Lajja

by Taslima Nasrin

  Suronjon was getting ready to step out, when a startled Kironmoyee asked him, ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I’m going into the city. I want to see how the strike is playing out.’

  ‘Don’t go out, Suro. One never knows what might happen.’

  ‘All that has to happen will happen,’ said Suronjon, as he combed his hair. ‘Everyone will die some day. Please stop being so frightened. This kind of fear makes me angry.’

  ‘Listen to me, Suronjon,’ pleaded Kironmoyee, trembling with fear as she snatched the comb out of Suronjon’s hand. ‘Please be a little cautious. I hear people are attacking shops and burning temples even though it is a general strike. Stay home. There is no need to see what’s going on in the city.’

  Suronjon had always been a disobedient son and he was not going to give in to Kironmoyee now. He disregarded all objections and left. Sudhamoy was sitting alone in the drawing room. He stared in surprise as his son went past him. Once outside, Suronjon felt that the serenity of the late afternoon was overpowered by the startling isolation and the ghostly silence all around. Perhaps he also felt a bit frightened. Yes, so it seemed. However, he had decided that he was going to roam the city that day and so he would stick to his plan. No one had come to check on them or take them home this time. Neither Belal, nor Kemal, nor anyone else. Of course, Suronjon would not have left if they had come. Why should he? There would be attacks every few days and they would be running around with their belongings! Shame! Going to Kemal’s house last year was an ill-conceived decision, indeed.

  ‘You’re going to kill us and then offer kindness?’ he would surely have said this time. ‘Isn’t that strange? Why don’t you do something else, instead? Take all the Hindus in the country to the firing squad and have them shot. Once they are dead you’ll be rid of the trouble. You won’t need to kill them, or devise clever strategies to save them.’

  ‘There, there, grab the Hindu,’ shouted a gang of boys as Suronjon reached the road.

  The youngsters were from the neighbourhood. Suronjon had seen them around for seven years. He knew one or two of them. One of them, Alam, often came to collect contributions for their neighbourhood club. Suronjon had also sung for the cultural festivals of that club. He had even thought of teaching some of the young men the songs of D.L. Roy and Hemanga Biswas.

  ‘Dada, can you help us with this? Could you teach us this?’ they would ask, and turn up at his house every now and then in large groups.

  And Sudhamoy always treated them for free because they were neighbours.

  ‘There goes the Hindu, grab him,’ said the same young men, gesturing that they might thrash him.

  Suronjon took another road and swiftly walked away, feeling ashamed. He was not scared. He was ashamed to think that these young men he knew, his neighbours, were planning to hit him. He was not particularly embarrassed about getting beaten, but he was mortified that the young men would want to beat someone. Rarely did one feel shame for the oppressed—one was usually ashamed for the oppressor, the ruffian.

  He kept walking and ended up at the Shapla locality. The atmosphere was ominous. People huddled together. The road was littered with bits of brick, burnt wood and broken glass. It was evident that something tumultuous had just taken place. One or two young men were running about helter-skelter. Some street dogs were running along the road. A few rickshaws went past with their bells tinkling. He could not really figure out what had happened and where. The dogs were not frightened. They had no communal identity. Suronjon assumed that they were running because they were happy to have empty roads. Suronjon felt like running too. The usually busy streets of Motijheel were deserted and Suronjon wanted to play football using a grapefruit, like he had as a boy, or draw stumps with chalk and play cricket. As he was thinking these thoughts, his eyes fell on a burnt building to his left. The signboard, doors and windows had been burnt to ashes. It was the Indian Airlines office. Some people stood around staring at it and laughing. Some looked at Suronjon and frowned suspiciously. He went past them as though he could not care less if these buildings were reduced to ashes.

  He walked farther to see what else was burning. Perhaps he was thrilled to smell burnt bricks and wood; perhaps it was like smelling burnt petrol. Farther down, he found a crowd in front of the office of the Communist Party of Bangladesh (CPB). The road was full of bricks and stones. There used to be a bookshop on the pavement. Suronjon had bought many books from this footpath. He found a half-burnt book near his feet—Mother by Maxim Gorky. He felt like he was Pavel Vlasov and had set his mother on fire and was crushing her under his feet. His hair stood on end. Stunned, he stared at the charred book. Everyone was agitated and gathering in groups and whispering. People were talking about what had happened and what could happen. The CPB office was burnt down. The communists had changed their strategy and taken to invoking Allah and Khuda, but despite that they were not able to escape the fire of the fundamentalists. Comrade Farhad’s death was followed by the religious prayer or janazah, and even a milad, yet after all that the fire of communalism had incinerated the office of the Communist Party. Suronjon stared dumbly at the burnt office. Suddenly he saw Qaiser before him. His hair was dishevelled. His cheeks were unshaven and his eyes bloodshot.

  ‘Why are you outside?’ he asked anxiously.

  ‘Am I not allowed outside?’ Suronjon shot back.

  ‘You are not forbidden to come outside,’ he said, ‘but you can’t trust these beasts. They go on and on about religion but tell me, do they believe in any religion? The terrorists of the Jamaat-Shibir’s Youth Command did all this yesterday afternoon. They burnt the party office, the bookshop on the pavement and the office of the Indian Airlines. The anti-Liberation forces are always looking for ways to find issues that favour them and enable them to scream and shout. They want everyone to hear their loud voices.’

  They walked side by side towards the armoury.

  ‘What else did they set fire to?’ asked Suronjon.

  ‘The Tulsidham in Chittagong, Ponchanondham and the Koibolyodham Mandir have been ground to dust. The temples in Malipara, Shoshan Mandir, Korbaniganj, Kalibari, Chotteshwari, Bishnu Mandir, Hajari Lane and Fokirpara have all been plundered and set afire. Of course, there have also been rallies promoting communal harmony.’

  Suronjon sighed.

  ‘Yesterday it wasn’t just temples,’ said Qaiser as he pushed his unruly hair back with his right hand. ‘They set fire to Jelepara, the colony of fishermen in Majhirghat. At least fifty houses have been burnt to cinders.’

  ‘And?’ asked Suronjon indifferently.

  ‘The Madhob temple and Durga temple in Joydebpur have been attacked. The Annapurna temple in the Sherpur farmers’ centre and the Kali temple in the Sherighat Ashram have been destroyed. The temples in the Foridpur Ramakrishna Mission have been destroyed. The maharaj and his disciples are seriously injured.’

  ‘And?’ Suronjon sounded uninterested.

  ‘The temples and houses in Chalakachar in Norsinghdi and in Monohardi have been attacked. The temple in Marapara Bazar in the Rupganj police station area in Narayanganj has been destroyed. The old monastery, Abhoy Ashram, in Comilla has been burnt down. And disgusting things have happened in Noakhali as well.’

  ‘What kind?’

  ‘They have burnt the Awdhorchand Ashram in the Sudharam thana as well as seven other Hindu houses. They have plundered all the Hindu houses in Gangaram village and then set fire to them. They have destroyed the Shiva Kali temple in Sonapur, the akhara in Binodpur, the Kali temple in Choumuhuni, the Durgabari temple in Durgapur, and the temples in Qutbpur and Gopalpur. They have destroyed Dr P.K. Singha’s medicine factory, the Okhondo Ashram and the temples in the Chhoani area. They have plundered and burnt ten temples in Choumuhuni Babupur, Tetuia, Mehdipur, Rajganj Bazar, Tangirpar, Kajirhat, Rasulpur, Jomidarhat and Porabari, and also eighteen Hindu houses. A shop, a car and a woman ha
ve also been burnt. Thirteen of the seventeen houses in Bhobordi have been burnt, every house pillaged and the women of the family tortured. Biplob Bhowmik was stabbed. All the houses and temples in Birahimpur were attacked yesterday. They have robbed and destroyed the Jogonnath temple, three shops in Charhajari village and the village club. They have burnt two houses in Chorparboti village, one in Dasherhaat, two temples in Charkukri and Muchhapur, and the Joykali temple. Every person in Sirajpur has been thrashed, every house ransacked and ultimately burnt.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Suronjon did not want to say another word. He simply wanted to move forward, kicking a stone or a bit of brick like he used to when he was a boy. Qaiser continued listing devastated temples, ransacked houses and other incidents of arson. Suronjon did not listen to all of it. He didn’t even feel like listening. Both of them stood before the Press Club. He stared hungrily at the journalists gathered there talking intently. He also overheard some of their talk.

  ‘More than two hundred people have been killed in riots in India till now,’ someone said, ‘and several thousand have been injured. Fundamentalist groups including the RSS and Shiv Sena have been banned. Advani has resigned as the leader of the Opposition in the Lok Sabha.’

  ‘Dipak Ghosh, an acolyte of the Nondonkanan Tulsidham in Chittagong was caught by some Jamaatis while attempting an escape, and they tried to set him alight,’ said another group, ‘but some watchmen who were nearby told them that Dipak was a Muslim. The Jamaatis then roughed him up but in the end they let him go.’

  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.

  Two

  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.