Fiction
Game over . . .
They rush in roaring, marching past the pond, over the playground, across the jungle. Their faces painted black and white look grotesque, and they hold blood-drenched swords drawn high above their heads. These are the dreaded gang of robbers. Turn over everything that you have, they demand. Hapless homeowners are seized with fear. But wait, here come the fearless defenders. Oh, what a fight they put up! Bullets fly, smoke gushes. Once the firefight is over, the vanquished robbers surrender unconditionally.
At war's end, they all trot back home, those that were killed and those that were wounded. Of course, they do so reluctantly. Regrettably, night has fallen and parents are waiting. Besides, there is still tomorrow's homework to be taken care of.
Right before returning home, the robber gang leader takes the shiny new handgun from the police chief. His eyes glisten. If only he could have one like this!
After his friends have all gone home, the police chief roams around the war field a while longer. He is excited not only for the victory scored, but also for the next day's game. Who knew acting out cops and robbers would be this fun? True, it was not the case in the past. Only a few days ago they had acquired the second gun that buoyed them up, adding new strengths to their ranks. A family member upon his return from a trip abroad had given him a toy gun. In appreciation, his heart brims with gratitude.
Before, all they had was a single gun. Its sound was not all that deafening. Yet it was enough to force some robbers to surrender. Each time the gun is fired with a booming sound, a robber must fall down, that's the rule. Once they have fallen, the robbers are not allowed to raise the bamboo swords, not even once. This rule is not particularly liked by those in the gang of robbers. Also under the rules of the game, one must be a robber first, so that the next day he can be a policeman. Until then, he is not allowed to caress the barrel of the shiny gun. Robber tonight, policeman the next day!
Everyone jokes about the way the robbers go down at the sound of the gunshot. They say, "What, are you doves or pigeons, that you fall down every time you hear a noise?"
Their living quarters are a little farther from Main Street. At the end of the neighborhood, there is a big empty field. A narrow, alley-like pathway runs through the neighborhood to Main Street. Snaking further down the pool and bypassing the twin palm trees, the pathway is finally connected with the highway to Kamarkhali. If one stands facing Kamarkhali, on his right will be the river. Next to the river is a bus station; buses stop there for those arriving from the sub-district towns.
He watches the buses while sitting on the paved steps of the pool in near darkness. He sees nearby homes light up, and the last bus leave the road along Gabtoli. A handful of people will soon get off the bus and head towards home. Do birds make nests up on the twin palm trees that stand next to the pool? He wonders. How do babui birds look?
A gentle breeze blows from Dhupkhola ground, signaling the arrival of spring. Yellow mustard flowers have not yet turned black. Soon, dewdrops will form atop green pea plants. When the dull moonlight will gleam on the banana trees in Mohiuddin's garden, fairies and witches will begin swaying their heads to and fro.
A motor launch steams ahead in the river. In the daytime, one would not have been able to hear this sound. But at night, the high-speed launches cruising towards Barisal are heard loud and clear.
He stands up, thinking of returning home. After all, it's getting late. He knows Father has not returned yet. Mother is not a problem either; she never lifts a finger against him. His sisters, having made beds and set the clothe racks in perfect order, will be doing homework. If he entered their room now, they would scream at him in unison, "You rascal." None of this, of course, is of any serious concern.
Gojomati, Poncha's mother, finds him near the pool and begins cursing. He is not sure if that's really her name. Mockingly, his sisters often call him "Gojomoti's hubby." Since Poncha's death, his mother is famous for starting up a conversation with anyone available.
He enters home with thoughts of launching a two-pronged war, from the side of the field, and from the river, with the two guns now in his possession. He finds Father sitting on a stool, his face darkened in the weak light of the lantern, and Mother sitting in front of the stove in the kitchen. His sisters are sitting in the reading room, with their college books still unopened.
He is not sure what is so terrible that he has done. Yes, he is a little late today, but that should not be the reason for looking so irate and somber. After all, no one can accuse him of being a spoiled brat.
As he washes up and gets ready for homework, an uneasy feeling creeps in. This is the first time no one in the household has felt it necessary to declare their deep concern about his doomed future.
A little later Manubhai enters and calls Father, who steps out of the room to meet him. With a sidelong glance he can see his father conferring with Manubhai in a hushed voice. Manubhai1 is well regarded here by everyone. He is always at the head of a procession; at public meetings, he is also the first speaker.
Manubhai spends some time with Father. They sit pondering there for a while. Soon Manubhai is gone, knocking on the neighbor's door, he hears.
A few days later he is sitting under a tree at Dhupkhola ground. No one has come to the playground today. They are not likely to come either. Since their last play day, many of the policemen and thieves have begun leaving home, but he does not know where they are going. At every home, parents seem to be in a grim mood. They listen to radio broadcasts that are barely audible. Some are also collecting their essentials and packing. It appears they are ready to leave at a moment's notice.
How quickly everything has changed. Only a few days ago, everyone was in a joyful mood. They conversed loudly on neighborhood roads, screamed at will, roamed around with unfurled banners. None of this is happening any more. The banners are hidden. Voices are muted. Those who appeared most voluble in street processions can be seen no more. He has heard that Manubhai has been meeting with others on Main Street and along the river bank.
Many are still left in their neighborhoods. At night, lights do go up and voices are also heard in many homes. All kinds of news float in the air, some discernible, others not so. When some well dressed people pass by Main Street in a rickshaw, many people curse, calling them "collaborators2."
His afternoons are spent sitting under a tree in Dhupkhola ground, or on the steps of the pool. He barely feels the touch of the once coveted gun now tucked under his belt.
He stands up and walks to the side of the pool near his home. It is getting dark. Lamps are lit in some homes, but no one seems to be hurrying to do his homework. No one seems to be practising with his music teacher. Everything appears so uncomfortable, so perplexing. Nobody is in a mood for a chat; no one goes out for a walk either.
Suddenly he feels the gun at his waistband. Well, what would happen if he fired his gun! Would everyone scramble out the door? Before he can weigh all possibilities, he presses the trigger.
Instantly the booming sound reverberates and a little smoke floats and curls up. Noises are heard and doors are opened. On the other side of the pool, someone begins sobbing at Palan's house. Palan's parents, holding his hand and carrying a little packet, hurry out of their home and onto Main Street. Mr. Muhuri, a neighbor, also runs out and rushes to Dhupkhola ground with only his loin-clothes on. Kalipad, who teaches at a college, scurries to the mustard field with his wife and daughters. He can hear people sobbing at some other homes. All lights go out.
Manubhai and others, who were sitting at the roadside curb with their gaze fixed on the river, hurry to the neighborhood homes. They move from door to door, inquiring about people's safety. Some hurry to the playground, some to the mustard field. No, nothing to worry about. They have not arrived, at least not this time.
Soon they all return: Professor Kalipad, Mr. Muhuriand Palan with his parents. Some lights go up again. A few step out to identify the source of the gun fire. He is still standing at the same spot with his gun in his hand.
He keeps silent as people close in and listens with his head bowed the angry rebukes of his father. He drags him inside their home. His mother, who has never ever hit him, slaps him hard across his face and throws his dearly loved gun into the courtyard.
He does not weep. That this is how things would turn out was beyond his imagination. Only the other day, when paper bullets flew out of his gun, many had jeered, saying, "What, are you doves or pigeons? War is not something you can handle."
He sits silently in the porch. The playground is not visible in the darkness, neither is the pool. The river is so far away.
Soon a sliver of moon begins rising above the twin palm trees. A dim light gradually envelopes the surroundings, almost like what one finds at day-break. When he gazes intently, many things become visible. There lies the pathway to the pool. And there is the gathering darkness floating above the palm trees. The fairies and witches are swaying to and fro up there on the banana leaves. Nothing seems to have changed. So what happened?
Wrapped in silence, he sits alone in the darkness.
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