Antipoles

"Let him be. It is a fad these days".

That is what Dadu would say every time Vinod's mother came in complaining of her son staying up for entire nights or starving for four to five days altogether.

"Nonsense! That is how kids these days get their things done. Torture their parents with threatening to either starve or kill themselves.

Perhaps a slap or two would serve him right."

"But Baba..." Suresh's daughter in law stifled her cries behind her pallu. This time she had seen cuts in Vinod's wrist.

Baba was too harsh at times. Regardless of her reverence for that old man, there were times, such as this perhaps when it felt as if his chest were only a hollow balloon that would pop at the slightest prick of a pin releasing a gust of unmoving air; as if he were nothing but a stacked pile of elements that saw nothing, felt nothing.

How different was her Khokon; her Vinod.

He used to be her little Krishna- feeding the cows off the vegetables of her kitchen, lavishung heaps of coins on beggars, tending to the ailing and helpless poor..

"This boy is going to be the ruin of us all" Baba would say. "Feeding brutes off Kitchen! Do you know what fighting for one stale chapati feels like? Such dishonor to Lakshmi!" Anita had wanted to stand up for her son at times but how could she? How could anyone before that towering figure?

"Could you atleast talk to him Baba? The boy hasn't set his foot out of his room since two weeks. The last meal he had was on Tuesday. It's Saturday today Baba!"

Anita could almost fall to his feet.

Suresh scoffed at the boy's antics. Four days! That is the farthest he has gone has he? How can a boy born with a golden spoon in his mouth even imagine the torments of staying alive with a grumbling stomach for weeks, of fighting for mere breath amidst bodies dropping dead like felled trees. What does he know of human cries that sound like jackals in the darkness of night!

"Okay Bouma. I will speak to him. Why don't you get the boy some food."

Suresh opened the door to a hated room filled with cigarette smoke, littered with biscuit crumbs, cigarette butts and half empty liquor bottles.

Brows wrinkled, nose screwed—his face seemed to contort on its own.

"Is this how you live in your father's house Mister? If I were you my father would've thrown me out the first thing in the morning"

The fauna light from without revealed a tired face with drooping,bloody red eyes, caved in cheeks blackened lips and a skeletal frame.

"What a fall!" Anita had said on looking thus at her little Krishna. Gone was his bright, chubby face that smiled at every stranger passing by.

But Suresh was not a fault heart. All the could think of the fallen angel was– what a waste! All these theatrics for what? A death that was imminent and ordinary? What does it matter that the deceased was his wife, Vinod's Dida. She had lived a long life, had seen her child grow up and marry. Shaking and Mason didn't even get that. What is all this cribbing about? Poroma got

a proper mourning. All the neighbours had come to convey their condolences. His Shalini and Mamon– they were burnt in the middle of the night amidst deathlike silent wilderness. He had to drench them in Kerosene and light them with the fire of a gas lighter like some barbaric criminal erasing traces of his horrendous crime.

Where was Poroma then? Safe in her father's place at Shillong. He alone had to handle the dead bodies. Bodies- they had become bodies that didn't even contribute to the numbers in Government accounts. He was never the same with her after that.

He walked up to Vinod who sat motionless stating at the ceiling fan.

"You say life is a war Dadu, and that we have to live the battle out. Why aren't the ones who commit suicide then considered valiant soldiers who fought but could not stand the enemy till the end?"

"Nonsense!" Suresh said irritably. "Suicide is for cowards. A plate of food served hot everyday, a roof to cover your head, what else do you need? It isn't as if you are the only one to have lost a family."

What would Dadu understand about his feelings for his Dida. Battered and burdened with the strenuous classes of Engineering fourth year, each day he would come back to Dida. She was the only who would listen, would understand and would perhaps admire. He would read out his poems to her; to her and Nalini- Nalini who had left him the second he failed his structural Analysis paper for someone better able, someone with a stable job. He had cried in his Dida's lap. Of course Dadu would not understand and Ma would not utter a word against him. Dida- she was not just a relation, she was his home.

" Don't you see her Dadu? In your dreams perhaps? I can still hear her voice. I feel as if it were the only thing keeping me alive all the while".

Dreams! Sire he dreamt. Dreams of hyenas crying in the night with him holding Shalini close. Hands- millions of hands protruding out of darkness trying to take her away. Dogs that turned to men and tongues sticking out, trying to grab at her. Dreams that would still wake him in the middle of the night perspiring.

" Have you seen your 15 year old sister being raped in front of your eyes son? Did you have to see the cracked open skull of your newly born who was not even named?"

This was a point that allowed no contention- an impasse. Dadu had seen Partition, had been a wealthy barrister in Dhaka. "Suffering had hardened him" Dida used to say.

"You're living a privileged life son. Spending sleepless night, giving up food, getting addicted to bidi- for what? Your mother tells me you've been fancying slitting wrists these days. What would that get you? Are you not pursuing the most coveted course in the country today? How does it matter that you once wanted to be a poet? I too was a barrister once. Did I not serve as an accountant in Maniram's shop? What if your Dida died. Did she not beget your father and he you? Did she not live her life?"

"Have you ever felt lonely despite being surrounded by people Dadu? Have words ever bounced back from your head? Have you ever felt like an instrument meant for a particular task, a machine that functions in a fixed pattern? That is how I feel Dadu. Everyday sitting through the hours in class that is exactly how I feel."

"Perhaps I wasn't so privileged to assess the quality of humanity i had in me. I never had the

leisure to tell apart my life from that of machine. All that mattered to me was surviving in a foreign land among foreigner people.

The things you say are sentimental stuff son. They don't get you anywhere. Life is a battle and the ones who give up are cowards."

Vinod turned to look at his Grandfather. There was not a single trace of emotion on his face. His features were as relaxed as someone sunk in deep slumber. There was not a single quiver in his voice.

" It's been only six months! She was your wife! She was the lesson I loved the most in the world! You've spent some fifty odd years with her. How can your heart not break into a million pieces!" Suresh could laugh at at his face. But the point he made was interesting to ponder over. What is this thing that resides within the chest-the thing you call heart? Isn't it an organ pumping blood after all? Is it supposed to do something else- feel perhaps?

He was supposed to lament the disheveled condition of his grandson he knew, was supposed to compare it with his glorious past self but somehow he didn't. All the brilliant paintings that adorned his walls and the books of poems that covered the shelves were supposed to make him feel something but he didn't.

There was a time when he would've pulled his grandson to his chest, patted him on his head, wiped his tears and listened to all his woes with compassion. He would've shed tears equal to the waters of Ganga and Padma combined but something in him had changed. Perhaps seeing the naked mutilated body of your sister or seeing the cracked open skull of your newborn does that to you.

He had once worked for the cause of justice with all his zeal and power. The poor would flock around him requesting him to take up their cases- Hindus, Muslims alike. From that he'd turned to a man who would doubt the veracity of any tale that came out of mouths of begging mothers with ailing sons, who would not eat at Muslim households for the fear of being contaminated. People were right perhaps. He did not feel. The last time he felt something remotely similar to joy was perhaps when Vinod was born. Everything else vanished with time. Perhaps the only thing that remained constant through the years was his waking up in the middle of the night. He had grown more irritable with age people said. Could that be counted as feeling? The anxiety that came crushing in everytime. Bouma goes out at night to buy necessities, her husband dead now for five years, could that be counted too? Perhaps, perhaps not.

" No. My heart does not break. It is at peace with the face that she has lived her age". "I cannot understand you Dadu"

"Perhaps that is how it is fated. You shall call me heartless and I shall call you a weakling. You may argue all that you want son but I have traveled a nation, braved death and hunger and disease to give life to you. Never forget that. You might be a coward to me but I would never want to see your body dangling lifeless from a rope.

After all you're my grandson and I'm proud of you.

Now buckle up Mister and tidy up your room a bit will you?"

"Yes Dadu"

Anita looks at the two men of her life sitting side by side.

She heaves a sigh of relief.

Perhaps now her son would turn normal again.