The Little Patriot

Mini looks at the pen intently. Her little fingers touch its smooth red body. As she glides her fingertips over the big, golden cap of the pen, Mini feels an unspeakable joy. She rotates the fountain pen slowly between her little palms, mesmerized at its beauty and shine.

Suddenly, Mini hears a faint song coming from a distance. She keeps the pen on her desk and rushes to the window. She opens the window with a gentle push and gets greeted by the warm rays of the mid-August sun.

“Maayer deoa mota kapor mathae tule ne re bhai, din dukhini maa j toder tar beshi aar saadhyo nai!”

Mini looks at the street in front of her house. She sees a group of people walking on the road, holding big placards and banners in their hands. She strains her eyes to read them but the words seem to hard to pronounce. She notices some familiar among the crowd and wonders what they might be doing on the street under the scorching heat.

As she continues to stare, another group, marching from the Madhu Nashkar Lane, comes and joins the main crowd. Mini gets surprised on seeing some of these people holding huge packets, filled with clothes of different colours.

A few young boys and girls from the group, open the packets and take out all the clothes. They stack them up in a heap and keeps it aside. The elderly people form a circle and sit on the lane, creating obstructions for the pedestrians. Mini clings to the window railings and continues to look at scene outside, with unblinking eyes.

Suddenly, a voice startles her.

“What are you looking at?”

Mini sees Nayantara sitting on the bed, wearing a deep saffron saree with silver borders. She walks towards her, climbs up the bed and sits close to her.

“Didi, what are those people doing outside with so many clothes?” Mini asks with questioning eyes.

“They? They are going to burn those clothes,” Nayan replies, moving her fingers through her sister’s hair.

“Burn them?” Mini’s eyes widen. “Won’t their mothers scold them if they burn their clothes?”

“No, when you do something for your motherland, mothers don’t scold,” replies Nayan, holding Mini’s soft, pink palms.

“Mother . . . mother . . . land?” Mini asks, squinting her eyes.

“Yes, motherland! It is the place where we are born, the place where we live,” replies Nayantara, her voice filled with patriotism.

“Okay!” Mini lowers her face and thinks something for a while. “But why are they burning their clothes?” she asks.

Nayantara looks into her sister’s dark brown eyes and asks, “Tell me something, Mini. Do you like to wear your own clothes? Or, do you want to wear the clothes that belong to your friends?”

Mini pouts her small lips. Nayantara smiles at her sister’s usual gesture that she unconsciously does while thinking hard about something.

“Charu has a pink frock. It is full of big, white stars,” Mini replies, using both her hands to show the hugeness of the stars studded on the fabric of her friend’s dress.

“I love it!” Mini continues. “She has told me that she can give it to me for one day.”

“That’s alright! But how will you feel if I cut and tear all the clothes that you love to wear?” asks Nayantara.

“No!” screams Mini. I love the saree maa gave to me on Saraswati Puja. It’s beautiful! Why will you cut it?”

Nayan makes Mini lie on the bed. She puts her right palm on Mini’s head and caresses it. Mini looks at her didi with teary eyes, worried at the impending loss of her favourite yellow saree that she wore on the last Saraswati Puja. Nayantara moves closer to her sister and starts to speak to her in a soft, low voice.

“Mini, some people are ruling our country. They are the English people. They are taking away our clothes and giving us the ones that they wear! Do you know Abdul Chacha? The tailor who lives in the next lane?”

Mini nods her head. “Yes, I know him. He’s Rahim’s grandfather. What happened to him?”

“Once upon a time, Abdul Chacha’s great-great grandfather worked as a weaver. He used to make a special kind of cloth known as muslins. These clothes were very beautiful. They were thin, fine and almost as light as feathers. At that time, nobody liked the clothes sold by the English people. Their clothes were very rough. So, people only wanted to wear muslins.”

“But what happened to his great-great-grandfather, didi?” Mini asks, waiting eagerly to listen to the remaining part of the story.

“Abdul Chacha says that the English people had cut the thumb of his great-great-grandfather so that he is not able to weave muslin anymore!” replies Nayantara.

“Oh!” Mini shrieks and covers her face with her small palms.

After a few moments, her palms come down and they finally rest on her tiny chin. Mini looks at her sister with fearful eyes.

“Did they really cut it, didi?”

“I don’t know. That’s what Abdul Chacha tells each time he sees a new person. Nobody knows if it is true or not. Whenever someone goes to meet him, Abdul Chacha tells the story of his great-great-grandfather and the English people.”

“Bad people!” little Mini looks away, folding her arms across her chest and holding a disgusted look on her face.

“Maayer deoa mota kapor mathae tule ne re bhai . . . ”

The song starts again. The sisters, lying on the bed, look at each other. Mini jumps from the bed and goes to the window again. As she looks out of the wooden window, she sees a group of young boys place the heap of those coloured clothes in the middle of the road. The heap looks extremely big. It contains shirts, pants, caps, belts and many other kinds of clothes that Mini has never seen in her life.

As Mini looks on, an elderly person gets up from his circle and moves closer to the heap. He searches for something in the pockets of his white kurta. His face becomes serious. After a few seconds, he pulls out a small matchbox from his right pocket.

Picking up a matchstick from the box, the man lights it and throws it into the pile of clothes lying in front of him. Mini’s jaw drops and her eyes pop out. She holds on to the window railings, her palms clutching them as tightly as possible.

Surprised at her sister’s expression, Nayantara leaves the bed and walks up to the open window. Nayantara’s eyes move from one person to another, in search of familiar faces. She spots Nishith da, Goutam da and Rebati di among the large group of people, standing close to the foreign clothes on fire.

“Bande Mataram!”

As the song continues, Nishith da raises his voice and chants the glory of the motherland. Some of the young boys and girls cry “Bande Mataram” in unison, following Nishith da’s clarion call.

“Mini, look at that pile! Those are all English clothes!” Nayantara said, pointing at the pyre of foreign fabric.

“Didi! Am I wearing an English frock?” asks Mini, looking at her pink cotton frock with floral embroidery.

“No. Nothing in our house is English!” replies Nayantara with pride in her eyes.

Suddenly, Mini runs to her study table. She picks up the golden fountain pen with red borders and goes back to her sister.

“Is this an English pen?” Mini asks, holding the pen close to Nayantara’s eyes.

“Yes! Where did you — ?”

Mini throws the pen out of the window without letting her sister complete her words. Nayantara leans over the window to follow the trajectory of the pen. The pen falls on the ground and gets lost amidst the crowd.

“Didi, that pen is not mine. I had found that on the road one day. I really liked to play with it. It was my favourite!”

“Then, why did you throw it away?” asks Nayantara.

“Because you said it was English! What could I do?” replies Mini.

Hugging her sister tightly, Nayantara pats her shoulder and plants a kiss on her forehead.