Sweet Home
- Part 5 -

By Nameirakpam Bobo Meitei *

Sleepwalking he gets into the bus and without saying a word, without muttering a word he resumes his suitcase-hugging position, the driver knows that the man is looking at something beyond what he can and the others can see, he also knows, from his famine-struck figure, that he hasn't eaten in days, out of some sympathetic inclination he digs into a plastic bag dangling from the steering wheel and pulls out a banana and some water. "

Tamo( big brother) would you care to have these?" asks the driver, in disbelief the man throws his head, his dull eyes are fixed on the man, and then on what has been offered. Without looking at the driver he grabs what is offered and holds them close his breast, without peeling the bananas he shoves it into his mouth and sucks down the water, expecting to hear something from the man the driver looks at the man, who sits there in his frozen posture.

Sensing that an attempt wouldn't be enough to fathom the complex things this man has been carrying in his mind, perhaps something more than a sincere attempt to communicate could work.

It crosses the state gate and feeling a bit safe the driver honks every now and then in showing a sign of relief, the more happier he appears the more dustier it becomes, the lorries and the buses moving in the front also seem to be in mood to celebrate and as one way to express it they kick up the dust and blow it at the face of the faceless bus.

The indifferent ducks down behind his suitcase, the driver covers his eyes yet the glint in his eyes are very bright and the rest mummify their dead-like selves in thick shawls. Not knowing how they should react to this dusty and suffocating homecoming they reside in silence, perhaps the minds running over how the abundant amount of dust has been made available upon the national highway instead of tarmac.

Everybody knows, the elected leaders fly out from this landlocked place for Delhi to sit at the feet of the Central ministers to award them more development funds like an Dalit would sit on the ground begging his landlord to grant him some sympathy.

Knowing how to be a beggar leader is an art, something a man of dignity would never contemplate in a lifetime. They come home and cocoon in their heavily fortified quarters where they entertain people of money to explore the potential contractors who can offer them the best baksheesh.

If begging in Delhi is for the ministers then it's for the hundreds of so-called revolutionary armed groups to locate the contractors to slice their shares. Those who stood up against them would be kidnapped, hand-grenades would be thrown into the houses of the contractors, sometimes the throwers would end up exploding themselves and they would be remembered as martyrs.

After the shares have been sliced then the contractors would brood over how to reap his benefits meaning painting boiling tarmac liquid over the dust, leaving the highway black for few days. The workers wages will be held out till an agreement between the contractors and the special bureaucrat-trained engineers have been settled.

The elected leaders use the money to scatter it from their vehicles during the time of the democratic elections, the comrades use the money to stock up their arms and ammunitions which will be trained to bloody the water where they have been taking shelter as their foe turns out to be in formidable, the spring chicken contractors will give up the dream of becoming contractors, the special seasoned contractors will continue and flourish as they know how to entertain both the sitting leaders and the unseen leaders, the bureaucratic engineers will dish out their slice on cars and small buildings, but the workers go home with their hand pressed against the empty stomach.

What difference does it make to the people who are so convinced that a loaded gun serves as a vital tool to succeeding that entire one wishes for? What difference would it make while people are made accustomed to prefer thunder of bomb explosions and rattling of machine guns to festive sound of firecrackers?

What value life bears when one could be shot as an armed person would do in his hunting expedition hundred of years ago and dumping it at some place as if a hare's life is as valuable as a man's? What a place it has become when the sweeping cold mountainous mist hanging over the houses and trees is tinged with gunpowder?

They say "even our bodies crumble our souls will keep warring against the bloody Indian occupation", perhaps that's why are now mindless, retarded people, deprived of education, inducing ourselves to orchestrate our own exodus and allowing us to be humiliated over and over again, and we are the only people who have the courage to stand grand to show how hopelessly wretched we are.

Aha! That's why the road which was once painted black for few days now has taken its original primitive colour defying man's deceptive know-how in a doomed place, the place where the destructive part of modern science has been in perennial practise sabotaging any constructive steps, the place where people have pushed away the lessons to be learnt from the past.

The capital town of the state looks rather deserted and in a suspicious manner those dust-kicking and blowing vehicles have disappeared out of the sight, the further it drive into the town, inching toward the bus terminal the bus finds sandwiched between two army lorries.

The netted lorry in the front is loaded with anxious soldiers, whose loaded rifles are pointed to all sides, the man manning the light machine wearing a helmet and goggles stands on an olive-coloured trunk elevating his head over the head of the lorry upon which his machine gun planted.

Those soldiers in the lorry following the bus from behind wear the similar expression. How oddly they move through that part of the place , both sides populated by the green and towering trees, suspending their innocent branches, shading the place, below them are the fresh flowers which have been fed by the early monsoon.

Defying the dusty road, the rumbling vehicles, the harmful rifles, the blackened human hearts they flourish there as if they want to be left alone claiming their significant existence.

Driving along the wide canal, its watery surface being replaced by lotus leaves and flower which are accompanied by water glistening water lilies, the indifferent man takes a deep breathe showing a sign to relive his life and for the first time detaches his hands and sticks them out through the window to feel the breeze, the flowery scent, suddenly overwhelmed by nostalgia an involuntary smile slips out from his mouth.

The army Lorries still sandwich the faceless bus and upon reaching a curve along the canal the vehicles slow down. He hears something shattering his ear drums and a powerful force sending his body upwards, smashing against the roof and he his thick body lands on the seat.

Opening his eyes he glimpses the dust below the vehicle and lifting his eyes he sees the driver's mangled body, head smashed up, and blood-coated broken bones sticking out through his skins, blood gushing over the steering wheel and his thick clothes.

Oblivious to the rattling sounds the mangled bus rumbles on unmanned. Feeling unburdened in his weary heart he smiles and presses his palm against the unburdened part from where the bright red pains are flowing out lightening his heart, his mind floats on the gathering stream and he knows that he is feeling much relieved.

Before the smiles cease he mutters "I'm home mother."

concluded......