How to Tell the Story of an Insurgency: Fifteen tales from Assam

By Aruni Kashyap

A former militant is unable to reconcile his tranquil domesticity with his brutal past. A mother walks an emotional tightrope, for her two sons -- a police officer and an underground rebel -- fight on opposite sides of the Assam insurgency. A deaf and mute child who sells locally brewed alcohol ventures into dangerous territory through his interaction with members of the local militant outfit. How to Tell the Story of an Insurgency is an unflinching account of a war India has been fighting in the margins. Written originally in Assamese, Bodo and English, the fifteen stories in this book attempt to humanize the longstanding, bloody conflict that the rest of India knows of only through facts and figures or reports in newspapers and on television channels.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins India
• Release date: Jan 25, 2020
• ISBN: 9789353576530

Aruni Kashyap

Aruni Kashyap is a writer of short stories, novels and poetry in Assamese and English, and translates from Assamese. His work has appeared in publications such as The New York Times, The Guardian UK and the Hindu. He won the Charles Wallace India Trust Scholarship for Creative Writing to the University of Edinburgh. He is an assistant professor of creative writing at the University of Georgia, Athens.

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Dipti Dutta Das

Or Maxun

Baba

Contents

Editor’s Note

Surrender

ANURADHA SHARMA PUJARI

The Vigil

JAHNAVI BARUA

Maryam

JAYANTA SAIKIA

Charred Paper

NITOO DAS

What Lies over Here?

SANJIB POL DEKA

Colours

UDDIPANA GOSWAMI

Koli-Puran

ARUP KUMAR NATH

A Hen That Doesn’t Know How to Hatch Its Own Eggs

NANDESWAR DAIMARI

Run to the Valley

KAUSHIK BARUA

Stone People

MANIKUNTALA BHATTACHARYA

Crimsom

RATNOTTAMA DAS BIKRAM

A Political Tale

JURI BARUAH

Our Very Own

ARUPA PATANGIA KALITA

Hongla Pandit

KATINDRA SWARGIARY

Jiaur Master’s Memorandum

HAFIZ AHMED

About the Contributors

Acknowledgements

About the Book

About the Author

Copyright

Editor’s Note

The stories in this collection represent a wide variety of experiences on what it means to live under the shadow of the gun. Much before I wanted to edit a collection, when I started putting aside stories about the experience of insurgency in Assam that invigorated me, I often asked one question: Why can’t we have anthologies from Assam where the work is written in more than one language? An anthology that suggests that Assam is polyphonic, where people write in several languages? Always, anthologies of Assamese literature published by major houses in English have included only Assamese-language stories. I wanted to change that, make this collection different. That is why the stories in the collection are originally written in three languages: Assamese, Bodo and English. But, eventually, the fifteen stories that made it to the final list are the ones that I deeply fell in love with. I couldn’t stop thinking about them. That is why they are here. Why couldn’t I stop thinking about them? This is something I can’t express in words.

I also wanted this anthology to provide the space to depict the experience of minorities, settler-communities and tribal people, and their experience of caste, class and a torn social fabric. I also wanted to ask: Should stories from a violent land only have violence in them? Can a writer from Assam write a folktale or a story that is completely unrelated when people are getting killed in the neighborhood? Is that an act of resistance? Fifteen is a small number, and the experience of living under insurgency in Assam is varied, to say the least. But I hope these stories would provide a glimpse of what it means to live under duress and how people negotiate everyday reality during such times.

Assam is the geographical space where these stories are located; but these stories tell us many other things: how to depict violence, how to represent the resilience of common people in a space rent by political conflict, what role stories can play to begin conversations about justice and human rights and, finally, it teaches writers how to foreground the human experience while writing stories from an embattled region. This will remind the reader of our common humanity and create more dialogue, and perhaps peace. I hope this anthology is the beginning of such a conversation. I hope this anthology would pave the path for more anthologies, more stories from Assam.

Surrender

Anuradha Sharma Pujari

‘Deuta, why are there so many people in front of Koka’s house?’

‘He passed away, Mou-ma.’

Neelkantha Barua, the gentleman who had passed away, had been a good man. Moumon used to address him as ‘Koka’, for grandfather, though he was not her grandfather. She considered him as her own grandparent. He had been the head of a government department, and had only been able to afford a small house of four bedrooms when he retired. The house could not be built any further, as money was short. Yet, even after his retirement, Neelkantha Barua was busy volunteering for several community-building activities in the locality.

As Moumon’s next-door neighbour, Mr Barua and his wife would exchange greetings with Moumon’s family. That is why, when Moumon’s mother Sondhya heard that Neelkantha Barua was no more, she had started weeping.

She told her husband Dipok, ‘Why don’t you sit with Moumon at home while I go visit their house? Moumon has never seen a dead body, and she used to love him a lot. If I take her, it may upset her. You can accompany the procession to the cremation ground later.’

‘Deta, what is the meaning of no more?’ Moumon asked her father after a little while. She was sitting on his lap. While she asked that question, she wondered if Neelkantha Barua was sitting on the verandah in front of her house.

‘No more means you won’t see him from tomorrow. Grandpa flew away to the skies.’

‘Bah, so good! Koka will now be able to fly with the birds, play with the birds. Who else will be there with him, Deta? Where will Koka live?’

‘At … God’s house.’ Dipok hesitated before uttering the word ‘God.’ Would Moumon now ask him to define that word too?

But she didn’t. Her mother must have already explained the concept to her.

‘Deta, why are the people screaming and crying? Isn’t it good to be no more, after all?’

Dipok couldn’t find a proper answer for her. To distract her, he said, ‘Mou-ma, let’s go in and play.’

Just then, Sondhya returned, wiping her tears with the end of her sari.

‘Ma! Can I also go and join Koka? May I also fly in the sky?’

Sondhya was surprised by Moumon’s strange request. Then, suddenly, Dipok planted a tight slap on his daughter’s cheeks. For a few seconds, Moumon remained quiet. In her lifetime of four years, her parents had never raised their hands to her. Sondhya snatched Moumon from Dipok’s arms and said, ‘I thought you had become a human, but it seems you are still an animal!’ Moumon started to cry hard as soon as she was in her mother’s lap.

‘Animal!’ When was the last time Dipok had heard someone call him that?

The word lacerated Dipok’s chest. ‘Animal!’ It was not just a word. It was a cruel attack, like his head had been trampled under the hooves of a thousand horses. Just that one word tore him apart like a whip tears away flesh, and it brought out the old Dipok. It was as if a corpse had suddenly come to life to wreak havoc with the dance of tandav!

He let out a strange cry and chased Sondhya. ‘What did you say? I am an animal? Then why did you come to live with this animal? Why do you eat the food that this animal earns for you? Why do you sleep with this animal? Haramzadi!’ Filthy curses started flowing from his mouth while Sondhya pressed her child Moumon against her chest and ran from one room to another to protect herself. Dipok chased her everywhere, upturning chairs and breaking vases if they came in the way. Moumon’s screams and cries became louder and louder. Finally, when Sondhya tried to save herself by locking herself in the bathroom, Dipok dragged her out of there. Moumon flew out of her arms and fell on the floor. Driven to extract a bizarre vengeance, Dipok started slapping and punching Sondhya, who continued to scream, ‘I will call you an animal a hundred times, a thousand times. If you were not an animal, could you hit me like this?’

An incessant, maddening bell started ringing inside Dipok’s head and he stared at her for a while like a crazed person. He noticed Sondhya’s terrified eyes that looked as if they would burst out of their sockets. He held up both his hands and took one step at a time towards Sondhya like an animal about to attack. She slithered back on the floor. The image of another woman appeared in front of Dipok’s eyes – a woman who had hugged the bullet-ridden body of her husband and screamed at him, ‘Animals! You people are animals! You tried to extort money from a man who couldn’t even save ten thousand rupees in his entire lifetime! How could he? You killed an honest man just because someone gave you wrong information!’ The woman had left the body and walked up to him. She had pulled the barrel of the gun towards her chest and screamed at him, ‘Kill me! Kill me too, you savage!’

Where had this incident taken place? He couldn’t remember. It could have happened anywhere. The incidents all seemed the same in his head. The cities seemed the same, too. How dare an insignificant woman who stayed at home comfortably with her family call them ‘savage’ while they fought for the country, roamed around the forests, ate wild herbs and the roasted meat of wild animals! He had grabbed her arm and placed his finger on the trigger. Suddenly, the woman collapsed on the floor, crying inconsolably. A portion of her blouse remained in his hand. How could the wife of such a high-ranking officer wear such old, poor-quality fabric?

Sondhya had fallen on a table. Her sari rode up, revealing her thighs. Her blouse was torn. Her body was stained with blood. That woman’s body also had bloodstains from her husband’s bleeding body, her sari had ridden up too, and her thighs were visible. Yet, she had continued to call him ‘savage, savage.’ He had let out a loud shout, jumped on the body of the woman and clasped her throat, choking her. Her body smelt of blood. It was a surprising smell that reminded him of boars being skinned alive; the boar would scream louder and louder, while their hunger increased in response. That was the first time Dipok had touched the body of a woman who was bursting with anger, terror and fear … just like the boar as it is killed. He clutched her body hard. He came to his senses only when he had felt the poke of a gun’s barrel on his back. His comrade had to drag him away from the spot. The woman continued to scream at his back, ‘Savage! Coward!’

‘Will you call me an animal again?’

Sondhya was screaming. She pushed him away, hugged Moumon and started to howl.

Dipok came back to his senses. A warm, hot stream of blood started trickling out of his head. What had he done? Was he trying to take revenge on Sondhya’s body because of an event from his past? Were they still alive – his old anger, the old frustrations? Who was he angry at these days? And who was he angry at in his past life? Though he had believed in the revolution, he was always angry, unfulfilled, and quick to anger on hearing specific words. Such words were inscribed inside his brain, and in the brains of people like him. On the other hand, he had a different set of words woven into his heart, which were at odds with the ones inscribed into his mind. That woman’s husband was the last person he had murdered.

Sondhya! What had she done wrong that she had to be punished that way today! His classmate at one time, Sondhya was his only refuge. The reason he had surrendered and given up arms was because of the deep trust he had in Sondhya, who had even walked away from her home to marry him. Her brother Shantonu was the only one who kept in touch with her. And now it was this Sondhya whom he had beaten up in front of his own child, and probably even raped. He was suddenly ashamed.

The sound of ‘Hori Bol! Hori Bol!’ resonated through the neighbourhood. Neelkantha Barua’s cremation procession was on its way. About an hour ago, Dipok was to join the procession. Sondhya told Moumon, ‘Mou-ma, join your hands. Koka was a really good man.’

Now Dipok began to cry inconsolably and started punching and slapping himself. He banged his head against the wall a couple of times, then ran towards his motorbike and, in a few minutes, left the house on it.

He didn’t keep track of the time he spent on the bike, roaming around the town like a lunatic. Why did he leave his comforts to go underground? And why did he eventually surrender? What went wrong with his life’s decisions? He had earned distinction marks in high school and was a bright kid. It was when he was at university that he started to suspect that everything was worthless. He wanted to join the revolution and had committed to that on the same day he had finished reading about Mao Zedong’s Long March. A new life soon began for him, dominated by fake names and identities. He had gone to great lengths to take arms training and the boy who once couldn’t even watch the killing of a pigeon or duck for meat had started to murder people without hesitation.

And then, one day, he met Sondhya. She was the only person who sheltered him without a second thought and often told him to give up arms. She would advise him on the things that he could do after surrendering arms and leaving the revolutionary life. He had liked her suggestions so much that he had started to believe in her words deeply. How long ago had he left that life? And how old was this present life of his? Though he had returned to the mainstream, he had never received a warm welcome from any of its members. None of his neighbours would welcome him warmly. If something went wrong in that small town, the local police station would always summon him first. His name would probably never be erased from the police register of surrendered militants. Every day, he lived within this web of suspicion. Occasionally, he would get angry with Sondhya and would want to take revenge. She would tell him, ‘A revolution can happen in many ways. Why don’t you start working for the assimilation of surrendered militants into society? What will you get by doing business with millions of rupees? Instead of that, start a cooperative; go to the village; look at the embankments and ask why they break up so soon; instead of catching pimps, ask the fathers why they sell their daughters to them for five-hundred rupees. If you prove that one can lead a clean life, everyone will respect people like you.’

The suspicion of policemen, neighbours, and even of Sondhya made him feel like a fly caught in a web – one that was shrinking by the day.

Sondhya’s bright young brother always made fun of him: ‘If you wanted to surrender, why did you accept that huge sum of black money from the government?’

What would he have eaten?

‘When you had taken up arms, did you guys not think that one has to work hard to earn a living? Don’t you realize the difference between ten rupees given by someone you threatened, and money that you’ve earned on your own?’

‘I am working now.’

‘That is not work. That is begging for pity. Why didn’t you take a loan from the government instead of selling yourself to that government? Why didn’t you start farming on the land you have in your village?’

‘Oh shut up, Shantonu! If you have such revolutionary ideas, why don’t you go and join the revolution? Why are you sitting in the comfort of your home?’

‘I am studying medicine, and let me tell you, I will never go and beg the health minister to transfer me from the village hospital to a comfortable city hospital. My profession will bring about my revolution. The day I retreat, that will be my last day. I am never going to be a Shikhondi.’

This is a debate they would have often. When Dipok lost the argument, he would turn dangerous. Sondhya and Shantonu would keep their mouths shut.

Sometimes, Dipok wanted to choke his brother-in-law or Sondhya to death. Sometimes, he felt like running over the crowd of people with his motorcycle and breaking their bones.

Shikhondi!

Was he really Shikhondi? That transgender character from the Mahabharata who was used as a shield to protect the warrior Arjun from arrows in the battlefield?

No, never!

He didn’t want to die like Shikhondi. He wasn’t scared of anything in this world except the shadow of death. Yes, he hated and was also scared of death. Often, he would wake up to sounds of someone screaming. Some nights, he would throw up after sensing a strong stench of blood.

Suddenly, he felt a growling in his stomach. Was he going to throw up? No, he was extremely hungry. He stopped the motorcycle by the road and checked his pockets for cash, but found only two rupees and seventy-five paise. Why couldn’t he carry some cash on himself? What could he buy to eat with just two rupees? He was also unsure of which part of the town he was standing in. He walked a little and entered a tea shop.

‘Babu, what would you like to have?’

‘What’s the time?’

The ten-year-old waiter stared at Dipok for a few moments before asking the time from his boss.

‘2.45 p.m.’

‘What’s there to eat?’

‘Puri and curry. Meat and porotha. And omelettes.’

‘Bring an omelette. How much is it?’

‘Double omelette is five rupees and fifty paise.’

‘I don’t need double. Just get me a single.’

‘Single is three rupees.’

‘Why three rupees? It should have been two and a half only.’

‘Hey waiter, why are you stuck with one person! There are more people in this shop.’ Dipok’s fist tightened when he heard the shop owner say that. He crushed a glass tumbler on the table in his anger. Then he stood up and reached for his belt. Suddenly, the owner seemed to understand what was happening. ‘Oi, what are you staring at? Go and bring meat and porothas for sar!’ he ordered the waiter. Dipok started to receive royal treatment. A self-satisfied smile played on his lips as he realized that he still had some power. The other customers looked at him with fear. A thin man was glaring at him from the table opposite him. Dipok thought his face was similar to someone he knew. Whose? Sondhya? Shantonu? Shikhondi! Shikhondi! That expression screamed the name at him!

Opportunist! You guys are opportunists! Was the man thinking what Shantonu told him often? Dipok couldn’t keep staring at the man any more. The waiter served him a hot plate of porothas and meat. The aroma of the warm food in front of him made Dipok even hungrier. Suddenly, he did something very odd. He left the food on the table, walked to the cashier’s counter, took out the cash he had in his pocket and said, ‘Here, this is to cover the cost of the broken tumbler.’ He went to his motorcycle and left without waiting to see their reactions.

Where would he go? Home? Yes, he would go home.

He was still hungry and yet he felt at peace. It was a small thing, but he realized he had been weaned off little joys like that for years now. He wanted to meet Sondhya right away. He sped the motorcycle towards his house.

Sondhya always reminded him: ‘Yes, you have given up arms but to understand the greatness of life, there is a long way to go. First, be a human being. It is challenging to be a revolutionary, but it is even more challenging to be a human being. The day you start behaving like a human being and respecting other human beings, the real revolution will start. The confidence you will gain by doing good work will help you…’

A police jeep stopped in front of him with a squeal of brakes.

The familiar face of a police officer appeared at the window and asked him, ‘Where are you coming from?’

‘I just went somewhere.’

‘For what kind of work?’

‘Just like that…’

‘What do you mean just like that? Weren’t you home last night?’

‘I was home. Has anything happened?’

The police