Chinatown Days

CHINATOWN DAYS

Rita Chowdhury

MACMILLAN

Contents

Prologue

Part One

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Part Two

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-one

Twenty-two

Twenty-three

Twenty-four

Part Three

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Author’s Note and Acknowledgements

Prologue

I am not the architect of this narrative.

I am but an inept artist, the narrator of this epic saga of a people caught in the maelstrom of history.

My name is Arunabh Bora. I am a writer.

I live in Guwahati, the capital of Assam, one of the states of India. My ancestral home is near the Dafalagarh tea estate, on the northern side of the river Brahmaputra, where my eldest maternal uncle used to work as the head clerk. I was quite young when my father passed away. My mother and I then moved to my uncle’s house. Growing up there, I never faced any sort of difficulty.

Even now, in Guwahati, I lead a comfortable life with my wife and two children.

It’s been a while since my uncle died, but my mother still lives with his family. My aunt does not wish to part with her and my mother does not wish to live with anyone else either. She has spent most of her life within the confines of my uncle’s house. As far as I can remember, she has always been quiet and withdrawn. Even though she actively took part in all the activities of the family, her mind always seemed to be absorbed in some distant world.

This is, perhaps, the only thing about my life that makes me sad. Apart from that, there is nothing much to complain about. I have gone through half my life without any crisis, hardship or trouble. After years of living in comfort and contentment, I could hardly imagine the strange future awaiting me.

It was a fateful day when Lailin arrived on the scene; Lailin Tham, a well-known Chinese writer.

Sometimes a door will open unexpectedly. A door through which we enter an unimaginable past – a past that is enmeshed with our present.

It was Lailin who opened that door for me. Before she did it, she gestured to me, looked straight into my eyes, and asked, ‘Will you dare to speak up? Will you dare to speak about us who are standing on Indian soil? Do you have the guts?’

Her tone was filled with rage, sharpened by a tinge of bitterness. It was like an arrow directed at me, a challenge thrown in my face. Lailin stood in front of me like an unwavering flame in a room devoid of air. It has been almost two years since Lailin unleashed the storm. It has left my beautifully organized life in a state of utter chaos. My home, my identity and my foundation have been shaken, perhaps irretrievably.