Prasanta Madhab Bujarbarua is his name. He is from this city of Guwahati. It’s past mid night– 2 a.m. According to the English calendar, he has entered the seventy-sixth year of his life. Prasanta Madhab was unable to sleep. He kept brooding on the events of the day. He looked back at his seventy-five years which stood for him as the complex mathematics of life. He looked for a clue to the debit and credit of it. He thought of taking an Alzolam 25. Should he take it? His friend Dr Hari Sarma had advised that one tablet occasionally was not harmful in case of insomnia. Was he really suffering?

Nirmala, his wife, was sleeping peacefully by his side. She was also going to be seventy soon. How could she sleep so soundly, Prasanta Madhab wondered at times. She was so tension free! At the same time, he also felt happy and proud as a husband that he could make her feel so. Sometimes he got irritated by her simple naive nature. She did not know how to connect the mobile to their children just by name and not number. In case of an emergency, even Dr Hari Sarma’s name would not be traceable on her mobile. Dr Hari Sarma was Prasanta Madhab’s childhood friend. He had retired from Gauhati Medical College as the Head of the Department of Medicine. He had set up his own chamber at home and attended to his patients in the afternoons. Thus, he was busy.

Prasanta Madhab looked at his sleeping wife. How did she remain so casual and carefree? The whole day had passed in anger and agony. From whatever that had happened, Prasanta Madhab became more cynical and critical– making everyone around him unhappy. He remembered his late father Hariprasanna Bujarbarua. A teacher of History, who later became the Principal of Sonaram High School, he was respected by all. He had vast knowledge of his subject, as well as about his province and country, too. He could relate to the past civilisation of India with such depth and detail, that he got invitations from the intellectual circles on many platforms. Prasanta Madhab was his first child. He passed his LLB and started practising in the High Court. Presently, he advised his junior lawyers and helped them. He had earned a name and reputation as the best criminal lawyer of the State. His father spent his entire life in teaching and conversing on historical topics. A school teacher, he never ever grumbled or felt disappointed in his life. On the contrary, Prasanta Madhab was always occupied with self-analysis. As if he was dissecting his years and regretting every moment. He could not see the better side. Even now, he could present his cases so eloquently! He was good in cross examinations. He had carved a name for himself. He had earned wealth, too. In spite of all that, he still felt lonely and left out. He felt he was a failure in life. At times, he felt so restless. During such moments, he regretted not having someone, to whom he could confide his frustrations. He felt as if nobody understood him. Especially during the midnight hours, when there prevailed a silence and the whole world was taking rest around him, he lay awake, feeling awful. He had just completed his seventy-five years. Has he more years left to fulfil his other dreams in life? He wondered.

Suddenly, Nirmala woke up. ‘Oh! You are not sleep? Have an Alzolam,’ she said and turned to her side, to sleep again. Prasanta Madhab felt irritated by her mechanical behaviour again. How could she remain so indifferent; not at all bothered about his sleepless state at all! She had been his constant companion for the last forty-eight long years. She was so callous!

He had a deep desire to enter politics. He thought he had all the basic qualities to be a good legislator as a member of Parliament– education, oratory skills and popularity. Not that he did not try; but he had seen some X, Y, Z, occupying important positions in the party. They were busy acquiring unaccounted public money illegally. As if their only aim to enter politics was to grab money and power. But Prasanta Madhab was an exception. He passionately wanted to do something for his State. The dream of serving his people through ballot has remained unfulfilled. He felt his wife Nirmala never encouraged him in this desire. For her, life was a smooth sailing boat. Everything was fine as it was.

He recalled the day’s incident. It had been a polling day. Prasanta Madhab had been regularly exercising his vote since 1952. Whether it was for the local body, Legislative Assembly or for the Parliament, he was a regular voter. He had a dormant aspiration to stand for elections since the last twenty years. Even his classmate Laksman Deka, who neither knew English, nor was an orator in the Assamese language, was elected as the M.L.A. Prasanta Madhab was shocked by all this. This morning he woke up and called to Nirmala, sleeping next to him. ‘Nimu, get up, we should get ready. Today is the polling day. We should be in the line by 7 am. Get ready soon.’

Nirmala woke up and replied, ‘Ok... we will be going, but what happens if we do not go at all? Is there anybody waiting for our votes?’

‘I get upset by your naive comments’, replied Prasanta Madhab.

‘Do you know, we had nine votes– sons, daughters-in-law, ours and also the maid’s. Now, it’s only us. You should not make such irresponsible comments!’

Nirmala replied, ‘Ok, please don’t start lecturing from the morning.’

As she left her bed and walked away, Prasanta Madhab simply stared at her. Within no time, she had her bath and got ready. They started walking towards the booth. Prasanta Madhab looked at her and realised that Nirmala still looked beautiful and graceful. He appreciated her, but did not say any words of praise. He wondered as to when he had praised her last. He had always been so busy in his court cases, he had hardly bothered about her existence. But she had never complained about anything, ever.

‘Have you brought the Ration Card? It will be required to show our identity’– he asked.

‘Don’t worry. I have brought it. Now let’s walk carefully’, she said. As the polling booth was a quarter kilometre away, they decided to have a morning walk. On the way it was It drizzling, and Nirmala had carried an umbrella. ‘Come under this umbrella’, said Nirmala. For a while Prasanta Madhab felt very happy and young in mind. Was she the same Nirmala whom he had loved and married forty-eight years back? He remembered those young days at the university campus. Then why couldn’t he start a loving conversation with her? ‘Whom have you voted for?’ he asked. ‘Why should I say? Voting is a secret’, said Nirmala with her usual smile. Prasanta Madhab did not like such jokes. He knew very well that voting was one’s own decision, even couples kept it a secret. But today, Prasanta Madhab did not like her smile. Was it a taunting one?

He lay down for a while after returning from the booth. Nowadays, he felt tired. He had both high pressure and diabetes probably, these were inevitable at this age– he felt. He called Nirmala. At times, he called her in short form as Hera or ‘Nimu’. He asked, Hera, you said Bipul was to come home today. It would have been nice. He could exercise his vote, too.’

‘Oh! You are only thinking of the vote. He is an army officer. Nobody knows how and when duties are made’. Prasanta Madhab simply did not like her comment. Nirmala, whom he had been considering as naive, was showing off to be so knowledgable about her son’s duties! That very moment, the mobile rang. Prasanta Madhab knew from the ring tone that it would be his son Bipul. Nirmala spoke, ‘O Bipul, what happened? You were supposed to come home today... Ok, explain it to your Deuta’. Nirmala gave the phone to her husband. Prasanta Madhab held it. Bipul spoke, ‘Deuta, I am speaking from the L.O.C. Yes, I had planned to come home, but all our leaves have been cancelled. Taliban problem. I am not supposed to explain much.’ Prasanta Madhab said, ‘That’s ok, but we haven’t met for so many months. We miss you, Amala and Pari very much.’

Translated by: Suprabha Goswami

(To be continued)

Col. (Retd.) Monoranjan Goswami