Vermilion

She looked a newly-wed bride with blood red vermillion splashed generously on her hair parting. Blood red it was. For it was blood, now caked and sticking to her hair. Her humble cotton sari, ensanguined and clinging, trailed behind her as she emerged from the bamboo thicket, her infant clasped fiercely to her bosom. It was dawn now. The sky crimson, the cock crowed. She and her baby had survived the night or so she believed. Her husband, a lean, tall old man, had gone to Shillong the day before. It was not unusual for her to stay with her children at home alone. Afterall, she was only the second wife of her jamai. His first wife lived in the ancestral home with her mother-in-law and three daughters. The want for a son to carry on his name drove Jalal to marry a second time, not just any women, but the poor women who was abandoned by her first husband when he returned to Bangladesh. With a teenager son, and no roof over their head, Shabnam started working at the rich Bagaan Thikadar’s house. The rumours did not take time to spread like wildfire. “Shunnos ni? Thikadaar e kaam kora furir loge ghumai!” To put a stop to it he finally wedded her. 

He was working at the Tea Garden as a contractor and would usually go to places like Shillong, Tezpur, Jorhat or sometimes Golaghat for paper work. She was expecting he would return that evening. She kept looking at the serpentine dusty village road pensively leading to the highway. Only last year there had been a huge uproar because of the road. The Assamese babu had tried to stop the people of the village from using the path which was the only way to reach the highway. The Bangladeshis in their lungis going to work spoiled his view from the verandah of his beautiful Assam-type house where he sipped his morning tea with his beautiful wife. Unlike Kaiser Haq who wrote an “Ode to the Lungi”, the babu could only feel disgust towards this innocent garment. Claiming that all were illegal migrants, the babu had reported it to the Foreigners’ Tribunal. It scared the poor villagers and they started using the rail line to cross the Bill (Lake) leading to a few deaths here and there that didn’t matter much to anyone. One more lungiwala dead was not unusual. 

She swept the courtyard, lighted the kerosene filled lamps made from reused cough syrup glass bottles, and finally sat down to light the stove wishing she had collected more firewood earlier in the day. The village was silent. The kitchen filled with smoke as she tried to light the fire. She stoked the fire with her bamboo sunga, blowing at it. She coughed. The air was tense. Earlier during the day, she had gone to village shop to get mustard oil and had heard Burhaan, the shopkeeper, telling Jamal, that people at other villages were leaving. Jamal replied, “Where will we go? We have been running our whole life. Sometimes from Desh, sometimes from Videsh. Now I have no other Desh to go back to. Ki kou Sasi?” Soirah shrugged and replied “Ekhon toh ei e amar desh! Khano Jaitam?”Afterall this is her home, where will she go. Burhaan smiled worriedly and spoke:

“Is Sasa returning today?”

“Most probably.”

“It would have been better if he were here. He would have got some news from Sahab.”

Taking the oil bottle from Burhaan, she put it in her stripped plastic muna and headed back home. Her youngest clenching on her waist while Jelina held her pallu with little hands. Blowing into the fire, she cursed the weather. The wood was damp. A cold wind blew outside, seeping through the ceiling less house. Darkness descended.

She stepped out to bolt the back door. That was when her eye caught a flicker, a trail of fire torches in the distance. She stared harder. The flames were moving, advancing through the acres of harvested paddy fields, barren and exposed under the night sky, heading straight for the village. There was no time to warn anyone. The crackling of the fire interrupted the cicadas chirping in the meteka filled bill. Her thoughts flew to Jelina and Abdul, fast asleep inside. Without pausing, she rushed in, shook Jelina half-awake, scooped up Abdul, and ran towards the courtyard. Then she understood running was pointless. Dropping low, she crouched and crawled into the banana thicket in front of the house, the leaves swallowing her and her children in their thick, trembling shadows. Like a fox diving under a covet, she waited. Sweating profusely in the cold winter night, she heard footsteps, cries, shrieks, running. Smoke filled the air. People started running out of their houses in blind panic, feet slapping against the earth as they rushed towards the river, like rats scurrying, as if it alone could promise safety. The men started burning the houses. One by one, flames leapt up from the thatched roofs, dry bamboo crackling as fire swallowed whole homes in greedy gulps. Smoke thickened the air, stinging the eyes and turning cries into hoarse, broken sounds. 

Whoever stumbled in their path fell beneath their rusted da, as it hacked them to death. A few desperate villagers tried to resist, grabbing sticks, stones, anything their shaking hands could find but the resistance was fragile and hopeless. The attackers worked with a grim, steady calm, moving through the chaos. With frenzy in their eyes and calm movements they kept moving forward till they reached the Thikadar’s house. They lit the house but saw no movements. They went to the back of the house, still no movements. Fire smothered the house still no movements. One shouted, “Kela! Eigita polal! Bisar! Tar maiki kot?” They knew that the Thikadar was not home and had taken the opportunity. They wanted to hurt his family. Only then that scoundrel Bangladeshi would learn to stay in his place. 

They started shouting slogans and breaking whatever was left by the fire. One guy with a machete in his hand was just standing around. He was too tired to join while the smoke was bothering his eyes. He wondered if his mother had slept by now. The dinner was only huturahaakbhaji with a few potatoes tonight. The rice in the bhoral was catching mold and it stank after it was cooked. His stomach rumbled. Suddenly he sensed some movement in the banana thicket. He looked closely. It was very dark. He raised his machete and started slicing through the banana plants. After cutting for a few minutes, he was bored again. He sat down on his hunches and waited for his friends. They had to go to school tomorrow morning. It was getting late. He kept thinking about his English teacher and his homework.

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