THE PRICE OF REVOLUTION

“JARASANDHA”

Translated from the original in Bengali

by BASUDHA CHAKRAVARTY

[The story is set about a decade after the famous Chittagong Armoury Raid, when the Muslim League was in power in the Provincial Government of Bengal. It is in the form of a narrative by the author who was at that period a jail official.]

“How do you like our place?” asked the Kaviraj. ¹

“There’s nothing to dislike about it,” I replied. “There are hills here, also the sea.”

But nothing of anything in excess:” the Kaviraj added. “They are well mixed up with the fields, trees and plants around. There’s nothing like this in Darjeeling or Mussourie, you won’t get it even in Puri or Waltair. You will get it only here, in this place, that is, Chittagong, which you call the land of the Maugs.” ² So saying he picked up two firm pinches of snuff–from a peculiarly built box and transferred them to his obtrusive nostrils. That brought to my mind’s eye a very familiar scene, that of Gajandhar Singh, our magazine-sentry, loading his rifle with bullets.

With his reddish eyes raised straight at me the Kaviraj said suddenly as if in rebuke, “Well, Sir, a group of boys and girls this very land of the Maugs fought once like tigers against your British masters. That was no vegetarian fight with the spinning wheel, it was a regular battle with the help of bullets, gun-powder and guns. They gave up their lives, also took lives of their enemies. Behind them all was an insignificant teacher of mathematics of a school of this Chittagong. When the turn for revenge came, the British did not forget him. As usual, they caught him and hanged him in your jail there.”

The Kaviraj’s voice slowly relapsed into silence. He sat silently looking at the darkness outside. After a while I heard again his soft, sombre voice as if the words floating from a great distance. “Chittagong’s sun set that day. His companions are rotting to their deaths in dark cells in the place they call the Andamans, a thousand miles away from their country. Who knows when they will return? Who can tell if they will return at all?”

A few minutes passed without either of us saying a word and then the Kaviraj said almost to himself: “Yet I must say, imprisonment has saved them. They were not present here to see what a big price their country had to pay for that one day’s daring adventure. You make much fuss of Jalianwalla Bag. But you do not know how beastly was the repression a gang of monsters carried on from day to day in every village and every town of this Chittagong. Not Dyers and O’Dwyers, not foreign soldiers but people of your and my own race did it. Not one householder of the Bhadralok ³ class could escape those beasts. The boys had the ribs of their chests ground down, the girls lost what is woman’s greatest asset, their chastity. You, Sir, have read histories of many lands.” The Kaviraj flared at me with a fierce question, “have you found anything to compare with this? I know, freedom has a price. But has any country, any race in the world, had to pay a price so terrible as that?”

I felt like being undone. What a question for the Kaviraj to ask, of all people, me? I am a jail official. I serve under British rule and the Muslim League Government. I had been tempted by the prospect of a lovely chat, to set foot into a neighbour’s parlour just to while away the evening. Would I have ever come had I known that I would have to face a cannon in human form? His sharp eyes were still pointed at my face. I looked at them once, laughed drily and said, “Well then, Kaviraj, Sir, what’s the position here regarding availability of fish?”

Fish! That gave the gentleman a jolt. His gaze slowly came to be easy. His face lit up with a glad, sincere smile. He repeated what had seemed to me to be the process of putting gun-powder into a rifle, and said, “Did you ask about fish? Of course, you can get it. You could get it of all kinds. Besides Chittagong has its own offers to make: dry fish and the variety called Laitta. They are delicious provided you could cook them correctly.”

“There lies the difficulty,” I said.

“Why do you say so?”

“Well, Sir, to cook them they must be brought home.” “Where’s the difficulty in that?”

“I could tell you if you won’t mind.”

“How is that! Why should I mind! Out with it, please!

“As I heard you people praise these things, I felt a little tempted. I went one day to the dry fish market. I procured about half a seer of the commodity, had it nicely packed and got back home. It was past ten at night. My wife was asleep. My plan was for me and the doctor to take the Opportunity to light the stove at the outer room and manage the business. No sooner had we taken the cooked thing out of the stove than my wife made her appearance with her nose covered with a cloth. She pointed towards the bundle and ordered ‘Throw it away half a mile from here and wash your hands with soap at the Laldighi before you Come back.’ I scratched my back and asked ‘Haven’t you slept as yet?’ She took her departure and said as she did so, ‘That smell would bring to life even the dead–let alone, merely spoil my sleep’.”

At this the Kaviraj burst into loud laughter. Then he said, “So that’s about dry fish. What about the other thing?”

“The other thing–you mean the Laitta? The story about it is even sadder. My servant brought some of it on a leaf one day. What vomiting it caused in my wife! I got the news at the office and rushed home. When she got a little better she said that the man should be turned out that very day. ‘Why? ‘ I asked. She got mightily angry and said, ‘Do you ask why? He has picked up something like phlegm from somewhere and passed it off as fish. As if I cannot recognize fish’!”

The Kaviraj said with some concern, “Is that the matter? Please wait a little. I shall see you out of your difficulty”–so saying, he shouted towards the inner house, “Minu, Minu, are you there.?”

A reply came forth, I am coming, papa.”

In about two minutes’ time, a fair-complexioned young woman stood before the door. She looked bright of health and intellect. The Kaviraj said, “Minu, here’s your uncle. Do Pranam to him. He is a great friend of ours. He is Gnan Babu’s successor here.”

“I know that,” so saying Minu came forward, touched my feet and did Pranam. She added with a smile: “I am got known to aunt. Well, papa, uncle is a writer. He writes very well.”

The Kaviraj expressed surprise: “Is that so? Well, you, Sir, have so long told me nothing about it. I see, you are a mango in disguise.”

“But very sour,” I said.

“You have not given us to know if it is sour or sweet. I have been chattering about all sorts of things since evening and a full-fledged writer has kept all the while silent.”

“Writers do not talk, they merely write,” I said.

“And they let inconsequential people talk and gather from that talk material for their writing; is not that so?” so saying the Kaviraj laughed.

Minu said, “Could anybody open his mouth in your presence? What a chatterbox you are!”

“You are quite right. Well, now about the matter I summoned you about. It won’t do only to make friends with aunt, you must teach her to cook the sort of fish and other things available in our parts. Before that, I mean as early as tomorrow, you should invite your uncle and let him taste one or two of your preparations. Well, Malay Babu, should you once taste curry of dry fish and fry of laitta cooked by my little mother, you would never forget it in your whole life.”

“That’s how you put it but your talk is always extravagant,” so saying Minu went into the inner house but not before she told me, “Mind, you don’t go away, Kaka Babu; I am bringing tea.

After Minu left, the Kaviraj asked me, “How long have you been here?”

“About a month.”

“Just see the fun. We live in houses next to each other’s. Still we have known each other only now. Even that has been possible because you did me the favour of coming to see me. But look at them: see the position in which Minu and her aunt are already to each other,” so saying the gentleman raised another storm of laughter.

The Kaviraj had spoken nothing but the truth. Women are always forward in getting introduced and talking to each other. The reason for that is not that they are more advanced than men in social courtesy or largeness of heart. The reason is that speech is a thing which retires within in the case of men, while in the case of women it flows out. We digest words, they emit them out. That is why in family the woman talks and the man just listens. Women are uneconomical of two things–money and talk: of the former, of course, when it is not of their own earning.

Even in the city of Calcutta you will find, for instance, a Bose and a Banerjee living for twenty-five years next door to each other. Yet they have not made themselves known to each other. Both of them, on return in the evening from office, wear a mere twelve-yard cloth, put on a jacket over it and seated on the platforms at the entrance of their houses adjoining each other, sip tea obtained from the nearby stall, all the while piercing each other with their eyes but avoiding to reach each other with their speech. But go to the roof. The scene there is different. There Mrs. Bose and Mrs. Banerjee, after their midday meals and afternoon toilets, stand beside their respective parapets and exchange balls of past pulses, pickle and tobacco quids as well as tales of family joys and sorrows.

Again, suppose you are going somewhere distant by rail. You and your fellow-passenger are sitting side by side all the twenty-four hours and without a word to each other. Time sits heavily on you in spite of your having all but munched off one of those unreadable novels available on the railways, having slept for a while, sat yawning for sometime and seen the natural beauty of the rugged fields. You desire to talk to each other but neither of you take the initiative to break the ice. Now your wives are travelling in the ladies’ compartment adjacent to yours. They have taken to each other at very first sight and look as if they have known each other for a very long time. The train had crossed only two stations before they came to the familiar and first person terms of addressing each other. Both were then doing the talking, neither cared to listen. The roar of the train had become submerged under the buzz of their united voices, On the train stopping at the junction station you get down and shout to your wife, “Get the things ready. Only two stations more.” You get no reply but hear your wife saying to her companion with a smile, “Well, now you see, my friend, what a busy body I have to live with. We have still to pass two stations before getting down; but already I am asked to hurry up.”

The companion said, “But my husband goes even one better. I shall tell you what happened on one occasion…….”

Minu brought tea. There were certain accompaniments. I said: “Better give me only tea today. I shall take all the other things some other day. It does not do for me to eat anything untimely……..

The Kaviraj interrupted: “That’s O.K. Please take only what you like. Our Shastras say no compulsion should be used over taking food. Well, wait a bit. It won’t be right of you to take only tea. I shall give you something new to take along with it.”

He opened the almirah and placed on my dish two black objects of round size. “Do you recognize what these things are?” Minu said. I observed the things a little and said, “They seem to be black-berries. They are called Chhanabara at Beharampur.⁴ But the preparations there are larger in size.”

Both of them laughed vociferously.

A little abashed, I said, “Are they then sweets made of cocoanuts?”

“No” the Kaviraj said. “It seems impossible to get on with you. These are pills of Chyabanaprash: they add to one’s strength and guts and to the grace of one’s features and also prevent the growth of phlegm” so saying he recited a supporting Sanskrit Sloka.

Minu said: “You did not like the refreshments I offered you. So now please take tea with Chyabanaprash.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” I said. “ Cha ⁵ and Chyabanaprash: the alliteration is nice.”

The incident I shall now speak of, occurred some time later. It had become an almost regular habit on my part to spend evenings at Kaviraj’s parlour. He was an extremely companionable man. Endless were the varied experiences of his life. Equally unique was the highly literary manner of his presentation. It was then probably the month of Magh. The cold was intense. No less intense was the talking party assembled since evening. Tea came along at intervals accompanied by Chyabanaprash and other supplementaries. After it had been had a second time Minu came to know if water for a third cup should be made ready. A police officer entered the room at this stage. He occupied one of the chairs at the front, looked at the Kaviraj and said, “Please excuse. I am disturbing you untimely. Kindly send for your servant.”

The Kaviraj was surprised and asked: “My servant! You mean Bipin? What could have happened to him?”

“I have to ask him about one or two matters.”

I found it improper to tarry there. I said: “So now let me take my departure for the day.”

The Kaviraj said to that: “Why don’t you please wait a bit?”

He had now a glum face and said to the police officer: “Is there a warrant or something of that sort? Considering the times we are living in, nobody can be trusted.”

“Please call him once; I should then tell you the full story.”

The Kaviraj directed his gaze to the inner part of his house and said, “Minu, send Bipin here once.”

“Bipin is not at home, papa,” Minu answered. “His mother is ill, he left for home by the evening train.”

“Oh, that’s why I have not seen the poor fellow since evening.”

The police inspector smiled a little and said somewhat ironically, “How surprising! Your servant took leave and went home and you know nothing about it!”

The Kaviraj was frankly annoyed and said, “What’s there about it to cause surprise in you? Movements of servants are usually known only to ladies of the family.”

“However, our information is different. I want to conduct a little search of your house. Here’s the warrant.”

The Kaviraj’s face showed surprise. He said in a dry tone, “That’s O.K. Please do it.”

The police officer looked at me with inquiring eyes.

“Who are you, please?”

I introduced myself. The officer said eagerly, “You, Sir, being present, it would help us if you stay with us a little as witness.”

Though very reluctant, I had to agree.

We entered within the house and immediately a thick line of constables’ red headgears surrounding the outside of the house, caught our eyes through the window. The ground floor was thoroughly searched. Then the whole of our party climbed upstairs. There were three rooms there. The Kaviraj lived in the first. The next room belonged to his son. It was vacant at the time. Its owner was interned at some village in Birbhum. Both were searched according to rules. As we reached the third room, the Kaviraj said: “My daughter lives here. Do you want to search this room too?”

The sub-inspector replied somewhat hesitatingly, “Sir, rather we should, since we have come here for this purpose.”

“All right. Minu, come out for a little while. They will search your room.”

Minu stood at the door and said, “Why, papa?”

“They want to see if Bipin is hiding somewhere here.”

Minu remained standing where she was, and said: “We can’t allow them to do what they please, papa. They may have nothing like feelings of shame and delicacy. We have some honour and dignity left. What do you say about it, uncle?”

Needless to say, it was not possible for this uncle to give any answer to that question. So I kept silent. The police officer gave the answer. He said: “Nor we have bade good-bye to all shame and delicacy, Miss Sen. But is it not an act of intelligence to be a little shameless and win one’s object than to be shy and be cheated of success?”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you have to remove yourself from the door.”

“What if I don’t move?”

“You can well understand that in that case we shall be compelled to arrange to remove you.”

“Well, do that.”

She spoke in an easy voice. There was not the slightest trace of heat in it. I looked at the sub-inspector and followed his eyes to Minu’s face. The sight gave me shiver. It seemed to me that I had never seen her before. It was no girl but a burning flame. Hers was no soft body of a woman but a steely light and resolution flashed out of its every limb. As I looked at it for a moment a few words of fright came, unknown to myself, out of my mouth:

“No...no...”

But that very moment I regained control of myself. I came forward and said in an easy manner: “It does not seem the right thing to do, Minu. They have come to search the house. They have got a warrant with them. You should rather not stand in their way.”

Close on my words the Kaviraj supported me: “Surely so; come away, my little mother. Let them do whatever they like.”

It seemed, Minu’s eyes had also regained their natural glance. She turned her gaze on me, then on her father, left the door and went away.

The sub-inspector entered the room with his whole party and to begin with, searched the corners. They peeped behind the cloth-rack and the almirah. Then he looked under the bedstead and ordered two constables “See what is in that, bring it out.”

They went under the bedstead, brought out a bundle covered with a blanket and seated it in the middle of the room. As soon as the blanket slipped down, the Kaviraj gave a start and cried “What’s this! Bipin!”

Next day, as under the rules, Bipin became my charge as an under-trial prisoner. I read the warrant and saw that his name was entered as Sanjay Chatterjee alias Bipin Das. The charge against him was armed dacoity. The place of occurrence was a big town in North India. The time was more than a year ago. I learnt of somebody in a position of authority in the police that man was one of the leaders of a notable political party with destructive aims. He was implicated in more than one murder and dacoity. The police had chased him in usual course but had been unable to get hold of him. Word went round suddenly that the tailor named Salimaddi who had his shop at the junction of Kalu Daftari Lane at Bowbazaar and was a brilliant cutter for trousers, was none other than the renowned Sanjay Chatterjee. But the next day the shop was found closed and its owner had disappeared overnight. Sometime later a spy brought in information that the astrologer seated under the banyan tree at the criminal court at Comilla who examined the litigants’ palms and determined their victory or defeat and earned a decent sum out of prescriptions for amulets priced at five annas and a quarter, was the newest edition of Sanjay. Even before the report reached higher quarters, the astrologer had disappeared. At last the D. I. B. at Chittagong got a report from a similar source that this much-sought-after man had been staying for sometime as a servant at the house of Kaviraj Sadananda Sen. A secret recommendation for giving him that job had been received from the Kaviraj’s internee son and had been granted by his young daughter.

The police chief said: “The game was about to give us the slip this time too; it has been caught simply due to the good luck of the Government. But we cannot claim any credit for that. There are chains in the world harder than those the police command. It was in those chains Sanjay Chatterjee got caught at last. We are greatly indebted for that to Srimati Minu Sen.

“But” I said, “I have got a sort of report that you have arrested the girl.”

“My sub-inspectors wished to do that. But law is not everything. Policemen though we are, the word gratitude figures even in our dictionary. So I told them, ‘if you have anything to give Minu Sen it is not hand-cuffs but a bouquet of flowers. Carry one and with folded hands say your thanks to her’.”

The policeman looked a little obliquely at me and added, “None of them dares do it. Why don’t you please do the bit of a job on our behalf? I hear, you visit them fairly frequently Srimati Minu Sen is also said to be a great admirer of yours. Congratulations!” The man gave my right hand a few shakes and made his exit.

However he might have known in Government records, Bipin Das conducted himself in jail as Bipin Das pure and simple. He wore his cloth raised up to his knee and tucked up in his waist. He walked in bare feet, wore a rosary of the holy basil in his neck. The gaze of his eyes showed a constant fear. He moved with his hands folded before everybody from the jailor to the mate. It made Majid Khan, the head Jamadar, split his sides with laughter. What sort of political accused is this, he said. The police who had chased him, had probably nothing better to do. To think that a fellow like this, committed dacoity, threw bombs, used pistols, it was all nonsense.

Yet Bipin had, in pursuance of the police report, to be kept in the cell-block. There he executed small orders of sepoys and jamadars, broomed the yard, filled up water-pitchers for all the rooms, washed clothes, brushed shoes, changed beds and hung up mosquito curtains for the minor political Babus or other Babus who had been placed in higher divisions. When the sepoys cast off their boots, badges and headgears and enjoyed their midday relaxation, Bipin added to it massage of their feet or whole bodies with his deft hands. Relaxation then turned into pleasure and sleep followed.

Word of that reached my ears and this happy sleep of the sepoy battalion caused my sleeplessness. The more they ceased to worry about Bipin, the more my worry increased. I knew and had seen enough and had enough sad experience to know that this was the time-honoured modus operandi of the illustrious persons of this category. This is the method by which they win over those under whose control they are supposed to move and nobody knows when they someday betake themselves silently away. Should something of that sort happen in this man’s case–that is to say, should Sanjay Chatterjee scale the jail wall someday, there is no doubt that my job also will go the same way. And should the Government thus lose the treasure that they have procured after so long a time and with so much trouble, they won’t let me go scot-free either. So I took recourse to the man of authority I have already spoken of. I told him: “This liability is really neither mine nor yours. How long will you impose it on me? Why don’t send it to those to whom it properly belongs–at distant Hardwar or Kanpur. I should then sleep soundly and consider myself saved.”

The gentleman had a worried look and said, “Sleep has deserted me too, Mr. Choudhury. I have had information that letters are being exchanged through a secret channel.”

That gave me a start and I said, “You don’t say so!”

“It is really so. But it seems still to be one-sided. The boy is the writer and the girl is the reader. When it will be the other way about–meaning, the girl will assume the role of the writer, then there will be something to worry about. Before that happens, the evil must be got rid of. I am sparing no pains to that end. That much you please take to be a fact.”

Thoroughly annoyed, I returned to the office and immediately sent for Bipin Das. He still wore the mask of a stupid servant and with folded hands stood before the window of my office-room. I got the Jamadar to leave the peace and said: “I took you to be an intelligent man. But what’s all this you are doing, Sanjay Babu?”

Perhaps he had not expected a forthright challenge like that. That was why he showed some hesitation at first. But for a few seconds only. Then as I threw my gaze at his face, I found that Bipin Das had faded out and Sanjay Chatterjee had blossomed forth. He inclined his head a little on one side and with a soft smile said: “I can’t quite follow you, Mr. Jailor.”

“You can follow me very well. It is but a pretence at not understanding. You are sinking and you may please yourself. Why are you drowning that girl along with you? After all your path and hers are not the same.”

The reply came in a calm, sombre tone: “I don’t want to answer this question today, Mr. Choudhuri. I shall give the answer on the day on which I leave. All I say to you today is that you should not worry at all. I have not done and will not do anything that could cause you embarrassment or danger.”

There is magic in the speech of some people, so we have read in stories. I had also heard that some people spoke in a style that enchanted their hearers. That day I had direct experience of both. I had, become displeased with Minu since the events of the day have reported. Now suddenly I felt a sort of companion for her.

Our evening meetings at the Kaviraj’s parlour had automatically ceased that day. There was no hope of their resumption either. I thought that relations between ladies would take a similar turn. So I could not avoid being surprised when on return from office one evening I found Minu and her aunt as deeply engaged in conversation as before. But there was in her not the slightest trace of any change. As soon as I entered the house, she burst forth in a sweet voice: “How is it, uncle, I don’t meet you at all these days?”

I could give no easy reply. I said in a faltering tone: “I have been having much to do for some days now.”

“You say so. What is it you have to do after evenings?”

I did not answer that question and came over to the sitting room. Minu followed me there. She came close to me and said, “Father has got very much depressed. It won’t do for you to cease your calls like you have done.”

I thought a little and said, “But, Minu, may I hope you aren’t angry with me?”

“How is that? Why should I be angry?”

“Had I had but an inkling of the truth……”

“So what? You mean you won’t have asked me to get myself off the door. But, uncle, you don’t know that that day you saved not only me but also the man the police had come for.”

“I saved you! You mean me!”

“Yes, you, sure enough. Had I then my wits all right about me? I won’t have by any means left the door unless you had asked me to. And that was exactly what the policeman wanted.”

“What’s this you say!”

“Yes, it is true. I looked at those snake-like eyes of the man and realized it.”

“But are you sure you didn’t make a mistake?”

“No, uncle. That’s a matter in which no woman ever makes any mistake.”

I became silent and went with my mind’s eye over the scene that day. Minu said: “Please ponder a bit on what you or father or he to catch whom they had made all those preparations, would have done when they laid their hands on me. You cannot surely expect that even then he would have, without speaking, kept himself hidden covered with a blanket under the bedstead. And then? Oh mother! The very thought of it makes me shiver. The sub-inspector had a pistol in his waist. He won’t have let such a big opportunity go waste.”

Minu closed her eyes. Her whole body shook several times. I thought once of telling her: “The destiny, the very thought of which in imagination, makes you shudder, won’t be for him of the nature of an accident in life; it might come off at any moment.”

But as I looked at her pale face, I failed to give utterance to that stern truth.

“Information came a few days later that arrangements to send Bipin Das to Kanpur had been finalized. The date and time were also settled. The day before he was to leave, one of my officers came to me and said, “Bipin wants to see you.”

“That’s all right. Please ask him to come.”

The officer hesitated a little and said, “He wants to come unescorted. Perhaps he wants to make a confession, one never knows. He is an accused in the big Inter-Provincial case: please sound him a little, Sir. Should anything be extracted out of him, a big reward might be expected.” I smiled and said, “Should that come to pass, you won’t be deprived, Satish Babu.”

The gentleman left. Happiness and avarice simultaneously gleamed in his eyes.

Bipin placed on my table a letter enclosed in an envelope and said: “Here is the reply to the question you asked the other day.” I passed my eyes over the address and said, “How is that! I put the question and the reply is for Srimati Minu Sen?”

“The letter is for her. But before giving it to her you will please go through it once. Haven’t you to censor letters from accused persons? Why don’t you do it yourself in my case, Mr. Choudhuri?” so saying he burst into laughter.

I put the letter in my pocket.

I knocked at the Kaviraj’s parlour again. Many days had passed since I had last done so. A new servant had been appointed.

“Whom do you want?” he said.

“Anybody will do.”

“Babu is not at home.”

“The miss must be at home. Call her.”

The man passed his eyes over my whole body–glancing from top to toe, as they call it in chaste language. At that very moment Minu came into the room.

“What a surprise; Kaka Babu, when have you come? Please sit down, I am bringing tea.”

“Tea will wait. There’s a letter for you.”

“Letter for me ? Who gave it to you?”

“Read and you will understand.”

I handed over the closed envelope to her. No sooner had her eyes met the handwriting, her brown features became red as if a solid quantity of vermillion had been spread over it. She did not meet my eyes but went inside.

Tea was brought by the servant. I sipped it slowly and took ten minutes to finish the cup. I was about to get up when she came. I noticed that she had just washed her face and eyes. With some effort she showed off a pale smile in them, advanced the letter towards me and said, “Have you read it?”

“This is somebody else’s letter,” I said. “How can I read it without permission?”

“But the writer himself has left the permission. Not merely permission but a request. Please go through it. I shall be coming back right now”; so saying she went out. I opened the letter and began to read:

“Minu,

The other day you wanted to know what’s the mantram of our initiation. We have but one mantram. Its first and last word is our country. The individual has no reality for us, personal joys and sorrows have for us no meaning. We have no ties, nothing to attract us. To look back is forbidden by our guru. Still I am telling you about myself and if you want to know the reason, you must read up to the end of this letter.

“I lost my mother when I was seven. I had no brother or sister. I was brought up in a stranger’s house amidst neglect. The tender aspect of the world where men love and are loved, is unknown to me. I have been a revolutionary since adolescence. The life I have chosen has only one appearance. It is stern of duty, ruthless of resolution. Affection, love, mercy and compassion are to us objects of ridicule. Woman is to us a symbol of weakness. She has to be avoided; this is our creed.

“The greater part of our lives has passed in hills, forests or under the open sky. Action and action alone has been our occupation. Our days and nights have been packed with heavy programmes. They were without a gap, compact like bricks. Whenever on the road or astray we have come into the shade of homely life, we have received from women heart-felt hospitality and eagerly provided shelter. But they left no imprint on my mind. I have, in the words of the poet, left wayside at the end of day or night whatever I got. This was the way of my life. It changed when I came to your house. Do you know what I thought when I met you? I thought that there had been a vacuum somewhere within me; it was now filled up. I seemed I had been waiting all my life for what I now got. That was a supreme treasure that redeemed all my poverty, filled all the void within me.

“Yet I think, we should rather not have met. I am a revolutionary. My path is the path of eternal destruction. There are on that path only blood, violence, death. There is no room there for elixir of life. Your great gift has been rendered there in vain just as showers of rain are wasted on a desert. With what shall I accept what you have emptied your heart to give me? Where is the receptacle in which I could keep what I have accepted with the palms of my hand folded together?

“As I have already told you, Minu, can one accept everything only by saying one would accept it? It requires dedicated preparation. Such preparation has never been mine. So I repeat before taking my departure what I have repeatedly told you–I have no right to accept what you have without any regrets offered me, nor have I earned the qualification necessary to give it its due value. It does not do to covet what is not rightfully mine simply because I have got it without any effort on my part. Let it all end here: this is the desire I communicate to you before I go. I am leaving tomorrow.

Sanjay”

“P. S. I requested Mr. Choudhury to read the letter before handing it over to you. But he will probably not do so. So give it to him after you have read it.

S”

That was the end of the letter. Minu was not yet to be seen. So having nothing to do I read the letter again. But she did not still come back. The next room was her study. A wail seemed to reach my ears from there. Who was weeping? I pushed open the intervening door which had been closed without being locked. Just in front of me a girl lay desolate with her head perched the table. A mass of black hair lay spread on the table covering the whole of it. Her body swayed under the uncontrollable rush of emotions of stifled tears. It was not possible to return the letter. I came out as silently as I had entered.

¹ An Ayurvedic practitioner.

² Literally, the Burmese-meaning a dare-devil, anarchic class of people.

³ Literally, gentleman: meaning, the educated middle class.

⁴ A district town of West Bengal

⁵ tea

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