Lajja (5 page)

Suronjon’s acquaintances were alarmed to see him.

‘Why are you not at home? Things may take a bad turn. Please go home.’

Suronjon did not say anything. He felt awkward. He was expected to stay at home because his name was Suronjon Datta while Qaiser, Lotif, Belal and Shaheen could go out, see how things were and talk about the situation. It was strange that they would lead processions to protest communalism, yet ask him to go home. Was he not a principled, open-minded and rational person like them? He bought a cigarette—a Bangla Five—and used the fire-tipped rope in the shop to light it. Suronjon felt cut off. There were so many people all around and he knew many of them, he was in fact close to some of them, yet he felt alone. People were walking around talking and there were agitated discussions about the fall of the Babri Masjid leading to the destruction of temples in this country—but it was as if none of this was about Suronjon. He was trying to blend in but was unable to do so. It was as if there was an obstacle somewhere. Suronjon realized that everyone was shielding him and pitying him. They did not consider him part of the group. He drew in a mouthful of smoke and blew out smoke rings. There was great excitement all around but he leaned lazily against the wall. Many people looked furtively at Suronjon. They were surprised because every ‘Hindu’ was at home, frightened and hiding in their holes. So they were obviously taken aback by Suronjon’s courage or, more likely, his audacity.

Qaiser joined a group of people. Preparations for a march were underway. Journalists were running about with either
jholas
or cameras on their shoulders. Suronjon saw Lutfor amongst them but did not call out to him. Lutfor himelf came up to Suronjon after a while. ‘Why’re you here, Dada?’ he asked with his eyebrows raised.

‘Shouldn’t I be?’

Lutfor looked very anxious. ‘You haven’t had any problem at home, have you?’ he asked.

Suronjon felt that Lutfor was being paternalistic. He used to be a timid and polite chap who never met Suronjon’s eyes. Suronjon had put in a word with the editor of
Ekata
magazine and got Lutfor a job.

Lutfor lit a cigarette. ‘Have you had any problems, Suronjon da?’ he asked again, standing very close to Suronjon.

‘What kind of problems?’ asked a smiling Suronjon.

Lutfor seemed a trifle embarrassed. ‘What can I say, Dada,’ he replied. ‘The country is in such a state . . .’

Suronjon ground the filter of his cigarette under his feet. Lutfor had always spoken in a soft voice to him. He found Lutfor’s voice rather loud now.

‘You’d better stay somewhere else today, Dada,’ he advised, smoking furiously and frowning. ‘It may not be wise to stay in your own home. Can’t you organize to stay at least two nights at a Muslim neighbour’s?’

‘No,’ said Suronjon indifferently, as he stared at the fire-tipped rope that hung in the shop.

‘No?’ asked Lutfor, worried.

Suronjon felt that Lutfor had decided to be his protector. It was clear that almost everyone was starting to behave like that and this was how things would be. They would offer uncalled-for advice, like:

‘It’s not all right to stay in your own home. Please go somewhere else and hide.’

‘Please don’t step outside for a few days.’

‘Don’t tell people your name.’

‘It’s best you go out only after things return to normal.’

Suronjon felt that he needed another cigarette but Lutfor’s sombre warning was a dampener. Winter had arrived. He folded his arms across his chest and looked at the green and dark-green leaves on the trees with enjoyment. He had always enjoyed the winter. In their childhood there were steamed sweet pancakes in the morning and at night there was the comfort of quilts that had been warmed in the sun through the day. Then there were also the ghost stories their mother told. All of this made for grand adventure!

‘Streams of people are marching up to the Dhakeshwari temple, Siddheswari Kali temple, Ramakrishna Mission, Mohaprokash Math, Narinda Gaudiya Math and the Bholagiri Ashram,’ chanted a bearded young man with a jhola, who was standing in front of Lutfor. ‘They are throwing bricks at the buildings and also plundering them. The Swamibag Ashram has been ransacked. Twenty-five houses in the Shoni Akhara have been looted and burnt. The Shoni temple and Durga temple have been smashed and burnt down. Rishipara in Narinda and Jelepara in Dayaganj couldn’t be saved. The Moronchand sweet shops at Farmgate, Polton and Nobabpur, as well as the Deshbondhu sweet shop at Tikatuli have been ravaged. The temple at Thathari Bazar has been burnt down.’

‘Oh,’ sighed Lutfor.

Suronjon listened to Lutfor’s sighs. He could not decide whether to remain standing, join the rally or go somewhere far away. Should he go away to a thick forest, where he had no family or friends, and just be by himself? The man with the jhola had moved away and joined another discussion. Lutfor was also preparing to make a move because he was perturbed by Suronjon’s expressionless face.

There was a barely contained excitement all around. Suronjon longed to be part of the group. He wanted to be an onlooker of events like the breaking and burning of temples in various places, and await tidings of houses and shops being robbed.

‘These religious ideologues should be whipped and brought into line,’ he wanted to declaim. ‘Because they wear the masks of the faithful and hoodwink people.’

He was not able to do any of this, though. People were looking at him through veiled eyes but those eyes were filled with pity, as if it were not safe for him to be there and as if he no longer had the right to get agitated like them and be part of their gatherings and demonstrations. All these years he had made incisive comments about language, culture, economics and politics—both on stage and in various conversations—but today an invisible force had robbed him of speech. And no one was even asking Suronjon to say anything, or do something, or try to resist all that was going on.

Qaiser moved away from a group and came towards him.

‘There’s going to be a meeting at the Baitul Mukarram about the destruction of the Babri Masjid. People are gathering. Please go home.’

‘Aren’t you going home?’ asked Suronjon.

‘Oh no,’ said Qaiser. ‘We’re organizing a march for communal harmony.’

Qaiser had two other young men with him, Liton and Mahtab.

‘Actually, we’re saying this for your own good,’ they said. ‘We just heard that they’ve set fire to Jolkhabar, the snack shop. All of this is going on all around this place. Can you imagine what’s likely to happen if they recognize you? They’re walking about openly, armed with knives, sticks and machetes’

Qaiser summoned a rickshaw. He was going to make sure Suronjon went home in it.

‘Come on, Dada,’ said Lutfor and tugged at his hand. ‘Please go home at once. Why did you come out of the house at a time like this?’

Everyone was eager to send Suronjon home. One or two people who did not know him also came running to find out what the matter was.

‘He’s a Hindu. He shouldn’t be here,’ they were told.

‘Certainly not. He should leave,’ agreed the newcomers.

But he had not come here to be sent home! As they prodded his back lightly, tugged at his hand and were all set to send him off in the rickshaw, Suronjon jerked his hand away. He pulled it away rather roughly, indeed.

Sudhamoy wanted to simply lie flat in bed but was not able to. He was restless. And of course, Suronjon had to choose this time to go out! After he left there were a few gentle knocks on the door. Sudhamoy leapt out of bed thinking that perhaps Suronjon was back. It wasn’t Suro but Akhtarujjaman. He was a retired professor, more than sixty years old. He came into the room and made sure he bolted the door.

‘Nothing’s happened, has it?’ asked Akhtarujjaman, in a low voice.

‘No, what could’ve happened?’ said Sudhamoy, as he fixed his eyes on the table, bed and books in his room.

Akhtarujjaman pulled a chair and sat down. He suffered from cervical spondylitis, and so held his neck erect as he spoke: ‘You know the Babri Masjid situation—there’s nothing left. What a shame!’ His eyes darted around the room.

‘Hm.’

‘How come you’re not saying anything? Are you supporting it?’ asked Akhtarujjaman.

‘Why should I support it?’

‘Why aren’t you saying anything?’

‘Bad people have done something awful. What can I do except feel sad?’

‘To think that this happened in a secular state! Shame! Shame! All the positions taken by the state, all the political pronouncements, the Supreme Court, the Lok Sabha, the political parties, their democratic tradition—all these are but hollow words! Sudha babu, you have to admit that there have been many more riots in India; we’ve had very few in comparison.’

‘Hm. Yes, after 1964 the big riot was in 1990.’

‘It’s best to say 1950 and not ’64. The riots that happened after ’50 were characterized by a spontaneous resistance to communalism. Manik Miyan, Johur Hussain Chowdhury and Abdus Salam took the initiative to ensure that every newspaper had banner headlines saying “Resist, O East Pakistan!” The fifty-year-old Amir Hussain Chowdhury lost his life because he went to protect his Hindu neighbours. Poor man!’

Sudhamoy felt the pain in his chest grow sharper. He lay down on his bed. A cup of hot tea would have revived him. But who would get him some tea? Kironmoyee was worried about Suronjon. He had gone out alone. It would have been better if he had gone with Hyder. Sudhamoy too was now infected by Kironmoyee’s anxiety. He knew that Suronjon had always been intensely emotional and that it wasn’t possible to keep him off the streets, yet he could not quell his worries with logic. He hid them deep inside and went back to what he had been discussing with Akhtarujjaman. ‘Apparently peace is the ultimate goal of all religions but even at the end of this century we continue to see how religion is the cause of much strife, bloodshed and disgrace among human beings. Nothing but the flag of religion can crush human beings and humane emotions so completely.’

‘Hm,’ said Akhtarujjaman.

Kironmoyee came in carrying two cups of tea. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked Sudhamoy. ‘Is it hurting? Is the pain more than before? Maybe you should take your sleeping pills.’ She put the cups down on the table and sat on the bed.

‘Boudi, you don’t wear conch-shell bangles and sindoor, do you?’ queried Akhtarujjaman.

‘No, not since 1975,’ said Kironmoyee, lowering her eyes.

‘That’s a relief! But be careful, all the same. One can never be too careful.’

Kironmoyee smiled wanly. That smile found its way to Sudhamoy’s lips too. Akhtarujjaman drank his tea fast. Sudhamoy’s chest continued to hurt.

‘It’s been quite a while since I gave up wearing the dhoti
,
’ said Sudhamoy, ‘for the sake of dear life, my friend.’

‘Well, I’m off,’ said Akhtarujjaman as he put down his cup. ‘I’ll pop in on Binod babu too, I think.’

Sudhamoy stretched taut on the bed. His cup of tea lay cooling, untouched on his bedside table. With the door bolted, Kironmoyee sat facing the light, shadows playing on her face. There was a time when Kironmoyee sang kirtans
beautifully. She was the daughter of a well-known police officer of Brahmonbaria. She was married off at sixteen.

‘Sing Robindroshongeet, Kiron,’ Sudhamoy had said. ‘Let me find you a teacher.’

She took lessons from Mithun Dey for a few years. She was invited to sing at various concerts in Mymensingh. Sudhamoy recalled that Kironmoyee had once been asked to sing at the Town Hall. Suronjon was then three or four years old. There were very few singers in the city then. Kironmoyee came on stage after Somir Chondro Dey. Sudhamoy was sitting in the front row and sweating because he was not sure how she would sing.

Kironmoyee sang ‘
Anandaloke mangalaloke birajo sotyo sundaro’.
Let beauty and truth thrive in the land of well-being and happiness.

‘Once more, once more,’ screamed the audience.

She sang:

‘Bhuvaneshwaro he, mochono koro bondhon shob mochono koro he

Probhu mochon koro bhoy

Shob doinyo koroho loy

Nityo chokit chonchol chit koro nisonsoy.’

O Lord of the Universe, relieve me of all bonds

O Lord, relieve me of fear

Take away all poverty

Make my fickle and restless mind free of anxiety

She sang her heart out and even an atheist like Sudhamoy felt his eyes fill with tears.

After the Liberation, Kironmoyee was reluctant to sing in public. Sumita Naha and Mitali Mukherjee were scheduled to sing at a programme organized by Udichi, a cultural organization. Suronjon told his mother that he wanted her to sing as well.

‘I don’t practise any more and so my voice is no longer what it used to be.’ Kironmoyee laughed.

‘Please sing. What’s your problem?’ Sudhamoy asked. ‘You were quite a regular before. Many people know you. You’ve been applauded too once upon a time.’

‘Yes, I did get applause. The people who clapped were the ones who said that Hindu women have no sense of shame and that’s why they learn to sing. Then they show their bodies off in front of men.’

‘Don’t Muslim women sing?’ asked Sudhamoy, trying to calm her down.

‘They do now. However, earlier when they didn’t, we had to bear the taunts. Minoti di used to sing so well. One day she was caught by a gang of young men who accused her of planning to teach young Muslim women to sing.’

‘But teaching others to sing is a good thing to do,’ said Sudhamoy.

‘Those men said that Muslim women shouldn’t sing. Singing was a bad thing and girls would be ruined if they learnt to sing.’

‘Oh.’

Kironmoyee had stopped paying attention to her singing.

‘Kiron, you had a good voice,’ Mithun Dey said often. ‘Pity you gave up singing.’

‘Dada, it’s hard. I began to wonder why I was singing. People didn’t approve of all this singing and dancing. They would malign us.’

Finally Kironmoyee stopped singing. Sudhamoy did not insist on her continuing with her singing. But he’d say, ‘Even if you don’t sing in public, you can sing at home, can’t you?’

However, that did not happen. Sometimes in the dark of the night, when they were feeling restless and were unable to sleep, they would both go to the terrace. Their hearts would bleed for the Brahmaputra and their home that they had left behind by the river. They would stare silently at a star in the distance. Kironmoyee would hum ‘
Purano shei diner kotha bolbo ki re hay
’,
and listening to her sing ‘What shall I sing of the days gone by’, even someone like Sudhamoy, who was good at keeping his emotions in check, would feel unsettled. He too wanted to get back the playing fields of his childhood and adolescence, his schoolyard, the swelling waters of the river, and those walks by the riverside forests that took them to a world of dreams. The supposedly hard-hearted Sudhamoy would hold Kironmoyee in his arms at night and cry out loud.

Sudhamoy’s pain had no boundaries. Jogonmoy Ghoshal, Prafullo Sarkar and Netai Sen were practically killed before his eyes in 1971. They would take them to the camps and shoot them and then pile the bodies in a truck and throw them in the killing fields the next day. Whenever the Pakistanis found a Hindu, they would arrest the person and begin by kicking the prisoner with booted feet, then stab him with bayonets, tear out his eyelids and break the bones in his back; despite all this, prisoners retained the hope of being released alive. In the end they were killed. Sudhamoy had seen many Muslim prisoners being released after beatings but he had never seen Hindus being let go.

In the well in
the sweepers’ colony, they had found corpses of Hindus and Muslims all heaped together. After the country was liberated, on the day that thousands and thousands of bones were dug out of the well, the relatives of Majed, Rahim, Idris and others had thrown themselves on those piles of bones and cried loudly. Was anyone able to say if a particular bone had been that of Majed and another of Anil?

Sudhamoy’s broken leg had healed and so had three broken ribs; the wound of his sliced-off penis had healed too but the wounds deep inside were raw and his tears had not dried. Was staying alive something really significant? He was physically alive, yes, but Sudhamoy did not feel that his return from the camp was a return to the world of the living. He had lived in a bamboo hut for seven long months, calling himself Abdus Salam in Arjukhila village in Phulpur. Suronjon became Saber. And Sudhamoy cringed in shame when a roomful of people addressed Kironmoyee as Fatema. His broken ribs certainly hurt his chest, but the pain of Kironmoyee’s transformation to Fatema rankled much deeper.

The soldiers of the Liberation,
muktijoddhas
, came to Phulpur in December and the whole village broke out into cries of ‘Joy Bangla’ and danced with joy. And Sudhamoy called out that beloved name that he had not been able to use during those long seven months.

‘Kiron, Kiron, Kironmoyee,’ he had called out, again and again.

The fires of anguish that had burnt in him for so long were finally cooled. This was Sudhamoy’s ‘Joy Bangla’. It was the freedom to boldly call out Kironmoyee’s real name before thousands of people that signified ‘Joy Bangla’.

Kironmoyee and Sudhamoy were startled by the harsh knocks on the door. Horipodo stood outside—Horipodo Bhattacharya. Sudhamoy’s pain had gone down a bit after he had placed a Nificard tablet under his tongue, closed his eyes and lain down.

Sudhamoy sat up when he saw Horipodo.

‘Are you ill? You’re looking pale.’

‘Yes, Horipodo. I haven’t been well for a few days. I haven’t checked my blood pressure either.’

‘I would’ve brought my BP machine if only I’d known!’

‘Look at us! Suronjon decided to go out when things are like this!’ exclaimed Kironmoyee. ‘But how could you come?’

‘I took a shortcut. Avoided the main road.’

No one spoke for some time.

‘In Dhaka today, they are protesting the destruction of the Babri Masjid,’ said Horipodo, as he took off his shawl. ‘There are peace marches too. The political parties and various other organizations have asked people to preserve communal harmony. The cabinet has appealed to the people to be restrained and tolerant. Sheikh Hasina too has said that communal harmony must be maintained at all costs. Two hundred and twenty-three people have died in riots in India. There’s curfew in forty towns. The communal groups have been banned and Narasimha Rao has vowed that the Babri Masjid will be rebuilt.’

After saying all this, Horipodo sat with a sombre expression.

‘Have you taken any decisions? Will you continue to stay here?’ he asked. ‘I don’t think it’s wise to stay here. I’d thought of going to my in-laws’ at Manikganj. However, my eldest brother-in-law came here this morning and said that nearly a hundred houses have been pillaged and burnt in the Manikganj and Ghior thana areas. Twenty-five
temples were burnt down, and also the Hindu houses in Bokjhuri village. And Deben Shor’s daughter Saraswati was dragged out of their house by a gang of eight or ten men and raped.’

‘What are you saying?’ yelled Sudhamoy.

‘Where’s your daughter?’

‘Maya has gone to a friend’s house.’

‘Muslims, I hope.’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s fine,’ said Horipodo with a sigh of relief.

Kironmoyee felt relieved too.

‘Actually, it’s just here that we have riots and tension,’ Sudhamoy said, as he polished his glasses. ‘I’d never seen riots in Mymensingh. Horipodo, have you heard about anything going wrong in our Mymensingh?’

‘I heard that last night in the village of Bathuadi in the Phulpur thana, they burnt two temples, and also the place for community festivals. In Trishal they’ve destroyed a Kali temple.’

‘Well, surely there are no disturbances in the city. There’s very little of such stuff going on in the northern parts of our country. In our parts, Kironmoyee, have we ever heard of instances of temples being burnt?’

‘The office for the community Durga Puja in North Brook Hall Road, the image of the goddess Kali in the house of the zamindars,
and the temple have all been destroyed. Today they have ravaged the Jolkhabar sweet shop in Shantinagar, and the Shatarupa store, and set fire to them. In the dead of the night, men from the Jamaat camp destroyed six temples in Kushtia. And the news from Chittagong, Sylhet, Bhola, Sherpur, Cox’s Bazar and Noakhali is making me very afraid.’

‘What are you afraid of?’ asked Sudhamoy.

‘An exodus.’

‘Oh no, we will never have that kind of a riot in this country.’

‘Don’t you remember 1990, Dada? Or didn’t you find that significant?’

‘That was an event staged by the Ershad government.’

‘How can you possibly say that, Dada! Please look at the data of the Bangladesh Bureau of Statistics. The exodus this time will be terrible. People don’t leave their homeland simply because governments stage events. One’s native land is not like the soil we put in flowerpots, where we pour water and fertilizer and then change the soil after an interval. Dada, I’m scared. My son is studying in Calcutta. My daughters are both here. They are not children but young women. I spend sleepless nights worrying about them. I think we’ll leave.’

Sudhamoy was stung. ‘Are you crazy, Horipodo?’ he said, as he whipped his glasses off his face. ‘Never ever say such inauspicious things.’

‘Yes, I have a good practice. I’m making enough money. I have my own house. That’s what you’ll tell me, right?’