For the past four days, the naked man has
become the center of discussion in the central market area of the city and the
adjacent residential neighborhood. Every morning, around eight o’clock, he
appears near the lamp post. With long, tangled hair, a face buried in a grey
beard, a well-built brown body, and opaque, indifferent eyes, he gives the
impression of being mad. He either walks the streets or sits leaning against the
lamp post, completely oblivious to the world around him. He survives on
leftovers given by shopkeepers and sleeps on the bare ground. His nakedness
seems neither strange to him nor inappropriate for others—as if he were the
first man ever to walk this earth, free and unashamed.
One
A group of girls, laughing happily, were
on their way to college. The Girls’ College is about a kilometer north of the
town. Suddenly, the naked man appeared in front of them. Their laughter stopped
abruptly. Avoiding him, they moved to the footpath.
A few young men approached from the
opposite direction and blocked their way. The girls hesitated.
The naked man stood there, unaffected.
One of the young men sneered, “See, they
feel ashamed.”
Another mocked, “Take a good look—it’s no
crime!”
A third made a vulgar comment, and the
group burst into loud laughter.
The shopkeepers and passersby looked on,
astonished, then quickly turned away. No one dared confront the unruly
youths—who knew what might happen?
Some of the girls' eyes welled with
tears. They walked past the naked man hurriedly, heads lowered. One girl,
walking a little behind the group, paused. In a clear, calm voice she said to
the young men, “You are more naked and shameless than he is.”
One of them charged at her, enraged, but
his friends held him back. As a few people started coming out of the shops, they
quickly fled.
The naked man crossed the road and
returned to his usual spot.
Arjun Choudhury was standing at his gate,
chatting with Indra Sonowal. Both had retired from the same school, just a few
days apart, three years ago. They often met in the evenings for a short walk.
That day, Sonowal had come to see the house being built by Choudhury’s younger
son, Bapdhan.
Every time the house came up in
conversation, Choudhury changed the topic. Everyone in the neighborhood knew
that Bapdhan had been a student leader just two years ago. It had barely been a
year and a half since he started taking small contracts. So how, they wondered,
could he afford to build a mansion?
Choudhury himself had begun to suspect
the worst. He remembered a boy—years ago, during an army operation—who came in
the evening carrying a large suitcase and a canvas bag. He claimed to be from
Guwahati and left before dawn, empty-handed. The suitcase and bag were left
behind. Choudhury never heard of the boy again. Later, when the situation calmed
and newspapers reported large sums of money being recovered, Choudhury thought
of that incident again.
He never dared ask his son. Even if he
did, what answer would he get? Once, when his wife showed him the house plans,
he asked, “Where did he get the money to build such a big house?”
She replied that Bapdhan had gone to the
tea company's head office in Kolkata and secured a contract. He’d earned a lot
of money from that deal. She insisted it was all legitimate.
But Choudhury remained unconvinced. As
the house neared completion, he felt as if he himself stood naked before the
community's suspicious gaze.
“What are they thinking?” he muttered.
Sonowal’s voice interrupted his thoughts.
“Nothing much—just that times have changed. What’s become of people these days?”
“You’re right,” Sonowal replied. “Mr.
Ghosh’s daughter fainted the other day. A naked man stood near their bathroom
while she was bathing. The neighborhood boys caught him. A mad boy,
apparently—his house is near Kalibari. But I’m shocked to hear about this naked
man in the market.”
Just then, a motorcycle pulled up.
Bapdhan got off and approached.
“How are you, Uncle?”
“I’m fine. But what’s that in your hand?”
“Oh, just my watch. The strap tore while
beating that rogue.”
“What rogue?”
“The naked man! The girls from the law
college pass that way. He was standing shamelessly under the lamp post.”
Bapdhan strode into the new house, head
held high. Choudhury whispered to himself,
Who is truly
shameless?
Indra Sonowal sighed, “My sons have
turned so immature.”
“At least,” Choudhury mumbled, “they
haven’t made you feel naked.”
“What did you say?”
“Let’s go for a walk.”
Three
As the bustle of the evening dies down,
the naked man returns to his near-permanent place beneath the lamp post. The air
is still slightly chilly. The weather doesn’t seem to bother him. Perhaps he
remembers nothing—no past, no future—only hunger. He devours the scraps the
shopkeepers give him.
Mason Ramcharan and his teenage helper,
Birender, were passing by. Birender was shocked to see the man urinating near
the drain. When the man returned to his spot, Ramcharan took the gamocha from
his head and said in Hindi, “Wear this.”
The cloth was too small to cover his
waist. The man simply rolled it into a ball and sat down as before.
Ramcharan was speechless. He turned to
Birender, “You fool! How many will you save from shame?”
As they walked away, Birender kept
glancing back.
“You’re still a kid,” Ramcharan said.
Four
The Officer-in-Charge of the local police
station was tense. A witness in a murder case had disappeared, and the hearing
was only two days away. He was berating his subordinates when the phone rang.
He picked it up, expecting an update. His
expression soured.
Self-styled reporter Singh was on the
line.
“What are you doing?” Singh demanded.
“What do you mean?” Rahman asked curtly.
“For four days a naked man has been
wandering around the market! Women have to see him—”
“What do you expect me to do?”
“Don’t you have a responsibility?”
“The whole country is full of naked men.
What can I do?”
“Rahman sahib! What are you saying?”
“I’m just telling the truth. Sorry, I’m
busy. I’ll call you later.”
After hanging up, Rahman muttered, “The
courts let the madmen out of jail, and we face the consequences. Families send
them in, the courts let them go. We arrest them today; they’re released
tomorrow. And who pays the price?”
“Who was on the line, sir?” asked the
constable.
“Who else? That fake reporter who prints
a newspaper every six months filled with ads, collects money for newsprint, and
spends his evenings begging for liquor. He should be made naked!”
Then, turning serious, he said, “Call
Saikia.”
Five
The naked man was missing for a full day.
Perhaps he was resting behind some shop or lying in a dry drain, aching from the
beating he received at the hands of Bapdhan and his followers. Or maybe he’d
wandered to another part of the city. Twice the police van came looking for him
but returned empty-handed.
On Sunday morning, he reappeared in his
usual place. It was market day. People gathered to buy and sell fresh goods.
Kripa Neog arrived with his son, Gobin,
to sell the last of their orchard’s oranges and pick up some household items. He
was stunned to see the naked man leaning against the lamp post.
“Oh my God!” he exclaimed. Approaching
him, he shouted, “Hey! What’s your name? Where do you live?”
The man didn’t respond. He gazed at Neog
with empty disinterest.
“Why are you naked, son?”
Gobin groaned. “Why are you bothering
that madman? Let’s go. We’re already late.”
“Who isn’t mad?” Neog muttered. “Oh God,
look at the state of this world!”
He looked around. A government banner was
hanging from a tree. He tore it down.
Gobin cried, “Father, don’t! That’s a
government banner—can’t you read? ‘Literacy Mission—’”
“Mission!” Neog retorted. “This too is a
mission.”
As Gobin watched in disbelief, his father
tried to open the knots and wrap the banner around the man’s waist. The madman
instantly tore it off. People gathered, some laughing.
The madman began shouting, “Inquilab
Zindabad!”
The laughter grew louder.
Kripa Neog stood there, stunned. A police
van arrived silently and parked nearby. Several constables tried to lift the man
into the van. He clutched the banner tightly to his chest and began sobbing.
“Ah! He must have remembered home,” an
old man said, wiping his tears with a gamocha.
The police hurled the man into the van
along with the banner. People slowly dispersed.
“Good,” someone muttered. “Shameless
creature.”
“Who is shameless?” Neog mumbled. “And
who decides?”
His eyes filled with tears. The naked man
would go to jail again. Someone would clothe him. One day he’d be released. And
again, he would roam, nameless and naked, through the streets of another city.