Four
Suronjon had no idea where he was going. He thought of Belal’s house in Chamelibag. He crossed Kakrail and on his right he saw that Jolkhabar had been destroyed. They had brought the tables and chairs out of the eatery to the road and burnt them, leaving only a heap of charcoal and ash. Suronjon stared as long as he could.Then he changed his mind and decided to go to Pulok’s house instead. Pulok worked in an NGO and lived in a rented flat, also in Chamelibag.
Suronjon asked the rickshaw-wallah to turn to the lane on the left. He had not seen Pulok for quite some time now. Suronjon often visited Belal who lived next door but somehow had never found time to meet his college friend, Pulok.
Suronjon rang the doorbell. Nothing happened. He continued to ring the bell.
‘Who is it?’ someone asked feebly.
‘It’s Suronjon.’
‘Suronjon?’
‘Suronjon Datta.’
He heard someone unlock the door. It was Pulok.
‘Come on in,’ he muttered in hushed tones.
‘What’s up? Why so many security measures?’ asked Suronjon. ‘Why don’t you have an eyehole on the door?’
Pulok turned the key in the lock and then pulled at it to see if it was fast. Suronjon was quite surprised.
‘How come you’re outside?’ Pulok asked in a low murmur.
‘I felt like it.’
‘What? Aren’t you scared? You want to be foolhardy and die? Or are you out on an adventure?’
‘Think what you will,’ said Suronjon as he sat on the sofa, beginning to relax.
Pulok’s eyes darted with anxiety. He sat on the sofa next to Suronjon and sighed. ‘You’re aware of the goings-on, aren’t you?’
‘No.’
‘Things are bad in Bhola. Nearly fifty thousand Hindus of ten thousand families have lost everything in the villages of Tojomuddin, Golokpur of Borhanuddin thana, Chhoto Dauri, Sombhupur, Dasherhaat, Khasherhaat, Dobirampur, Padmamon and Moniram. Everything has been plundered, destroyed and burnt. The losses are as high as 500 million takas. Two people have died and two hundred are injured. People have no clothes to wear and no food to eat. There’s not a single house left standing—they have all been set on fire. Hundreds of shops have been plundered. In Dasherhaat Bazar, you can no longer find a shop belonging to a Hindu. All these homeless people are sleeping under an open sky during this cold winter. In the city, the Modonmohon Thakurbari and its temple, the Lokkhigobindo Thakurbari and its temple and the Mohaprobhur Akhara have all been plundered and burnt down. No temples or akharas are left in Borhanuddin, Doulotkhan, Charfashion, Tojomuddin and in Lalmohon thana. All the houses were robbed and set on fire. There’s this place called Ghuinyarhaat, where a nearly two-mile-long strip of houses belonging to Hindus was set on fire. The big akhara in the Doulotkhan thana area was burnt on the night of 7 December. They also smashed the akhara in Borhanuddin Bazar and then set it on fire. Fifty houses in Kutuba village were reduced to ashes. Houses of Hindus in the Charfashion thana were ransacked and a man called Aurobindo Dey was stabbed.’
‘Where’s Neela?’
‘She’s quaking with fear. What about you?’
Suronjon made himself comfortable on the sofa and shut his eyes. He wondered why he had not gone next door to Belal’s but had come to Pulok’s instead. Was he becoming communal deep inside or was the situation turning him into a communal person?
‘Well, I’m alive.’
Pulok’s six-year-old son lay on the floor, sobbing his heart out.
‘Do you know why Alok’s crying?’ said Pulok. ‘The kids next door, his regular playmates, have said they won’t play with him any more. They’ve told him that they can’t play with him because the master has said that they mustn’t have anything to do with Hindus.’
‘The master? Who’s that?’ asked Suronjon.
‘He’s the maulvi who comes every morning to teach them Arabic.’
‘You have Anees Ahmed living next door, don’t you? He’s a member of the Communist Party. He has a master teaching his children Arabic?’
‘Yes,’ said Pulok.
Suronjon shut his eyes again. He felt that he was Alok. He saw the child’s body racked with sobs and felt them touch his heart. Suronjon felt as though he too hadn’t been included in other people’s play. The people he had played with for so long and those he had thought he could play with were not including him in their games. The master had told them that they could not play with Hindus. Suronjon remembered that Maya had once come back from school crying. She said that the teacher kept turning her out of class. Religion was one of the compulsory lessons in school and so during classes on Islam, Maya was asked to leave the classroom. She was the only Hindu pupil, there were no books for her and neither was there a separate Hindu teacher for her. She would stand in the veranda, a Hindu girl, all by herself, feeling lonely, friendless and isolated.
‘Why do they turn you out of class?’ Sudhamoy had asked.
‘Everyone is in class but I am not allowed in. It’s because I’m Hindu.’
Sudhamoy had hugged Maya close. He felt humiliated and pained, and could not say anything for quite some time. Finally, he went to the teacher’s house with a request: ‘Please don’t keep my daughter out of the religious education class. Don’t let her think of herself as someone different.’
Maya’s psychological problems were resolved but she was enchanted by alif, be, te, se. When she played at home, she would murmur ‘Al alhamudillahi rabbil amen, ar rahmanir rahim’.
‘What’s going on?’ Kironmoyee had asked Sudhamoy. ‘Do we now have to give up our caste and religion to study in school?’
Sudhamoy was concerned. He had tried to ensure his daughter’s mental well-being but if that meant she would be attracted to Islam, then they’d have to deal with a new set of problems. After a week or so, he wrote to the headmaster of the school saying that religion was a matter of personal belief and need not be taught in schools. And also, if he did not consider any kind of religious education necessary for his child, there was no need for the school to compel her to receive some sort of religious instruction. Instead of religion, it would be better to create a course based on the teachings and lives of great personalities that could be taught to students of all communities. Such a measure would also help combat a sense of inferiority often experienced by those belonging to the minorities. The school did not respond to Sudhamoy’s suggestion and even now matters continue as before.
Neela joined Suronjon and Pulok. She was slim and pretty and usually well dressed. That day she was carelessly turned out, and the dark circles under her eyes betrayed anxiety.
‘Suronjon da,’ she said, ‘you never visit us or try to find out if we are dead or alive. But I hear you visit our neighbour quite often.’
As she was talking, she burst into tears. Was Neela crying because Suronjon had not visited? Was she crying because of the helplessness of her community? Or did Neela feel that the hardship she had to endure—the pain and the insecurity—was also Suronjon’s lot? It was this realization that allowed her to empathize with Pulok, Alok and Suronjon. The latter began to feel very close to that family. Even till a few days ago Suronjon had habitually dropped in at Belal’s for a good time with friends and not even spared a thought for Pulok. But now he felt quite differently.
‘Why are you so nervous? They won’t manage to do much in Dhaka. The police are out in Shakhari Bazar, Islampur and Tanti Bazar.’
‘The police were there the last time too. The fundamentalists plundered the Dhakeshwari temple and set it on fire in front of the police. Did the police do anything?’
‘Uh-uh.’
‘Why did you leave home, Suronjon da? You can’t trust the Muslims. You may think someone’s a friend but it’s highly likely that he’ll slit your throat.’
Suronjon shut his eyes again. Would shutting one’s e
yes calm the turbulence within? There was much talking and shouting outside. Perhaps someone was breaking and burning shops that belonged to Hindus. Every time he shut his eyes he smelt burning, and he could see gangs of fundamentalists armed with knives and spades dancing before him. He had been to see Goutom last night. Goutom was in bed and had bruises under his eyes and on his back and chest. Suronjon sat with his hand on Goutom’s chest. He did not ask him anything. His hand on Goutom’s chest was enough—there was no need for words.
‘Dada, I didn’t do anything,’ said Goutom. ‘There were no provisions in the house and so my mother asked me to get some eggs. The shop’s in the neighbourhood, so I wasn’t afraid. After all, I wasn’t going far. I took the eggs and was taking back the change when I felt a kick on my back. They were six or seven young men and I was no match for them. They were returning home from the mosque after the afternoon namaz. The shopkeeper, the people on the road, all of them stood by and watched the fun and they did not say a thing. They beat me up for no reason. They shoved me down and thrashed me. They swore at me, “Hindu bastard, offspring of the damned, kill the fucker. You guys want to get away with destroying our mosque. We’ll chase you out of this country.”’
Suronjon listened but could not find anything to say. He could feel Goutom’s heart beat under his hand. Had he heard the same beat in his own chest? Maybe once or twice.
Neela brought some tea. As they drank tea, they talked about Maya.
‘I’m very worried because Maya may just end up marrying Jahangir.’
‘Goodness, Suronjon da! Try to bring her back. People make hasty decisions when times are bad.’
‘Maybe on my way back, I’ll drop in at Parul’s and take Maya back with me. She’s making the wrong decisions. She’s desperate to stay alive and may decide to become a Forida Begum or some such. Selfish!’
Neela’s eyes darkened with worry. Alok had cried himself to sleep, and there were tear stains on his cheeks. Pulok paced up and down, his restlessness infecting Suronjon. They had forgotten their tea and it had grown cold. Suronjon’s great need for tea seemed to have evaporated. He shut his eyes and tried to believe that this country was his, his father’s, his grandfather’s and his grandfather’s father’s father’s. He wondered why he felt so alienated. Why did he feel that he had no rights in this country?
He did not have the rights to move about, to speak, to wear what he wished and to think. He was expected to cower, to hide and not go out when he wished to or do what he felt like. It was as though there were a noose around his neck. He circled his neck with his hands and pressed hard to see if he would stop breathing.
‘I don’t like this, Pulok,’ he screamed.
There were beads of sweat on Pulok’s forehead. Why was he sweating in winter? Suronjon touched his own forehead and was surprised to see that he was sweating too. Were they scared? No one was beating them. Or killing them. Yet why were they frightened? Why were their hearts thumping nervously?
Suronjon suddenly remembered Dilip Dey’s phone number, so he picked up the telephone and dialled him. A firebrand student leader of yesteryear, Dilip was at home.
‘How’re you, Dada? No problems? Nothing’s happened, I hope.’
‘No problems, but I’m not feeling good. And why does something have to happen specifically with me? Things are happening all over the country.’
‘Yes, true.’
‘How’re you? You must’ve heard about the goings-on in Chittagong?’
‘What kind?’
‘Many temples have been destroyed—three in Bauria of the Sandwip thana, two in Kalapania, three in Mogodharia, two in Teuria, one in Horishpur, one in Rohomotpur, one in Poschim Sarkai and one in Maitbhanga. And in Poschim Sarkai they beat up a man called Sucharu Das and robbed him of 15,000 takas. They robbed two homes in Toukatoli and stabbed two people. One house in Kochua of the Patia thana area and a temple in Bhatikain . . .’
‘How did you get information in such detail?’
‘Because I’m from Chittagong. I get information from there even if I don’t ask for it. Listen, they’ve destroyed three houses in Boilchhori in the Banskhali thana and another three in Purbo Chambley. Five houses in Sorofbhata in the Rangunia thana, seven houses in the Payra Union Porishod, one temple in Shilok Union and one temple in Badamtoli in the Chondonaish thana. A temple in Joara has been plundered and demolished. In Boalgaon of Anwara thana, four temples and one house, and in Tegota sixteen houses have been attacked, plundered and destroyed. In Boalkhali thana the Medhasmuni Ashram was set on fire.
‘I have heard that ten temples of Kali including those at Koibolyodham, the Tulsidham ashram, the Abhoy Mitra cremation grounds, Ponchanondham and the Shoshankalibari have been completely burnt down.
‘The Sodorghat Kalibari and the Golpahar Shoshan Mandir have also been attacked. Shops have been ransacked on Jamalkhan Road and Sirajuddoulah Road. Shops and houses belonging to Hindus have been robbed and set on fire in Enayet Bazar, K.C. Dey Road and Brickfield Road. Thirty-eight houses in the Koibolyodham Malipara and more than a hundred houses in the Sodorghat Jelepara have been plundered and set alight. There’s been ransacking in Idgaon, Agrabad, Jelepara and in the Bohoddarhat Manager Colony. The most horrifying things have happened in Mirersorai and Sitakundo. Seventy-five families in Satbaria village of Mirersorai have been attacked, ten families in Masdia Union, four families in Hadinagar, sixteen families and three temples in Beshorot, twenty families in Odeopur, twelve families in Khajuria and eighty-seven families in Jafarabad! Their homes have been pillaged and set alight. There have been attacks on one family in the Muradpur Union of Sitakundo, twenty-three families of the Mohalonka village of the Dhala Union of Baraiya, eighty families of Bohorpur, three hundred and forty families and the Narayan temple of Baroipara, twelve families of Bansbaria, seventeen families and two temples of Barobkundo. Fourteen families in Forhadpur have been attacked, plundered and set on fire.’
‘How much more of this can I listen to, Dilip da? I don’t like this.’
‘Are you ill, Suronjon? Your voice doesn’t seem all right.’
‘I’m not sure.’
As soon as he finished, Pulok asked him to call Debobroto. Suronjon rang Debobroto, Mohadeb Bhattacharya, Ashit Pal, Sojol Dhar, Madhobi Ghosh, Kuntola Choudhury, Sorol Dey, Robindro Gupta, Nikhil Sanyal and Nirmol Sengupta, one after another. He asked them whether they were well. After a long time he spoke to many acquaintances and associates and felt quite close to them.
The phone rang again. The mild ring somehow seemed sombre and heavy, and Suronjon felt uneasy. It was a call for Pulok from Cox’s Bazar.
‘The Jamaat-Shibir have burnt the national flag in Cox’s Bazar,’ said Pulok as he finished talking on the phone.
Suronjon heard this and was quite taken aback as he realized that he was not particularly affected. Normally this kind of an incident would have made him boil with rage. Now it seemed as though he did not care if the flag was burnt or not. This flag was not his. What was happening to Suronjon? He berated himself, he thought he was very mean, low and selfish but was unable to shake off his indifference. He could not summon up any anger because the national flag had been burnt.
‘Don’t go back today. Stay here,’ said Pulok as he sat down beside Suronjon. ‘One never knows what kind of trouble might break out on the streets. It’s not a good idea for any of us to go out at a time like this.’
Lutfor had offered similar advice yesterday. However, Suronjon felt that Pulok was genuinely concerned, whereas Lutfor had been a little arrogant.
‘We cannot continue living in our country,’ said Neela, sighing deeply. ‘Maybe nothing will happen today, but something will surely happen tomorrow, or the day after. Our lives are so uncertain! It would’ve been so much better to have a certain and safe life, even if we were poor.’
Suronjon would have fallen in with Pulok’s proposal but he stood up to
leave because he felt that Sudhamoy and Kironmoyee would be very worried.
‘What will be will be,’ he said. ‘Maybe I will find martyrdom at the hands of Muslims. An unclaimed corpse will lie under some shapla blossoms, our national flower. And people will say that was nothing but an accident, won’t they?’ Suronjon laughed after he said this.
Neither Pulok nor Neela could even manage a smile.
Suronjon boarded a rickshaw but did not feel like going home immediately. It was only eight o’clock! Pulok was a friend from his college days. He was now married with a lovely, stable home and had a family life! Unfortunately, Suronjon had got nowhere. He had met a woman called Rotna a couple of months ago. Occasionally, Suronjon was overcome by this desire to get married and have his own home and family. After Parveen had got married, he had thought of renouncing the world and becoming a monk. However, Rotna had managed to cause some ripples in his fragmented and disturbed existence. Now, he wanted to organize himself and feel settled. Of course, he was yet to say something to Rotna—something like, ‘Have you understood that I’ve begun to like you very much?’
‘What are you doing these days?’ Rotna had asked him, a few days after they had met.
‘Nothing,’ Suronjon had replied with a sneer.
‘Nothing? A job? Business?’
‘No.’
‘You were in politics, weren’t you? What happened to that?’
‘Left that too.’
‘I believe you were a member of the youth union—Jubo Union.’
‘Don’t like all that any more.’
‘What do you like?’
‘To roam around. To look at people.’
‘Don’t you like looking at plants and trees? Rivers and mountains?’
‘Yes, I do. However, looking at people is what I like best. I like unravelling the mystery that is there in people.’
Lajja Page 9
