Shame: A Novel

by Taslima Nasrin

  Suranjan stayed stretched out on the bed closing his eyes. Giving him a nudge, Maya said, "Just tell me if you're leaving the bed or or not. Baba and Ma are depending solely on you."

  Slowly stretching himself, Suranjan said, "Go wherever you like. I'm not going to budge an inch from this house."

  "What about Baba and Ma?"

  "Can't say."

  "If anything happens?"

  "Like what?"

  "Take, for instance, the house being looted or even set on fire."

  "Let'em do what they like."

  "And you intend to sit unmoved even after that?"

  "No, I'll prefer lying down as now."

  Suranjan lit a cigarette on an empty stomach. He felt like having a cup of tea. Kiranmayee used to give him his morning cup of tea every day; but today was an exception. Who could give him a cup of steaming hot tea at this time? It was pointless to convey the request to Maya. The girl was thinking of nothing else but escaping from here. Asking her at this moment for a cup of tea was to invite a strong retort with a sharp rise in her voice. It was not that he couldn't make tea for himself, but he was feeling too indolent for such an exercise. The TV was on in the next room. The idea of watching the CNN telecasts on the TV with goggle-eyed wonder didn't appeal to him. From that room, Maya kept on announcing every now and then, "Dada is still in bed going through newspapers with a 'couldn't care less' sort of attitude."

  It was, however, not true that Suranjan was unaware of the gravity of the situation. He clearly could visualize that any time a horde of people might force their way into their house in a sudden burst. Some of the faces would be familiar, some unknown. They would ransack the house, loot all the movables and, as a grand finale to their retreat, set the house aflame. In the circumstances, if he asked for shelter from Kamal or Hyder, none of the them would elude his request with the plea of a shortage of space. But he felt ashamed to make such a request. He could hear Maya's shout, "If you don't make a move, I'll fend for myself. I'd better take shelter in my friend Parul's house. It doesn't seem Dada will take any initiative. Maybe he has lost the will to live, but I haven't lost mine."

  Whatever might have been the reason, Maya had conjectured at any rate that this time Suranjan wouldn't make a move for their protection. That was why she was thinking of her own safety alone. The expression "safety" pained Suranjan.

  Nor was there any safety in October of 1990. A crowd of maniacs had burned down the ancient Hindu temple of Dhakeshwari. The police remained inactive, not offering the slightest resistance. The fire destroyed the pivotal temple. The arsonists didn't spare the adjoining structures of the pillar-supported entry hall, the Shiva temple, guest house for the temple visitors, even the ancestral home of Sridam Ghosh located by its side. In the same way they destroyed the central temple of the Goudian monastery, assembly hall and the guest house. Before this orgy of destruction, how ever, they hadn't forgotten to loot from within the temple whatever could be removed. In the same way they destroyed the temple of another Hindu religious sect, the Maddhwa Goudya monastery. On the other side, the Jaikali temple was smashed up. The room within the boundary wall of the Brahmo Samaj was demolished with bombs. The ornate throne of the deities in the Ram-Sita temple was pulled down. The main hall, too, was devastated. The monastery at Nayabazar, fell in this trail of rage as well. The temple at Banagram was laid waste with the use of pickaxes. Seven Hindu shops at the entry point of Shankharibazar were plundered first, then set ablaze. Nothing from the rows of shops like Shila Bitan, Soma traders, a hairdressing salon, a tire shop, a laundry, Mita Marble, Saha Cabin, a restaurant and so on could escape the sack. This tornado of destruction reached such a level of fury at the crossing of Shankharibazar that later nothing but rubble could be seen as far as the eye could see. The Shani temple at Demra was looted. Several hundred communal fanatics ransacked some twenty-five households. They destroyed everything within the inner sanctum of the Birbhadra temple at Demra after smashing the temple wall. Flames consumed the umbrella and gold shops on Islampur Road. The famous sweetmeat shop of Maranchand on Nababpur Road was completely destroyed together with the one bearing the same name at Purana Paltan. The image of the goddess at the Kali temple at Rayer Bazar was broken to pieces by hurling it on the ground. At Sutrapur, all the Hindu-owned shops were looted and destroyed first and then their signboards were replaced by new ones proclaiming their Muslim ownership. A variation on this pattern occurred at the sweetmeat shop of Ghosh and Sons at Nababpur Road, where after the cus tomary looting, a banner in the name of the Nababpur Youth Union Club was hung outside, announcing the transfer of ownership. The Bat tali temple at Thatari Bazar was plundered. The long list of destruction also included the old shop of Ramadhan Pashari at Nababpur, the sweetmeat shop of Shuklal at Babubazar within a stone's throw of a police outpost, the shop of Jatin and Co. and its adjoining factory, a portion of the historical snake temple, and Ratan Sarkar market at the crossing of Sadar Ghat. One by one all these horrendous scenes of wanton devastation and plunder kept on rushing up in Suranjan's mind. Could it be called a riot? Could this chain of terrible incidents of wanton violence witnessed during October 1990 be identified as such? The riot, as he understood, meant a free-for-all between two sides or between members of two communities. But this couldn't be described as a riot. What he had seen was an unabashed attack by the members of one community on members belonging to another community. Rather a one-way torrent of torment and torture. The sun's rays peeping through the window reached Suranjan's forehead. It was the soft winter sun, its rays couldn't produce the burning sensation on the skin. He again felt the thirst for a cup of tea while lying on the bed.

  Sudhamay could still conjure up those scenes. All his uncles and aunts were leaving this land one after the other. The Phulberia-bound train started from Mymensingh Junction station. The coal-fired steam engine, after emitting billowing sooty smoke which shrouded the sky, sent out a long whistleblow followed by a heart-rending, doleful wail from those passengers leaving their ancestral homes for the last time. Neighbors, too, were leaving, re minding his father, Sukumar, "This country has now turned into a homeland for the Muslims. We have no security in our lives here."

  A principled man, Sukumar Dutta replied, giving forceful expression to his conviction: "If I don't feel secure in the place of my birth, then where else on earth can I expect security? Go if you want. I'll never leave my ancestral home. Leaving rows of coconut and betel nut trees, extensive paddy land, the residence sprawling over two-thirds of an acre, I'll never opt to be a penniless refugee on the Sealdah Station. It's a repulsive idea." Sudhamay was just nineteen then. His college pals, too, were leaving for good before his eyes with identical warnings, "You just see, your father will have to repent later for his doggedness." But Sudhamay, too, had, by that time, picked up the same strain of his father's convictions. He said, "Why should I leave for another country, leaving my own land? I'll live or die on this very land." Even in 1947, the college presented a virtually deserted look. Those who hadn't left were also biding their time. Sudhamay went through the college along with some poor Hindu boys still living there and a handful of Muslim boys to pursue his further studies at Lytton Medical College.

  In 1952, he was a vibrant youth of twenty-four. The Dhaka roads had become crowded with slogans demanding Bengali as the state language. Excitement was running high all over the country. Voices of protest had been raised by the bold and conscious Bengali youths against Muhammad All Jinnah's decision to enforce Urdu as the state language for Pakistan. Holding aloft the demand for the implementation of Bengali as the state language, these youths had straightened their bent spines, defying police firing on them, treading the blood-soaked streets, remaining firm in their resolute assertion. Sudhamay, his spirit bubbling with fervor, had lent his voice to the "We want Bengali" slogan standing at the van of the processions. He was a member of the huge crowd of protest marchers out of which bullets fired by the police killed Rafique, Salam, Barkat and Jabbar. He, too,
could have been the target of a bullet. He also could have been one of the immortal martyrs of the country.

  Sudhamay hadn't sat idle during the turbulent days of the mass movement of 1969. Ignoring the menace of the trigger-happy policemen of General Ayub Khan, the Bengalis pressed their eleven-point charter of demands; nothing could keep the Bengalis at that time from the protest marches. He had been one of the the pallbearers of the police firing victim, Alamgir Mansur Mintu. The sorrow-benumbed participants of this funeral procession on the streets of Mymensingh had clenched their fists once again in an affirmation of their movement against the military rulers of Pakistan.

  The costly mistake of dividing the country on the basis of a "two-nation theory" had been proved repeatedly in the united movement of the two communities in the country during the language movement of 1952, the elections of 1954, the educational stir in 1962, the agitation for the realization of a six-point charter of demands in 1966, the anti-Agartala Conspiracy case movement in 1968, the general election of 1970 and finally the Liberation War of 1971. Indian National Congress leader Moulana Abul Kalam Azad had said: "It is one of the greatest frauds on the people to suggest that religious affinity can unite areas which are geographically, economically, linguistically and culturally different. It is true that Islam sought to establish a society which transcended racial, linguistic, economic, and political frontiers. History, however, proved that after the first few decades or, at most, after the first century, Islam was unable to unite all the Muslim countries on the basis of Islam alone."

  Jinnah, too, was aware of the hollowness of his own "two-nation theory." He disagreed with Mountbatten's plan to divide Bengal and Punjab, as he himself said: "A man is a Punjabi or a Bengali before he is Hindu or Muslim. They share a common history, language, culture and economy. You will cause endless bloodshed and trouble."

  The Liberation War of 1971 was the climax of all the "bloodshed and trouble" the Bengalis had witnessed between 1947 and then. The freedom earned at the price of three million people's blood had underscored once again that religion could never be the basis of nationhood. Language, culture, and history could be the only pillars for founding a nation. True, the religious affinity between the Punjabi Muslims and Bengali Muslims once led to the creation of Pakistan. Yet the Bengalis of this same land showed up the concept of two separate nations on the basis of the separate religious identity of Hindus and Muslims to demonstrate that they had never compromised with the Muslims of West Pakistan.

  In 1971, Sudhamay was a doctor at S.K. Hospital at Mymensingh. He was quite busy whether at home or away. In the afternoons, he was a private medical practitioner in a medicine shop at Swadeshbazar. Kiranmayee had a sixmonth-old child to nurse; Suranjan, the eldest son, was then twelve. Sudhamay had plenty of responsibilities; he had to look after the hospital almost single-handedly. If time permitted, he would go to the shop of his friend Sharif to talk. It was either March 8 or 9. They had heard the clarion call of Sheikh Mujibur at the massive rally on the Dhaka Race Course grounds on March 7. At midnight the rally participants Sharif, Bablu, Faizul and Nemai knocked at the door of Sudhamay's Brahmo Palli residence. Sheikh Mujibur had declared: "If a single bullet is fired, and if my people are killed, then it's my request to you to convert each of your homes into a fortress and fight back the enemy with whatever is handy. This is the struggle to achieve liberation, this is the struggle for freedom." Their voices were trembling with excitement. Thumping on the table, they said, "Sudha'da, now something will have to be done." Sudhamay, too, realized that merely sitting wouldn't be of any help. Then on that dark night of March 25, when the men of the Pakistani army pounced on the Bengalis, there came another knock on the door of Sudhamay's house. They said in whispers, "Now is the time for going to war. There's no way out." He had his hands full with family responsibilities. Nor was he any longer a fit age for direct combat. Still, he couldn't concentrate on his hospital duties. He paced up and down the corridor. Off and on, he was overcome by a strong impulse to go to war. He said to Kiranmayee, "Would you be able to run the household, do you think, if I went somewhere else?" Kiranmayee turned cold with fear and replied, "Let's go to India; many from our neighborhood are going away." Sudhamay, too, had noticed the exodus of 1947 being repeated as Sukanta Chatterjee, Nirmalendu Bhowmik, Ranjan Chakravarty, all were leaving. He considered them to be cowards. Nemai told Sudhamay one day, "Pakistani army men are moving around the town. They're arresting only the Hindus. Come, let's also escape." The strength of confidence that his father had in 1947 surged into Sudhamay's voice. He told Nemai, "Go if you want to. Anyway, I'm not fleeing. We'll free the country after eliminating the Pakistani curse." It was decided that leaving his family members in the house of Faizul in Phulpur village, he would set out in the direction of Nalitabari along with Sharif, Bablu and Faizul. But he was entrapped by the Pakistani army men. He had gone out to buy a lock at Chaarpara crossing. That was to move out his family members on a buffalo cart under the cover of darkness after locking up the house. His chest was heaving in excitement and emotion. The town had the stillness of the graveyard, roads presenting a deserted look. A few shops had lowered their shutters just halfway. Suddenly they intercepted him, shouting, "Halt." There were three of them. Pulling the collar of his shirt from behind with a sudden jerk, they asked in their language, "What's your name-"

  Sudhamay was at a loss what to say. In a flash he remembered their neighbors' suggestion to his wife about changing their identity with Muslim-sounding names like Fatima or Akhtar. Sudhamay thought his Hindu name was sure to spell disaster at this moment. Besides forcing his own name into oblivion, he did the same to his father Sukumar Dutta and grandfather Jyotirmay Dutta's names. He was startled by his own voice when he revealed his name as Sirajuddin Hussain. Hearing the name, one of the interceptors commanded in a gruff voice, "Drop your lungi." Sudhamay did not, but they pulled down his lungi. Only then did it dawn on him what prompted his friend Nemai, Sudhangshu and Ranjan to flee from their homes.

  Many Hindus had left the country immediately after the partition of India. The border on the other side was then open for the escaping Hindus after the land was split up for the emergence of two countries, India and Pakistan, on a communal basis. The rich and educated middle class left in droves. The census report of 1981 gave the number of Hindus in the country as over 10.5 million, which came to about 12.1 percent of the country's total population. Twelve years after that, the figure must have been at least 20 million or even more. The official figures, however, always played down the number of Hindus. Sudhamay's guess was that about 20 percent of the population in this country consisted of Hindus. In 1901, the percentage of Hindus in East Bengal was 33. The number dropped to 31.5 in 1911 and in the continuing process of decline went further down to 30.6 in 1921, 29.4 in 1931 and 28 in 1941. Within forty-one years before the partition of India, the percentage of Hindus was reduced by five. But the decade following the partition, the percentage of Hindus went down from 28 percent to 22 percent. In ten years there had been a greater reduction in the number of Hindus than there had been in the previous forty years. During the Pakistani regime, the migration of Hindus from the country continued unabated. In 1961, their percentage fell to 18.5 and in 1974, 13.5. Only after Bangladesh achieved independence was the hemorrhaging of Hindus from the country somewhat stanched, with the rate of decline coming close to that of the prepartition period. If they were 13.5 percent of the population in 1974 and 12.1 in 1981, then it must be conceded that the number of Hindus leaving their homes had declined. But which year did this figure remain at the low level? How long could this be expected to con tinue, especially after the troubles in the years leading to the 1990 riots and now this in 1992?

  Sudhamay felt a sharp pain on the left side of his chest. It was the return of the pain that he had suffered earlier. The back of his head was throbbing. Perhaps, his blood pressure had shot up. The telecast was being switched off when CNN referred to the Babri mosque. Sudhamay guessed that the
government was being gracious to spare the Hindus from being pounced upon by the excited mobs. But the people, who were used to attacking the Hindus on the slightest pretext, would they wait for the CNN telecast scenes? Sudhamay lay down clasping the left side of his chest. Maya was still moving restlessly through the rooms and the verandah. She was frantically seeking to get away from the house. She could not do that unless Suranjan made a move. Sudhamay gazed helplessly at the sunwashed verandah. Maya's shadow was getting longer. Kiranmayee sat still as if the distressed look in her eyes were silently seeking to leave the place in order to survive. But where would Sudhamay go, abandoning his home? Age had consumed much of the earlier physical fitness that sent him running to take part in any protest rally or place him in the front rank of any movement launched against the Pakistani rulers. He couldn't be restricted by his family commitments. But he lacked that strength now. He believed that in the secular Bangladesh, the Hindus would be enjoying political, economic, social and religious freedoms. But slowly, the thin veneer of secularism fell off the state structure. The state religion of the country was now Islam. The fundamentalists who had opposed the Liberation War in 1971 and ducked underground after the country was free, were now emerging from their hideouts. It was they who moved about with unconcealed hauteur, and organized meetings and processions openly. They were the people who ransacked, looted and burned down the Hindu temples, houses, shops and establishments. Sudhamay lay down and closed his eyes. He didn't know what would happen this time. The demented Hindu fanatics had pulled down the Babri mosque. The Hindus of Bangladesh would now have to expiate their sins. The minorities like Sudhamay in Bangladesh couldn't avoid the vengeful claws of the fundamentalist Muslims in 1990. How would they be able to dodge the same murderous attacks this time also? Again people like Sudhamay would have to find a rat hole sort of shelter. But why? Only because they were Hindus? For the demolition of the Babri mosque by some other Hindus in another country? Why should that onus of destruction devolve on Sudhamay? He again looked at Maya and her constantly moving shadow, flitting to and fro, disappearing as soon as Maya entered the room.The shadow of fear had darkened her otherwise soft, lovely face. Her voice suddenly rang out, with rather emphatic loudness, "Then you rot here. I am leaving."