Memories of My Father - Part 7

 

I was in Class Three at the time. After passing her SSC, my elder sister left for the city to study at college. Joy and trouble arrived for me at the same moment. Her leaving home meant the joy of my liberation — freedom from her constant bossing around. The freedom to splash about in the pond as I pleased, the freedom to play football on the school field until dusk after school instead of coming straight home, coming back caked in dust and mud. Whenever the neighbours complained, no matter

whose fault it was, she would land thump after thump on my back. Now I'd get to see how those complaining neighbours' gourd vines and bean plants would fare. But trouble appeared from another direction. I hadn't known that within two days of my sister's departure, my brother — five years my senior — would become the absolute master of my existence. Before, the two of us brothers had united against our sister's tyranny. Now, with her gone, my brother seized the authority to rule over me. I had previously sneaked behind his back to complain to her about him, getting him beaten many a time. I had assumed he didn't know about my scheming, or that even if he did, he hadn't kept score. But it took less than two days to shatter that illusion. In my sister's absence, I realised that while she had ruled over me all this time, she had also protected me from my brother's misrule. Now, when father brought home groceries from the market, I was the one who had to carry the bags home, while my brother strolled along with his hands in the pockets of his half-pants, swaying with an air of importance. Younger children in a household truly cannot convey to the elders the suffering inflicted by older siblings. Father was away from home most of the time, and so in my sister's absence, my brother's rule began to feel like outright tyranny. I started to miss my sister.

After the annual exams, I set off with father and my brother for the city. On the way, I mentally compiled a list of all the complaints I would lodge against my brother when we reached my sister's hostel. I hadn't yet thought about who would protect me from my brother afterwards — that could be sorted out later. For now, I began drinking in with my eyes everything happening around me in the bustle of the launch.

The river route was the easiest way to travel from Napora to the city. Going by road was a long and arduous affair. From Napora, one had to go on foot or by rickshaw to Gunagari — and even then there was no direct route. A concrete bridge beyond Shilkup had collapsed when a Pakistani military jeep drove over it during the war of '71, which was why the Pakistani army had only reached our village long after the war had begun. Beside that bridge there was a narrow footpath across the fields; after crossing it, one had to hire another rickshaw. From Gunagari, a rickety jeep would wind through the hills to Satkania, and from there, taking the Arakan Road by bus or jeep through Kalurghat Bridge into the city, the whole journey from morning to evening would be spent. Since the river route was comparatively easier, father set off with us by water.

From Napora we took a rickshaw and reached Chambal Bazar by evening. From there, a small footpath heading west led to the Bangla Bazar ghat. My father had a two-battery torch. I gleefully took it from his hand, but had barely gone a few steps when my brother snatched it from me in the dark. Apparently, the responsibility of lighting the way was not to be left in younger hands. At twelve years old he had already become a great sage — a power-hungry little devil. I added another charge to my mental list of complaints.

When I exclaimed in delight at how huge the boat was, my know-it-all brother, buttoning up his coat, said, "That's not a boat, it's a launch. And it's not even a particularly large one. There are bigger launches than this." We had ridden a launch only once before — and that too together. How he had managed to see a bigger one since then, I had no idea. But I had no desire to ask and get my sideburns pulled. So I silently accepted his wisdom, placed our bundle beside father on the launch bench, and buttoned up the large button at the collar of my own coat. A cart had come to Napora market on the previous Wednesday selling winter clothes; two coats had been bought for the two of us in honour of the city trip. The coat kept the cold from my chest, but wearing half-pants meant my legs were freezing. There was a quilt inside our bundle. I wasn't sure whether to take it out or not.

The launch was very crowded. Everyone was squeezed together on long benches. In the middle, a massive black engine, slathered in oil and tar, chugged along with a thunderous roar. One had to speak loudly to be heard. Cold air rushed in through the open windows of the launch. My brother had already abandoned the dignity of his coat and pulled the quilt out of the bundle, covering himself from head to toe. I would somehow have to squeeze under that quilt too.

Many of the launch passengers knew father. They chatted with him. Even after the launch departed, several came over — "Badda, where are you off to?" "Taking the boys to see the city, are you?" "Heard you put your daughter in a government college. What's the use of educating sons and daughters? I married mine off." Seeing that father said nothing in reply, I could tell he didn't like this man's talk.

Many people from the village had come of their own accord to advise father against continuing my sister's education. I had overheard much of it standing in the shop. A well-regarded teacher had come and told father, "If you educate girls too much, they'll grow wings. If you send your daughter to a college in the city, she'll never come back home." Father had said quietly, "My daughter passed in the First Division. No other girl from our school had ever passed in the First Division before her. She is eager to study further. She sat the entrance exam and got into a government college. She got a hostel place. Should I not let her study? However far my daughter wants to study, I will find a way to educate her." The schoolmaster had laughed dismissively and said, "You'll regret it." My father said nothing more. The local landlord had also come and told father, "You're running your shop on borrowed money from here and there. And you're sending to a city college the girl who'll be cooking in her in-laws' kitchen in a couple of years. No cloth on your backside, yet rice eaten with a spoon!" Father gave no reply to the landlord. He simply looked at him in silence.

Moonlight shimmered on the surface of the sea. I turned and watched for a while, but soon slid under the weight of sleep. I woke at dawn. The launch was pulling into the launch terminal at Sadarghat. Passengers were beginning to gather their things. I remembered that last time we had to transfer from the launch to a small boat. This time the launch drew up directly alongside a long wooden jetty. Passengers were climbing up via a long wooden stairway. Father stood up, placed his hands on his waist, and then became suddenly frantic — looking rapidly around, under the benches, inside our bundle, inside the quilt I had folded just a short while ago — searching desperately for something. Beads of sweat stood on his forehead despite the cold. His fair face was taut and dark. I was about to say something about the jetty steps, when my brother grabbed my arm and pulled — meaning: don't say a word.

Everyone had disembarked from the launch. The driver and crew came and stood near father. From the conversation, it became clear that father had been pickpocketed. He had kept all his money inside a long cloth pouch tied around his waist. Taking advantage of the sleep and the crowd, a pickpocket had taken everything. There was nothing the driver or crew could do. Climbing down from the launch and up the jetty steps — cloth bag on his shoulder, bundle in hand — father looked utterly destitute. I didn't fully grasp the gravity of what had happened, but my brother probably did. At any other time, he would have given a lengthy lecture on how to carefully place each foot on the wooden steps. But now he didn't make a sound.

Right on the wooden jetty bridge were a few small tea stalls. Our father, who had just lost everything, sat down heavily on a long bench. I desperately needed the bathroom. I held it in and sat still.

"Badda, what happened?" — the man who came and sat beside father was someone we knew. He had been on the launch too, and had talked with father for a long time. We called him Chacha — uncle. "Why are you sitting like this? You've brought your nephews to the city — you can't be sitting here with a long face."

Father suddenly took hold of both his hands and said, in a voice close to breaking, "Oh, brother!"

From the fold of his lungi, Chacha quickly pulled out and placed in father's hands the very pouch of money that had been stolen. Light returned to father's face. He asked Chacha, "Do you know how much is in it?"

"I know. Ten thousand one hundred. Two notes are torn. You borrowed it from Satish Bahaddar, didn't you?"

"You knew, and you're still giving it back?"

"Badda. I couldn't resist the temptation at first. But then, looking at you, I felt something — a kind of heaviness. I felt like I was betraying someone who had given me salt. You may or may not remember — before the war, during that terrible storm, there wasn't a single grain of rice in my house, not a paisa in my hand. I went to you deep in the night. You opened your door in that storm and gave me rice. I ate from that rice, my children ate from that rice. And I had left you with nothing." "Please forgive me, Badda."

Chacha left. The smile returned to father's face. We looked out toward the river. The sun was rising, piercing through the morning mist.