Amara prema

CHAPTER-1 Sē kē (who is she?)

The early 70s was an era of revolutionary politics. People had begun to find their voices and understand the true meaning of democracy. They had begun to raise questions and revolt against blind faith and bureaucrats. Young bloods were wielding their pens like swords. communism and restrained extremism had become the language of the youth, despite criticisms.

The narrow streets of Kolkata were unusually crowded today. The rundown overpopulated chawls stood on both sides of the narrow gullies with torn down yellow paint and half-hearted charcoal and pan graffiti. The evening sun had partially hidden itself behind the gloomy clouds drowning the city in a yellow hue. Quarrelling vagabonds, half naked children and arguing women were the usual noise-makers here. But today they too had gone quiet to witness this madness. A young determined lad was thrashing a politician black and blue. He was well built, wore khakhi pants and a faded white shirt, sleeves rolled up far into his shoulders and had neatly oiled hair and a handlebar moustache. His every punch echoed thunderously as he threw the helpless man, who had nothing but an underwear on. Thanni ketta kooda padukkanum nu keppiya nee? Enna sonna? Idhu saakada inga thanni vandhalum sutham aagathaa? Jaathi paathu thanni kudukkara unna ellaa... His voice roared with the crack of his knuckles. The poor man's nose was broken and his face was drowning in blood. Nalaikkulla inga thani varala? Āmi tōmākē ṭukarō ṭukarō karē phēlaba (I will cut you up into pieces) The youngster placed his leg on the man's chest and warned. Arvin George Swaminathan, as peculiar as his name sounds, this hot-headed youngster was a product of a Bengali Dalit converted Christian mother and a Tamizh communist father who had let go his faith when it stood in the way of his communist principals. The mother was a teacher by profession and father a writer, meeting and falling in love over their shared ideals in bringing a radicalised change in young India still confused between traditional identity and overcredulousness from fear to question religion. Both his parents had spent their years fighting the injustice that became justified when served with a slice of religion. His mother being an ardent follower of Ambedkar had fought for the betterment of the Dalit community by encouraging them to pursue education and teaching them about their rights. She emphasized on empowering women and taught them to become financially independent at a young age with the resources around them. she died from a severe case of brain fever, when Arvin was 15. His father too passed on, a few years later, when Arvin was pursuing his final year of law abroad. He had stumbled to his injuries after being caught in a post-revolution stampede, when the peaceful procession escaladed to a violent riot with the police attack. Arvin was forced to abandon his studies despite being the top of his class following his father's death and return to India. His extensive knowledge about law and a firm grip on his language helped him earn a job at a local newspaper where he managed to capture many young minds with his revolutionary ideologies. He formed a society of like-minded men to question what they felt was wrong. The 29-year-old found one true love in his trusted companion, the Rajdoot 350. It became a part of him, not only because it marked his identity wherever he stepped foot but also because it was the bearer of his only secret. When the unrest and heat of the day died down, Ari, as his friends called him, would pick up his motorcycle and explore the beautiful city, in and out at midnight. He had come to love the silence of the night. When people slept, he felt the town truly came alive. There was no discrimination in the heart of the softly snoring nature, everything was peaceful. Strangely enough he would discover something new about the city every night. There was always something to excite him on his every getaway, discovering new streets and places and getting to know the city more. But there was one place he would revisit, whenever he missed his parents too bad, the river banks. He would lie on its shore with his legs at the foot of the water. The soft sand on the banks of the river would wrap around the tips of his toes, much like the henna his mother patted on him as a kid. the wind caressed through his hair like his father's fingers and suddenly he would feel at home. on one such night, he was driving back from the banks, when he decided to take a new route as part of his usual exploration. He rode into a more conservative part of the city, dominated by Hindu radicles who still held on to their ancient beliefs. as he turned a corner, he began to hear a voice. He slowed down, to confirm it wasn't in his head. It was highly unlikely that anyone was awake at this hour of the night, let alone singing. he rode further down the road, only to realise it was a women's voice. It was chanting a Sarswati manthra into the depths of the darkness in a tone sweeter than a nightingale's chirp. When the enchantment broke, Ari was filled with curiosity. Who was this woman who dared to roam the dangerous allies of this city at this hour? She must truly be a lioness, he thought. He got off his motorcycle and began to follow the voice on foot. His eyes searched every nook and corner of the street for the source of the voice. But unfortunately, he couldn't even spot a vagrant. His search came to a halt at the foot of a large temple. The tall walls shielded the premise but a single large tower stood higher than all its sisters. A single window at the tip of this tower was lit up by a faint candle. the voice flowed down like a gush of waterfall, as Ari stared on. He peeked and peered, curious to see the wielder of the notes, but to no avail. He climbed on the roof of a nearby stall with great effort, but alas, the tower was still too high. He decided to patiently wait until the song was over and then ask the singer herself to reveal her face. When the blissful chant finally came to an end, Ari clapped like a mad man. Romba pramadhama paadringa, orey paatula manasa parichittinga, he yelled out. His applause, in contrary to his attempt to make conversation, had quite the opposite effect. She was startled by the unexpected audience and ran off seemingly afraid. He could hear the immediate blow of candles followed by the giggling of her anklets as she hurried down the stairs. Ari felt disappointed. He had hoped to make acquaintance with this maiden and here he had ended up chasing her away.