Pitambar Saikia’s mortal remains will be cremated with full national
honours.
This news spread to each house across different villages like wild
bush fires during Fagun month.
Till date, none in this area has ever seen with his eyes how a body is
accorded the last respects by the State machinery. Crowds swelled at
Pitambar’s house to witness the event. An unnatural flurry of activity
replaced the usually silent environment, akin to a cemetery, of this
village surrounded by forests and located miles away from the nearest
township.
The local authorities were galvanized by the wireless message from the
State capital that a high-level team of police and civil officials will
soon be leaving for the village to take part in the State organized
funeral.
Escorted by police, a silent procession from Pitambar Saikia’s house
would carry his body to its final resting place.
The entire State is mourning the demise of a nationally famous
self-sacrificing tireless freedom fighter. He was jailed thrice during the
Independence movement.
Already several police personnel from the thana located about six
miles from the hamlet have been deputed at Pitambar’s house.
With assistance from the villagers, they made the required
arrangements. Powerful lights were installed around Pitambar’s house with wires
connected to poles located about a mile from the spot. Similar lighting
arrangements were made at the cremation ground that was also cleared of
shrubs and overgrowths. The ground was also levelled for the officials
and security personnel to pay their last respects here.
A cream coloured brand new car is proceeding from the State capital
along the National Highway. Travelling in it are two top-ranking
officials. Behind it is a station wagon. There are two officials and a
photographer. It is followed by a police truck.
Sushanta Choudhury, the senior official, is smoking a pipe. His
companion is Bhagirath Saikia.
Breaking the long silence, Sushanta Choudhury pointed his pipe towards
Bhagirath Saikia, “Have you ever come across the name of Pitambar
Saikia?”
In the meantime, Bhagirath Saikia had brought out a piece of betel nut
from a large-sized chocolate tin and was applying lime on the leaves.
He savours it with that much of zest and enthusiasm as children gulp
down chocolates and ice creams.
Sushanta laughed at Bhagirath’s query. For quite sometime, he
continued thus. This is his usual reaction to questions posed at him. Before
replying, he always laughs like that no matter where — be it a dinner
party or the hospital or the final resting place.
“This is the first time I’ve heard of the name, and that too from you.
Of course, my daughter told me during lunchtime at home that the
mid-day radio bulletin had carried a news of a patriot’s demise. At office, I
learnt of this trip to the village with you. Do enlighten me about this
Pitambar Saikia.”
The senior official was looking outside the window and coolly puffing
away at his pipe. He was shocked at the last sentences of his
co-passenger. He forgot that he had first put across the question.
“I remember coming across the name once or twice in the newspapers.
Probably they were about his lectures at some public meetings. A man of
olden times. He had been jailed thrice. But just because one was a
freedom fighter, don’t you think according national honour would be carrying
things a bit too far?” He again resumed his sombre position and scanned
the passing scenery outside as if his responsibility lies at posing
pointers and not in answering queries.
Bhagirath broke into his spasms of laughter. Its decibel forced the
driver to cast his glance behind. Pushing away the bits of betel nuts
that had fallen on his trousers and shirt, with his hands, he said: “We
were also students of history, I swear. There’s probably not a single
such nation like ours which won Independence without shedding blood and
with such less labour. When I hear of the so-called sacrifices of these
patriots, I really feel like laughing.” His face was flushed with
excitement while the intensity of his throated outbursts soon changed to
spasmodic coughs. He strongly pressed his throat with his hands for
relief.
Sushanta became cautious. He threw an angry glance at his co-passenger
junior to him. From then onwards, he refrained from interacting with
Bhagirath, and opted to look outside. The car passed innumerable dry
trees, ramshackle sheds, some namghars sans roofs or walls and several
primary school houses that doubled as cowsheds during the monsoon.
The station wagon and the police truck kept on following at a definite
distance.
After traversing several miles, the merrymaking of a community
gathering fell on their ears wafting from a venue some yards away from the
trunk road.
The pipe-smoking officer ordered the man at the wheel to halt and
directed him to check out the occasion of that assembly. He looked behind.
The other two vehicles had parked at fixed gaps from each other. The
driver informed that it was a festival to welcome the spring.
Circling the pipe before Bhagirath’s face as if to bolster his point,
Sushanta said, “During my tenure as the Deputy Commissioner of this
district, I had once inaugurated such an annual festival. What a grand
event that was with all the communities participating in it!”
He took a puff at his burning tobacco in a self-satisfying mood and
looked towards the venue. Flashing a childlike smile at his junior
officer, he proposed: “Let’s go and relax there sometime. How much of
tedious office work can one tolerate. It’s the same story at home too — the
constant phone calls of Ministers and MLAs or the home brought filework
waiting to be cleared. Can’t even spare time for the family.”
Bhagirath never expected such an innocent comment from his
stern-looking boss. Besides, the smile appeared discordant and out of place with
the tenor of his voice just a few moments ago.
Sushanta continued, “Come, before entering the cremation ground, let’s
enjoy ourselves for a few moments at the fest. On the other hand, you
won’t come across a more apt instance of communal harmony. Can you
imagine, how many communities are gathering together on this occasion?”
Forcing open the door, he came out of the car. Immediately, Bhagirath
with his chocolate tin in hand followed suit from the other side. He
then signalled the photographer in the station wagon to accompany them.
In the meantime, the other two police officials had come down from
their vehicle and stood on either side of Sushanta. Checking the time by
his watch, Sushanta said: “Both of you take rest. We’ll soon be back
from the festival there.”
Alighting from the main road, they came across a small duct filled with
muck and a small amount of water flowing through it. First, the
photographer crossed it and then positioned himself there to take a snap of
Sushanta jumping across the drain.
Sushanta checked the source and the final end of the opening, weighed
the width in his mind to see if it could be crossed without jumping, but
finally decided to leap over it. From the other side, he extended his
hand to his companion.
As Bhagirath prepared to jump, his spasmodic laugh rose in volume. A
spontaneous reaction silently broke out from Sushanta’s lips: What a
hopeless person he was!
“Jump, jump!” he ordered.
Bhagirath made the leap. But the betel nut tin slipped from his hand
into the muck. The right foot also touched the loose earth as he reached
the other side. Sushanta had to use both his arms for levering up
Bhagirath. The photographer athletically rescued the chocolate tin from the
watery grave.
As Bhagirath tried to clear the dirt from his foot, Sushanta said:
“It’s alright, especially when you’re here to participate in a special
programme like national integration. Don’t worry, come!”
The festival is being arranged in a massive manner.
Mother Nature is also in full regalia. Rows and rows of trees dot the
banks of the stream. The function is held under the cover of greenery.
It is an apt occasion to welcome spring.
A riot of colours surrounds the venue. Labourers including men and
women of all ages from the nearby tea garden have donned dresses of varied
gay hues. The youth have divided themselves into two groups and are
practising jhumur dance keeping rhythms with the beat of the madal. A few
paces away, women from the villages are singing
biyanaam. The faces of
the young people are glowing in phakua colours. Hundreds of people who
have made themselves comfortable are enjoying the grand fest.
On the venue’s outer fringe, there are many stalls trading
knick-knacks including cigarettes and betel nuts and items for kids.
To the south is a temporary stage.
Sushanta and Bhagirath approached the crowd.
Noticing them, several persons from among the organizers came forward
to greet them. Everybody is familiar with Sushanta Choudhury who till
recently has been the Deputy Commissioner of this district.
“Sir, what a pleasant surprise! We are indeed blessed to have you in
our midst!” addressed the president of the organizing committee with his
hands folded in a namaskar. Sushanta looked towards the photographer.
Immediately the sound of his camera at work wafted: Click, click.
Sushanta replied, “We’re short of time. Actually we have some work of
national importance. Your wonderful effort at bringing about harmony
among communities forced us to also take part in this masses’ gathering.
All of you deserve kudos for carrying on such real work at national
integration.”
“Thank you, sir. All of us from various communities have gathered here
with the only objective of strengthening the bond of national
integrity,” acknowledged the president who is an influential timber trader of
the area and owner of immense landed property. He has known Sushanta
Choudhury from close quarters during the latter’s recent tenure as the DC
of this district.
Both the distinguished guests were respectfully taken to the stage.
The other personalities who had already been gracing the elevated
structure were introduced to the newly arrived officials.
Leaning against a long cushion, Sushanta filled up his pipe with fresh
tobacco and lighting it with a match started enjoying the puff while
Bhagirath opened his favourite tin.
Two girls kneeled before them and offered tea and betel nut.
After enjoying the cultural events for sometime, Sushanta checked the
time by his watch and looked towards Bhagirath. Then he rose from his
seat and prepared to take leave by extending a namaskar to the
organizers.
However, the committee president refused to let go of Sushanta’s right
hand. Holding it with both the hands, he pleaded: “Sir, how is it
possible for us to bid you adieu on this auspicious occasion without
offering you light refreshment. Else we would be committing a grave offence
against communal amity.”
“But, we have to go and cremate a patriot with national honours,”
mildly protested Sushanta and looked towards his companion. Bhagirath
backed his boss: “It was wrong on our part to have halted here.” Wary of
Sushanta’s sharp glance, he forcefully stopped his laugh.
“Oh no! Please don’t say that way. Now do accept our invitation!”
He, along with a few other committee members, showed the two guests
the way down from the stage and towards the president’s house. After
proceeding for some yards, Sushanta said, “But, we have to report for duty.
We have got to be responsible!”
“Don’t worry sir. Do allow us to have the pleasure of serving you.
When will we ever get the chance again? We generally remain occupied with
our family chores like presenting ourselves during cremations,
attending to our relatives in hospitals or procuring medicines for our
patients.”
Bhagirath felt like laughing.
They reached the president’s house after walking for some more paces.
It was dusk already.
They were served sumptuously: fluffy luchis, alur dam, payash and
sweets of several types and tea. Sushanta restricted himself to a small
piece of a sweet and a cup of tea.
The president whispered into Sushanta’s ear: “I have the stocks ready,
sir. You can quickly have a little…”
Seeing the president approach him, Sushanta knew in advance what he
would have stated. That was his typical manner when they met each other
during his stay in the district.
“That’s impossible, impossible. We are on national duty!” Sushanta
stood up.
The president also knows that this is exactly how Sushanta reacts
initially. “I know, you’re on national duty. But, there is no fixed time
for the cremation. Do accompany me. Everything is prepared.”
“No, no, absolutely impossible! What do you think you’re talking? What
will the people say?”
Bhagirath stood up and looked at Sushanta. He realized that though
Sushanta had loudly pronounced his statement yet his face was brimming in
a childlike smile. That same smile had flickered on his face as he had
alighted from his vehicle.
“What’s the problem?” Bhagirath posed.
“What else. He is proposing a quick drink.”
Bhagirath was amused. His spasmodic laugh accompanied. Checking his
watch, he enquiringly looked towards Sushanta.
“Come sir!” the president said.
“What do you propose?” Sushanta asked Bhagirath.
“If you are adamant, let’s go. We’ll have a quick helping and then
proceed on our duty.”
They entered a nearby room. There were two bottles— one of whisky and
the other of brandy — on the table. Separately and aesthetically were
served fried fish, potato chips and dalmung.
Without tarrying, Bhagirath poured himself a glass of whisky. Licking
his lips, he said: “I had one in my bag too.”
Sushanta said: “Good food, good book, good drinks. What do you say
Saikia?” and kept on repeatedly checking the time by the clock.
Cheers, Cheers!
Bhagirath added: “But good wife… that’s doubtful.”
“How come?” Sushanta took a sip and stared at Bhagirath.
“Well, take the instance of my wife. She doesn’t have any compunction
if I have drinks outside. But she becomes violent the moment I open one
at home. Her concern is for the children. Once I had just brought in a
bottle; she immediately threw it outside. I told her: It’s alright you
have thrown away the bottle, but you could well have corked it prior to
casting it away.”
“That’s because our women have never known what good drinks are; their
perception is limited to the view that a person is down the drain the
moment that man takes a sip. And, insofar as children are concerned, if
they are geniuses, how can anyone have a bad influence on them?”
Bhagirath laughed. Sushanta looked at the clock and said: “Quick,
quick. We’ve got to be responsible. We’re on State duty.”
The clock ticks away slowly but surely. The music of the fest wafts
faintly. The bottles are emptied. Sushanta forgets about time. His face
gets flushed with inebriation.
Bhagirath speaks: “If we are late who knows what the villagers would
do; suppose they complete the cremation before our arrival there? These
days, one can’t take these folks for granted.”
“What?” The sudden shout of Sushanta shook awake Bhagirath. “Do the
simple villagers have the guts to defy national honour? They will
definitely await us…till we reach…”
Sushanta’s eyes drooped. With great effort, he laid himself down on
the nearby sofa. Bhagirath too leaned against the chair.
Meanwhile, the masses have been patiently waiting for the officials to
arrive. They had, during the morning itself, prepared the body of
Pitambar Saikia and dressed it up for the national cremation inside the
house.
The sea of people was everywhere — on the portico, in the verandah, at
the front yard and on the street. More and more people are arriving at
the house every minute. A group of people, mostly youngsters — has
reached the trunk road, attentively looking forward to the approaching
sounds of police vehicles. Some among them are scouting and relaying the
latest about the officials to the others. Again, they go to the main
road.
Similarly, another crowd waits at the cremation ground. They collect
and keep ready logs, incense sticks and other items that would be
necessary.
The scouts gather from the police thana that the officials and the
police personnel had left the state capital in the evening and are due to
arrive at the village any moment now.
The evening has already given way to dusk. The birds are fighting with
each other for spaces in the trees.
Gradually, the sorrow that permeated the village passed away. The
gathered public became weary discussing about Pitambar’s qualities. Many
other issues figured. To while away the time, they started talking about
stories, tales, myths, controversies that were in circulation but
hitherto remained unspelt, sensational news among others. Some among them,
however didn’t forget to also point out a few negative qualities of
Pitambar Saikia.
It is generally experienced that everything under the sun except the
dead is discussed at the cremation grounds. After dusk, the people that
had swelled at the ground also took up for discussion some horror,
unbelievable and also humourous tales.
Someone said: “A person after returning home from a party on a moonlit
night saw a young man tying a rope on that branch to commit suicide by
hanging. The man urged: ‘Sonny, at least for the sake of the village,
don’t do such a thing!’”
Another related, “What a brave person our father was! Searching for
the lost cow, he encountered a ferocious tiger in this jungle. The tiger
walks towards him. Our father stays pinned to the spot and as the
animal nears him, he chants the mantra. And, believe me, the tiger gets
transformed into a sheep at that spot.”
Yet another said: “Heard it from our grandfather. It was at that spot
over there that Bhim had killed Dushashana. The quarrel had spilled
over from the bhaona staged at the namghar. Dushashana fled from there to
the jungle here. And, at that spot Bhim finally killed his rival and
handed himself over to the police.”
The night dragged on. Most of the children have by now reached their
houses and slept. The womenfolk too have gone home. Some people did not
return after returning home for supper. Only one-fourth of the earlier
attendance remained at the cremation ground.
It’s now midnight.
The elderly citizens of Pitambar’s village and other freedom fighters,
who had come here from faraway places, slowly and without anybody
taking the initiative congregated in front of Pitambar’s house. All of their
faces showed sure signs that they were weary, angry and worried. One
among them spoke: “We can’t wait a single second after midnight. A dead
body simply can’t be kept unattended to this way.”
“But, what if they arrive later?” another questioned.
“Who cares. Just because they would arrive and God knows when, why
should we keep a body this way. Whose rules say so?” came the reply.
“Still, it’s the direction of the government,” the other reasoned.
“What official directive are you taking of? It’s not that we have not
waited for them the entire day, well it’s the entire night almost now.
We too have a responsibility. Can you deny my logic? Can you now shirk
your duty and not cremate the body?” appeared to be the final
statement.
For the following few seconds, there was pin-drop silence. Each one
looked to the other for guidance. One among the elderly stood and craned
his neck to scan the night horizon for headlights of police vehicle or
paid attention to pick up the sound of the engines or the car horns. An
owl noisily flew past their heads.
“Then, let’s go and carry out our responsibility. Come, lend a helping
hand!”
At the ground, the rising flames had already turned the thin body of
Pitambar Saikia into flames. It was then time to spread ghee and
dhunaguri.
Suddenly, the silence of the night was shattered by the sounds of car
engines. Lights fell at the venue from all sides.
The police personnel rushed and a few paces away from the pyre stood
in rapt attention and turned their guns upside down on the ground and
bowed their heads. Sushanta, Bhagirath and the other two police officials
also came running and followed suit. To forestall any chances of
Bhagirath breaking into his laughter, Sushanta had cast a sharp glance at
him.
The few people who remained near the funeral pyre appeared shocked and
stared in surprise at the uniformed people around.
The entire episode surrounding the cremation pyre during the wee hours
amidst the dark jungle temporarily alighted by electricity seemed to be
a re-enacted scene from an absurd drama.
Only the photographer looked like the lone active being around,
clicking away snaps of that unnatural scenario from a spot.
