The Trains Came Back
Nabina Das
The government men had just laid the tracks from the village up to
the hilly town. Then snakes came out to crawl all over the wheels and over
even the huff-puffing engine. Then everything fell off and crashed to
smithereens. This was Chitro’s recurrent dream.
In those dreams Chitro also saw torn limbs and blood and heard
cries. She woke up with a start every other night. It was a humid monsoon. The
rains fell in the gutters of the railway station and Chitro also dreamt of the
TV screen in the village shop that showed chest-beating kin of those who got blown
up.
She would be coiled up in bed and her ‘village uncle’ would be
gone all night with his friends. They carried boxes and wires and batteries and
whatnot.
Chitro heard only one conversation: the marauders of rail tracks
were either from Pakistan or Bangladesh or Nepal, and everything happened with
the help of either bearded men or white men or unseen men from far far away in
cities of tall buildings and cases full of money. Deo have mercy on the
victims.
The village uncle was good to Chitro in a good good way. Almighty
Deo knew orphan girls couldn’t expect better from a single uncle, a distant
relation. He was educated and he tried getting Chitro to school. But cow dung
was her destiny. She collected dung in this Karbi Anglong village – from home
to home, yard to yard, field to field – and made cakes out of the mess to be
dried and used as fuel for clay chulhas in the village, as well as bought by
tea shops and stores catering to the highway traffic.
Uncle apparently had read Rong Bong Terang and other big fat books.
Chitro didn’t know how to pronounce the titles. Uncle’s friends would arrive
mostly late at night to read, drink tea, and talk until morning came. Chitro
made several kettles of chai. The men enjoyed the hot brown brew, and ignored
the stench of cow dung from Chitro’s hands. She suspected the stink was present
all over her, even in her skin pores. One of the men, Aboni, actually mentioned
it with a snicker.
‘Don’t mind him. He’s been to New York,’ said uncle. Some sahib
place of course, thought Chitro. But the mention of dung cake stench upset her.
Aboni was attentive to her notwithstanding his rude remark. He
started visiting more often. Chitro thought he was the only one who quarrelled
too often with uncle. She found him somewhat irritating. He’d started peering
inside the bamboo-walled dank kitchen where Chitro slept. The kotari for
chopping betel nuts, the pestle for pounding sesame, the blackened karhai for
cooking watery fish tenga, the sad tea kettle, and a stack of dried dung cakes kept
her company every night.
Not only did Aboni poke his nose around the partition to come near
Chitro, but he also caught hold of her arm and yanked her close to him a few
times.
‘You don’t like dung-like me,’ she said.
‘No. But I like you.’
He kissed her a few days later. Chitro had seen and heard of such
things on a shop store TV screen. Aboni was emboldened, for she didn’t protest.
He simply continued to explore more whenever uncle wasn’t home. Chitro thought
it was getting to be actually curious and pleasurable for her. But she still
disliked Aboni as a person.
All this stopped abruptly. Uncle came home early on the very day
Aboni was to embark on his next experiment with Chitro. Surprisingly, that day
Chitro had resisted him while he insisted she shed her overgrown girl skirt and
chemise just to let him feel her only with his hands, that’s it. Uncle
spluttered in his tobacco-leaf chewing throat and came in right then.
Chitro was quite sure Uncle heard Aboni say, ‘Just one time. It
doesn’t hurt to do it one time.’ Because in a flash, uncle lurched for the
kotari in the corner with ‘Hoi bastard, this is not your New York!’ and a huge
struggle ensued. The stronger and younger Aboni escaped with a mere nick.
‘Put on your clothes, you daain,’ Uncle yelled at Chitro.
That night the police people came. Uncle had coached Chitro well.
No, it’s not Uncle who is aiding the terrorists in this remote Karbi Anglong
village. Aboni Teron was the kingpin. He has travelled abroad and knows bad
people with bombs across the borders. No, Aboni Teron wasn’t related to the
great writer Rong Bong Terang. How could he be? He blew away railway tracks and
did it in connection with dangerous guys in Pakistan, Bangladesh, Nepal, and
Deo knows where else. And yes, a big arms consignment was to arrive at uncle’s
mud house that night. How did Chitro know about it? She’d heard the men,
especially Aboni, discuss it, behind uncle’s back. Where was Uncle in all this?
Deo knew he was only a poor man who had sheltered a poor relation, a girl who
no one would risk keeping in the house, and was now targeted by terrorists who
pretended to visit as ordinary friends. That’s how it happened all over the
world according to news on Alal’s shop TV. Poor good Samaritans were the
scapegoats, she knew.
When the police handcuffed Aboni and several others, Chitro dreamt
it even more clearly: The snakes were all over the train tracks frantic
and lithe as though looking for something…. The confusion in her mind
was mostly because she knew where Uncle had hidden the bomb caskets. Next to
the kotari, beneath a stack of dung cakes, buried under the clay-floor. The
snakes were coming back in great numbers. Limbs still fell in smashed smithereens.
Afterwards Uncle took Chitro to a bus going to the city saying, ‘Go
find my friend Horen for a job. I’ve spoken to him. But don’t get raped,’ and
left. She sneaked off the bus to go to old scavenger woman Beki’s little shack.
Beki understood Chitro’s pain. She didn’t stop her, especially when the girl
suddenly seemed to speak and think. Chitro trembled but bravely went to the
police to tell them about bombs under dung cakes at uncle’s home. Deo knew,
that night the trains came back. And she didn’t dream of snakes anymore when
she left for town.
Nabina Das is a poet and writer currently based in
Hyderabad. Her first novel Footprints in
the Bajra, Cedar Books, Pustak Mahal, 2010 has received critical acclaim.
Her poetry volumes BlueVessel, Les
Editions du Zaporogue, 2012 and Into the
Migrant City, Writers Workshop, 2013-14 have been cited as the best of 2012
and 2014 respectively. Her debut short fiction collection The House of Twining Roses: Stories of the Mapped and the Unmapped,
LiFi Publications, 2014 continues to garner positive reviews in India and
elsewhere. A winner of several writing awards and
residencies, Nabina teaches creative writing and also works as an editor.
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