The scent of drying paddy hung heavy in the air around Nalbari town. For Amit Barua, this scent was the smell of home, prosperity, and debt.
Amit, a dedicated clerk in the local Revenue office. He knew the complex paperwork of land rights and taxes, but his true life was simpler, residing in his small, newly built quarter near the outskirts. The quarter was a beautiful, defiant beacon of concrete and hope—and it was also the source of the high EMI that consumed nearly 60% of his meager salary. The payment was due on the 10th of every month, a looming pressure that forced his focus daily.
"Papa, is the house eating all our money?" Riya, his eight-year-old daughter, asked him one scorching afternoon, looking up from her geometry homework.
Amit laughed, a warm, genuine sound. "Not the house, my jonaki (firefly). The bank is eating the money. But the house gives us shade, and a place for your mother to cook the best fish curry in Assam, so it's a fair exchange." He tweaked her nose.
Priti, his wife, a woman whose calm presence settled Amit's nerves like a perfect cup of tea, walked in from the kitchen. She carried two glasses of nimbu paani. She was wearing a simple cotton saree, her hair neatly tied back, a faint scent of coconut oil and turmeric following her.
"Don't worry about money, my Riya. Your Papa works hard. We are rich in love," Priti said, kissing Amit on the temple. "We have everything we need, even if we can't afford everything we want. The debt will finish. Our family will not."
That was the rhythm of their life. Amit worked meticulously at the office, often staying late to earn small bonuses. Priti managed the household budget with the skill of a seasoned financial analyst. Riya filled the house with the music of her school songs and endless drawings of trains and flowers.
Neighbour's View:
At the tea stall outside the office, Amit's colleague, Sanjay, often remarked, "Amit, you look tired. The Revenue office paperwork is heavy, but your eyes are heavy with that housing loan."
Amit would just smile. "The debt is the fuel, Sanjay-bhai. If I didn't owe that money, I wouldn't have built the house that makes Priti smile so bright. It's a weight, but it's a beautiful weight. I'll be free in twelve years."
That evening, Amit left the office early. He bought Riya a small packet of her favourite chanachur (spicy mix) and a new hibiscus flower for Priti's hair. He was tired, but the thought of their waiting faces was the only green signal he needed.
Meanwhile, four men—Ranjit, Debu, Tapan, and Bimal (the leader)—were drinking cheap liquor in a desolate hut outside the village. They were low-level thugs, known for petty extortion and violence. Bimal, cruel and impulsive, gestured toward the new houses dotting the hillside. "That clerk, Amit, he's too smug with his new house. And I saw his woman at the market. Soft. Too soft for this world."
A sick, predatory decision was made in the dark, and they scaled the back wall of Amit's new, beautiful house, silencing the night watchman with a quick, practiced blow.