Shame: A Novel

by Taslima Nasrin

  The girl was scared at the wildness of Suranjan. She dressed rapidly and said, "Now pay me off."

  "Take care, get lost now." Suranjan jumped up in anger. Opening the door, Shamima took one step out and looked pathetic, with blood oozing from the bite marks on her cheek. "Please give me at least ten takas," she pleaded.

  Anger was rising in Suranjan in leaps and bounds. But he softened looking at the helpless, sad eyes of the girl. A poor girl, who earned by offering herself to others. The worthless social system, instead of using her labor or other qualities, was pushing her further down into the gutter. She would certainly buy some rice to smother her hunger with her meager earnings. Who knew how many times she went without eating? Suranjan took out ten takas from his trousers pocket and gave them to Shamima. he asked, "You are a Muslim, right?"

  "Yes."

  "You are prone to changing your names. Have you done anything like that?"

  "No."

  "Okay, now go."

  Shamima went away. Suranjan felt quite relieved. He would not nurse any sadness today. Today was Victory Day. All were in a festive mood, bursting crackers in re membrane of the day twenty-one years ago. Shamima came to Suranjan's room on this day. Bravo, freedom, bravo. Suranjan wanted to snap his fingers loudly or he would break into a popular inspiring song: "My world begins and ends with Bangladesh, my life and death is Bangladesh."

  It was remiss on his part not to have told his name to Shamima. He should have said that his name was Suranjan Dutta. Then she would have realized that the man who had made her bloody by scratching and biting her was a Hindu. The Hindus, too, were capable of rape; they, too, were equipped with nails for scratching and teeth for biting. Shamima was merely a harmless, innocent girl, but still she was a Muslim. Even if he could deliver a mild slap to a Muslim, he would derive great pleasure from that.

  His night was spent in tremendous restlessness, almost without any sensibility. He spent the night alone, in eerie silence, in the midst of a feeling of utter insecurity, beneath the wings of dark terror. He couldn't sleep. he wanted to take his own small revenge, but could not. Suranjan, to his utter amazement, found that throughout the night he was feeling pity for the poor girl Shamima. No jealousy, no anger. If he were devoid of these feelings, then how could he call this revenge? Then it was sort of a defeat for him. Was Suranjan defeated? Then he must have been. He couldn't deceive Shamima. She had already been a victim of deceit. To her rape and normal intercourse were hardly different. Suranjan was curled on his bed in shame and agony. Though it was quite late at night, sleep continued to elude him. Was he then getting spoiled? The incident of the Babri mosque had spoiled him. He could dearly realize that the rot had begun in his heart. Why was he suffering so much for the girl whom he had ravished by scratching and biting her? If only he could wipe the blood from her cheek with his own handkerchief before she left! Would he be able to meet the girl again? If he could by waiting for her at the crossing of the Bar Council, he would certainly ask for her pardon. He was feeling hot even on this winter night. He threw off the quilt. The bedsheet, too, lay in a crumpled bundle near his feet. On the dirty mattress, Suranjan lay like a dog with his knees touching his forehead.

  In the morning, feeling no enthusiasm to get up, he stayed in bed suppressing the tremendous urge to urinate. Kiranmayee brought his tea. But he didn't feel like tasting it. He felt nauseated. He wanted to have a hot shower. But where would he find hot water? They had a pond in their Brahma Pali house. The water was extremely cold during the winter. Still, he couldn't have dreamed of having a bath without swimming in the pond. Today he wanted to swim again, but where could he find a pond? And where was that deep water? He didn't want to wash in the bathroom with a measured amount of water. Why should every aspect of life have to be measured?

  uranjan left his bed at ten in the morning. He was brushing his teeth standing on the verandah. He could hear Khadem Ali's son Asraf telling Kiranmayee, "Auntie, Putu saw a girl like Maya floating in the canal under the iron bridge at Gendaria yesterday evening."

  Suranjan's hand holding the toothbrush became stiff and rigid like stone. He had the feeling of an electric current passing through his entire body. No sound of crying came from within.

  The house was totally still. The slightest sound, it seemed, would bring back heavy echoes from all parts of it. It was as if no one but he had been living in this house during the last thousand years. Standing on the verandah, Suranjan recalled the gaiety of yesterday's Victory Day celebrations; the city had not fully arisen from slumber as yet. He stood there, toothbrush in hand. Hyder was walking down the road. Seeing Suranjan, he stopped as a show of courtesy. He slowly came up to Suranjan and asked, "How are you?"

  "Quite well," Suranjan said with a smile.

  Invariably the question of Maya would have arisen, but Hyder refrained from asking. He silently stood leaning against the railing. He said, "Yesterday the men of the fundamentalist Jamat Shibir smashed the memorial plaque of the mass grave at the Rajshahi University."

  Spitting out a glob of toothpaste from his mouth, Suranjan asked, "What do you mean by mass grave?"

  "You don't know what mass grave means!" Hyder exclaimed, staring at Suranjan in surprise.

  Shaking his head, Suranjan pleaded his ignorance.

  Hyder's face darkened in insult. He failed to understand how Suranjan, being a leader of the liberation war consciousness-awakening center, could say so. The Shibir followers had demolished the memorial plaque of the mass war grave, so let them. They had arms with them. They were putting them to use. Who would resist them? Gradually they would demolish "invincible Bangla," the sculpture dedicated to the memory of the Liberation War, and would destroy the "Bravo Bangladesh" statue of a freedom fighter at Jaidevpur. Who could resist this? There would be just occasional protest meetings or processions. Slogans like "Stop the politics of Jamat Shibir Youth Command" would be raised by some progressive political parties. That much! What would happen then? Suranjan answered without speaking: "Trash."

  After standing for some time with his head bowed, Hyder said, "You might have heard Parvin is here now. She is divorced." Suranjan listened silently, making no comment. Parvin's divorce failed to evoke any reaction. Instead, he felt she had been rightly served. She preferred a Muslim to a Hindu. How did she feel now? Suranjan had already raped Parvin in his mind. In the morning, at this present stage of brushing his teeth halfway through, the feeling of rape lost much of its poignancy. Still a bit of the taste of the mental rape remained in his mind.

  After some time Hyder said, "I'm going." Suranjan didn't object.

  Sudhamay had reached the point where he could sit up unaided. Leaning against the pillows, he sought out sounds in this silent house. Sudhamay thought that of all the members of this family, Maya had the greatest urge to remain alive. Had he not become ill, Maya wouldn't have to come from Parul's house to meet this catastrophe. Someone said her body was found under a bridge. But who would go to identify the body? Sudhamay knew no one would go, for everyone believed that Maya would come back some day. If the body was really identified as Maya's, then the hope of her return today, tomorrow, in a month or two, or even years later, would evaporate. There are some hopes, right or wrong, that help people survive in this world. After a long while he called Suranjan and asked him to sit by his side. In a broken voice he said, "I feel so ashamed to live with doors and windows closed."

  "You feel ashamed? I feel angry."

  "I feel also quite worried about you!" Sudhamay wanted to keep his left hand on his son's back.

  "Why?"

  "You return home so late. Haripada came yesterday. He told me how bad the situation was at Bhola. Thousands of people were spending their days under the sky, they were totally shelterless. The women were being raped."

  "What's new about that?"

  "Certainly something new. Had anything like this ever happened before? That's why I feel so concerned about you."

  "Are you concerned only about me? W
hy aren't you scared about yourself and Ma? You're Hindus as well."

  "What can they do to us?"

  "They could chop off your heads and hurl them in the Buriganga river. You are yet to understand the people of this country. They'll have Hindus for their breakfast. They won't discriminate between the young and the old."

  Folds of irritation appeared on Sudhamay's forehead. He said, "Do you not belong to this country?"

  "No, I can no longer think of myself as someone of his land although I am trying to. But the task appears impossible. When others like Kajalda spoke about the discrimination between Muslims and Hindus, I felt bad. I used to say there was lots to do in this country besides keeping count of what was happening to the Hindus and how many of them were dying. My contention was that there was no point in wasting time over these things. But slowly I've realized that he was right. And I, too, am changing. But this shouldn't have happened to me, Baba." Suranjan's voice became choked.

  Sudhamay kept his hand on his son's back. He said, "The people are coming forward. Lots is being written in newspapers. The voice of protest has been raised. The writers and intellectuals are writing every day."

  "All these activities will lead to nothing," Suranjan said in an angry voice.

  "One group of people has come out with long choppers and axes. Nothing can be done to resist them by raising slogans, protesting with bare arms and shouts. Long chopper should be met with long chopper. It was sheer foolishness to fight bare-handed against armed people."

  "Should we then give up our ideals?"

  "What ideals? All bogus."

  Sudhamay's hair had turned grayer during the last few days. His cheeks now looked hollow. He had virtually shrunk to half his former self. Still, his mind was unwavering. He said, "The people are still protesting against injustice and wrong. In how many countries is even this much possible? This right to protest."

  Suranjan didn't reply. He presumed that the country's name would soon be changed from "People's Republic of Bangladesh" to "Islamic Republic of Bangladesh." The country would be ruled by the Islamic laws. The women would disappear behind the black veil that covers them head to foot. The number of people with caps, beards and punjabis would increase on the roads. The schools, colleges, universities would be eliminated. Mosques and madrasas would increase rapidly. Then all Hindus would be killed. The very thought sent shudders through Suranjan. Just like a trapped frog inside a well, he had to stay put at home most of the time. The sight or sound of movement outside or slogans of protest or revenge forced them to bolt their doors from inside instead of rushing out and joining in. Such ventures were far more fraught with risk for them. The Muslims could unhesitatingly raise slogans for the realization of their demands, but the Hindus couldn't. A Hindu couldn't raise his voice in protest against the injustice against his community members as forcefully as a Muslim could do on behalf of the Hindus. His voice would be choked, all the more so in the fear that this boldness might lead to the slitting of his throat during the night. Ahmed Sharif was allowed to remain alive even after being declared a murtadd, but if Sudhamay uttered unpalatable words, he would be silently killed. A vociferously protesting Hindu wouldn't be tolerated by a militant Muslim, not even by a progressive Muslim. Suranjan felt like laughing out loud at the thought of progressive people defining themselves as Hindus or Muslims. Actually, nobody with any religious identity could be progressive! Suranjan would have previously considered himself a modem, progressive man. Now he was beginning to feel like a Hindu. Was he becoming rotten? Perhaps so. In a broken voice Sudhamay asked Suranjan to come closer to him and then asked, "Won't it be possible to find Maya?"

  "Don't know."

  "Kiran hasn't been able to sleep for even a single night ever since. She also thinks about you. If anything happens to you ..."

  "If I'm destined to die, then let me die. So many people are dying every day."

  "Now I can sit on my own. With Kiran's support, I can now go to the toilet. But I won't be able to attend to my patients unless fully recovered. We have yet to pay two months' rent. If you do something, a job perhaps ..."

  "I would never serve under anyone."

  "The family actually.... We no longer have that landed property. We've had a taste of life that comes from paddy from the granary, fish from the pond, and milk from our cows. You have not seen anything like that. I have even sold all the land that we had in the village. Had I not, I could have erected a thatched hut there to spend the remaining years of my life."

  Suranjan burst out in a rebuking voice, "Why are you talking like a fool? Would you have survived in the village? There the armed men of the village chief would have beaten you up to snatch everything from you."

  "Why do you disbelieve each and everyone? Isn't there a good soul anywhere in the country?"

  "No, there is none."

  "You are being needlessly pessimistic."

  "Not for nothing."

  "What about your friends? You studied communism for such a long time, participated in so many movements. The people with whom you moved and worked, are they not worth any trust?"

  "No, all of them are communal-minded."

  "I think you, too, are becoming communal."

  "Yes, quite so. This country is turning me into a communal-minded being. It's not my fault."

  "This country has made you communal?" Sudhamay exclaimed disbelievingly.

  "Yes, this very country."

  Suranjan laid emphasis on the word "country." Sudhamay maintained silence. The floor was still littered with pieces of broken glass. They might have pierce their feet. If not their feet, they had certainly pierced their hearts.

  Suranjan stayed in bed throughout the day. He felt not at all inclined to go anywhere. Would he go to the iron bridge once, to see the floating, decomposed, disfigured body of Maya? No, he wouldn't go anywhere today.

  Later that afternoon, Suranjan paced the cemented courtyard. At one time he hurled down all the books in his room into the courtyard. Kiranmayee thought that he was spread ing the books in the sun, perhaps the ones infested with insects: Das Kapital, works of Lenin, works of Marx and Engels, Morgan, Gorky, Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Jean Paul Sartre, Pavlov, Rabindranath, Manik Bandopadhyay, Nehru, Azad; brick sized books on sociology, economics, politics and history. He started tearing their pages; he made a huge heap of them in the courtyard, lit a match, and set fire to the whole pile.

  The flames treated the torn pages in the way a Muslim fanatic is expected to treat a Hindu. Smoke enveloped the entire courtyard. Smelling something burning, Kiranmayee came rushing out. Suranjan laughingly said, "Do you want to warm yourself? Then you are welcome."

  Kiranmayee asked wearily, "Have you gone mad?"

  "You're right, Ma. For a long time I have been quite a normal being. Now I am going off my rocker. Only the hopping mad can enjoy the bliss of peace."

  Standing near the door, Kiranmayee watched Suranjan's book-burning spree. She had no thought of putting out the flames by bringing bucketsful of water from the tap. Dark smoke shrouded Suranjan. It seemed to Kiranmayee that Suranjan, in the name of burning books, was, in fact, setting fire to himself.

  Sudhamay thought that this lively boy of sharp intellect, who, he believed, would suck out poison from others' minds, was now himself relishing a drink of venom. The poison was turning him blue. His lying in bed silently, shouting at his friends, bringing a whore into his room at night, abusing the Muslims, book burning-all these were signs of his unexpressed and accumulated grievances. He nurtured a strong resentment against his family, society, the state, everything. And he burned himself in the resultant fire of an inferiority complex.

  Suranjan was quite delighted at the sight of the fire. The Hindu houses had gone up in flames in this manner all over the country. Such blazing flames! Were only the houses and temples burned, not the minds of the people? He wouldn't follow the ideals of Sudhamay any longer. Sudhamay was a believer in a leftist ideology in which he had also reared Suranjan. Now he didn't
believe in any of that. Many leftists had also branded him as a malaun. He had been hearing the word malaun since his boyhood. Whenever there was an argument with his schoolmates, after some time they would call him "son of malaun." Tears welled up in his burning eyes. He failed to understand the source of these tears. Was it due to any pain or the smoke emanating from the burned ideals? Suranjan was much more at ease with himself when everything was burned. Lying down on his bed, whenever he had caught a glimpse of these books, the principles enunciated in them had constantly chewed him up. He no longer cared for their principles. If only he could plant a royal kick on the backsides of these convictions! Why should he be a receptacle of these useless conceptions? All the more so when people took the cup of knowledge to their lips without caring to take it to their heart? Why should he alone take all this to heart?

  The fire ritual over, Suranjan wanted to enjoy a long sleep. But sleep eluded him. The image of Ratna flashed through his mind. He hadn't seen her for a long time. How was she doing? He could read the message of her deep, dark eyes. She needn't say anything more. She must be thinking, one day Suranjan would knock on her door, would spend the whole night talking with her over umpteen cups of tea. Suranjan thought of going to her house tonight. He would say, "Do you think that only I should come to see you? Mustn't one feel the need to reciprocate?"

  Suranjan was convinced that Ratna would come to his place on a melancholy evening. She would say, "Everything appeared to be so empty, Suranjan." Suranjan had not enjoyed any pleasure for a pretty long time. Parvin would embrace him, saying, "You are mine and mine alone. I'll kiss you at least one hundred times." They would detach themselves at Kiranmayee's sudden intrusion. Marrying a Muslim wouldn't have stirred up any problem. That was why she had sought it. Ratna didn't suffer from any problem of caste or creed. He would surrender his burned-out life to her. When Suranjan was musing on all this, he decided to go to Ratna's place, cleansing his mind of all the dirt and putting on a clean shirt. At that moment someone knocked at the door. Opening the door he found Ratna. She looked quite decked out with a dazzling sari, her wrists showing glitters of tinkling bangles. Suranjan was overwhelmed by her sweet, enrapturing smile. "Please come in," Suranjan said; but while speaking this welcome, he noticed a handsome young man behind her. But where was he going to offer a seat to Ratna? The entire room was in a mess. Still with the customary "Please be seated," he pointed to a broken chair. Ratna said smilingly, "Guess whom I've brought with me?"