Paakhi

F I V E

The Bagh residence was a two storey bungalow with a small garden within its boundary walls. From its first floor, there was once a picturesque view of a British Lodging towards the south. Aritro's great grandfather had not inherited this property. Ironically, young and hot blooded Rudranath Jayshankar Bagh had had every intention of spending only one adventurous night in this unsuspecting building when he'd been on the run from British officials.

He'd been an active member of the revolutionary organization Anushilan Samiti since the early months of 1906. His active participation and involvement had helped propagate Jugantar Patrika; a political weekly of the organization amongst the young, literate and politically driven youth of Bengal.

On a stormy evening of August 1907, following the arrest of the leader and editor of Jugantar Patrika; Shri Bhupendranath Dutta, Rudranath Bagh was up on his feet, running for his dear life. The British Officials of the Calcutta presidency had been given direct orders to arrest every member of their revolutionary organization, talks of an execution had been underway.

But Rudranath Bagh couldn't die like this, not before he had done more for his mother land.

Panting and wheezing from breathlessness, he'd found himself at the doorstep of this majestic red, two storey building. The main gate had been unhinged on the side, and the quiet location of the bungalow, far from the hustle and bustle of the city had been much too tempting. Drawing in a breath, he had let himself into this property.

Within the boundary walls of the bungalow was a tiny room with a single blown out lamp. It was a store room; where he had decided to take refuge.

The remainder of his night in the store room would have been uneventful, if not for a sudden rapping on the door deep into the night. He had had a pistol on him, one he had stolen from a British official when on the run, but the pistol could not have had more than two bullets. Rudranath had known better than to use up his only two chances at living until the situation was dire enough.

He would have to beg the owner of the house to just let him stay there for the night. Early the next morning, he would leave without a sound.

The door had creaked when he had unlocked it with a fiercely beating heart. He had been in for a surprise, for outside the door had stood a woman; nay; a girl. Her dark, long hair was pulled into a tight braid that went all the way down to her waist, she donned a sari of a very subtle pink that brought out the snow-like colour of her skin. But he'd been most captivated by her eyes; they'd been a beautiful mix of grey and green.

You could ask Rudranath Bagh how he had managed to see so well in the pitch dark of the night with nothing but a small lamp illuminating the tiny room and he would laugh, not sure how he did himself.

It had been raining outside, and she had gripped a big, black umbrella in her hand. Her hand, the one that was free; had held onto a brass utensil she had covered with a cloth. Rudranath had had no words at the tip of his tongue, obediently taking the utensil from her hand when she had passed it to him without an explanation. His index finger had touched the back of her palm for just one fleeting second and he had felt his knees buckle beneath him.

Snowflake.

He'd thought in his head, wondering what could possibly describe her beauty. Snowflake. She'd been as soft and as delicate as a snowflake.

The girl had left without another word, leaving a star-struck nineteen year old boy behind in that storeroom that remained a part of the property to this day. That night, Rudranath had eaten the best and most fulsome meal he had eaten in the longest time.

Manners told him to leave at the crack of dawn, but the heart wants what it wants. The fugitive revolutionary remained in the store room even early the next morning, in the hope to see the angel he had seen the previous night.