Shame: A Novel

by Taslima Nasrin

  "How much more can I take, Dilipda? No more, please," pleaded Suranjan.

  "Are you sick, Suranjan? Your voice doesn't appear to be normal."

  "I'm not really sure."

  As Suranjan put down the telephone receiver, Pulak suggested looking up Debabrata. One by one Suranjan rang up Debabrata, Mahadeb Bhattacharyya, Asit Pal, Sajal Dhar, Madhabi Ghosh, Kuntala Chowdhury, Saral Dey, Rabindra Gupta, Nikhil Sanyal and Nirmal Sen Gupta. He wanted to know how they were. Contacts were made with acquaintances following a long break. He also felt a sort of intimacy with them.

  The phone rang. The sound of the ring was magnified into the beating of big drums in Suranjan's ears. He felt uneasy. It was a call for Pulak from Cox Bazar. After finishing the call, Pulak said, "The followers of Jamat Islam have set fire to the national flag at Cox Bazar."

  Suranjan listened to this revelation silently and was amazed at his own detachment. He should have exploded in anger at this news. But now it seemed it mattered little to him if the national flag was burned down in this manner. This was not his flag. But why was he feeling so? He reproached himself for nurturing such a feeling which made him appear small, mean and selfish in his own eyes. Yet he couldn't get over his nonchalance. He remained unmoved at the report of a flag burning. Pulak came closer to Suranjan. He said, "Don't go home today. Better stay here. No one can say what's going to happen to you once you're out. We shouldn't venture out on the roads at such a time."

  Yesterday, Lutfar gave him the same advice. But Suranjan could feel the sincere tone of Pulak's request contrasting with a subtle vanity bordering on insolence in Lutfar's voice.

  Neela sighed deeply and said, "Perhaps we won't be able to stay in this country anymore. We have not yet been harmed, but tomorrow or the day after may be different. What terrible uncertainty we all have to live with! I really feel it would be preferable to live a life of poverty than one that is so uncertain."

  Suranjan very nearly agreed with Pulak's suggestion. But thinking of Kiranmayee and Sudhamay and their mounting worries in the event of his not returning home prompted him to get up. He said, "If anything happens, let it happen. At the most I'll be a martyr at the hands of Muslims. Just an unclaimed body that will he under our national flower, Shapla. People will say, it's nothing but an accident. What do you say?" Suranjan asked, laughing. Pulak's and Neela's faces didn't reflect any smile.

  Coming out he got a rickshaw. It was just eight in the evening. He was averse to such an early return home. Pulak was a college mate. After marrying, he had nicely organized his family and household. Nothing like that had happened to Suranjan, although he kept getting older. For the last two months, he had come to know a girl named Ratna. Suranjan felt the urge to get married and settle down in life. He had thought of becoming a recluse when Parvin was married off. But Ratna had roused him somewhat from his otherwise listless life. Now he felt like setting his life on a proper course. However, he still couldn't tell Ratna that she was becoming very appealing to him. A few days after they met, Ratna asked "What are you doing now?"

  "Nothing," Suranjan replied, pouting.

  "No sort of job, business or any professional career, nothing?"

  "That's right."

  "Didn't you engage in politics? What about that?"

  "Gave it up."

  "I knew you were a member of the Communist Youth Union."

  "I don't like those things anymore."

  "Then what do you like?"

  "Just to move about, to study human nature."

  "Don't you like the trees, the river, such things?"

  "I do. But still I find man singularly absorbing. I like to unravel the knots of inherent mystery in man."

  "Do you write poems?"

  "Oh no. But I have plenty of poet friends."

  "Do you drink?"

  "Quite infrequently."

  "But you smoke cigarettes quite heavily!"

  "You may say so. But I don't have enough money to smoke as I like."

  "Smoking is injurious to the health, do you agree?"

  "I'm aware of it, but nothing can be done."

  "Why are you not married as yet?"

  "No girl liked me."

  "Absolutely no one?"

  "One, in fact, did. But she didn't take the risk ultimately."

  "Why?" •

  "She was a Muslim and I'm called a Hindu. To marry a Hindu, one doesn't have to become a Hindu. But if I went ahead, then my name would have changed to an Abdus, Saber or something like that."

  Ratna laughed at the way Suranjan put it casually. She said, "It's better not to marry; life is short, so it's better to pass through it without any ties or commitments!"

  "That's perhaps why you're not going in that direction."

  "Exactly so."

  "In one sense, it's the right decision."

  "If you also think the same way, then you and I shall make good friends."

  "But friendship has a far deeper meaning for me. Mere chance similarity between a decision or two doesn't make good friends."

  "Shall I try very hard to be your friend?"

  "Does one have to pray to earn your friendship?" Suranjan asked, laughing aloud. "Shall I be that fortunate?"

  "Do you lack confidence?"

  "No. It's not that. I have confidence in myself, but having confidence in others is a different matter."

  "Why don't you try to rely on me?"

  Suranjan was in a buoyant mood all that day. He was trying to think about Ratna again today, perhaps to drive away the gloom from his mind. That had become his practice, a sort of panacea to do away with the mental depression. How was Ratna doing now? Should he go to Azimpur to look her up? He would ask, "How are you, Ratna Mitra?" Would Ratna feel embarrassed to see him? Suranjan was undecided as to what he should do now. He could guess that Hindus were getting in touch with each other as fellow sufferers of the same terror of communalism. And certainly Ratna wouldn't be surprised. She was more likely to think that at this critical time, when Hindus were inquiring about the well-being of other Hindus and coming to each other's aid, it wouldn't be unlikely for Suranjan to go to her without the usual formalities.

  He instructed the rickshaw puller to turn in the direction of Azimpur. Ratna was not very tall; She didn't even come to Suranjan's shoulders. She had a fair round face and her eyes revealed an unfathomable sadness. Suranjan failed to comprehend this. He brought out the address written in the telephone index and searched for the house. He could not fail to trace the house.

  Ratna was not at home. Keeping the door slightly ajar, an old man asked his name.

  "Suranjan," he said.

  "But she has left Dhaka."

  "When? Where?" Suranjan felt ashamed at being so distraught and emotionally charged in making these queries.

  "Sylhet."

  "Do you have any idea when she'll be returning?"

  "No."

  What had made Ratna go to Sylhet? Official work, a sudden urge to travel, or was she running away? But the informant, sure of his Hindu identity since his name was Suranjan, certainly would not mislead him. With these thoughts swirling in his mind, Suranjan walked down Az- impur's streets. Here he was not recognized. Pedestrians wearing caps, groups of animatedly talking youths, the street teenagers, none could spot him. But if they could know who he was, if they wanted to lift him physically and deposit him in the graveyard, would he be in a position to resist them? He could hear the thumping of his heart again. Walking fast, he found he was perspiring. He wore no woolens, a chilly wind wind was piercing him through his light cotton shirt; yet his forehead was awash with beads of perspiration. He reached Palashi, walking all the way. When he arrived in Palashi he would find out how Nirmalendu Goon was passing the days. He had rented the gardener's room in the colony of the Class IV employees of the Engineer's University. Suranjan had deep respect for this ever-truthful man. As he lightly knocked on the door, it was opened widely by a girl aged about ten or twelve. With his feet on the bed, Nirmalendu Go
on was intently watching TV. Seeing Suranjan, he sang a line of a Tagore song to greet his arrival, Eso eso amar ghare eso amar ghare.

  "What's there to see on the TV?" asked Suranjan. "Why, advertisements. Sunlight battery, Zia silk sari, Peps Zel toothpaste. Hear renditions of Muslim religious songs like Hamd and Naat, see the quotations of the Koran."

  The reply sent Suranjan into peals of laughter. He said, "You spend your time in this manner? Certainly you've not gone out?"

  "A four-year-old Muslim boy lives with me. I am solely dependent on him for my survival. Yesterday I went to Ashim's place. But all along, he walked ahead of me."

  Suranjan laughed again. He asked, "You opened the door without checking who had come. What if it had been someone else?"

  Goon said, smiling, "At about two last night, some boys were planning a procession standing on the pavement outside. They were discussing what sort of slogans could be raised to denigrate the Hindus. I shouted, 'What are you doing there? Get out.' They moved away. Seeing my long mane and beard, they think I'm a Muslim, most likely a maulavi."

  "Don't you write poems?"

  "No, what's the point in writing? I've given up writing."

  "And I hear you go to a gambling den in Azimpur market at night."

  "Yes, I pass my time that way. But I haven't gone there for the last few days."

  ""W ?/" ~~ j~Y•

  "I don't get off the bed from sheer fright. It seems if I get off, they'll catch hold of me."

  "Has the TV said anything? Have they shown the temple destruction?"

  "Nothing of it. TV would rather give you the impression that this is a land of perpetual communal harmony, nothing like riots happening here. All this mischief occurs only in India."

  "Someone told me that till now, there had been some four thousand riots in India. But still, Indian Muslims are not leaving that country. But Hindus in this country have one foot in Bangladesh and the other in India. That is, Muslims in India are fighting, while the Hindus in Bangladesh are fleeing the country."

  Goon spoke gravely: "Muslims there can fight because India is a secular state. Here the fundamentalists are in power. What sort of struggle can be expected here? Here the Hindus are second-class citizens. Can second-class citizens have the guts to fight?"

  "Why don't you write about this?"

  "I feel like writing. But if I do, they will brand me as an Indian agent. I feel like writing so many things, but restrain myself from doing so. What's the point in writing?"

  Goon unmindfully watched the toy box called the television. Geeta left a cup of tea on the table. But Suranjan hardly felt any urge to drink. He was touched by the inner agony of the poet.

  Suddenly laughing, the poet said, "You are inquiring about the well-being of others. What about your own security?"

  "Well, Goonda, you often go gambling, but have you ever won?"

  "No."

  "Then why do you play?"

  "If I don't play, they start abusing me in the names of my parents, that's why I have to play."

  Suranjan burst into resounding laughter. Goon joined him. This man really could crack jokes. He could gamble in a casino in Las Vegas and suffer mosquito bites in a slum in Palashi with the same equanimity. He found nothing objectionable or irritable. He was spending his time quite merrily in this twelve-foot-by-twelve-foot room. Suranjan wondered how he could enjoy such undefiled mirth and merriment. Did he actually enjoy real happiness or did he secretly nurture a sense of grief behind his jovial facade? Or did he pass this unbearable time in laughter since he could hardly go against the tide?

  Suranjan got up. The waves of his inner sorrow were on the rise. Was this sorrow something infectious? He started walking toward Tikatuli. He wouldn't take a rickshaw. He had just five takas left. He bought cigarettes at the Palashi crossing. The shop owner looked at him as he asked for Bangla Fives. The way the man glanced at him sent Suranjan's heart pounding again. Was the man aware that he was a Hindu who could be beaten up with impunity for the demolition of the Babri mosque? Suranjan moved away quickly after buying his cigarettes. But why were such things happening to him? He came away from the shop without lighting the cigarette. Was it the fear that asking for a light might expose him as a Hindu? No one can be spotted as a Hindu from looks alone. Still, he suspected something in his gait, use of language and way of glancing that might give him away. He was startled as a dog barked at the Tikatuli crossing. He heard some boys shouting "Catch him, catch him" from behind. He looked no more in that direction. He started to run for his life. Soaked all over with perspiration, the buttons of his shirt flying open with the exertion, still he kept on running and running.

  After running to the point of exhaustion, he looked behind to find no one at his back. Had he then run for nothing? Were the shouts not actually aimed at him? Or was it just a hallucination?

  When he returned late at night, instead of calling from outside the main door, he unlocked his door and walked into his own room. Entering the room, he could hear a pathetic wail of "Oh God, oh God." He wondered for a while whether by chance some Hindu relative or guest had arrived in his house. It might be like that. Still thinking this, as he was about to enter Sudhamay's room, he was amazed to see Kiranmayee in front of a clay idol installed on a small wooden stool. Putting the loose end of her sari around her neck in the typical ritualistic manner, she was in a kneeling position crying, "Bhagaran, Bhagaran."

  Such a scene had never been witnessed in this house. This strange, unfamiliar sight so astounded Suranjan for some time that he lost all capacity to think of doing anything. He couldn't decide if he would smash the clay idol on the ground or pull up Kiranmayee's bowed head. He felt revulsion at the sight of bowed heads. Coming near, he made Kiranmayee stand on her feet. He asked, "Why are you sitting with that idol? Is the idol going to save you?"

  Kiranmayee shook with the spasms of a muffled cry. She said, "Your father's limbs are becoming paralyzed. His speech has become slurred."

  Immediately, he turned his attention to Sudhamay, who was lying on the bed. He was mumbling something which couldn't be followed. Sitting close to his father, Suranjan moved Sudhamay's arm. It was inert, devoid of strength. Suranjan felt as if his heart had been struck by the blow of an axe. One side of his grandfather's body became paralyzed in the same manner. The doctor diagnosed the condition as a cerebral stroke. He had to be given lots of medicines. A physiotherapist would exercise his inactive arms and legs. Sudhamay's eyes traveled blankly between Kiranmayee and Suranjan.

  They had no relative nearby. To whom should he go for help? They had no close relatives. All of them, one after another, had left the country. Suranjan felt absolutely alone, hard up and helpless. As the son, the entire responsibility would now devolve on him. He was the worthless son of the family. Even now, he just aimlessly roamed around with no job. His business attempts had foundered. If Sudhamay became disabled, they would have to take shelter in the streets.

  "Did Kamal or anyone look in?" He asked Kiranmayee.

  "No," said Kiranmayee, shaking her head.

  No one had cared to look up Suranjan. But he had gone around the city. Everybody was all right, barring him. No family possibly faced this much financial hardship and uncertainty. Suranjan, holding the dead arm of his father, felt deep compassion for him. Who knew whether he had deliberately decided to become dead in this hostile world?

  "Hasn't Maya returned?" Suranjan asked, jerking himself up all of a sudden.

  "No."

  "But why?" Suranjan shouted in a sudden fit of anger.

  Kiranmayee was taken aback at his vehemence. Suranjan had always been too gentle to behave like a hothead. But why had he raised his voice today? Maya's departure for Parul's place couldn't be faulted. Rather, it gave some sort of comfort. If the mob targeted this Hindu house for looting, the only treasure in it would be Maya. They treated the women as valuable commodities, gold or similar objects.

  Suranjan paced restlessly all about the room and said, "Why doe
s she have so much faith in the Muslims? How long are they going to protect her?"

  Kiranmayee couldn't understand why her son, instead of calling the doctor for the gravely ill Sudhamay, was making such a fuss over Maya's taking shelter in a Muslim house.

  Suranjan muttered, "A doctor will have to be called, but tell me now where the money for treatment is going to come from? At the threat of a couple of urchins you hastily sold a house worth one million takas for a paltry two hundred thousand. Now don't you feel ashamed to live like a beggar?"

  "It wasn't the fear of local youths alone; there were lots of legal troubles over the house," Kiranmayee replied feebly.

  Suranjan kicked aside a chair on the verandah that stood in his way.

  "And your daughter has gone out to marry a Muslim. She thinks Muslims will keep on feeding her. She wants to be rich."

  He stormed out of the house. Two doctors were there in the vicinity. Haripada Sarkar lived near Tikatuli crossing, and two houses down lived Amjad Hussain. Whom would he call? Suranjan kept on walking aimlessly. The fuss he made over Maya's not coming back-was it really born out of his concern for her, or was he angry at her dependence on the Muslims? Was he starting to turn communalminded? He was not sure himself. He moved in the direction of Tikatuli crossing.

  yder had come to Suranjan's house not to inquire about his well being, but just for adda, idle talk. Hyder was associated with Awami League politics. At one time, Suranjan had thought of joining him as a partner in business, but its bleak prospects forced him to give up the plan. Hyder liked politics. So had Suranjan once, but these days he was totally averse to anything concerning the subject. He didn't want to bother himself with what Ershad had done, what Khaleda was presently doing, or what Hasina was going to do. Lying quietly on the bed had more appeal to him. Hyder continued his monologue. He went on with a peroration on the state religion of Islam.