(NOTE: This short story is completely fictional, but yes, the feelings associated or expressed are true.)
(Dedicated to the Indians who lived and died during Indian freedom struggle.)
1945. Those were the days of struggle for Indian independence. On one hand, the World War was discussed in groups and troops, and on the other, the news of plane crash of Netaji had just arrived. The country had lost a number of men in the War in addition to the ones who had fought for the Indian independence.
Sudeep Dutta, 25, was a young member of the freedom movement. His method of revolution was a bit different: he wrote poetry in his own newsletter. But, he was physically strong and could easily beat down a couple of hawaldars, if required. The newsletter was his brainchild. He named it 'Somapto' which means 'End' (a newsletter meant to support the end of British Rule in the country). Dutta's newsletter was just beginning to be read. He had no printing press of his own; so, he used charcoal to design its pages. That made him quite famous for his skill and dedication towards the movement. Another problem was his irregularity. The newsletter was published weekly; however no one had any idea on which day of the week it would be released.
Dutta's poetry was good, but, he sometimes wrote on the beauty of English ladies who passed by his street often. Those, however, he wrote with care and metaphors so that people would find it difficult to read between the lines. But, he expected someone to charge him on this, for, he thought then he would know that his poetry was understandable. Dutta often spent his evenings at Rafiq's tea shop. The battered fries and chutneys of Rafiq Da were unimaginably exciting, and he thought them to be far better than British dishes.
One evening, he happened to visit Rafiq Da's stall and didn't find the old man. He shouted, in worries, for the old one had told him that the winter had had enough of him: "Rafiq Da, Rafiq Da..."
"He is not at home," came a female voice from inside.
Dutta could not understand but he was baffled for an instant, by the absence of the man and also by the voice that so soothingly replied to his question.
"But, Rafiq Da has never mentioned his family lives here," he thought.
Finding no one, he left, a bit disappointed by the absence of Rafiq Ahmed, the shopkeeper.
Dutta wrote a poem that day on tragedy and death:
"For how long would you tease
the spirit of man,
his love for motherland?
Aren't there enough evil in hell
that souls must burn here,
thus burning the crops of farmers
to ashes, grey and dark,
darker than gunpowder
that knows no hell, no motherland?"
Dutta realized that he had never known what independence was! He was, after all, not born in the ages of 'freedom'.
"What shall happen if India is independent?" he often questioned himself.
"Would there be a printing press for him by the government? Wouldn't there be Union Jack flying on every rooftop of offices? Would free India mean no British beauties? Would free India mean no World War? Or would a free India mean rich farmers?" These thoughts troubled the young mind. And that was, in fact, natural.
Dutta visited Rafiq Da's tea shop the next evening. He saw a few people on the bench outside the shop, taking their sips of tea. Dutta was happy that he would not have to long for Rafiq Da's fries.
But, he saw a young lady at the stove. Rafiq Da was nowhere to be seen. He was puzzled.
"Who is she?"
Her dupatta covered her face as she poured tea from her disfigured kettle into the earthen cups. The little boy served the cups to the people outside.
"Hey Chotu, who is she? Where is Rafiq Da?" Dutta asked the little boy.
"She is Nazreen Didi, Rafiq Da's youngest daughter. He has gone to fetch goods. What will you take?" replied the kid as he seriously delivered the cups to the customers.
"One cup of tea and a plate of fries," Dutta sat down on the bench.
The kid shouted out the order to the lady.
She turned, and Dutta for the first time was awestruck. He wrote romance, but, never had felt before the real jerks of love at first sight. He watched her like a fool. Her eyebrows spoke a lot to him, and her smile almost killed him.
"Ah! This heart is now a slave to you, Nazreen," the poet teased himself.
He waited at a distance for the customers to disperse. Suddenly, he felt a hand on his shoulder.
"What do you want?" a female voice charged. She stood there with a piece of wood in her hand. The darkness of the night veiled her identity.
"Who are you?" Dutta asked.
"You answer first, you scoundrel. What have you been doing here? I have been watching you from that shop."
Dutta understood. "Nazreen, isn't that you?" he hesitatingly said.
"How do you know my name?"
"I am Sudeep Dutta. I visit your tea stall regularly. Even today..."
"No, no...do not try to lure me."
"No, Nazreen, please listen. I mean no harm. I was here yesterday. I was the one who had asked about your father. I came to know your name from Chotu."
"Didi, he is Sudeep Da. Uncle knows him," shouted the kid as he approached them running.
"Sorry." Nazreen felt ashamed of her act, and ran away.
Dutta smiled and left.
Next morning, Dutta reached the tea stall early, long before customers had arrived.
"Anyone there?" he shouted.
There was no response from the inside this time. After a few moments, Nazreen appeared. She simply stood, her fingers moved in uneasiness.
"I am sorry, Nazreen. I didn't mean to trouble you yesterday. Actually, it was my fault. I should not have hidden amongst the trees."
"It is okay," said she with a smile.
Dutta gained some confidence as she seemed relaxed.
"Would you like to have something?" she said.
"But this is not your time to start. There is no one here. No, leave, I will come in the evening."Dutta replied.
"Time is for customers, Sudeep Da, not for guests," voiced Nazreen. Dutta was shocked at the composition of words. He was happy too.
"Okay...I can never refuse the tea of a beautiful host," Dutta replied, and this struck Nazreen with a blush. She turned towards the stove.
Dutta felt different. His poetry was beginning to evolve around a unique central character whom he had never imagined. He had always thought the Indian struggle was his poetry. But, life was turning out to be a surprise.
Nazreen prepared her best cup of tea and offered to her 'Sudeep Da'.
"I have read your poetry," she spoke.
Dutta didn't expect this. But he chose not to spoke. That day was giving him the best surprises of his life.
"Which one?" Dutta asked.
"Almost all. I have been reading 'Somapto' since I arrived."
"Did you like them?" Dutta simply flirted.
"No...not all," replied she instantly.
"Why? Which ones?" Dutta was a bit overtaken.
"The ones where your mind was distracted by the British ladies who pass by your neighbourhood, and also the ones where you were biased towards beauty of British women."
Dutta sat dumb. The whole world was dying, and there was this lady who made tea and cooked battered fries at a little tea shop, and no one but her decoded his poems.
"How...?"
"I have studied at the Missionaries, Sudeep Da. Poetry is my favourite," she laughed at Sudeep Dutta's expressions.
Dutta smiled.
Nazreen spoke again, "Next time, I will see if you can bypass me for writing about any English lady. If you wish to sip my tea for the rest of your life, do not dare to praise them."
And both laughed out heartily. Nazreen found her soul, and Mr. Dutta...
Mr. Dutta found the meaning to freedom!
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A fantastico story, so to say. Loved the way you've built up the tempo.. :-) The poem was a nice read... :-)
ReplyDeleteThank you so much! This means a lot! :)
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