Shame: A Novel

by Taslima Nasrin

  The sight of Suranjan strolling freely shocked the people who knew him. They advised him to go back home, warning him of the impending danger.

  Suranjan said nothing to them; he felt extremely embarrassed. Why should he, being Suranjan Dutta, be advised to return home and remain there, while Kaisar, Latif, Belal and Shaheen could move unhindered, discuss the incidents, and join processions against communalism? Was Suranjan not as conscientious, free-thinking, rational as they were? He bought a single cigarette, lit it from the coir rope at the shop's side with one end burning for precisely this purpose and leaned against a wall with utter nonchalance. He felt himself totally isolated, even in the midst of people, many of them known to or even intimate with him, as if he alone had been barred from discussing the Babri mosque demolition, heatedly debating the fallout from the incident in this country. Despite his eagerness to participate in the talk swirling around him, he couldn't. Something was restricting him. Suranjan could realize everyone was keeping him out, pitying him, not accepting him as an equal. He took a long puff on the cigarette and threw out a smoke ring. In the midst of the bubbling excitement around him, he allowed his weight to rest on the wall. Many people were vaguely staring at him. They were surprised at his cheek in coming out when all the Hindus had holed themselves up in fright.

  Kaisar melted into a group of people. A procession was being formed. Journalists were running to and fro with their bags and cameras. Suranjan found Lutfar among them, yet didn't feel like calling to him. But noticing him, Lutfar himself came forward. In wide-eyed surprise, he asked, "Dada, you are here?"

  "Why? Shouldn't I be?"

  Anxiety was writ large on Lutfar's face. He again asked, "I hope there wasn't any problem at your home?" Lutfar's way of talk had an avuncular shade. This Suranjan could guess. Previously he had been rather the shy type. He had always been quite humble and excessively polite while talking with Suranjan without looking at his eyes. He got a job at the newspaper Ekata (Unity) on the recommendation of Suranjan to the paper's editor. Lutfar lit up an imported expensive cigarette. Coming close to him, he said, "Suran- janda, have you experienced any inconvenience?"

  "What sort of inconvenience?" Suranjan asked, smiling.

  Lutfar was visibly shocked at Suranjan's casualness. He said, "You know how it is, Dada. I mean, the state of the country." Suranjan crushed the cigarette under his foot. Lutfar's voice, generally low, sounded unusually loud to him. Blowing out cigarette smoke, Lutfar said, frowning at him, "Dada, you better stay in some other house today. Staying at your home won't be the right thing for the present. Can't you make arrangements to stay for two nights in some Muslim house in your neighborhood?"

  Suranjan stared at the coir rope with a fiery tail and said "No" in a detached voice.

  "No, you say?" Lutfar appeared to be worried. Suranjan could sense Lutfar was trying to be his custodian. Anyone now could emerge as his guardian angel and give him unsolicited advice: "Better hide yourself elsewhere rather than stay at home. Don't venture out of your house for a few days. Never give out your real identity. Come out only when the situation begins to return to normal." Suranjan wanted to light another cigarette. But the urge died then and there at Lutfar's grave didactic tone. He could feel the pinch of cold. Folding his arms across his chest, he observed the green and deeper green colors of trees. He had always enjoyed the wintertime. Homemade cakes in the morning, the warmth of the sun-baked quilt at night, ghost stories told by his mother-this chain of thoughts gave a thrilling feeling to Suranjan.

  Standing in front of Lutfar, a bearded youth with a bag hanging from his shoulder started giving a grisly commentary on the extent of devastation: Crowds of people marching in procession were throwing brickbats, looting Dhakeshwari temple, Siddeshwari Kali temple, Ramkrishna Mission, Mahaprakash monastery, Narinda Goudiya monastery, the hermitage of the saint Bholagiri. Swamibag hermitage has been plundered. Twenty-five houses in Shanir Akhra had been looted and subsequently burned down. Rishipara at Narinda and Jelepara at Narinda had not been spared either. Maranchand's sweetmeat shops at Farmgate, Paltan and Nababpur, the Desh- bandhu sweet shop at Tikatuli, too, had been looted, smashed and set on fire in this dance of violence. The temple at Thataribazar was in flames.

  Emitting a deep sigh of regret, Lutfar said, "Oh."

  Suranjan listened with his ears open to the deep sigh of Lutfar. He had no idea what he should do now. Should he stay planted where he was, take part in the procession now being formed or just escape? Sit alone in a deep jungle, bereft of friends and relatives? The youth with the bag disappeared in a group. Lutfar, too, was almost making a move the same way. He was unnerved by Suranjan's expressionless features.

  Everywhere muffled tension could be felt. He wanted to participate in the talks about destruction of houses and temples, about arson and looting. He wished he could speak out spontaneously: "These religionists should be whipped to put an end to their insanity. They are, in fact, the greatest frauds and deceivers." But he couldn't do that. Everybody was looking at him with sidewise glances, pitying him. They were giving the impression that it was not at all safe for him to stay here any longer, as if he were not fit to stay here, or get worked up like them, or take part in their procession. Till the other day, he had been an artful speaker on the stage or talking circles around everyone on the topics of language, culture; yet an invincible power had kept him tongue-tied. Nor was anyone asking him to say anything or lodge a strong protest.

  Detaching himself from the crowd, Kaisar came forward forward and whispered to Suranjan, "People are gathering at Baitul Mokarram where a meeting against the demolition of the Babri mosque is about to begin. It's better for you to go home."

  "Won't you go?" asked Suranjan.

  Kaisar said, "Well, no. Won't I have to make arrangements for taking out a procession for the communal harmony?"

  Two other youths, Lyton and Mahatab, were behind Kaisar. They, too, said, "Speaking frankly, we are asking you to leave this place for your safety. We have heard that the sweet shop 'Jal Khabar' has been set on fire. Incidents have occurred in nearby areas. Can you think what'll happen if they spot you? Mobs armed with daggers, clubs and large choppers are openly roaming around."

  Kaisar called a rickshaw with the idea of sending him away. But Lutfar intervened, pulling his hand, saying, "Come, Dada, go home straightaway. I wonder what made you come out at this time."

  Many others were equally eager to force Suranjan back home. Even those who didn't know him came rushing to know what the matter was. His friends explained that being a Hindu, he was not safe here. Everyone nodded affirmatively. Yes, he should leave immediately. But Suranjan hadn't come out to be forced to go home. Suranjan pulled himself away as soon as they were coaxing him toward the rickshaw. He wrenched his hand free from their grip.

  Sudhamay wanted to stretch himself fully, yet he couldn't. He was restless. The thought that Suranjan had gone out at this time troubled him. After he had left, there were cautious knocks on the door. Sudhamay jumped out of his bed thinking Suranjan had come back. Not, it was not him, but Akhtaruzzaman, a retired professor over sixty years old, their neighbor. Entering the room, the professor put the latch on himself. He asked in a muffled voice, "I hope nothing is wrong?"

  "No, what will happen?" Sudhamay said nodding his head, casting his glance over the bed at the table and the books lying on top.

  Akhtaruzzaman pulled up a chair. Suffering from cervical spondilitis, he said, moving his eyeballs back and forth but keeping his neck straight, "Don't you know what's happened to the Babri mosque? Nothing is left. What a shame!"

  Sudhamay emitted an indistinct sound.

  "Why don't you say anything? Are you supporting this?"

  "Why should I support it?"

  "Then why are you keeping mum?"

  "Evil people have done evil work. All I can do is feel very sorry about the whole thing."

  "If such things are allowed to happen in a secular state, what a shame! The entire national
ethos, all those political announcements, Supreme Court, Parliament, democratic tradition-all bunkum. Whatever you may say, Sud- hababu, compared to the spate of riots in India, virtually nothing like that has happened in this country."

  "Yes, since 1964, this is the first large-scale riot here."

  "It is better to say 1950, rather than '64. The most positive feature of the '64 riot was the spontaneous resistance of the people to communalism. The day the riots began, all the dailies under the initiative of Manik Mia, Jahur Hussain Chowdhury and Abdus Salam carried the headline, 'EAST PAKISTAN, RESIST THIS MADNESS.' In his bid to save a neighboring Hindu family, 55-year-old Amir Hussain Chowdhury sacrificed his own life. Oh ho."

  Sudhamay felt the intensity of the pain in his chest all the more. He leaned on the divan. He would have felt somewhat better with a cup of hot tea. But who would serve it? Kiranmayee was worried to the breaking point for Suranjan. Why did he have to go out alone? It would have been better to take Hyder with him. Her worries infected Sudhamay. Suranjan had always been highly emotional; he could never be held back at home. Sudhamay was quite aware of the nature of his son, but his worries could hardly be comforted by such thoughts.

  He returned to the topic raised by Akhtaruzzaman: "It is said that peace is the basic tenet of all religion Yet it is in the name of religion that there has been so much distur bance, bloodshed and persecution. It is indeed a pity that even at the close of the twentieth century we've had to witness such atrocities because of religion. Flying the flag of religion has always proved the easiest way to crush to nothingness human beings as well as the spirit of humanity."

  Akhtaruzzaman replied with a noncommittal muffled sound.

  Kiranmayee came in with two cups of tea. "Has your chest pain increased or will you have sedatives?" she asked, placing the cups on the divan.

  Akhtaruzzaman said to her, "Boudi, you don't wear sanka and sindur, do you?"

  Kiranmayee looked down and answered, "Not since 1975."

  "Thank God! At least you can be sure of your safety. It's better to be safe than sorry."

  Kiranmayee smiled a wan smile. Simultaneously, a similar smile appeared on Sudhamay's lips. Akhtaruzzaman drank his tea in quick gulps. Sudhamay's chest pain remained. He said, "I gave up my dhoti, too, quite some time back. For the sake of dear life, my friend."

  Akhtaruzzaman put down his cup and said, "I'll be off now. I think I will check up on Binod-babu before I get back"

  After the professor had gone, Sudhamay lay back on his bed. His tea, which he had not touched, cooled on the table. Kiranmayee shut the door and sat down. Her back was to the light and her face was covered in shadow. There was a time when Kiranmayee sang devotional songs. She was the daughter of a well-known police officer in Brah- manharia and had been married at sixteen. After they were married, Sudhamay had encouraged her to learn Rabindra Sangeet. And she had, in fact, taken lessons for a while, from Mithun Dey. Soon she had become such a good singer that she was often asked to sing in public, in Mymensingh, for there was only a handful of talented singers in town. Sudhamay recalled one incident, when she was to sing at the town hall. Suranjan was only three or four years old. Sudhamay had begun to sweat with nervousness as Kiranmayee's turn to take the stage came after Samir Chandra Dey sang. Kiranmayee sang a Tagore song, Anan- doloke Mongolalake Birajo Satya Sundara (0 beautiful truth, take your piece forever in the land of bliss). The audience shouted, "One more, one more!" Kiranmayee next sang: Bhubaneshwar hey Mochon Koro... (0 Lord of this World, remove all shackles. Oh remove, 0 Lord, remove all fear, eradicate all weakness, make my ever fickle, restless mind free of all doubts). She had put so much feeling into her rendition of the song that tears welled up in the eyes even of an atheist like Sudhamay. Kiranmayee, however, was averse to singing publicly after independence. Suranjan would sometimes implore his mother to sing, exhorting her by dropping the names of other singers in the same function, like Sumita Naha or Mitali Mukherjee. Kiranmayee would laugh away all his importunities on the pretext of her lack of practice and loss of confidence. But Sudhamay would keep at her: "What keeps you from going? You had once been known as a good singer, received plenty of applause."

  "That's true. But the very people who clapped in appreciation would denounce the Hindu girls as shameless for singing in public, showing their uncovered arms and face to unknown menfolk."

  "But don't the Muslim girls sing, too?" Sudhamay would try to counter. "They sing now. But when they didn't, all the jeering comments were aimed at us. Minatidi sang so well, yet a horde of youths accused her of spoiling the Muslim girls by giving them music lessons."

  "But there's nothing wrong in teaching music," Sudhamay had sought to argue.

  "But those chaps said it was highly indecent for the Muslim girls to learn music. Singing, so they said, was a sin, extremely harmful to their girls."

  "Oh." Sudhamay could add nothing more.

  Kiranmayee didn't put her heart into music any more. Mithun Dey would often lament, "You had such a good voice, Kiran, yet you gave up singing."

  Kiranmayee would say, sighing deeply, "Dada, nothing appeals to me any more. What is the point in pursuing music? The people don't like the songs and dances, they call them evil."

  Her tenuous link with music was totally snapped eventually. And Sudhamay didn't insist on her continuing. Occasionally he would reproach her mildly, "If you are unwilling to sing in public, you can at least sing at home." But that was hardly feasible. On sleepless nights, both of them would climb the stairs to the roof and shed tears for Brahmaputra, for their house near the river Brahmaputra left far behind. They would stare at distant stars. Kiranmayee would hum the tune of the song Puran osei diner katha ... (The memories of those old days). Even a tough-hearted man like Sudhamay felt a jab of nostalgic pain. He, too, would want to have back the pleasant scenes of childhood, boyhood, the school courtyard, overflowing river, the joy of walking along the bridle paths, through the dense shrubberies on the riverside in the quest of his dreamland. On some nights his naturally strong mind would crack; he would sob inconsolably, hugging his wife. His mental agony knew no end. In 1971, he had suffered the trauma of seeing friends like Ja- ganmoy Ghosal, Prafulla Sarkar and Netai Sen killed before his eyes. The Pakistani army would catch hold of Hindus, shoot all of them and then dump truckloads of their bodies on the killing fields. Whenever they found Hindus, they would first torture them by kicking them with hobnailed army boots, stab them with bayonets, even gouge their eyes out or break their bones. All those various forms of torture were aimed at creating an illusion of eventual release for the entrapped people. But death was their sole rescuer. Sudhamay had seen Muslims being released after a severe thrashing, but not a single Hindu had ever come out alive after his capture. A well in the Metharpatti area choked with the bodies of both Hindus and Muslims, all victims of the Pakistani army's savagery, was discovered after the country's independence. Stacks of bones were all that was left. The relatives of Majed, Rahim, Idris and others killed by the Pakistani army hurled themselves on thousands of bones lifted from the well and wailed in grief. Those were just piles of bones; no one could distinguish the bones of Muslim Majed from those of Hindu Anil. Sudhamay's broken leg and three fractured ribs were mended. Similarly healed was the wound from his mutilated penis, but not the festering sore within caused by this emotional shock; nor did it ever dry up his invisible tears. Was survival of this holocaust a great thing? That he had happened to come out alive from the concentration camp didn't elate him with such a feeling. For seven long months he continued his existence with his identity as Abdus Salam in a thatched hut in Arjunkhila village in Fulpur, passing Suranjan off as Saber and suffering the indignity of his wife Kiranmayee being known as Fatima by the people around. This pain of calling Kiranmayee Fatima was much more excruciating than the sufferings caused by the still unhealed fractures in his chest. When in December, the freedom fighters finally liberated Fulpur amidst the people's full-throated cheers of Jai Bangla (Victory to Bengal)
, Sudhamay, after the long lapse of seven months, could call his wife by her name, so dear to him, "Kiran, Kiran, Kiranmayee." All the flames of agony burning in his heart so long were extinguished at last. That he now had the freedom to call Kiranmayee by her own home in the midst of so many people was Sudhamay's own idea of having achieved Jai Bangla.

  Both Sudhamay and Kiranmayee were suddenly jolted by the noise of sharp pounding on the door. The visitor was Haripada Bhattacharya. The pain in his chest had abated a little after the use of Niphicard tablets and stretching out on the bed with eyes closed. Haripada was almost like a family member. Seeing him, Sudhamay got up.

  "Are you feeling sick? You are looking very pale," said Haripada.

  "You are right, Haripada, not keeping well for the last few days. Haven't checked my blood pressure for quite some time."

  "Had I known earlier, I would have brought the blood pressure gauge."

  Kiranmayee said, "On top of this, Suranjan has gone out. Now you can guess what it's like. But how did you manage to come here?"

  "Made a shortcut. Did not come by the main road."

  None of them said a word for some time. Haripada removed his shawl and said, "Protests are being raised all over Dhaka today against the demolition of the Babri mosque. At the same time processions for the communal harmony are also being taken out. Different political parties and organizations have given calls for preserving communal amity. A cabinet meeting communique has given an identical call for observing restraint and showing tolerance. Awami League leader Sheikh Hasina, too, has asked for the maintenance of communal amity at any cost. In India riots have claimed 223 lives, curfew has been imposed on forty towns and cities, all the communal parties have been banned and Prime Minister Narasimpa Rao has given assurance about reconstruction of the Babri mosque."