Tukus and the Winged Horse

In the attic room, while trying to catch a pigeon from the ceiling, an upturned pin pricked Tukus’s foot. The day before, when Didi was kissing her Mathematics tutor, Tukus had suddenly barged into the room. That sloppy, slurping kiss, and then the teacher’s desperate grappling at her chest—clawing, tearing, as if he could rip her breasts apart. Tukus marched straight in, his voice heavy with gravity:
“Hey Didi, what’s going on here? Wait—I’m telling Mother.”
 
He bolted from the room, Didi racing after him.
“You have no shame,” said Tukus.
Didi twisted his ear sharply:
“I’ve told you not to come into my room. Idiot.”
 
Tukus shot back,
“What were you doing with Sir? Wait till Father comes, I’ll tell him.”
 
Didi softened. “Oh, nonsense. A cockroach had crawled on my chest—that’s why Sir touched it. And even if he did place his hand there—what of it? Would you like to try?”
 
Didi took Tukus’s hand and pressed it against her chest. Just then, the pigeon flew off from the ceiling.
 
This civilization, they say, is called the Information Age. Ancient Age, Medieval Age, Modern Age—Tukus knows all that. But who can explain what this “Information Age” really means?
“You are like a Makal fruit,” Raja tells him.
“What is a Makal fruit?” Tukus asks.
“A fruit that ripens too soon and rots—such fruit is called Makal.”
 
Tukus bursts into a grown-up laugh, echoing ho-ho-ho, because he knows Didi’s teacher has said precisely that about him.
 
Two drops of blood fall, drop by drop, from his sole onto the floor. From the ventilator above, the pigeon sits comfortably, giggling silently.
 
The incident began on a Sunday morning. Tukus had abandoned his homework and was in the drawing room, absorbed in cartoons, his imagination flying off to fantastical lands. His father called the land “Bhugatbarsha.” Why? Tukus does not know. Raja explained once: because Indians only “suffer and perish,” the land has been renamed from Bharatbarsha to Bhugatbarsha.
Do people of other countries not suffer then?
 
Of course they do. But along with suffering, they also taste the other finer emotions of civilization. Indians only suffer.
 
Metaphor has no meaning for Tukus. His father is a professor of history—surely he must understand the country better. Tukus is in Class Eight. In history books the country is always called “great.” But how can a nation that has been repeatedly defeated by foreigners in the Ancient, Medieval, and Modern eras be called great? Father says: those about whom history is written—none of them are honest. Most are lies, fabrications. Honest men cannot be famous. Because to be famous—or to be a king—one must be a trickster.
 
Then what of Ashoka, Akbar, Gandhi? Were they not great by trickery, so the masses would be inspired, while the leaders plundered and fed?
 
Didi’s tutor made it even simpler:
“Take Gandhi, for instance. He was the original Indian charlatan. He understood nothing beyond himself. Believed he was God, that whatever he did was right. To keep his authority intact, sometimes he propped up Jinnah, sometimes Nehru, only to pull the ladder away when needed. Cloaked in the robe of non-violence, he was in truth a thorough fascist. Had he not existed, India’s sky would not be so clouded with darkness. Yet who dares say this? The man sits enthroned as Father of the Nation. He left behind a family that still thrives on state revenue. What have they given this country? Someone must research. We call him great because those who rule fatten themselves off his name. For fifty years they crafted a brand. Behind every politician’s speech, Gandhi’s portrait is draped. Bhagat Singh was hanged, but none speak of him. The day true history is written Gandhi will be slain a second time. But in this half-educated country—who will slay him? Albert Camus once said: a martyr has only three fates. One: people forget him—example, Bhagat Singh. Two: people mock him—example, Khudiram. Three: people exploit him—example, Gandhi.”
 
Didi argued:
“If Gandhi was so bad, why call him a martyr at all? And your Lenin—what was so good about him?”
 
“Who swore that martyrdom means goodness? Besides, good or bad depends on perspective. To me Gandhi may be bad, but to the political buffoons of our nation he is an idol. Such things abound. But yes—today most people believe we are worshipping a false god. And don’t you dare compare Lenin with Gandhi. They are worlds apart.”
 
Indeed, Didi’s tutor had a grasp of history. Tukus thought the man was good in all ways—except for placing his hand on Didi’s chest.
 
Suddenly, like a cartoon come alive, a pigeon flew in through the window. A tiny, milk-white pigeon. Tukus lunged at it. The pigeon, spinning like a top, perched first on the cupboard. Chased again, it collapsed onto the cable antenna outside. The antenna toppled, and the TV went dark. Disaster! Furious, Tukus chased it harder.
 
Tukus’s grandfather had been an old-fashioned man. He once owned a magnificent horse—almost like the mythic Pakshiraj. Though it could not fly, it was beautiful and mischievous beyond measure. Grandfather had to buy a cane whip to discipline it. They say he even wrote a book on animals. He explained there that the pigeon symbolized freedom, and the horse symbolized progress—two things India’s poor never possessed. All forms of freedom—economic, political, social, legal—belonged only to the powerful. Progress and modernity too—exclusively theirs. Just as Didi’s tutor said.
 
The book still remains with Father. He often tells Tukus about it. Tukus understands little, but some Sundays Father’s friends gather and discuss endlessly, and he catches fragments. Grandfather has been dead for many years. Whether the famous horse was real, Tukus does not know. Only the cane whip survives—hanging on the western wall of the sitting room, an ornament of ancestral authority.
 
When Mother discovered his foot was cut, Tukus stayed home from school for two days. Gloomy, he sat around, eyes often drifting to the whip on the wall. In idle hours, that whip became the tool for his wildest imaginations. Strange incidents often occurred in this house—some real, some dreamlike. Like Father himself: such grand words at lectures, but at home always quarreling with Mother.
 
That Sunday afternoon Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets was playing on TV. Father was in the bedroom packing. He was leaving for Benaras, to deliver a lecture on freedom and national politics. Tukus had noticed: his father was one man inside the house, another outside. He first heard this from Didi’s tutor, later confirmed in a Class Eleven textbook. The tutor had told Didi:
“Your father is no historian of free thought. He is the agent of a political ideology. They call him a Nehruvian. His task is to distort history. For personal gain he cloaks his writing with hypocrisy.”
 
These words had hurt Didi deeply. Tukus disliked them too. He had always thought his father stood for honesty. Certainly at home he was blunt, brutally candid. His research and writing, however—different.
 
While packing, suddenly Father began a fierce quarrel with Mother. Tukus did not try to understand. Shivani Aunty’s name and Palash Uncle’s name kept coming up. Whenever those two names arose between his parents, Tukus felt a crawling disgust—much like when Didi’s tutor touched her body.
 
Though Mother forbade him, Tukus dashed to the attic room. It was his favorite place in the house. If only the pigeon were there again. But the bird was tiny and cunning. It often circled the drawing-room ceiling and slipped up the stairs like a spinning top. Like Grandfather’s whip, Tukus too had developed the reflex of chasing it. In three leaps, he could make it from drawing room to attic.
 
The attic was crammed with discarded junk. Only a small patch of floor remained clear, dusty, clothes easily spoiled. He had to step carefully. When he finally stood inside, the pigeon was perched on the rod of the ceiling fan, smirking at him. Tukus noticed—those same pins that had pierced his foot earlier were still there, stuck in place.
 
A week later, Tukus heard the sound of a whip inside the house. He froze in astonishment. It was afternoon. Rising from bed, he rushed to see—but the bedroom door was bolted from outside. The whip’s crack was loud, unmistakable. Who had taken it down from the wall? He pinched himself. No, not a dream. But why was the door bolted? His room’s door had never been locked from outside. He kicked it—bang!—but no one answered. After a while, exhausted, he returned to bed. He lay there, thinking only of the whip.
 
Father had once told him its story. Tukus’s great-grandfather, grandfather, father—they had all been powerful zamindars in Khulna, East Bengal. Great-great-grandfather Sardar Ranjan was a tyrant. His power turned the entire region into a nightmare. Behind his moat-encircled palace stood a red mansion where his guards resided. When peasants failed to pay rent, they were flogged mercilessly. His favorite sport was stripping them naked and whipping them. He had a collection of exotic whips from across the world. He even indulged in human sacrifice. Many peasants were executed in that red mansion. The British adored his system of terror so much that they granted him vast rights to collect revenue. After him came Nirad Ranjan, then Asit Ranjan—each glorious in cruelty. They say Nirad murdered his own sister and brother-in-law to seize property. Asit was the last powerful man of the line. With him, decline began. When partition came, the family fled to India, abandoning everything. Grandfather Radhi Ranjan carried only one relic—the whip. He paced nights with it pressed to his chest. In Calcutta he even bought a horse, and in the garden (now apartment blocks) he rode at night. Father said Radhi Ranjan’s blood pulsed with zamindari pride, though he never displayed it. The horse died months before his own death. Later Father sold the garden. Nothing of those days remained—except the whip, still hanging on the wall.
 
So who, after all these years, was wielding it now? Pondering this, Tukus drifted into sleep again. When he woke, everything was normal. The afternoon’s incident seemed like a dream. Only one thing he noticed—Didi had eaten early and gone to bed.
 
For two days, Tukus hardly saw Didi. When at last he did, she seemed withdrawn, melancholy. Once she even hugged him tenderly—a rare act these days.
“What’s wrong with you, Didi? Why so sad?” he asked.
 
She stared at him for a long time.
“If you ever fall in love, you’ll understand. Society, literature, history, politics, heritage, nation, time, circumstance—none of these matter in life. What matters is only the ability to love.”
 
“So that’s why Sir hasn’t come for days—and you are sad?”
 
“You could say that. But I think—even if I could not see you, I would feel sad too.”
 
Moved by her rare openness, Tukus told her of the whip-sounds he had heard. Didi stiffened at first, then said:
“I too heard them. But tell no one. The whole matter is a riddle. Such things happen in this house sometimes.”
 
“What is a riddle?”
 
“An illusion of the mind. Or, when thoughts long to escape into the real world, such things occur.”
 
Tukus liked this explanation. Then he wondered: was the attic pigeon too a figment of his mind? But no—he had chased it. How could imagination be chased?
 
Sunday afternoon, Tukus saw the strange pigeon again. Its body shone snow-white. From the drawing room it dragged him upward to the attic. This time Tukus did not err. He snatched Grandfather’s whip from the wall and pursued it. In the attic, in fury, he lashed at the ceiling. At once a marvel occurred. The tiny pigeon transformed into a radiant, snow-white winged horse.
 
Tukus stepped on a tin box, ready to mount its back—when suddenly he heard his mother’s sobbing.
 
That morning, Didi had written a letter to Mother and left the house. She would likely never return.
 
Three days later, Tukus awoke in hospital. His left leg was broken. Nothing else had changed. He understood: society, literature, history, politics, heritage, nation, time, circumstance—all these still remained necessary. Whether love truly existed, he did not know.
 
When he regained consciousness, Mother asked:
“Why did you jump from the roof? Did you think you’d fly like Harry Potter? Enough of this now. From now on you’ll only study properly.”
 
Tukus stayed silent. In his mind whirled Sardar Ranjan and Gandhi—lodged in his blood, their revelations uncontainable. Nothing Mother could do would stop them. They would keep returning—until love itself returned.