Krishnalal arrived.

In the meantime, the police had ransacked Binu’s room, overturned the mattress, upturned the books—but found nothing. Long before this, acting upon Binu’s instructions, Harbart had carried up to his top-terrace copies of The Patriot and The Southern Country; a Bengali manual on guerrilla warfare printed in Chattogram; recipes for Molotov cocktails painstakingly cut out of the Tricontinental, a Cuban magazine; The Red Book; some letters. And burnt them all. Little by little, bit by bit. To keep the smoke to a minimum.

No one had noticed a thing.

At the hospital, Professor Prafullakanti, Krishnalal’s friend, took him down for a cup of tea, when in a sudden burst of benevolence, one of the two armed guards outside Binu’s door told Harbart, “Go in, he’s delirious. Now, where did that damn father of his go?”

Harbart went in. To Binu. A blanket drawn up to his chest. An upside-down bottle, with a rubber tube ending in his arm. And something else, although Harbart couldn’t see that. From under the blanket, near his feet, a chain. Looped around the iron bed-leg twice and then secured with a lock. Once a young man had escaped despite the traction-clamp-contraption tight around his neck. Hence, now this more foolproof arrangement.

Binu’s eyes were closed but his lips were moving. And what had sounded like delirium to the policemen was in fact lines from a poem by Barasat martyr Samir Mitra, remembered with great thought and uttered—not necessarily recited—with great effort …

I can see

Before my eyes, this forever-familiar world

Changing, changing,

(“Changing,” Binu said, “changing, changing.” Then the next few words had been remembered, then something like a cough had rattled him, then at the edge of his lips drops of blood had flecked the froth-foam that burbled, then Harbart reached for the red-dotted towel near his pillow, then the nurse rushed in, then the nurse wiped Binu’s mouth, then the nurse rushed out of the room.)

Ravaged, ruined, and ransacked, dust to dust

The old days fall.

A storm is coming.

(“Coming,” Binu said, “coming, coming.” Then opened wide open his eyes. Then Harbart leaned in, leaned closer. Then Harbart’s eyes were full of tears. Then Binu’s eyes looked left and right and here and there. Then Binu hadn’t been looking for anyone—he had been looking to see if there were any policemen in the room.)

“Yes, Binu, what is it?”

“Harbart-kaka, prayer room, diary … Harbart … kaka … diary … behind Kali … diary …” Then Binu stared. At nothing. People don’t usually stare that way. Not hoping to see anything, but staring anyway.

The doctor came in. Told Harbart to step aside. The police. The nurse.

Expired.

Then, via police protocol and the morgue, to the crematorium. Binu’s body, slid into the electric furnace. So late at night, but so many policemen still on guard. His eyes fixed on the furnace, Krishna-dada murmuring.

Above the furnace door, someone had scrawled, “Police dog, Debi Roy, Beware!—CPI(ML).”

A certain intellectual police officer told a certain subordinate, “Look, look, a Naxal father, burning his son and chanting his prayers.”