she was forced to jump out of bed at the sound of a huge commotion that seemed to be disturbingly close to her.  Rushing out of her bedroom towards the front of the house, Moni stopped in her tracks as she saw the scene in their front yard unfold before her shocked eyes. The main gate had been thrown open. Complete strangers, men and women, scared and dishevelled, some standing looking dazed and others sitting down on the grass; had occupied their compound. Beyond the people gathered, Moni could catch a glimpse of the main road and the unsettling sight of people running helter-skelter. Moni stood at the window, afraid to step out, unable to fathom what was going on. Then among the unknown people, Moni spotted the mali and the driver who worked at her aunt’s place carrying buckets of water. Soon many of the people started splashing water straight out of the buckets into their eyes. “What is going on?” Moni puzzled, still scared to venture out and find out for herself. Suddenly Rina Ba materialised next to her, and put a comforting arm around Moni. “The police fired on the crowd. I have heard people have been hurt. Then the police used tear-gas to dispel the agitated, angry crowd,” Rina Ba haltingly told Moni, aware that these were not things you spoke about openly to a ten-year-old-child. Before Rina Ba could offer any words to assuage the effect of her words, Moni shrieked, “Hurt? Who was hurt? Who died?” Rina Ba could barely process the intense scared and disturbed look on Moni’s face before Moni blurted, “Ma?”

The evening descends early in this part of the country. It was nearly six o'clock. Ma was still not home. There was no news about her either. The phone was dead. Moni was sitting on the murha by the window that looked out into the main gate and the road beyond it. She had not budged from that murha for the last two or three hours. The compound had slowly emptied out all the people who had poured in seeking shelter. There were no distractions on offer, save the occasional horn of a car or two-wheeler passing by. Buses had stopped plying. The roads were now eerily empty. Quiet. Moni turned to look up at a gentle tap on her shoulder. Rina Ba was trying to tell her once again that the window should be closed. The whole house was filling up with mosquitoes. Moni turned away and began to say something in a choked voice but, wait …There was the clank of the iron main gate being opened … somebody was at the main gate. Moni looked up, unable to believe her eyes. There she was, Ma, almost dragging her feet as she walked towards the home, and suddenly, there was Moni, in her Ma’s arms, two figures, limp with exhaustion, bereft of words, seeking reassurance from each other. And as Moni finally stepped back, Ma’s crisp uka mekhela and white embroidered sador stood revealed - riddled with holes from the tear gas.

… … …

Moni lay curled-up in bed, reading a book by her bedside lamp that cast strangely familiar shadows onto her bedroom walls. It was pouring outside. It had been pouring the whole long day but Moni did not mind at all. Among the many things she missed being away from home, studying in a faraway city where a five-minute drizzle was an occasion for people to celebrate by ordering samosas; it was this sound of the rain on her tin-roofed home that Moni missed the most. The home-cooked food wasn’t bad either! Especially now that Ma, Bai and everybody else wanted to ply her with her favourite dishes for each meal, and meals were planned in advance, completely centred around what Moni liked or disliked. Studying in faraway places had their little perks, Moni had realised. But Moni missed home. Not that there was much she could do about it. Ma and Deuta did not want to take any chances with her education, or with her safety. Bandhs had become the order of the day. Schools and colleges had to remain shut. Exams were often delayed or postponed. Then there were the bomb blasts and kidnappings. One could smell the fear in the air. A fear that had gradually permeated all the nooks and crannies of the plains, valleys and homes of Assam with the rise of the United Liberation Front of Assam.  Ma and Deuta’s night-time routine of checking every door, and every window, putting a huge padlock on the main gate, was something that gave Moni the jitters each time she had visited home in recent times. Moni fondly recalled how their front-door used to stay open from dawn to dusk and anybody from their relatives to the postman would often walk in as far as the dining-room calling out for the house-helps during the long siesta hours; and their finding out about the same only from the inland-letters and magazines in brown packets that they would find resting on the dining table.

Moni woke up, startled, by the sound of rain now pelting on their tin roof. “Hail-storm?” wondered Moni, half asleep.  But, no, that did not sound like hail-storm, a sound that Moni hadn’t heard in a while but one she was quite familiar with. Curiosity got the better of Moni’s sleepiness and she got up from her bed to have a look from her window. It was fairly dark outside but Moni could well make out that it wasn’t raining. Moni opened her bedroom door and almost screamed in fright as she found Ma standing right outside the door. “Don’t worry. Go back to sleep. It’s alright,” she said with her brows creased with worry. “What is it? Tell me! What’s wrong?” Moni asked Ma, sensing that things were far from fine. “Go to sleep. We will talk about it in the morning,” Ma replied, still sounding very worried. A few minutes later, Moni was in bed, anxious and wide awake. “What was going on?” Moni asked herself. She had never ever seen her mother so worried, so tense and nervous. Something was going on and Moni couldn’t wait to find out more in the morning. Moni hugged her pillow, seeking comfort, and was just about to switch off the bedside lamp in an attempt at falling asleep when she heard somebody banging on their front-door. Loudly. “What the hell …” cursed Moni and stomped out of her room. She had had enough. Moni needed answers, and she needed them now. Moni marched into her parent's bedroom to find them sitting huddled on their bed, fear writ large on their faces. “Come sit here! Be quiet!” Deuta urgently whispered, pulling Moni’s arm. The banging began once again. Moni sat still, uncertain if she was frightened more by the strange ongoings or the behaviour of her parents.  Soon the bangings stopped. All three of them waited in complete silence for what seemed like a long time. “You sleep here with Ma, I will sleep in your room,” Deuta said, finally breaking the silence and getting up to leave the room. As soon as Deuta left the room, Moni impatiently turned to Ma and asked, “Tell me, now, what is going on?” Suddenly the floodgates opened, and sobbing, giving vent to pent-up worry and anxiety, Ma told Moni about the threats Deuta had been receiving from the ULFA. The threats had begun a while back - anonymous phone calls made and threat letters sent to Deuta’s office. Soon their frequency increased and so did the seriousness of the threats. In the last month, calls had been made to their home and letters too were sent to their home address. Ma and Deuta had started leaving the phone off the hook. A few days back, Deuta had received an ultimatum - to quit his job, or else …  Moni sat in stunned silence, listening, but not quite hearing what Ma had to say. Ma sat with shoulders slumped, looking spent, almost relieved now that she had been able to finally unburden herself to Moni. There was nothing left to say, or discuss. Nothing they could say to each other to comfort, or to make sense of what was happening. This dark, incomprehensible reality was the reality of many like them whose family worked for the government, had a business, owned a petrol-pump … it was the reality of anybody who caught the eye of the ULFA.

Moni woke up to the familiar sounds of the day coming alive in their home and a headache that quickly reminded her of the night and her terrifying discoveries. Craving a strong cup of tea and hoping it would bring some relief from the throbbing headache, Moni made her way to the kitchen. The west-facing kitchen was still quite dark and it took a few seconds for Moni to register her mother’s presence, sitting on a kitchen-stool by the window looking at her with unseeing eyes. “What happened Ma?” Moni whispered to Ma, bile rising up to her throat. “The banging, last night … it was Rana … Runu started bleeding last night. Rana Bhindeo walked all the way to our house to borrow our car to take Runu to the hospital. She is dead … my sister is dead,” Ma said in a voice bereft of emotion. Runu mahi was Ma’s youngest sister, her most beloved sister. Runu mahi was five-months pregnant. Runu mahi was now dead because nobody had dared to answer the door.