footsteps in the dark

1979 was a cold year. shillong had gotten used to curfew and living life in constant fear of shoot-at-sight orders. the army was out on the streets. the khasis no longer fraternized with the bengalis. the bengalis were queuing up to catch the first bus out of town. schools had declared 'closed until further notice' and commerce had taken a interminable holiday at police bazaar.

baba had a new routine. he would throw on his naga shawl -- the vivid black and red patterns made him easily distinguishable and innocuous at the same time -- and leave the house every evening at around seven o' clock. 'let me see what's happening. i'll be back in an hour', he used to tell us before leaving. we would wait -- it never was an hour, often two, sometimes three. the lights would be switched off, ma would have just one small lamp in one corner -- baba said keeping the lights on was not safe. while he was gone we would sit in the dark and listen to all the sounds outside. it was mostly quiet -- the town had lost its humor and its music. sometimes there were footsteps -- we'd listen to them approaching down the hill and then wait for them to grow faint as they continued on up the hill. that was usually the case, except one night. "ae bangaali, darwaza kholo," shouted a drunken, male voice through the dark night. the footsteps had come down the hill as usual but had then taken a detour -- up the three stone steps that led them across a small garden patch to our front door. i realized that the house inside was suddenly darker than usual. ma had put out the little lamp in the corner and had gathered my baby brother -- then barely two or three years old -- into her arms. i huddled next to my older sister who was staring intently at the door. i knew what was running through her mind -- baba could be coming up those steps any minute.
by now the men outside had started knocking on the door. well knocking would be an understatement. thumping was more like it. then suddenly all was quiet. i looked at ma. her beautiful, sad eyes looked at each of us by turn -- i couldn't see them clearly but i felt their gaze shift from me to my sister and then down to my brother. he was a good baby. not a squeak. his little brain knew something was very wrong and that the only way he could help was to stay absolutely quiet. i felt my sister's hand touch my face in a light caress -- she sensed that fear had almost overwhelmed me and i could cry out from the pressure any moment. i was the coward in my family. and just as i felt that the fear in my chest would break out of its confines, a voice called out through the night.
"mrs chatterjee, please open the door, we just want to make sure you are okay. we're friends of your husband," said a pleasant, sober voice in perfect english. then there was a knock, not a thump, a civilized knock. "please mrs chatterjee, he asked us to look you up. he'll be a little late and he thought you might be worried," the voice continued. i looked at ma again. this time i saw her eyes. they had stopped blinking. i wasn't sure if she was scared, confused or surprised. even my usually gutsy sister had retreated to ma's side. we sat there for what must have been just five or ten minutes and listened to the knocks getting louder and harder. then suddenly everything was quiet again. maybe for about ten seconds. then there were other noises. a tear, a thud. they were uprooting the vegetables in the garden. since the curfews had started we had turned the plot in front of the house into a vegatable garden. after a while the footsteps started tracing their way back down the three stone steps and up the hill like always.
ten minutes later baba came home.