Lajja

by Taslima Nasrin

  ‘Do you write poetry?’

  ‘Oh no. But I do have many friends who are poets.’

  ‘Do you drink alcohol?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘You smoke a lot.’

  ‘Yes, I do. But I don’t have much money.’

  ‘You do know that “cigarettes are injurious to health”?’

  ‘Yes, I do, but there’s not much I can do about it.’

  ‘How come you’re not married?’

  ‘Because no one liked me enough.’

  ‘No one?’

  ‘Someone did, but ultimately she didn’t take the risk.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She was Muslim and I am identified as a Hindu. She wouldn’t have had to become a Hindu if she married one but I would need to have a name like Abdus Saber.’

  Rotna laughed. ‘Best not to get married. Life is short and it’s best to live it without ties.’

  ‘Is that the reason why you are not going down that road?’

  ‘Absolutely!’

  ‘That’s good in a way.’

  ‘Well, if you and I have made similar decisions, we should be good friends.’

  ‘I put a big premium on friendship. Can one be friends simply if one or two decisions match?’

  ‘Does one have to pray hard to be friends with you?’

  ‘Will I be so lucky?’ Suronjon laughed aloud.

  ‘Do you have very little confidence in yourself?’

  ‘That’s not it. I have faith in myself but not in others.’

  ‘Try me.’

  Suronjon had felt very good that day, all day long. Today, he wanted to think about Rotna again, presumably to feel good. That is what he did these days—when he got upset, he thought about Rotna to feel good. How was Rotna? Should he go to Ajimpur and ask, ‘How are you, Rotna Mitra?’ Would Rotna be thrown a bit off balance to see him? Suronjon found it hard to decide what would be the best thing for him to do. He was beginning to understand that the communal tension had brought about a reunion amongst Hindus. And surely, Rotna would not be surprised! She would understand that this was the time when Hindus were looking each other up. That they were standing by each other during bad times. Surely, Suronjon did not need an invitation to visit her at such a time? Suronjon asked the rickshaw-wallah to go to Ajimpur.

  Rotna was not particularly tall; she reached just below Suronjon’s shoulders. She had a fair, round face but her eyes seemed to hide depths of sadness that Suronjon could not fathom. He took out the address book that was always in his pocket, found her address and looked for her house. He would surely be able to find it!

  Rotna was not home. An elderly man opened the door slightly.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

  ‘Suronjon.’

  ‘She’s gone out of town.’

  ‘When? Where?’ asked Suronjon and was a trifle embarrassed when he sensed the emotion in his voice.

  ‘Sylhet.’

  ‘Do you know when she’ll be back?’

  ‘No.’

  Had Rotna gone to Sylhet on work, or on a private trip, or had she run away? Or is it that she was not in Sylhet at all? But Suronjon was after all a ‘Hindu’ name, and that should be cause enough for her people not to hide anything, Suronjon thought to himself, and began walking down the streets of Ajimpur. No one here could identify him as a Hindu. It was indeed amusing that no one—a passer-by wearing a cap, the agitated young men who stood in a circle on the road, the aimless adolescents on the street—could mark him out. Would Suronjon be able to stand up to them alone if they could identify him and decided to dump him in the burial ground? He could hear his heart thumping again. He found that he had begun to sweat while he walked. He was not wearing any warm clothes. He had only a thin shirt on and the air against his chest felt cold, yet there were beads of sweat on his forehead.

  He reached Polashi and since he was there, he decided to look in on Nirmolendu Goon. There was a residential complex in Polashi for the Class Four or lowest grade of employees of the Engineering University. Nirmolendu Goon had rented the house meant for the gardener. Suronjon had a deep regard for this person, who always told the truth. He knocked on the door and a young girl of about ten or twelve let him into the house. Nirmolendu Goon was sitting on the bed and intently watching TV.

  ‘Oh, do come, come to my house,’ he sang out as he saw Suronjon.

  ‘What’s there to watch on TV?’

  ‘I watch advertisements. Advertisements for Sunlight batteries, Jia silk sarees, Peps gel toothpaste. I watch Hamad Nath. I watch readings from the Koran.’

  Suronjon laughed. ‘Is this how you spend your day? I guess you haven’t gone out at all?’

  ‘A four-year-old Muslim boy lives in my house. We depend on him to stay alive. I went to Ashim’s house yesterday. The little boy led the way and I followed behind.’

  Suronjon laughed again. ‘But you let me in without checking. Suppose it had been someone else?’

  ‘Some young men had gathered on the pavement at two in the morning,’ said Goon, laughing. ‘They were discussing abusive slogans that they could direct at Hindus. I yelled out and asked who was there. They moved away. Many see my hair and beard and assume I am Muslim, a holy man, a maulvi!’

  ‘Don’t you write poetry any more?’

  ‘No. What’s the point in writing? I’ve stopped.’

  ‘Apparently you gamble in Ajimpur Bazar at night?’

  ‘Yes. I kill some time. But I haven’t been there for some days.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I can’t leave my bed. I’m scared. I feel that if I get off my bed they’ll catch me.

  ‘Are they saying anything on TV? Have you seen temples being demolished?’

  ‘Oh, no. On TV it looks like this is the land of communal harmony. There are no riots going on in this country. Anything like that is only happening in India.’

  ‘The other day someone said that there have been four thousand riots in India till now. However, the Muslims of India are not leaving their country. But the Hindus of this country have one foot in Bangladesh and another in India. It means that the Muslims in India are staying on and fighting but the Hindus of Bangladesh are running away.’

  ‘The Muslims there can stay and fight,’ said Goon sombrely. ‘India is a secular country. And the fundamentalists are in power here. How can you fight here? Hindus are second-class citizens here. Do second-class citizens have the strength to fight?’

  ‘Why don’t you write about this?’

  ‘I want to write, but if I do I’ll be maligned as an agent of India. I want to write about many things but I don’t. What’s the point in writing?’

  Goon stared at the television—a toy box—with expressionless eyes. Geeta brought tea and left the cups on the table. Suronjon did not feel like drinking tea. Goon da’s agony had touched him too.

  ‘You’re asking me many things,’ said Goon, laughing suddenly. ‘Are you safe?’

  ‘Goon da, do you ever win when you gamble?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why do you gamble then?’

  ‘They call me awful names if I don’t. Their epithets don’t spare my parents either and so I am compelled.’

  Suronjon laughed out loud when he heard this. Goon laughed too. The man had a sense of humour and could laugh at himself. He was equally at home in America, gambling in the casinos of Las Vegas, or getting bitten by mosquitoes in the slums of Polashi. He had no problems with anything, and did not get annoyed at all. He was engaged in the simple pleasures of life, sitting in a room that measured only twelve feet by twelve feet. Suronjon wondered how this man succeeded in living in such pleasurable simplicity. Was he really happy or did he nurse a deep pain within? Did he laugh away these desperate times because there was nothing else that he could do?

 
Suronjon got up to leave. His sense of sadness was growing. Was sadness infectious? He began walking towards Tikatuli. He decided against taking a rickshaw. He had only five takas his pocket. He bought cigarettes at the corner in Polashi. The shopkeeper stared in surprise at Suronjon when he asked for Bangla Five. The stare brought back the familiar thumping in his heart. Had the man figured out that he was Hindu? Did he know that because the Babri Masjid had been demolished any Hindu could be beaten up on a whim? Suronjon moved away swiftly after he had picked up his cigarettes. Why was he reacting like this? He had left the shop without lighting his cigarette. Suppose people made out that he was a Hindu if he asked for a light? It was not as though one’s Hindu or Muslim identity was written on one’s body. However, he suspected that people could make him out by the way he walked, talked or even by the expression in his eyes. A dog barked as he reached the corner of Tikatuli. He was startled. Suddenly, behind him, he heard a gang of young men yell, ‘Catch him! Catch!’ Once he heard that, he did not turn around but ran at top speed. He began to sweat. The buttons on his shirt unfastened but he kept on running. After running for some time, he looked back and found that there was no one behind him. Had he run needlessly? Were those words not directed at him? Was he hallucinating?

  As was his custom when he came home late, Suronjon let himself into his room without disturbing anyone. But as soon as he stepped in, he heard a pitiful wail of ‘Oh God, oh God!’ He wondered whether they had any Hindu guests at home who were invoking their gods. That was a possibility, he thought, and was about to go into Sudhamoy’s room when he saw that Kironmoyee had placed a clay image on a low stool and was sitting before it. She was squatting before the image, had wrapped one end of her sari around her neck and was weeping to God. This was not a sight that Suronjon usually saw in his home. This strange, unfamiliar scene stupefied him. He was unsure how to react. Should he smash the clay idol to the ground or grab Kironmoyee’s bowed head and raise it? The sight of bowed heads always filled him with disgust.

  He went close to Kironmoyee and lifted her up, holding her arms.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ he asked. ‘Why are you sitting with that statue? Will that idol save you?’

  Kironmoyee broke into a sob. ‘Your father’s arms and legs are numb. His speech is slurred.’

  His eyes went immediately towards Sudhamoy. He was lying in bed. He was murmuring something but it was unintelligible. He sat close to his father and moved his right arm. There was no feeling, no strength. Suronjon felt as though an axe had battered his chest. One side of his grandfather’s body had grown limp like this and the doctors had said it was a stroke. His grandfather had lain inert and had to swallow medicine after medicine. A physiotherapist would come to exercise his arms and legs. Sudhamoy stared at Kironmoyee and Suronjon with dumb eyes.

  They had no relatives nearby. Whom could he go to? Their close relatives had all left the country one by one. Suronjon felt very alone, impoverished and helpless. He was the son and ought to be responsible for everything. But he was the useless child of the family. Even at his age, his life was made up of wanderings. He was not able to stick to any job. He had wanted to start a business but could not do it. If Sudhamoy were to lie ill, they would not be able to eat. They would have to leave their home and be on the streets.

  ‘Didn’t Kemal or anyone come?’ Suronjon asked.

  ‘No.’ Kironmoyee shook her head.

  No one had come to see if Suronjon was all right. On the other hand, he had gone all over the city inquring after people. Everyone was well, except he. No other family was perhaps facing such poverty and uncertainty. Suronjon grasped his father’s limp hand and felt great pity. He wondered whether his father had deliberately become inert in a dysfunctional world.

  ‘Isn’t Maya back?’ asked Suronjon, getting up with alacrity.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why hasn’t she come back?’ Suronjon screamed suddenly.

  Kironmoyee was startled. Her gentle son never spoke with such heat. Why was he screaming today? Maya had not done anything wrong by going to Parul’s. In fact, her going had brought them comfort. If people came to plunder this Hindu household, Maya was their only possession of value. After all, people did think of their daughters as comparable to gold or other such valuable objects.

  ‘Why does she have such faith in the Muslims? How long will they save her?’ he asked as he paced agitatedly up and down the room.

  Kironmoyee could not understand why Suronjon was using his time spewing anger about Maya being in a Muslim house instead of calling a doctor and focusing on Sudhamoy’s illness.

  ‘You need to call a doctor. Where will you get the money for the treatment, I ask you?’ muttered Suronjon. ‘Two callow youth of the locality made some threats. You got scared and sold a house worth 1 million takas for two hundred thousand. Aren’t you ashamed now to live like beggars?’

  ‘It wasn’t just a fear of those young men. There was also a fear of litigation,’ replied Kironmoyee.

  Suronjon kicked the chair that was there on the veranda.

  ‘And your daughter has gone to marry a Muslim. She feels that Muslims will feed her for free. Madam wants to be rich.’

  He left home. There were two doctors in their locality. There was Horipodo Sarkar at the Tikatuli crossing and Amjad Hussain lived two houses away. Whom should he call? Suronjon walked around erratically. He had screamed because Maya had not returned. Was it really because she had not come back or because she was dependent on Muslims? Was he becoming mildly communal? He was no longer sure of himself.

  Suronjon began walking towards the Tikatuli crossing.

  Part Four

  One

  Hyder had dropped in at Suronjon’s. He was not there to check on Suronjon but had simply dropped in to pass the time of day with his friend. Hyder was an Awami League activist. Suronjon had once tried to set up a modest business with him but had finally realized that it would not really get anywhere and had dropped the plan. Hyder’s favourite topic was politics. It used to be Suronjon’s favourite subject too, but these days he did not like discussing politics. He would rather lie quietly in bed than waste time thinking and talking about what Ershad had done, what Khaleda was doing and what Hasina might do. Hyder was doing all the talking. He made quite a long speech about Islam being the state religion.

  ‘Hyder,’ said Suronjon, lolling in bed, ‘does your state or Parliament have the right to create divisions between people of different religions?’

  Hyder was settled comfortably in a chair and had stretched his legs out on the table. He was flipping through Suronjon’s books with red covers. He laughed out loud when he heard Suronjon’s question.

  ‘What do you mean by “your state”?’ he asked. ‘Isn’t the state yours too?’

  Suronjon smiled a half smile. He had deliberately ‘gifted’ the expression ‘your state’ to Hyder.

  ‘I’m going to ask a few questions,’ said Suronjon, smiling, ‘and I want answers from you.’

  Hyder shifted and sat straight.

  ‘The answer to your question is no. In other words, the state has no right to create divisions between different religions.’

  ‘Does the state have the right to show preference to one religion over another and grant it special privileges?’ asked Suronjon, after taking a long drag on his cigarette.

  ‘No,’ answered Hyder immediately.

  ‘Does the state or Parliament have the right to be partial?’ This was Suronjon’s third question.

  Hyder shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Does the Parliament have the right to change one of the fundamental principles of the Constitution of the Republic of Bangladesh—the principle of secularism?’

  Hyder listened to him carefully. ‘No, certainly not,’ he said.

  ‘The nation’s sovereignty is based on the equal rights of all people. Hasn’t this base been
threatened in the guise of amending the Constitution?’ asked Suronjon.

  Hyder narrowed his eyes and looked at Suronjon. He was joking, wasn’t he? Why was he bringing up these old questions?

  ‘Didn’t declaring Islam the state religion mean that other communities would be deprived of state patronage and recognition?’ It was Suronjon’s sixth question to Hyder.

  ‘Yes, it did,’ said Hyder, frowning.

  Suronjon knew the answers to all these questions. So did Hyder. Suronjon was well aware that both he and Hyder thought similarly about these issues. Hyder wondered whether Suronjon was checking to see if Hyder harboured even the slightest communal feelings deep inside. Was this the reason why he had brought up these questions after Hyder had talked about the Eighth Amendment?

  ‘My last question,’ said Suronjon as he stubbed his cigarette in the ashtray, ‘is why are we trying to bring Bangladesh back into the complicated vortex of the two-nation theory that caused the separation from British India and created a different country? Who is doing this ignoble thing? And whose interests will this serve?’

  Hyder did not say anything this time. He lit a cigarette.

  ‘Jinnah himself had rejected the two-nation theory as a framework for the state. He said, “From today the Muslim, Hindu, Christian or Buddhist will not be known in national life by their religious identity. They are all Pakistani citizens irrespective of their race or religion and will be known simply as Pakistani.” Pakistan was perhaps better, don’t you think?’ asked Suronjon, sitting up from his sprawled position.

  Hyder got very excited and sprang to his feet. ‘No, Pakistan was not good at all,’ he said. ‘You folks could hope for nothing in Pakistan. After Bangladesh was created, all of you thought that in this secular country all your rights would be protected. However, when this country became an obstacle to you people realizing your dreams—all of you were deeply hurt.’

  Suronjon laughed out loud. ‘So finally even you are talking about “you folks”, “your dreams”, “all of you” and so on,’ said Suronjon, laughing. ‘Who are these “you folks”? Hindus, right? So you include me in the Hindu community? This is what I get after professing atheism all along?’