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Tales from Assam One Hundred Hours A short story by Debajyoti Biswas The street wore a deserted look. An unusual aura of peace, enveloping the place, betrayed the usual rambunctious pandemonium that was so much of its characteristic. That morning was different. It was calm and quiet except for the cuckoo sending out its mellifluous message to its mate like a Qawwali singer who replied instantly in equally mellifluous a note. The sun wanted to stay where it was and the leaves on the tree danced to the whistle of the breeze. Wordsworth would not have hesitated to add a sequel to his Westminster Bridge. I wanted to look out through the window to trace the Cuckoos among the trees but then I got a knock at the door. I reluctantly got up from the reading table and moved towards the door to unlock it with the latchkey which was still inside the keyhole. I turned the knob and there stood in front of me, my friend, Rajib. Hey, Rajib. So early in the morning! What brings you here? Please get in. Oh yes. Something very important The scowl on his face narrated epic because by nature he was the most complaisant person I have ever known. He requested me to accompany him to the police station immediately and said that he would explain to me the whole incident on our way. Quickly finishing the morning abulation, I dressed in T-Shirt and Jeans, slipped into my slippers and marched ahead with Rajib towards the police station. He started, Bihung was arrested this morning from the nearby woods where he went to hunt rats with his friends. Oh! Thats bad. What are we going to do now? Has his family been informed? Roasted wild rat, as big as rabbits, which fed on the corns in the paddy field, was an indigenous delicacy in that part of the country at that time of the year. Quite often the young boys would go in groups to the nearby woods and paddy fields to hunt the rats and feast on them. Bihung seemed to be venturing such a rat hunting expedition when he was himself ensnared in the CrPc. Bihung, a young fellow in late teens, was Rajibs only brother-in-law. By nature he was shy, soft spoken and reserved who believed in hard work and the dignity of labour. The police station was 1.5 kilometres from my residence and since we had to walk all the way, we had time to discuss on the pros and cons of the issue. As we walked along the road several army trucks went past the opposite direction flinging clouds of dust into the air disturbing our normal respiration. I frisked into the pocket and pulled out a handkerchief to protect my face from the dust. Rajib did not bother much and continued, The police will not let people live in peace. It was noon. The sun which now shone profusely made the heat unbearable and I recalled the recent discussion we had on global warming. Usually March used to be a very pleasant month, but that was 15 years back. It took us 20 minutes to reach the police station. As I was entering the police station I saw people were queuing in obsequious humility in front of the entrance ignoring the wooden bench which was kept for the visitors. The police station was a newly constructed three storied building with corridors on both sides. The building had a signboard with the name of the police station in block letters along with the name of the sponsoring agency which must have financed in commissioning the sign board. I wondered why a Police Station needed a sponsor to make a sign board. I dismissed the opinion which started formulating in my mind.

We entered into the building. There was a small bench for visitors at the entrance, big enough to seat three to four medium sized people by Indian standard. Seeing us staggering through the dark corridor, prying into each congested room, one of the constables blurted: Karobaak bisari assey neki? Office room heitu murot assey.(Are you looking for someone? The Office room is at the other end.) We bypassed the Officer-in-charges spacious and well furnished room towards the corridor on the other side. Insufficient light poured through the translucent window of the frontoffice which had three cells adjacent to one side. The first cell was a lock up for the accused, the next one was the armoury and the last one was some kind of a store room. There was another wooden bench in the office room on which were seated the family members of an accused who was arrested the same day. At one corner, inside the lock up, we traced Bihung prostrated with grief and shame. On enquiring about the officer-in-Charge, we were informed that he had gone for patrolling the area with his party. As the already congested room had no space for more people to stand, we headed outside and stood under a mango tree. I looked around the campus with curiosity. Everything inside the campus appeared new with the exception of the police and their esprit de corps. The National Tri-Colour, fluttering in the air, gave an impression of the recently celebrated Republic day as the colour was not burnt away yet. On one side was racked a few vehicles and a charred motor-bike. The vehicles were smudged with a layer of dust but the motor-bike seemed to be brought recently as dust had not settled on it yet. On other side were the police quarters in dilapidated condition inconsistent with their social status. The backside of the building housed a few more quarters which were not visible from the front yard. The ground was filled with sand and gravel and whenever a vehicle entered the campus it would raise a cloud of dust. I felt hungry and looked around with searching eyes for the tea stalls. Finding none, I tried to forget about the hunger and indulged in a discussion on the corruption that was eating into our society like a cancer. A constable joined us and agreed to some extent on the common consensus and the discontentment of the public towards the corrupt bureaucrats. We were informed that three people were arrested that morning following an incident in which a motor-bike was burnt. The owner of the bike had filed a complaint which triggered a full response from the proactive police department. Thereafter acting on a tipoff three people were picked up from three different locations: A butcher, a labourer, and Bihung. The butcher was arrested because he was found smeared with blood all over his body. Early in the morning he was selling pork by the roadside in the mainmarket when the police picked him up. The family members tried to reason with the police that he was innocent and that it was only the blood of the pig. But their effort to convince the police was thwarted when the police recovered the dead body of a fellow police constable from the nearby sewer. The labourer was arrested when the police caught him red-handed during a mock fight with another fellow worker. Bihung was caught from the woods. At 4 PM a Police Jeep halted near the entrance of the police station, from which alighted a tall man wearing a neatly pressed khaki. Someone from the gathering whispered, He is the OC. His wrinkled turkey-neck, newly dyed hair (the scalp was black too) and the overgrowth of moustache gave him a matured look. We stepped aside to make way for him, as he rushed towards his office. At the door steps a journalist who had been waiting all day asked, Is it safe to go around? I will be leaving tomorrow morning, so I want to tour the surrounding areas. He looked at her, ruminated for a while and replied, I do not possible of go to you. No police sufficient. You go where alone. How much time you leave?

The reporter was confused and smiled back, Thank you. I shall go now. I saw the reporter taking photographs of the deserted streets into which she soon disappeared. We waited for the OC to settle down and with his permission entered the room. Rajib introduced himself to the officer who gave back a quizzing glance. He briefly narrated the reason of our visit and summarized that Bihung was innocent as he went to the woods with his fellow friends to hunt wild rats. The OC quickly replied that the arrest was made by the Additional SP, and so he had no authority to release him. Before advising us to see his superior, he started narrating how and from where they arrested him. I ignored the conversation between Rajib and the Officer as my eyes were focused on the latters big moustache, which seemed quite formidably protruding, as if he were born with them and that it would continue to be there eternally even after he ceased to live. I was pulled back to reality when I saw him rising from his desk. Rajib told me that we will need to see the Additional SP. His bungalow was just half-amile from the police station so we walked down to his residence where we were confronted by the Security Personnel. Our entry was restricted and we had no other option except returning to the police station. It was getting dark. Although the sun was no more visible, the sky was illuminated with light from some unknown source. On reaching the police station we saw a huge crowd comprising of male, female and children; all rejoicing in unison as if they had conquered a lost battle. They were speaking the local language and I could not make any sense out of it. Rajib took the trouble, among his own sea of troubles, to translate the gist of the conversation to me. It so happened that the Police officer who was found dead was not on duty. He was hospitalized on the previous night due to kidney and liver problems. That very morning he managed to sneak out of the hospital bed to wet his throat in the nearby bhatti. The doctors repeatedly warned him to stay away from alcohol which otherwise could be fatal for him. But he ignored, he drank, and he died. Somehow the OC was convinced that the butcher was not involved in the death of the police constable, thereby acquitting him of all charges. The gathering left the compound and there was once again the peace and tranquillity I felt earlier that morning. We went inside the Police Station once again. We knocked the door and entered the OCs room with his permission. Nothing had changed since our first visit except that he was sipping tea and sending us a sardonic smile at our failure. I took the lead this time and mustering my courage asked him if they had any evidence to prove the involvement of Bihung. He snapped with rage that the culprits accomplices ran away with the evidence and that they caught hold only of him after chasing him for 2 kilometres deep into the muddy forest. I requested him to give us in writing about the reasons for arresting Bihung. But it was out rightly rejected as there was no such provision under the law. I felt helpless, Rajib felt it too. We requested the officer to show some leniency and spare the boy as he was not involved in any kind of violence. The officer mocked at our conviction by posing a question. He asked us to justify why the accused fled from the scene at the sight of the police vehicle. My reply - I would have run away too- could have been straight and simple but difficult for him to understand. Therefore, I explained. A few years ago his two uncles were shot dead by the undergrounds allied to the outfit. His father too passed away. Since then, apart from his studies, he ran small errands like farming, planting rubber plants, and short-time contracts, to support his family and the education of his sister. My explanation seemed to have made some impact on the Officer. He informed me that he had received a phone call from a renowned person from that locality who assured him of the bo ys innocence too; and the gaonburah had personally met him to vouch for the innocence of the boy as well. They were actually contemplating to release him soon. He explained to me about the difficulty in releasing the boy that very day. The police did not want to have any loose ends, as there had already been too much of criticism against the police for their delay in solving some pending cases. For example, a few months ago the ethnic riots in that locality had left many people dead and rendered the alleged illegal immigrants

homeless. Last month an incident of kidnapping for ransom and the death of the victim added fuel to the fire. The latest incident where a motor-bike was torched in the wee hours compelled the overburdened policing department to act immediately. In order to avert criticism from public and media, they arrested someone to substantiate the progress in the investigation. The Officer said that he would have a word with the Additional SP and try to release him that night and if not possible, they would surely release him the next morning by 11 AM. We were overwhelmed by the humility in his voice. We decided to wait some more time ignoring the violent convulsion in our stomach created by the acidic secretion of the bile due to the forced fasting since morning. Needless to say that we were tired. We sat down on the bench at the entrance. A group of visitors who were waiting inside the office came out with their companion, the labourer, who was released a while ago. He was a Bengali speaking fellow, dressed in tattered shirt and patched pants. He went away chattering with his friends and relatives, but I was already too tired to ear their conversation. At 10:30 PM, we decided to come back home as there was no sign of the Additional SP coming to the Police station. There were other people from the village who came to the police station seeking information about the arrest of Bihung. We were almost a dozen. I dissented their idea of going together, as I did not want to risk the CrPc. I proposed to go in groups of two to three. The CrPc was made very stringent in conflict-torn areas to ward off any possibility of groupings or gatherings. Luckily, we got a lift in the car of that influential person who had also come to the police station to help us. I had a sound sleep that night because I was tired in body and mind. Next morning, with renewed hopes, we reached the Police Station to receive Bihung. We saw a police Van being guarded by a few security personnel. The OC was not in his office. The investigating officer informed us that Bihung would now be taken for medical examination and from there to the Chief Judicial Magistrates office. One of the relatives of Rajib who knew the SP, called him up immediately. The SP assured, If the boy is innocent, there would be no injustice; I will personally investigate the matter and release the boy. At that point of time the OC arrived to the office. He looked at us with indifference. He shrugged his shoulder and made a gesture with his hands, and a twitch in the lips to indicate that we should be ready to be disappointed. We requested him once again, to which he replied that he is helpless just like us. At that moment he got a phone call and he went to the rear part of the building, as if to secretly hatch a new conspiracy. We waited there for another 30 minutes. It was already 1 PM. The relative of Rajib got a phone call from the SP and from his facial expression we concluded the fate of Bihung. It was Saturday and the court was closed. All faces around us turned hostile. Bihung was brought out of the cell. I saw him wiping the drop of tear that refused to leave the corner of his eyelash braving the moment. He was wearing a pair of clean white Adidas shoes, a green t-shirt, and a pair of denim jeans. He boarded the van and looked away from the world, trying his best to hold the emotion. A rape victim, who was brought the other day, also boarded the van. The doors of the van were shut on our face and it whizzed away rising clouds of dust and volley of questions to blur the vision and reasoning. I could feel the pain and helplessness of Bihung. I had nothing to say. The OC came out and told us that certain things were not in his hand. His disposition assembled more doubts than dispelling them. May be the OC had bamboozled us. I could feel the rage within me sparked by the humiliation of living in this world. I told Rajib, I shall write about the atrocity of the police. With a smile Rajib advised me, Let it go. Be inside the whale. Or you might be the next We walked back home at a very slow pace, defying the heat of the sun. At home, I felt very tired and went to sleep early.

I woke up next morning. It was Sunday; all shops were closed. It was the third day of the One hundred hour bandh called by the outfit. The following day would be bandh as well and the perfect occasion for writing a short story. ************************************************************************ This is purely a work of fiction and the characters and location are fictitious as well. Debajyoti Biswas. Department of English, Bodoland University. Rangalikhata, Deborgaon. BTAD. Assam.