Lajja

by Taslima Nasrin

  ‘I heard that in Cox’s Bazar they have broken the Sebakhola temple. They’ve broken the chitamandir too. They’ve destroyed the central Kali temple in the Idgaon Bazar of Jalalabad; the main Durga temple in Hindupara, the Monosa temple, the Hori temple and the clubhouse in Machhuapara have all been burnt to a cinder. The Sarbojonin Durga temple in the Islamabad Hindupara, the Durga temple in Boalkhali, the Advaita Chintahori Math, the house of the head of the math and along with these five other family temples have also been reduced to ashes. The Hori temple in Boalkhali has been plundered. Eight temples in Choufoldondi, six houses and two shops have been completely burnt. A total of one hundred and sixty-five families in the Hindupara have had all their possessions plundered. Five Hindu shops in the bazar have been ravaged and Hindus are being beaten up everywhere. The rice silos in Hindu homes have had kerosene poured on them and been set on fire. The Bhoirobbari in Ukhia has been destroyed completely. The Kali temple in Teknaf and the priest’s house have been burnt down. The temple in Sarbang too has been broken and burnt. Three temples and eleven homes in Moheshkhali have been burnt. Four ‘Gita schools’ have been burnt. They have burnt and broken the Kali temple and the Hori temple in Kalaram Bazar. Six temples including the Kali temple and the naatmandir in the Kutubdia Boroghop Bazar have been set on fire. In the market, the shops of four artisans have been plundered. In Ali Akbar Dale, all the household possessions of fifty-one fisherfolk families have been completely burnt. Three children have died in such fires in Kutubdia. The Sarbojanin Kali temple of Ramur Idgorh and the Hori Mandir of the Jelepara have been broken and burnt. So many homes in Fatehkhankul have been burnt and devastated.’

  ‘Oh, let your news of burning and destruction be,’ said Suronjon, interrupting Taposh Pal. ‘Why don’t you sing something instead?’

  ‘Sing?’ Everyone present was stunned. Was it possible to sing at such a time? Was today a day like any other? The homes, shops and temples of the Hindus of the land were being plundered, broken, burnt. And Suronjon wanted someone to sing!

  ‘I am very hungry, Kajol da,’ said Suronjon, moving away from the idea of the song. ‘Can you give me a meal? Some rice?’

  Some people were surprised that Suronjon had chosen such an inconvenient time to ask for rice. Suronjon wanted to eat a bellyful of rice. He wanted a plateful of rice with dried fish. There would be flies buzzing all around—he would wave them away with his left hand and eat. He had once seen Ramratiya eat like that, sitting in the courtyard of their Brahmopolli house. Ramratiya was the sweeper of the Rajbari School. She had brought Maya home from school. Maya had an upset tummy that day. She was very young then and had not had the sense to rush to the toilet and was crying as she stood in the school compound because her pyjamas were soiled. The headmistress had asked Ramratiya to take Maya home. Kironmoyee had given Ramratiya some rice to eat. If he had not seen Ramratiya eat, Suronjon would never have believed that something as commonplace as rice could be eaten with such pleasure! But now he had asked for rice before a roomful of people! Was he going mad? Maybe not mad—does madness bring such heart-wrenching tears? There were grave discussions going on in the room and it would create a terrible scene if he were to burst into tears. He had roamed around in the sun all day long. He was supposed to go to Pulok’s house to return the money. The banknote that Maya had given him was lying unspent. He must go to Pulok’s house tonight. He was hungry and sleepy as well.

  In his slumber, Suronjon heard someone saying that the villagers of Norsinghdi Loharkanda village had turned Basona Rani Choudhury out of her own home. They frightened Basona’s son with a knife and made the family sign on blank sheets of paper. They also said that if they let anyone know of this incident they would kill Basona and her two sons. Did Basona look? Was she as soft, meek and unwilling to create a fuss? Yunus Sardar’s people raped Sobita Rani and Pushpo Rani in Romjanpur village of Madaripur. In Dumuria in Khulna, two sisters, Orchona Rani Biswas and Bhogoboti Biswas were both dragged off a rickshaw van at Malopara on their way home and raped at Wajed Ali’s house. Who raped them? Who were they? Men called Modhu, Shaukat and Aminur. In Chittagong in Patia, Badsha Mian, Nur Islam and Nur Hussain had entered the house of Uttom Das, son of Porimol Das, at three in the morning and killed him. Uttom’s people had gone to court and so now there was a plan afoot to evict them from Uttom’s house. Sobita Rani Dey, a student of Borolekha School, was studying at night when Nijamuddin came with some men and abducted her. Sobita was never found again. Shefali Rani Datta, the daughter of Nripendro Chondro Datta of Bogura, was abducted and forced to change her religion. The administration did not help at all. In the Shuro and Bagdanga villages of Joshor, armed men surrounded the houses of Hindus, plundered and beat up the people inside, and then raped eleven women through the night. And then? What happened after that? It seemed like someone wanted to know. And the person who wanted to know—were his eyes wide with fear, disgust or with some other kind of thrill? Suronjon’s eyes were shut, he was sleepy, he had no desire to find out who was so curious as to want to hear details about Sabitri Ray of Ghoshbag in Noakhali, who was now wandering in the streets with her husband, Mohonbashi Ray, and their daughter. Abdul Halim Nonu, Abdur Rob and Bachchu Mian went to Sabitri’s house in Alipur one day, threatened the family with knives and took away 18,000 takas. They had that money because they had sold some agricultural land to raise money for their daughter’s wedding expenses. The men also told the Rays that they should transfer their remaining land to them and leave for India, otherwise they would be killed. As they left, the men took away the cows from the shed. What would happen if Sabitri did not go to India? Nothing very much—she would be killed. Three hundred and sixty families of Shapmari village in Sherpur, belonging to the caste of cowherds, had left the country because they were tortured by fundamentalists. Local Muslim men of Katiadi in Kishorganj forged documents and usurped land and property belonging to Charu Chondro Dey Sarkar, Sumontomohon Dey Sarkar, Jotindromohon Dey Sarkar and Dinesh Chondro Dey Sarkar. Efforts were on to present forged documents and evict the family of Ronjon Rajbhor of Dapunia in Mymensingh from their family home. Ronjon’s sisters, Maloti and Ramroti, were forcibly converted to Islam and married off to Muslim men and then turned out of their marital homes soon after marriage. Muslim sharecroppers had forcibly occupied twenty bighas of land in Balighata village in Joypurhat belonging to Narayan Chondro Kund. They built their own homes on the usurped lands. Suronjon was asleep, yet awake. He did not want to hear the voices that were floating into his ears. Ali Master, Abul Bashar, Shohid Morol and others launched a commando-like attack with guns in Chorgorkul of Narayanganj and destroyed the houses of six families. They grabbed everything belonging to Subhash Mandal, Sontosh, Netai and Khetromohon, and evicted them from their homes and lands.

  ‘Wake up, Suronjon,’ someone called him. ‘Eat, here’s some rice for you.’

  He thought that it was Kajol da calling him. Maya usually called him like that. ‘Come, Dada, I’ve served your food, come and eat.’ He planned to spend Maya’s money that night. He would buy some sleeping pills. He felt like he had not slept in ages. Bedbugs attacked him every night. His bed was full of bugs—as a boy he had watched Kironmoyee kill bedbugs on the floor by hitting them with ‘hand fans’. He must tell Maya and kill all the bedbugs in his room that very night. They bit him all night long. They bit him inside his head. Suronjon’s head started buzzing. He felt nauseated. Amidst all this, someone said that he was from Rajbari—that was probably Taposh’s voice—and that they had burnt thirty temples there and houses and other buildings near those temples.

  This was followed by another voice bubbling out and filling the evening: ‘Listen to this bit of news from Noakhali! They’ve plundered and burnt seven houses and the Awdhorchand Ashram in Sundolpur village. Three houses in Jogodanondopur village were ransacked and burnt. And another three houses in Gongapur village. Ragorgaon village, Doulotpur, Ghoshbag, Maijdi, the Kali temple in Sonarpur, the akhara at Binod
pur, the Kali temple at Choumuhoni, Durgapur village, Kutubpur, Gopalpur, the Okhondo Ashram at Sultanpur and several temples at the Chhoani Bazar have been destroyed. Ten temples and eighteen houses were set on fire in Babupur Tetuia, Mahdipur, Rajganj Bazar, Tangir Paar, Kajirhaat, Rosulpur, Jomidarhaat, Choumuhoni Porabari and in Bhobobhodri village. In Bororajpur village in Companiganj nineteen houses were plundered and awful things were done to the women. And a man called Biplob Bhowmik was chopped to pieces with a sickle.’

  If only Suronjon could block his ears with cotton wool! All around him people were discussing the Babri Masjid matter and there were stories of breaking and burning. Oh, if only Suronjon could find some solitude! It would be good if he could get away to Mymensingh. There was far less breaking and damaging there. His body may have felt soothed if he could have spent an entire afternoon bathing in the Brahmaputra. He got up swiftly. Many people who were earlier in the room had left. Suronjon too decided to leave.

  ‘There’s rice for you on the table. Please eat before you leave,’ said Kajol da. ‘You fell asleep at an odd time. You’re all right, I hope.’

  ‘No, thank you, Kajol da,’ said Suronjon. ‘I won’t eat. Don’t feel like it. I’m not feeling so good.’

  ‘What is this now?’

  ‘I’m sorry but that’s how things are. I feel hungry and then the hunger disappears. There’s a sour taste in my mouth and heartburn. I feel sleepy but when I go to bed, I can’t sleep.’

  ‘You’re losing heart, Suronjon,’ said Jotin Chakrabarty, placing a hand on his shoulder. ‘Can we afford to be so disheartened? Be strong. All of us have a life to live.’

  Suronjon was standing with his head bowed. Jotin da sounded like Sudhamoy. It was so long since he had sat by his ailing father. He would not stay out late this evening. One always got held up at Kajol da’s house because so many people came there and there were long, intense discussions. There were complex political and sociological discussions till the wee hours. Suronjon would listen to some and not pay heed to others.

  Suronjon left without eating. He had not eaten at home in ages. He decided to eat at home that evening. He wanted to eat with Maya, Kironmoyee and Sudhamoy—all of them together. There was a vast distance now between him and the others at home; he had created that distance. Suronjon wanted to break down that wall. He had felt very good that morning and he wanted to be with the others with that sense of well-being, and laugh and talk, like they had when he was a child and they sat in the sun eating steamed pithe. Today, it would not be like they were father and son, or brother and sister, but as though they were all friends, very close friends. He would not go visiting again this evening—not to Pulok’s house, or Rotna’s. He would go home to Tikatuli, eat something as ordinary as rice and dal, and then chat till late at night with everyone and then sleep.

  Kajol da walked him down to the gate.

  ‘Look, it’s not a good idea for you to be going around the city like this,’ he said with great concern. ‘We’re staying within this compound, not venturing out at all. All the people you found in my house today live close by. And you’re wandering the city all by yourself! You never know what might happen.’

  Suronjon did not say anything but walked away swiftly. He had money and could easily have taken a rickshaw but he felt strangely attached to the money that Maya had given him. He did not want to spend it. He had not smoked a cigarette all day. Now that the evening was darkening, he craved a cigarette and that got the better of his attachment to Maya’s money. He stood in a shop and bought a packet of Bangla Five and felt like a king. He walked up to the crossing of Karkorail and then took a rickshaw. It seemed like the city went to sleep rather early these days. When people were not well they went to sleep early and it was the same thing with the city. What ailed the city? He remembered that one of his friends had once had a big boil on his bottom and had screamed in pain all day but he was terrified of medicines and shivered at the sight of injection syringes. Suronjon thought that the city had a huge boil on its arse.

  Four

  ‘Oh Maya, what is the matter with Suronjon?’ asked Sudhamoy. ‘Where is he roaming about during these troubled times?’

  ‘He said that he’d go to Pulok da’s house. Must be chatting there.’

  ‘But that shouldn’t keep him away till evening!’

  ‘I don’t know. What can I say? He should be back.’

  ‘Doesn’t he ever think that his folks at home are worried and he should come back?’

  ‘Let it be. Don’t talk so much,’ Maya said, interrupting Sudhamoy. ‘All this talking is making you tired. It’s not good for you. Lie down quietly. Eat a bit. After that, if you want me to read to you, I’ll do that. You’ll take your sleeping pills at ten o’clock and go to sleep. Dada will be back in the meanwhile, don’t worry.’

  ‘You’re in a hurry to make me recover, Maya. I’d rather be in bed for a few more days. Getting well has its share of problems.’

  ‘What kind of problems?’ asked Maya as she sat on her father’s bed, mixing his rice.

  ‘You are feeding me,’ said Sudhamoy, laughing. ‘Kironmoyee gives me massages every day. Will I get all this care once I’m well? Then I will have to see patients, go to the market and quarrel at least twice a day with you.’

  Maya stared unblinking at the sight of her father laughing. This was the first time he had laughed since his illness.

  ‘Please open all the windows,’ he told Kironmoyee. ‘I don’t like the room so dark. I also want some fresh air. This time I didn’t get to experience the winter breeze. Do we only love the breezes of spring? In my youth, I used to be out in the cold air sticking posters on walls, wearing just a thin shirt. Moni Singh and I wandered the hills in Susong Durgapur. Kironmoyee, do you know anything about the Tonk Movement and the Hajong Revolt of those times?’

  ‘You told me so many things after we were married,’ said Kironmoyee, who was feeling good. ‘Moni Singh and you once stayed the night at a stranger’s house in Netrokona.’

  ‘Kiron, is Suronjon wearing anything warm?’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Maya, curling her lips. ‘Like you, he wears only a thin shirt. He is a revolutionary of these times, busy managing contemporary political currents, and is never affected by changes in the rhythms of nature.’

  ‘Where does he go all day?’ asked Kironmoyee in an angry tone. ‘Does he eat anything? He is becoming more and more indisciplined.’

  Someone knocked on the door. Was Suronjon back? Kironmoyee, who was sitting next to Sudhamoy, went to open the door. It did sound like Suronjon! Of course, on nights when he was very late, Suronjon went straight into his room. Sometimes he also locked his door before leaving. Even when he did not lock his door from the outside, he managed to unbolt it without stepping into the main part of the house. Since it was not very late yet, it was probably Suronjon. Maya was mashing food for Sudhamoy with her hands to make it really soft so that he had no trouble eating. Sudhamoy had been on a liquid diet for days. The doctor had now prescribed a semi-solid diet. A fish stew had been cooked for Sudhamoy. As Maya was mixing the stew into the rice, she heard the knock on the door. Kironmoyee stood at the door inquiring who it was. Sudhamoy strained to hear the response to Kironmoyee’s question. Seven young men barged into the house as soon as Kironmoyee opened the door. Four of them were holding thick sticks and before they could figure out what the others had in their hands, the men had pushed past Kironmoyee and gone into the house. They were perhaps around twenty-one or twenty-two years old. Two of them were wearing kurta pyjamas and caps. The others were in trousers and shirts. They did not say a word to anyone as they came in; they started damaging everything in a frenzy—chairs, tables, cupboards with glass doors, television, radio, pots and pans, glasses, bowls, books, dressing tables, clothes, pedestal fans—anything that they could find. Sudhamoy tried to sit up but could not. Maya yelled out, ‘Baba!’ Kironmoyee closed the door and s
tood stupefied. What a terrible sight.

  ‘Bastards! You’ve broken the Babri Masjid. Do you think we’ll spare you?’ said one of them, as he drew a large sickle from his waistband.

  Not a single thing in their home was left undamaged. Everything was broken. Things were destroyed in a flash—they could not even begin to comprehend it. Maya too was standing still, stunned. Then suddenly, she screamed when one of them pulled her by the hand. Kironmoyee too screamed, breaking down her wall of tolerance. Sudhamoy could only groan. He was unable to speak. He watched as they pulled Maya away. Maya clung to the bedposts and tried to stay put. Kironmoyee ran and threw her arms around Maya. They pulled Maya away—brushing aside the women’s strength and their screams. ‘Oh, my sons, let her be. Let my daughter be,’ shrieked Kironmoyee as she ran after them.

  There were two baby taxis waiting on the road. Maya’s hands were still covered with the rice she had been mixing for Sudhamoy. Her dupatta had slipped off. She was screaming for her mother, a desperate look on her face. Kironmoyee had used every bit of strength she had but had not been able to hold Maya back. Ignoring their large, shining knives, she had tried to push two of them away, in vain. She kept running behind the two vehicles as they drove away. ‘They’ve taken my daughter away. Help me, my brother,’ she pleaded with each and every passer-by.

  Kironmoyee stopped at the shop at the end of the road. Her hair had come loose, her feet were bare.

  ‘Please help me, brother,’ she told Moti Mian. ‘Some people have just taken away Maya, my daughter.’

  Everyone looked at Kironmoyee with cold eyes. It was as if a madwoman was walking about spewing gibberish. Kironmoyee kept running.