Basanta almost ran down the stairs. Moving towards the telephone in the casualty room in the storey below, he covered two-three steps at a time as he descended the flight of stairs. Basanta’s mind was now filled with a great sense of relief, peace and satisfaction. He felt immense joy today, as the long eleven years of sterility were brought to an end by Roma’s labour. It was as if he had been having this feeling constantly in all its intensity. Since the child was not actually due today, there was no one beside Roma this evening except Basanta. The pain started suddenly in the afternoon. This pain, which was the outcome of constant exertion and hope, was awaited all these years by Roma and Basanta together. That was why, taking long leave, Basanta had brought Roma to her mother’s home in Guwahati at a safe period, for her situation was delicate and needed care. Roma’s maternal home was close to the Gauhati Medical College Hospital.

The pain, which started in the afternoon, did not cease, and by evening she was taken into the labour room. Basanta was all alone and felt nervous. Roma within and Basanta without. These moments, which were so long hoped for, were anxious moments indeed. But Basanta did not have to wait for long. A nurse opened the door slightly, and looking at everybody, announced, “Roma Dutta, Basanta Dutta.” Basanta rushed to the door, but had hardly reached it when the nurse, saying, “It’s a son” with complete indifference and abruptly closed the door. The nurse did utter Basanta and Roma’s name properly. That meant it was about him and Roma. A glow spread over Basanta’s countenance, and he closed his palms unknowingly. Unclear, yet audible, he uttered in a broken voice – “It’s a son”– and moving forward to the door, asked, “Roma’s all right, isn’t she?” Of course, there was no reply from within. It was only then that he became a little conscious and tried to be normal. Roma was surely doing well, and besides, there was a lot of time for her to be released from the labour room. So the news had to be conveyed to his mother-in-law immediately. He came down to the phone in the casualty, two-three steps at a time.

A joyous and emotional Basanta soon reached the ground floor. A long corridor. He started walking fast. As he got closer, a gradually increasing hum could be heard. Humming of this kind was quite normal in hospital premises. Moreover, in the evening, as the number of visitors grew, the humming naturally increased. But today, when Basanta reached the casualty ward, instead of the regular hum, he discerned an uproar, a clear hue and cry. What was this tumult? The casualty, and the open field outside was filled with people. Why was there such a crowd? Basanta, however, did not need much time to understand the situation. Some moments ago, there had been a bomb blast in the market nearby. The blast was so devastating that even now the number of the dead could not be ascertained, and already about two hundred injured persons had been brought to the hospital. How many people had died? A hundred, two hundred, fifty, ten? The sound was so intense, everything was scattered so far and wide. Could only ten persons be dead? Whether it was ten or two hundred, surely people had died– some were already gone, and many others half-dead. As the news spread, the crowd was growing larger. Everybody was trying to see the faces of the wounded, maybe there was someone of their own among them.

Suddenly, Basanta had some news. One personal, and the other involved the society in which he lived. The news of personal release from the long bondage of sterility received just now, and the news of some extremists playing with the lives of ordinary people, killing and injuring them, just for the sake of some political objective. The culmination of personal sterility and the advent of a social one – Basanta felt as if both of these were his own news. Even then, it seemed that the news of the birth, as against that of the deaths, was a piece of more meaningful social news. Hence, he ploughed his way through the crowd to the phone.

Just when he was about to reach the phone, there was chaos all around again. Two trucks arrived at the hospital gate. No one failed to guess the contents of the trucks. It was as if all the people were trying to jump onto the trucks at once. The crowd surged forward in such a manner that Basanta was forced to move back.

The people surrounded the trucks and started looking inside. Eh! eh!, only eh! No other word escaped their lips. Just one word— eh! and the totally pale and speechless faces expressed all the feelings of guilt, disgust, affliction, consciousness and utter helplessness of the people. Looking at the shaken people who came down from the trucks, Basanta could only now detach himself from his personal elation and happiness. By this time, propelled by the crowd, he reached the gate. All this while, although he was associated with the pain around him, his feeling of intense happiness and joy remained his own. But the arrival of the corpse-laden trucks just now made him too a part of the present atmosphere. It was said that many dead bodies were scattered all around the market even now. Basanta had not seen any dead body properly before. His father died when he was in college— it was a natural death, and besides, he was quite old. Apart from the indispensable ceremony, there was nothing to be sorrowful about. But these people who were suddenly transformed into corpses! Basanta automatically went towards the truck. Peering into the truck, he closed his eyes immediately as he saw the dumped bodies inside. He could not even utter an ‘eh!’ in response. Were these people? If so, were people really like this? Where have these people come from? Holding the wooden plank by the truck with both hands, he started looking from outside to the others in silence. The bodies lay one on top of the other in total disorder, and the floor of the truck was all red with blood. Just adjacent to him, pressed against the plank lay a beautiful girl who appeared to be about ten-twelve years old. She was lying calmly and had an attractive hair cut. It was as if she was just asleep. How did she die then? The lower half of her body was not in this truck. Perhaps it was in the other truck, or maybe it lay beside some grocer’s shed in the market, or it may even be by some butcher’s block. Even though he wanted to come away, Basanta stopped a while. The girl was so close to him that he could have touched her cheeks, but he did not do so, even though he had a desire to do so. He observed the scene once again. Who are these playthings? For whom are these deaths? Where have these people come from? Whose father or mother, whose children, whose husband or the sole earning member of some family? Where are the people who ought to shed tears for these corpses? When will they arrive? How will they know that the man who had come to the market is now sleeping in this truck? How or when will they know? Basanta placed his hand on his shirt-pocket. It was there. He knew that his identity card was there without putting his hand inside the pocket. These were troubled times. Since Basanta moved around all alone in Guwahati, Roma had been telling him to make an identity card. Finally, he had made the card a couple of months ago. Nowadays, he kept the card with him all the time. At least, if he died, the news would reach home soon. Whether the thought just occurred to him or was occasioned by grief, he did not exactly know. He got down from the truck. Gradually, the crowd grew, and he came back to Roma without making the call. Roma had still not come out from the labour room.

(To be continued)

Sibananda Kakoti