Sons of Brahma

Dhruba Hazarika

Description

Jongom, an unassuming scholar, spends his days in the world of books. Until, to his bewilderment, he is singled out by a dangerous rebel leader, Anjan Phukan, who wants him to write for the separatist cause. They are arrested without warning on their first meeting, and Anjan is shot dead trying to escape. Now Jongom is forced to escape from both the police and the rebels who hold him responsible for their leader s death. He takes with him his loyal best friend, Pranab, and together they race through the lush Assamese countryside, facing the macabre world of north-east politics and discovering along the way a terrible secret that binds them together in ways they never thought possible. Addictive and gripping, Sons of Brahma is an enthralling Assam novel.

Informations

• Publié par: Penguin Books Ltd
• Date de parution: 15 avril 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 1
• EAN13: 9789351186601
• Langue: English

Extrait

Dhruba Hazarika

SONS OF BRAHMA
Contents
About the Author
By the Same Author
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Acknowledgements
Follow Penguin
Copyright Page
PENGUIN BOOKS
SONS OF BRAHMA
Dhruba Hazarika was born in 1956. A student of St Edmund s school and college, Shillong, he completed his master s in economics from Gauhati University. In addition to short stories in various magazines and newspapers, his published works also include a novel, A Bowstring Winter , and Luck , a collection of short stories. A founder-member of the North-East Writers Forum, he is a recipient of the Katha Award for creative fiction. He lives in Guwahati.
Also by Dhruba Hazarika
A Bowstring Winter
Luck
For my sisters, Mamoni and Minu, with the love and pride of a brother
And for Debabrata Barua, my uncle-of such stuff are heroes made
Today our world seems peculiarly susceptible to brutality. There is a touch of nostalgia in the pleasure we take in gangster novels, in characters who have so agreeably simplified their emotions that they have begun living again at a level below the cerebral.
-Graham Greene, Journey without Maps
1
It was just another day in July.
I was sitting in the canteen, minding my own business, when a fair, pale, muscular man with dishevelled hair walked in through the rear door. There were others around, but for some reason my eyes focused on him as he pulled out a chair next to the counter and sat down as if he owned the place.
It was close to ten in the morning. Outside, students, now out of classes, loitered in the open stretches. There was no wind except from the fans inside the canteen but for a moment the leaves from the krishnasura trees rustled ever so faintly. It was hot, very hot, and I remember the stray dogs panting in the shade from the auditorium, behind the canteen.
Two tables away, someone laughed. Cups tinkled against plates. On the bus tops, on the road, heat waves curled like cigarette smoke. From the student union s office, behind the Arts building, Pranab waved, Srabana by his side. I waved back. Involuntarily, almost, I turned my gaze towards the counter. The man with the dishevelled hair was sipping his tea, every now and then shifting in the chair, his body taut, face half turned away from the crowd. From the kitchen, a thin, dark boy, a cleaner, rag in hand, came up to the table. As he wiped the surface, the man leaned forward. The boy nodded, glanced at me, nodded again and then, wiping the table once more, stepped over to the next.
More students had now entered the canteen. The noise had built up-so had the heat. A slim, good-looking girl stepped past. Good morning, Dada, she wished.
Morning, Lopamudra. No classes today?
Another half an hour, she replied. Ancient Indian history.
The fans stopped suddenly even as a collective groan went up. It would be another hour till the power returned. I stood up, the heat getting to me. At the far end, the pale-faced muscular man had eased out into the open, mingling with the others near the auditorium. Something about his behaviour intrigued me. I went up to Sarma, the canteen manager, behind the counter. That man, I said, that man who had taken that table just a minute ago, you know him?
No, Sarma said, as he checked out the bill, never seen him before. Then, thoughtfully, I didn t see him leaving. He left the cash on the table.
It was blazing-hot outside. From Babul Barman s paan shop, I bought a bottle of chilled mineral water and then taking the long corridor through the Arts Block headed for the library. The heat was pesky-humid, breathless, sticky.
My mobile vibrated in my pocket. Fumbling, I brought it out. I couldn t associate the number with anyone I knew; no name showed on the screen. I thought, Some chap who probably wants access to my papers for a seminar. Skip it. I crossed the road and entered the gate that led to the library. Girls in jeans and sleeveless tops and boys with their pants hanging well below their waistline sauntered up the path, a curve shaded by eucalyptus, krishnasura, jacaranda and rain trees.
Once again my phone rang with the same number. And once again, I ignored it. Stepping into the lobby, I entered my name in the register and made for the periodicals section. The mobile kept ringing incessantly. Annoyed, I switched it off and sat down, glancing at the magazines and papers scattered on the table. There were half a dozen other students and scholars scribbling notes or reading with a casualness that bespoke either familiarity or boredom. I picked up a copy of the day s Assam Tribune . The usual, I mused cynically. A college girl raped by a gang of four in a moving van in Delhi; two businessmen abducted from a busy marketplace in Tinsukia, a district in upper Assam; and then, happily, a feature article on a young cultivator who had gone in for multi-cropping in a place once considered arid and even uninhabitable. I read through the editorial and then tossed aside the paper.
In that instant, as I half turned my head towards the entrance I saw the lean, muscular man slither in through the entrance. Five feet ten, hair uncombed and straggly, he looked like an athlete perspiring inside a sports stadium from an early-morning workout. But he had on a sleek beige-coloured shirt and the blue jeans looked clean and freshly pressed. The white Nikes padded softly on the floor. I looked at him longer than was necessary and for a moment we held each other s gaze. I hurriedly turned away and reached out for a copy of Nature .
He glided in and drew back the chair on my right. Even as I tried focusing on the magazine I could feel his presence. He kept shifting in his seat, fidgeting, my uneasiness increasing as the seconds ticked by. Finally, he turned slightly towards me. Jongom Hanse? he whispered.
On the other side of the long table a fat, darkish man shuffled past, a rolled-up newspaper stack under one arm.
Yes, I said, as softly as possible, I am Hanse, and thought, For heaven s sake, you could have met me in the canteen. His eyes stared into mine, eyes that seemed lifeless even as the pupils played brown and grey from the light reflected off the tabletop. A single furrow ran like an exclamation mark between the brows. On his stubbled cheeks the sweat had added sheen to an otherwise pallor-less complexion.
Bending his head, one hand reaching out for a magazine on the table, he whispered once again, Can we meet when you are free? I need to talk to you. Words unhurried in their spacing-words that somehow carried a command even in a request. Drawing the magazine closer to him, he shuffled a few pages. Then, slowly, deliberately, as if taking out a pen, from his shirt s breast pocket he withdrew a small piece of paper and placed it before me. Scrawled in black ballpoint ink it read, Anjan, journalist.
I looked at his face: almost haggard with an undefined sadness that drooped from his eyes, the jawline well defined, lips mirthless at the corners with only the pink diminishing the seriousness, the nose hooked down and then midway swerved fractionally to the right. I thought he must have broken the cartilage some time. On his upper lip hung sparse whiskers, almost brown in colour, curving down by the sides of his mouth. The cheeks seemed gaunt, the neck still shiny with sweat, the muscles from under his jaws and behind his ears settling confidently on his collarbones. Yes, I thought, he definitely looks familiar.
For a moment or two I felt like telling him to go mind his business. I hated it when someone intruded into my world of books, especially in the library. And the way the fellow had introduced himself appeared sinister and dramatic. But the man, Anjan, carried an intensity about him that was difficult to avoid. He leaned forward once again, his voice just above a whisper-the words soft yet urgent, almost staccato in their spacing. It s important. Tomorrow. In your room. Eight. In the morning. For a while there was silence broken only by the fans whirring above us. Then once more the words rolled out. Our people, he whispered. It s to do with our people.
For about fifteen seconds I kept my head low, my eyes on the letters in the magazine. Our destiny, he added, as if unsure what other word to use. Our destiny, he repeated, as if it held all the meaning in the world. He smelt of Old Spice and some brand of bathing soap. Journalist, I thought, what would a journalist want with me? And anyway, he hardly looks like he belongs to a newspaper.
Sorry, I said, I will be busy, and stood up.
I strode off to the shelves that contained most of my reference books. Quantum physics, quarks, tachyons, nebula clusters, black holes. These were my companions. I picked out a volume by Arnold Sommerfeld, inched my way past the cabinets towards a corner table and sat down in a cane chair near the long French windows through which you could look into the garden below. I glanced behind me. But the tall, lean man had not followed me.
I sat there for more than two hours, taking down notes and wondering whether I would be able to complete my thesis at all. I got up at half-past twelve, the volume now back in the shelf, and then ambled out of the reading room into the lounge. It was crowded now with the sun blazing outside, the students seeking shelter in books that sometimes they were not really interested in.
I stood on the steps for a while, watching the leaves from the peepul trees droop in the heat, the grass bordering the cemented compound wall rich, green and heavy, and the cries of the birds restless yet happy. Under the porch, a few boys sat on a ledge tha