Footprints In The Bajra

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A huge chunk of time has passed. So much has changed since that day. How do I explain to anyone my feeling of landing at JFK in New York? John F. Kennedy Airport seemed almost like a mini township. Four Durjanpurs may fit into it. But why am I thinking of Durjanpur? I know despite all that has happened I want to write to Muskaan about everything that’s holding sway over my senses. I’m not sure I can, even though Avadhut promised me I can and he gave me an address, hopefully a real one, with the promise extracted that I will not divulge anything. If I did, it’ll be the end of my studies in the US, the end of my secure future and perhaps, the end of my life itself. A serious probability or a sure threat. So, I didn’t go to the police. Didn’t ever talk to anyone. What would I say? Who’d believe I was amid a bloody Maoist attack? No one would believe it to be true. As I catch a glimpse of the Manhattan skyline, I remember lines from Italo Calvino’s book: “The boredom of the voyage is handsomely compensated by the emotions stirred up on arrival at New York, the most spectacular sight that anyone can see on this earth. The skyscrapers appear grey in the sky which has just cleared and they seem like the ruins of some monstrous New York abandoned three thousand years in the future. Then gradually you make out the colours which are different from any idea you had of them and a complicated pattern of shapes. Everything is silent and deserted, then the car traffic starts to flow. The massive, grey, fin-de-siecle look of the buildings gives New York, as Ollier immediately pointed out, the appearance of a German city.” I breathe. I see faraway serene boats pasted on the Hudson or is it the East River? Origami butterflies. I embrace New York. But the thought of Durjanpur accompanies me not because it remains as the utmost terrorising moment of my life, but because there is tenderness there. The affection towards Muskaan, about her passion for change and the urge to right all the wrongs in an instant. Somehow I don’t see how Muskaan and I are too different. I share with her similar impulses, rather, convictions. All the time we rehearsed our plays in our university in Delhi, debated about the WTO, held rallies in support of the union workers, wrote in campus magazines about our women under terrible social yokes – each of those times I have flown into rage, passion and argument like Muskaan. As a city woman, my approach has of course been different to that of Muskaan, but that’s the only difference. It pains me to think she didn’t see me on the same boat just because we are separated by some ideological boundary. “The Communist Party of India (Maoist), that’s what we are,” she had said with emphasis. “We are the Guerilla Storm Squad, the party’s well-known wing in North Bihar.” This was a few days after I had healed and yet not gone back to Delhi. I volunteered to stay for a week more, much to Muskaan’s chagrin. She was sure I intended on busting their group members. Only Avadhut repeatedly assured her that because of my obsession with the US visit, I’d never go to the police. He was sure, the moment I’d mention the Maoists or their names, I’d step into a snake pit with the authorities. His assessment of my fears was right. That was only one part though. America or not, the other part was largely unknown to me. It was probably a desire to see if friendship overtook violence. “Don’t act like Gandhi, I’m warning you,” Muskaan had said. “I don’t care what Avadhut says. If you play those peaceful non-violent tricks to get me talking about our work, you’re gone. Even mausaji won’t know.” “I’m trying to be your friend, Muskaan. I’m not a police informer. Don’t you believe me?” She didn’t. “Okay, tell me about Palash. Come on Muskaan, I know you like him!” I tried teasing her, “I don’t need to know anything about Palash’s activities. Just give some gossip. Hey, come on!” “That’s none of your business.” “Ah, that’s what everyone says. Well, if you tell me about your romance with him, I’ll tell you about Amol. We just broke up before coming here though.” “To hell with you and your romance with Amol. I’m not interested.” She growled like a jungle leopard. “These are just bloody bourgeois sentiments.” “Look Muskaan, I’m sure even your mausaji notices how you light up every time Palash comes here!” She looked at me fiercely and swore under her breath and shrugged. “Okay, tell me, is your name actually Madhu-muskaan?” I laughed loudly after a very long time at my own joke. The compound word ‘madhu-muskaan’ means ‘sweet smile’ in Hindi. “Is that why you’re called Comrade Madhu?” At this, she turned so angry that her dusky cheeks shone like ripe brinjals and her nostrils flared up. “Right, you won’t tell me,” I still spoke jokingly, “No problem, I’ll ask one of the villagers these days!” “Don’t ever ask anyone around this village about whatever that you want to pry on. No one will help you or speak to you. You’ll be dead before you know.” With that she stomped outside. With Avadhut’s help, I called up Delhi and assured my parents of my well-being, and also spoke to my former roommate Priya who had now taken up a job with a finance company in Delhi. I told my parents and Priya that I was on an extended voluntary project with the local school. But dejected with my project of reasoning with Muskaan, I found myself spending time reading from Sahay’s well-stocked library, walking the L-shaped veranda alone in the evenings after the falling light of the sun turned the bajras into a sea of murmur, chatting with the fantastic cook who didn’t seem to be a Maoist or any sort of radical and occasionally talking to Sahay and Avadhut (he no longer acted overtly romantic) – who visited Sahay’s home every now and then. They didn’t interrogate me any more. In fact, both were exceptionally well-behaved. But Sahay seemed a little worried that I delayed my departure. “Listen Nora,” he said one evening after Muskaan brought in the petromax into his library and the cook brought in tea and a tray of over-sweetened halwa. “Although your family and friends are relaxed that you’re fine here, I think you should leave. Next week some government work is going to take place in Chabutara. This means, people from outside might even come to Durjanpur. I don’t want you to be in the middle of all that.” “What government work?” I was vaguely aware it was not election time, so it couldn’t be voter ID verification or things like that. “Do you really need to know? Even I don’t know!” Avadhut chuckled scooping up the halwa with a large spoon. “But it seems both of you are uneasy about something.” “Safe may’st thou wander, safe return again!” Sahay said and looked out at the fireflies blinking in the niches of the dark veranda outside. I stepped into a silence not aided by understanding. “Ahem,” Avadhut cleared his throat, “Sahayji keeps quoting Shakespeare all the time… is that a sonnet or you favourite Othello, Sahayji?” Sahay whispered ‘Cymbeline’ very absentmindedly, looking away. “Nora, I’ll come with you.” Avadhut now wiped his mouth and said firmly, in his typical I’m-rounding-up-the-talks kind of voice. “Sahayji has to take care of too many things here. Why do you wish to create headaches? So tell me, when can we leave soon?” “Okay, I’ll leave the day after,” I surrendered. That’s right. They spared my life, Avadhut and Sahay. I didn’t wish to know or care more about them. Who knew, if I stayed on, Muskaan or Palash might actually do something nasty to me. Last time Palash visited, I saw both of them eyeing me rather aggressively. She must’ve told him about my teasing. Now, bourgeois sentiment or not, I was quite confirmed that the two were deeply in love. She’s eighteen, he’s twenty-five. Both of them are heady with their relationship, so what if she didn’t want to admit it. Quite a few times, whenever Sahay was busy writing inside his library or gone for some work outside, I had seen Palash sneak into Muskaan’s room, very much in broad daylight. One evening, when she didn’t bring in the lantern into Sahay’s library, I offered to go and find her. Knocking on her door, I found it suddenly opened by a sweaty shirtless Palash while Muskaan was seen quickly slipping on her shirt, looking a little foolish. “Your mausaji wants light in the room,” I said. “Do you know the time?” “Who asked you to come here? I was going to go in a few minutes,” she snapped. “Stop spying on us.” “I’m not spying!” I raised my voice in exasperation, “It’s you who are pretending.” “Sheherwali, go!” She hissed and turned like the lashing serpent she copies so well. “Don’t ever say anything to mausaji about Palash being in my room.” “Oh, so you are afraid of being caught!” I had enough of Muskaan’s fury. “I forget, it’s a bourgeois sentiment!” “Stop.” Palash raised his index finger at me. He was handsome in a rugged way. Dark silky hair fell over his forehead stricken with the sweat of lovemaking. His eyes were still in a swoon, cheeks flushed. Stepping up near the door and hovering over me with his tall, muscular body, he shushed me. “Muskaan and I are comrades. You people will never understand that.” His voice was thick and ardent with the warmth of love that was as much deep probably as his revolutionary passion. “It’s not just love, like you people believe, it’s more.” I felt hurt being categorised as ‘you people’ and stepped back. “She’s just plain jealous,” Muskaan remarked, slipping by Palash, walking briskly towards Sahay’s library. Palash gestured in support. He picked up his shirt from the bed, wore it, collected his bag and went out shooting me a pitiful glance. While I stood there thinking that Palash and Muskaan might be feeling ecstatic after snubbing me, that one last remark of hers suddenly brought a wonderful realisation in me. What did she say? I’m just plain jealous? She’s so young, so human, this Muskaan. She’s so like us!

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