“Do you know what you are asking for, stupid fellow?” retorted the Nayeb.
Babui took a few steps back again.
Krishnarai babu, amazed at the boy’s request, laughed, amused.
“Why do you need the flute?” asked the jomidar with intent.
Babui, with lowered gaze, kept silent, nervously shifting his feet.
“Rai babu, you please go and rest. Let me deal with this matter”, the Nayeb intervened.
Krishnarai babu glared. The Nayeb knew that he had to keep his trap shut now. He slithered back a few steps. He was a servant too, after all, and his anger or dissatisfaction really didn’t matter. He just hoped that Rai babu didn’t let that boy touch the flute. A shudra and a brahmin had differences after all. With measured slow steps he left the room.
The jomidar came closer to Babui now.
“Why do you need my banshi?”
“My mother asks for it.”
“The flute? Why?”
“Just to see whether you are still her son.”
Krishnarai babu suddenly felt unreasonably helpless. He couldn’t fathom what he was hearing. His sternness was creeping in again. What was this boy saying?
Babui broke the silence. His eyes had gone red suddenly. And there was this weird smile all over his face. He looked almost like a grown-up now. As if he never was a child.
“I was said you weren’t going to part with it. This was just a simple question, and yet you failed.”
The jomidar stood upright. What was he doing? He needed to slap the boy for his insolence. This was too much. Insult him? Insult Krishnarai?
With a sudden frantic move, Babui takes out a certain crude contraption, which was all this while neatly tucked with his shirt. There was no fear now. The decision had been made.
Rai babu’s voice, choked with fear, quivers.
“What do you need? Money? I will give you all the money you want…just throw this pistol to the ground…”
Babui’s expressions hardened, almost manic.
“Ma-ke ar koto koshto debe?”, questioned Babui, with gritted teeth.
Bang!
The sound was deafening. The echo was all over. Babui could hear the pikemen rushing to the palace.
~*~
Babui (1896 - 1908), member of Jugantar, was arrested two weeks later. He confessed of his crime in a packed court. He was deported to the Andaman Cellular Jail for murdering the despot Zamindar Krishnarai. There, lonely and homesick, he succumbed to cholera. His father, Harilal, never received his body. The same year, a few months later, Khudiram Bose was hanged to death. Their mother became free four decades later.
The boy was thinking about everything but what was necessary. Of course, that thought would mean decisions, again. Babui was not used to making decisions. The cold marble was stealing what little warmth he had in him.
The dulcet tune was still playing, although the voices were coming from another part of this great mansion. He heard it a little more clearly now. He tried to concentrate on it. He felt as if the Kal-Boishaki had come before its time. It wiped away a few of his doubts like how the rains wipe away dirt from leaves. He could almost feel the music falling softly on his skin; the harmonious vibrations seemed to massage his little body.
Then, it abruptly stopped.
The leaves dried up once again.
The doubts returned.
Muffled voices crept upon him again. This time, surely, it was Krishnarai babu. The heavy thuds of the jomidar resonated with Babui’s heartbeats. He waited; his concern waited.
Krishnarai babu, the well established landlord, was not pleased. It was much past ten. A time reserved for his flute, and not for some petty petitioner. Especially one that was eleven years old.
He placed the expensive western concert instrument safely back in its case. It was, of course, a gift from the Governer-General himself. Made from gold and lined with silver. An exclusive taste it granted to his lips when he played melodies which soothed everyone’s heart – he had been trained in this art since he was four years old. His father was an accomplished flautist.
He came down the stairs with a deliberate annoyance attached to each thud. He came down and stood before the boy, his eyes demanded the reason.
“I am sorry, sir, if I -”
“Get on with it already.”
“Sir, I—it’s my father, sir. He has…” Babui fumbled for words as he looked at the landlord.
Krishnarai babu visibly reduced his anger. He quite liked the farmer, Harilal. He was always steadfast in his work; never had any vices.
“Not been keeping well, sir.” The boy finished off timidly.
“What happened, my dear boy?”
“I… shall say this to you sir. But I need to ask you something.”
“Of course.”
Babui stepped back a few paces towards the door. He was still unsure of the reverberations his question might provoke. The jomidar smiled.
“I will not harm you, child. Go on.”
“Could you—would you give your banshi – that ingriji one—to me?”