When one day he came back, leaving Roma and the three month old infant at home, only then did the lonely Basanta realise that life was becoming increasingly difficult and terrible. He was not alien to a solitary life; but the loneliness was different this time. During these three months with Roma together, not a single day passed when the thought of death did not occur to him in some way. The more he tried to spend the days with his wife and newborn child in natural joy and happiness, the more vividly the heap of bodies after the blast appeared in his mind’s eye; and the mutilated, injured people too. It was as if that picture and his son were attached to each other, and were complementary in nature. He could not isolate one from the other in his mind. Basanta’s son was just like a witness to the whole situation, the entire incident— which he has not been able to or, in fact, cannot forget.

Now that he was all alone, his mental world was peopled only by Roma, his son, and those injured and dead in the bomb blast. The news of murders and deaths had so enveloped the entire environment that it appeared as if everyone was just awaiting further murders and deaths. Deaths and murders had become so commonplace that it could happen in any manner, at any time. It was as if this completely immutable situation was gradually overwhelming him.

Inhibited by the terrible fear of death, Basanta felt that he, too, could die at any moment now. Or the news of somebody else’s death could come to him. Basanta very fearfully moved ahead through this unnatural process of the pathetic condition which was becoming natural to him day by day. In order to be certain about the identity card, he put his hand in his pocket regularly. Any summon like “Sir, there’s a call for you”, made him hasten to the phone. Even when there was a courtesy call, he first suspected that it could be bad news.

Death, in this situation, was no longer bad news. Now, when every news was terrible, death was just ordinary news. In this uneasy yet now natural situation, Basanta was trying very hard to run away from death as much as he could. All the people that he met, worked together with, lived with, walked alongside on the streets, saw shopping in the markets – it was as if a bullet each had been released for everyone. It was as if all the people were trying as much as they could to run away from, and avoid being hit by the bullets in their breasts. He shivered in apprehension whenever he saw unaccounted bags in empty seats of buses or in the grocery markets. It was as if the scattered splinters after the blast from the bag near the tomatoes would come and penetrate his belly. He also feared that a bullet from the swiftly passing motorcycle would go right through the middle of his forehead. The bus in which he was travelling would now fall to pieces, that was how he felt. Basanta, who went home to Tezpur on Saturdays and holidays, during the time of fun and frolic there and on his return to Guwahati, thought quietly— “I will really be seeing them next Saturday, won’t I ?” or “Would they, my mother, my wife and my son, who’s slowly learning to crawl, really see me again?” – and thinking about this, he trembled in trepidation. A troubled and fearful Basanta nowadays even took God’s name.

Basanta waited for the man, even though the office hours were over, in the office itself. A man had come to meet him during his absence at noon. He was told that the man had come quite a few times during the day. The man’s description did not tally with those people who usually came looking for him. Then, who could he be? What kind of news could he have? The man left no message. He kept on waiting for the man by the office phone.

A disturbed and worried Basanta arrived home quite late that evening. He expected the man at home, but he was not there. There was no sign of the man ever being there. In the evening, Basanta was usually very lonely in his large house. Today’s tension made him more fatigued than usual. He was now all alone in this large house, the fast life of the city unable to reach him. Never before had he felt so lonely. Even though he did go to make a cup of tea, he did not light the gas burner. He threw himself on the large double bed in the bedroom without changing his office clothes. After some time, getting up from the bed, he put on the TV, only to turn it off immediately afterwards. An agriculture-related programme. Going out to the balcony outside, he held on to the railing and just waited a while. But he came in soon, his mind restless. This time he went to the cloth-stand, and changing his clothes, put on the half-pant that he usually wore at home. With an inexplicable restlessness, once again he fell on the bed, his body bare except for the half-pant. He did not even want to hold a pillow. What was happening to him? Such an uneasy feeling, such restlessness! He then got up from his sleeping position and just sat down on the bed. Now he came to the study table. Unknown even to Roma, Basanta kept a book in the interior of the lowest drawer of the large table. Taking the book, he lay in the bed again, and started turning the pages of this Scandinavian production. Although every picture in the pages of the book was familiar to him, he felt a natural excitement and thrill every time he went through it. But today he just turned the pictured pages, there was no excitement, no feeling.

Basanta’s fear increased all the more. Closing the book immediately, he got up from the bed and sat down once again. He just could not make life so horrible and lifeless. Discarding the half-pant in the bedroom itself, he slowly went to the bathroom. He started observing himself from his chest upwards in the bathroom light. He stood looking at his own image for some time in the same manner. It was as if he could see his completely bare body in this daily scene – but in another way. Opening the shower to the maximum, he placed himself under it. The shower water which came down in great force upon his body, brought a sense of great peace and pleasure to Basanta, but his fears returned immediately. He felt that the water would press him to death. He came out of the water shaking his head. Wrapping the towel around his body, he came to the balcony and waited for some moments. Holding the railing, he just looked outside. The busy city with its vehicles, the barely. audible sounds of the city, and that the dark skies with the twinkling stars - he spent quite some time in this atmosphere just as he was. Quietly, he decided that he would take long leave and go home.

Just when he was about to take the pen after putting the card in his pocket, the calling bell began to ring. His heart skipped a beat— no one is supposed to come at this moment! He was relieved only on opening the door. It was Aranya, the eldest daughter of his neighbour, Uday Barua. Barua, a high-ranking income-tax officer, lived alone in Dibrugarh, just like Basanta. Mrs. Barua, a lecturer in a local college, lived here with the three grown-up children. Aranya was an engineering student, and the boy had now joined a big firm after completing his computer science course, while the other girl was doing her MA in English at the University. Although Dibrugarh was quite far off, Barua usually came home on Saturdays. They were indeed a happy family in the beautiful bunglow just in front of his house.

“Uncle, am I disturbing you?”

“No, not at all. come.”

“You know, mother’s brought some good cassettes today.” Aranya went on without any preface – “One is Spielberg’s, another based on a novel by Milan Kundera, and the third is Govind Nihalani’s. Mother has invited you to join us in the evening.”

Basanta sometimes used to get invitations like this from Barua’s family. Everybody in Barua’s family knew that he was interested in good cinema.

Arriving from the office a little early, Basanta went to Barua’s house in the evening. Signs of upper middle class taste and maintenance were discernible in the large and attractive drawing room. Everyone was ready. As soon as Basanta came, a new film by Spielberg began— a horror fantasy.

Gradually, the film’s excitement pervaded the entire drawing room. Aranya, with a pillow on her lap, was seated alongside her sister on the divan. Mrs. Barua was on the other side. Basanta and the boy were seated on the sofa in front. All of them were thoroughly enjoying Spielberg’s wonderfully imagined story. Suddenly, the calling bell rang. Glances were exchanged among one another. Eventually, though evidently irritated, Aranya went to the door. There was a police Sub-Inspector outside.

“This is Uday Barua’s house, isn’t it?”

“That’s right.”

“He works in Dibrugarh? In the Tax Department?”

“Yes.” Aranya replied quite loudly.

Mrs Barua came to the door. “What’s the matter?” The police officer held Barua’s card in his hand. “There has been a huge bomb blast in the Guwahati-bound Assam State Transport Corporation bus today. Barua has died in the blast, instantly.”

The sudden and swift transformation of the whole situation took place before Basanta’s eyes. With heart-rending shrieks, all the people ran to the police van in the street. The cassette player was still going on. Spielberg’s fictitious horror now enveloped the whole house in reality. The ascending excitement and joy suddenly collapsed, fell flat and dissolved.

Basanta stopped the film. Watching the tearful members of the family, he began to wonder whether the moments of happiness enjoyed a little earlier would ever come back. Would they ever be able to sit together with such abandon without feeling Barua’s absence? Ah! How stifling, cruel and ruthless is time. The I-card was so unfortunate. It was as if the card was responsible for the entire situation— so quickly did it reveal the dead Barua’s identity. Otherwise— the four, three, two or even half an hour time which could have been enjoyed by the family was only reduced by the card. It did not even allow the film to come to an end. An evening of certain and calm enjoyment was suddenly cut short and everybody was hurled into the depths of eternal darkness.

The entire incident troubled Basanta as he returned from the cremation ground. Everything, from Aranya’s invitation in the morning till the end — the whole situation kept on coming to his mind. Nowadays, when time was becoming so intolerable and hard to get, a few moments of enjoyment were indeed a lot of time ; this was the time of great luck and fortune.

Having prepared himself for the office with the briefcase, pen, purse, etc. Basanta took the card from its place on the table. Just as he was about to put it into his pocket, something stopped him. With one hand on the latch of the door, he threw the card on the table with his free one. The small card bounced around and finally, in a half-open, half-shut manner, stood against a book on the table.

Closing the door, he went out to his office.

• Concluded

Sibananda Kakoti