Nikhil Khasnabish

(“The Conversation” is a story that shares a conversation about the Assam Movement, Assamese cuisine, and the Bihu festival. The story is filled with soothing conversations.)

“My wife read in a Convent School. She’s very good at English.” Munin Bora looked at Gitika Bora from his thaal.

      Sumit held back his laughter.

      “Do you relish our dishes, Mr Bose? I think your tongue has become used to the taste of Assamese cuisine. My wife is expert in gastronomic art. I can’t but praise her.” Munin Bora frequently looked at his wife standing near him, for giving them helpings. “Give Mr Barkataki more rice.”

      “No. Thank you.” Sumit spread his hands over his thaal.

      “Won’t you take some meat, Mr Bose?”

      “Thank you. I don’t want to take anything more. My belly has become full to the throat.”

      “Did you find the curries spicy and pungent?” Munin Bora asked Sumit. 

      “No. All the items were really toothsome. I won’t forget the taste of the rau-fish curry with aou-tenga.” Sumit smiled.

      “Yes. Mrs Bora knows how to cook. I’ll remember the moreish meal for ever.” Ansuman licked the tip of his forefinger.

*

They sat in the drawing-room.

      “I consider myself lucky today, having Mr Bose as a guest in my residence. I’ll never forget it. I was a student of Cotton College, Guwahati. I scored very good marks in my BA final exam and wished to go to the States, for higher studies. But, when I passed the competitive exam of Assam Public Service Commission, everything in my life changed.” Munin Bora belched. 

      “May we smoke here, Mr Bora?” Sumit asked in English and took the pack of Wills from his breast pocket.  

      “Yes. Yes. Smoking is not a no-no here,” Munin Bora said in English.

      Sumit lit a cigarette and passed the pack to Munin Bora.

      Pulling a cigarette from the pack, Munin Bora passed it to Ansuman.

      Ansuman took out a cigarette and placed the pack on the centre table.

      “You know, I draft all letters myself. These days, the people are passing their exams without even a smattering knowledge of English. So conscious guardians prefer English- medium schools to the vernacular-medium schools. The private schools and colleges in the country are giving better education to the people. But Cotton College is an exception.” Munin Bora drew on the cigarette and looked at them elaborately.

      Sumit nodded. 

      “You see, even those who claim that they know English well don’t know how to write and speak English. They don’t know the differences between formal and informal words. They’re prone to using outlandish words. They prefer foe to enemy, fulmination to anger, procrastination to delay. An Englishman thinks when we brood. You’ll find lots of such instances. I call thiose so-called educated people Goldsmith’s village schoolmaster’s disciples.” He knocked the ash off his cigarette in the mouth of the ashtray and smiled. “You see, those people don’t hesitate scoff at my English preciosity.”

      “We want to get going now. After such a slap-up meal, a siesta is a necessity.” Sumit left the stub of the cigarette in the ashtray and stretched his arms above his head.

      “How is your research going on, Mr Barkataki?”

      “It’s just going on. Here it’s very difficult to get the necessary books. Oh, by the way, I’ve forgotten to tell you that Mr Bose is also a research scholar.”

      “Very good! What’s the title of your thesis?”

      Ansuman hesitated to tell the title. “Indian Civilization: A Comparative Study of the Ancient and the Modern,” Sumit said.

      “Very good, very good! Wish you all the best for your success. You see, I could’ve become a good writer if I hadn’t entered this service. I wrote in school and college magazines. My teachers praised my writings greatly. Writing is a healthy habit. The bureaucrat in me now has devoured up the writer.” Munin Bora uttered a deep sigh and pushed the half-smoked cigarette into the ashtray.

      “Start writing now. Try to make time,” Ansuman said earnestly. 

      “We’ve sat long. Please come to our house whenever you find time. Then we’ll talk a lot more. And you haven’t visited us for many days.” Sumit yawned and needed a siesta urgently.  He rose. 

      Ansuman discarded the butt of the cigarette in the ashtray and rose.

      Munin Bora also rose. 

      They shook hands.

      “How is your SES running, Mr Barkataki?” Munin Bora asked.

      “It’s running well. We’ve gotten a good site in the land donated by Mahanta-sir. The enrolment is also very satisfactory.”

      “Some people have gone against you. A clerk of my college told me about that.”

      “Yes.”

      “Don’t be afraid of those people as long as I’m here. Report to me if anything untoward happens,” Munin Bora said. 

      There was sincerity in his voice. “Thanks so much. I’ll remember it,” Sumit said.

      They came up to the gate.

      “Good bye.” Ansuman smiled.

      “So long!” Munin Bora raised his right hand.

      Sumit smiled and waved his hand.

*

Sumit was reading a book.

      Diganta was sitting on the sofa next to Sumit.

      Amit gave Diganta a booklet. “Read it carefully, Diganta-da. You’ll know from it why we’re to do this movement. Now we’ve felt constrained to come out of our schools and colleges and universities, for the mistakes of our elders. This movement is for our existence. If we fail to win this time, the Assamese will not exist in Assam.”

      “I understand. And that’s why I’m doing the movement. Now I’m ready to do anything for my Ahami Aai. You see, Amit, a scene is still disturbing me very greatly. Some days ago, while coming to Sunjuri, I saw the brutality of the police. Two policemen, followed by others, were dragging an agitator over the gravel road, defying his cries of pain. I couldn’t do anything for the helpless agitator,” Diganta said.

      “Diganta-da, write a poem for our Sunjuri Bihu Alochani, inspiring the people to plunge into the movement.”

      “It’s a good idea. I’ll write some lines which you’ll be able to use in your slogans too.” Diganta tucked up his shirtsleeves.

      “We’ve thought to become martially prepared. So we require hot slogans.”

      “Then do you want to be violent?”

      “We don’t want to be violent. But, if the Government becomes violent, we won’t keep sitting idle, bearing their blows.”

      Sumit put the book on the table. He did not want to disturb them. He got up and went to the orchard. The twigs were inclined toward the ground, with lemons. He plucked five lemons and came up to the door of the sitting-room. He stopped. “Are you saying something about me, Diganta?”

      “Yes.” Diganta looked at him.

      “May I know what you’re saying?”

      “You know it.”

      “What?”

      “I’m telling Amit that you don’t still support the movement.”

      “Please don’t talk about me, to anybody.” Sumit did not wait there. He went into the kitchen and put the lemons in the kitchen basket. “Romola! Romola! O Romola!”  he called aloud.

      Romola giggled, clapping her hands.

      “Have you gone deaf, Romola?” Sumit lifted his voice.

      “Just a minute, Dada,” she said.

      Sumit came and stood behind her. She was busy trying to checkmate Parag Barkataki’s king moved without proper calculation. She placed the rook and the knight so aggressively that Parag Barkataki could not but be anxious for the safety of his king. “Romola, go and make sherbet with the lemons from the kitchen basket. Add a few pinches of salt to the sherbets. Only two glasses. One for Ansuman and one for me,” Sumit said throatily.

      Parag Barkataki looked up from the chessboard. “Anything wrong with you, Sumit?”

      “No, Deuta.”

      “Romola, go and make the sherbets first. And, by this time, probably, I’ll be able to delve out a strategy to ensconce my king”

      Sumit soundlessly wandered to the veranda and sat on the cane chair. Ansuman was absorbed in playing with the cow and the heifer. The heifer was nuzzling its mother’s udder. It was not satisfied with sucking milk. He annoyed the heifer and sat at its feet and began to caress it. The cow was in calf. Now it didn’t give milk like before. Romola irritably came with two glasses of sherbets on a tray and, giving a glass to Sumit, went up to Ansuman, with the other.

      Ansuman took the glass from her and sipped his sherbet. “How long have you sat here, Sumit?”

       Romola went in.

      “How is the taste, Ansuman?” 

      “Oh, fantastic!” Ansuman neared Sumit. “The heifer has become friendly to me.”

      “It’s better to make friends with the animals. The animals are less harmful than men,” Sumit said aloud so that Diganta could hear.