‘Why have you left the door open?’ asked Pulok as he came in.
‘The door is open, we’re drinking and shouting. Why should we be scared? If we die, it’s the end. How come you’ve left your house?’
‘Things have calmed down quite a bit, so I felt able to come.’
‘And if things heat up again, you’ll lock yourself in, right?’ asked Suronjon and began to laugh loudly.
Pulok was startled to see Suronjon drinking. He had come all this way on his scooter but had tried not to draw attention to himself. The country was in a terrible state and a politically aware man like Suronjon was at home—laughing and drinking. This was unimaginable! Why had Suronjon suddenly changed?
‘Ghulam Azam! Ghulam Azam! Ghulam Azam! What do I care?’ said Suronjon as he sipped his drink. ‘What will I gain if Ghulam Azam is punished? I have absolutely no interest in joining a movement to punish him. Maya’s skin crawls if she hears his name. She throws up every time she hears his name. During the Liberation War, the Pakistanis shot and killed two of my father’s cousins and three of my mother’s brothers. I don’t know why they let my father live. Perhaps they wanted him to enjoy the fruits of the Liberation. Isn’t he enjoying the Liberation? Dr Sudhamoy Datta is enjoying the Liberation with his wife, son and daughter, isn’t he?’
Suronjon was sitting on the floor, his legs stretched out. Pulok too was on the floor. The room was dusty, a broken chair lay there and books were scattered all over the place. There was cigarette ash all over and a broken cupboard stood in the corner of the room. Suronjon was in a temper and had probably destroyed things in a drunken rage. The house was deathly quiet—it did not seem like anyone else was home.
‘Ekram Hossen had been to Bhola. He came back and said that according to the police, the administration and BNP people in Bhola, whatever happened there was a natural reaction to the destruction of the Babri Masjid—a spontaneous response by robbers and thieves and nothing more than that. Many villages have been burnt and ravaged as a consequence of the Hindu Eviction Campaign. There’s a smell of burning in the air. Bales of straw, granaries—all have been destroyed. Everything has been plundered and burnt—they took clothes and shoes from houses, sheets and pillows, bottles of oil and even things like brooms, piled them together, poured kerosene and set them alight. Fires have burnt rice fields and coconut plantations. They have forcibly stripped men of their lungis. They have raped the women they’ve come across and taken away their saris and jewellery. The Hindus were hiding in the rice fields. Nikunjo Datta, a teacher of Shombhupur Khasherhaat School, who was hiding in the rice fields, was set upon and beaten for money. It’s unlikely that he will live. “Hindus, do you want to live? Then it is Bangla that you must leave! Go away to India!” is the slogan reverberating all over Bhola. Hindus are being asked “When will you leave?” and threatened with “We’ll chop you up and feed you to the cows.” The wealthy Hindus are in a similar situation too. They have nothing left. Everything has been burnt down. They are now drinking water from coconut shells and eating off banana leaves. The rice they are eating is from the “relief” supplies. They are gathering leaves and roots and managing one meal a day. The attackers are raping women—wives before their husband’s eyes, daughters and sisters in full view of their fathers and brothers. There have been instances where mothers and daughters have been raped together. Many people are now openly saying that they’d rather beg for a living than continue to live in Bhola. They are telling the relief workers: “We don’t need relief. Help us cross the border. We want to leave.”
‘M.A. Bachhet and Siraj Patwari have attacked Shombhupur Golokpur. They used to be leaders of the Shibir and are now with the BNP. Apparently in Lord Hardinge there isn’t a single Hindu house that hasn’t been set alight. Priyolal babu was a freedom fighter. Even his family was tortured. Their village was attacked by the Awami League leader, Abdul Kader, and the chairman of the Union Porishod, Belayet Hossen. Three power tillers belonging to Babul Das have been burnt. Ekram asked him about his future. He burst into tears at the question and said: “I’ll leave if I am alive.”’
Pulok would probably have continued talking if Suronjon hadn’t screamed, ‘Shut up! Not another word! If you say anything more, I’ll whip you.’
Pulok was initially startled by Suronjon’s anger. He could not understand Suronjon’s behaviour. Was he drunk? Perhaps. He looked at Debobroto and smiled wryly.
Everyone was quiet. Suronjon’s glass emptied rapidly. He was not a regular drinker. Occasionally, he would have a drink or two at social gatherings. But that day he wanted to swallow several litres of alcohol. The atmosphere had turned sombre after he silenced Pulok. And in that silence, Suronjon stunned everybody by sobbing loudly. He put his head on Pulok’s shoulder and howled. Soon he was rolling on the floor. There was a dim light in the room, the air was full of alcohol fumes and the sound of Suronjon’s heart-rending sobs. Everyone in the room was quiet and full of trepidation. Suronjon was wearing the clothes he had been wearing the day before. He had neither bathed nor eaten, and was covered in dirt.
‘They took Maya away last night,’ he said, rolling on the dusty floor.
‘What did you say?’ asked Pulok, shocked, and turned towards him. So did Debobroto, Noyon and Birupakkho.
Suronjon continued to sob. The bottle of booze was forgotten. Glasses lay on the floor, creating puddles. Everything seemed to be dwarfed by the news that Maya was gone. No one could find anything to say. They could not offer any consolation. It was not like someone was ill and they could say, ‘Please don’t worry, she’ll get well.’
Belal came into a room that was deep in silence. He sensed the atmosphere in the room.
‘Suronjon, I heard they’ve taken Maya away?’ he asked, putting his hand on Suronjon’s shoulder. Suronjon lay inert on the floor and did not even lift his face.
‘Have you made a General Diary with the police?’
Suronjon did not even turn towards Belal. Belal looked to the others, expecting a reply. The others gestured that they did not know.
‘Has he made any inquiries? Who are the people who’ve taken her away?’
Suronjon lay still. He did not look at him.
Belal sat on the bed and lit a cigarette.
‘What in the world is going on all around us?’ he said. ‘The hooligans have got a good opportunity. And there in India, they are killing us off.’
‘And who do you mean by “us”?’ asked Birupakkho.
‘Muslims. The BJP is chopping them off.’
‘Oh.’
‘And when they get news from that side, they are unable to keep their heads here. Whom can we hold responsible? We are dying there and you are dying here. Was there any need to destroy the mosque? It was such an old mosque. Indians are digging up a mosque to find the birthing room of a character in an epic. After this they’ll say that Hanuman was born where the Taj Mahal stands now, and then bring down the Taj Mahal! They say that India practises secularism! Why has Maya been abducted? Advani and Joshi are to blame! Apparently Metiabruz is going through hell.’
Suronjon lay on the floor like an unclaimed corpse. Belal’s sadness was drowned by the sounds of Kironmoyee’s sobs and Sudhamoy’s groans from the neighbouring room.
‘I’m sure Maya will be back. They won’t swallow a living woman. Ask Kakima to hold on. And why are you crying like a woman? Will crying solve your problem? And why are all of you waiting around like this? You can try to get some news about the girl.’
‘We’ve just learnt about this,’ said Birupakkho. ‘Can you ever find someone who’s been taken away? And where shall we look, anyway?’
‘Must be men from the neighbourhood, addicted to marijuana and heroin. They must’ve been eyeing her. They’ve taken her away at the earliest opportunity. Do decent people behave like this? Young men are up to no good these days. The main reason is economic uncertainty.’
‘Is alcohol a solution?’ he asked. ‘Tell me, is it a solution? Has there ever been a major riot in this country? What’s happening now is not a riot. This is like boys attacking sweet shops because they covet the sweets. In India, there have been four thousand, no, six thousand riots till now. Thousands of Muslims have been killed. How many Hindus have died here? All the Hindu areas are being guarded with trucks full of policemen.’
No one said anything. Not even Suronjon. Suronjon did not want to talk. He was very sleepy. Belal did not light his cigarette. He said he had some work nearby and left. The others also left, one by one.
Part Nine
One
Gopal’s house, next to the Dattas’ place, had been robbed.
A little girl, who was around twelve years old, wandered into the Dattas’ house. She was Gopal’s younger sister. She was looking at the havoc that had been unleashed on the place. She walked quietly through the rooms. Suronjon lay where he was and observed the girl—she was like a cat. She was very young but her eyes already held fear. She stood in front of Suronjon’s room and stared round-eyed. Suronjon had been lying on the floor all night. He saw the sunlight on the veranda and realized that it was now quite late in the morning. He signalled the girl to come closer.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
‘Madol.’
‘Which school do you go to?’
‘Sher-e-Bangla Balika Bidyalaya.’
The school used to be called Nari Shikkha Mandir. It was founded by Lila Nag. Did anyone speak of Lila Nag any more? Back when it was not the norm for girls to be educated, she went from door to door encouraging girls to go to school. She had worked hard to build a girls’ school in Dhaka. That school was still there, or rather, the building was there but its name had changed. Maybe it was no longer permissible to talk about Lila Nag or Nari Shikkha Mandir. Like BM College and MC College. If you unravel the mysteries of abbreviations, the Hindu parts of a Muslim country are revealed. In 1971 too, there was a conspiracy to change the names of Dhaka’s streets, and the Pakistanis had changed the names of 240 streets of the city and ‘Islamized’ them. Lalmohon Poddar Lane became Abdul Karim Ghaznavi Street, Shankharinagar Lane became Gulbadan Street, Nobin Chand Goswami Road became Bakhtiar Khilji Road, Kalicharan Saha Road turned into Ghazi Salauddin Road, Rayer Bazar became Sultanganj, Shoshibhushon Chatterjee Lane turned into Syed Salim Street and Indira Road became Anarkali Road.
‘Why are you lying on the floor?’ asked the girl.
‘I like the floor.’
‘So do I. We have a courtyard in our house but we are going to move. The new house doesn’t have a courtyard. Neither does it have a patch of land.’
‘So you’ll not have a place to play.’
The girl sat next to Suronjon, leaning on the bed. She was enjoying her chat with Suronjon.
‘I am feeling sad about going away,’ said the girl with a childish sigh. Suronjon asked the girl to sit closer to him. He imagined she were Maya. This was Maya as a child—the girl who used to sit chatting with her brother. They would talk about school and the games they played. It had been so long since he and Maya had sat together and talked. When they were children Suronjon, Maya and a few other children would build mud houses by the river. They would create those houses in the late afternoon and at night the dark waters would wash them away. Those were the days of eating candyfloss and getting a pink tongue, the days of Mohua Molua, the days of running far from home and wandering amongst the kaash flowers—Suronjon reached out and touched the girl. She had soft hands like Maya’s. Who were the people holding Maya’s hands now? There were surely cruel, hurtful and rough hands. Was Maya trying to run? Was she trying to run but could not? He felt a shiver run through his being. He held on to Madol’s hand as if she was Maya and if he let her go someone would take her away. They would take her away and bind her strongly with ropes.
‘Why are your hands trembling?’ Madol asked him.
‘Trembling? Because I’m feeling sad that you are going away.’
‘But we’re not going away to India. We’re only going as far as Mirpur. Subol and his family are going to India.’
‘What were you doing when those people came to your house?’
‘I was standing in the balcony, crying. I was frightened. They’ve taken away our television. They’ve also taken away the box that had the jewellery. They’ve also taken my father’s money.’
‘Didn’t they say anything to you?’
‘They slapped me very hard on my cheeks before they left. They also asked me to keep quiet and not to cry.’
‘Did they do anything else? Did they want to take you away?’
‘No. Are they beating Maya di hard? They beat Dada too. He was sleeping. They beat him on his head with a stick. He bled a lot.’
‘If Maya had been as young as Madol,’ thought Suronjon, ‘she may have escaped. No one would’ve dragged her away like that. How many of them are raping Maya? Five? Seven? More? Is Maya hurt and bleeding?’
‘My mother said that I should come and meet Mashima,’ said Madol, ‘because Mashima has been crying constantly.’
‘Madol, shall we go out somewhere?’
‘My mother will worry.’
‘We’ll let your mother know.’
‘Dada, will you take me to Cox’s Bazar?’ Maya had asked him often. ‘Let’s go to the forests of Modhupur. I also want to go to the Sundarbans.’ After she read Jibanananda’s poems, she had said that she wanted to go to Natore.
Suronjon had always dismissed Maya’s requests.
‘Forget your Natore and suchlike,’ he had scoffed. ‘So much better if you go to the slums of Tejgaon and look at people. Look at people’s lives. Much better to see people than to stare at trees and rocks.’ Hearing such comments, Maya’s enthusiasm would wilt.
Thinking back, Suronjon wondered what he had gained by observing life. What was the consequence of always wanting the very best for people? He had been concerned about the movements of peasants and workers, the rise of the proletariat and the development of socialism, and now he wondered how that had helped, because socialism had fallen finally and Lenin had been dragged off his pedestal. Suronjon, a man who had always sung songs about humanity, was now confronted with an inhuman attack on his own home.
Madol left quietly. Suronjon realized that he was no longer holding Madol’s soft hands, so like Maya’s.
Hyder hadn’t come. Had he had enough? Did he not want to be involved any longer? Suronjon understood that it was futile to carry on looking for Maya. If she were to return, she would come back like she had when she was six. Suronjon felt a deep emptiness. Their home had been equally quiet when Maya was at Parul’s. However, he had felt no sadness then. He knew that Maya was away and she would be back. And now the house felt like a cremation ground. It was almost like someone in the family had died. Suronjon looked around the room and saw the whisky bottle, the glasses on the floor and the books that lay scattered, and felt as if all his tears were flowing into his chest and collecting there.
This time neither Kemal nor Robiul had inquired after Suronjon. Maybe they felt that people had to manage their own lives. Belal was there last night and in his voice, too, Suronjon heard the same accusation: ‘Why have you lot broken our Babri Masjid?’ The Babri Masjid belonged to Indians. Suronjon wondered why Belal claimed the Indian mosque as his own. Some Hindus had destroyed the mosque but did that include Suronjon and people like him? Were the Hindu fundamentalists of Ayodhya and Suronjon the same? Was he not like Belal, Kemal or Hyder? Was he just a Hindu? Was Suronjon to be held responsible for the destruction of an Indian mosque? Do country and nationality become irrelevant in relation to religion? Maybe people who are uneducated and weak and need the support of religion
to stay alive think that way, but why should Belal think that way too? Belal was a well-educated young man, a freedom fighter, so why should he slide in the slippery mud of religion? Suronjon could not find answers to any of his questions. There were two bananas and some biscuits on the table. Kironmoyee had left them there quietly. He did not want to touch food, he wished to gulp down the remaining whisky instead. He had slept in a stupor the night before but Maya kept surfacing and that broke him to pieces. Whenever he was awake he saw Maya’s face floating in his consciousness. If he shut his eyes, he felt that she was being torn apart by a pack of dogs.
Hyder had not even come to tell them whether there was any news of Maya. Hyder knew the terrorists much better than Suronjon and that is why Suronjon had sought his help. Otherwise Suronjon would have gone alone searching in the by-lanes and alleys. Of course, there was no need to go into by-lanes and alleys any longer to rape Hindus—it could be done in the open, in the same way that plundering and breaking and burning took place in the open. There was no longer any need to hide or take cover if you wanted to torture Hindus. After all, there was tacit support from the government. This was not a government of a secular state. They were craftily protecting the interests of the fundamentalists.
The other day, Sheikh Hasina had said that they have to maintain communal harmony in Bangladesh to protect the lives and properties of the 140 million Muslims in India. Why did Sheikh Hasina need to think about the safety of Indian Muslims? Was it not enough to say that communal harmony must be preserved to protect the rights of the citizens of Bangladesh? Why was it more important to show concern for the lives and belongings of Indian Muslims than to show concern for the citizens of Bangladesh? Were people meant to conclude that the Awami League too was using the recipe of ‘opposition to India and propagation of Islam’ created by the Jamaat-e-Islami, to feed the gullible masses? Was this like the trick of the communists who wear masks of Islam? The most basic and logical reason for maintaining communal harmony was to ensure constitutional rights. Why should the protection of the interests of the Muslims of India be invoked as a justification? The Hindus of Bangladesh are free citizens of the country and they have the right to practise their religion and beliefs and safeguard their lives and property. The right to life of Hindus is recognized in the Constitution of Bangladesh and therefore they have the right to live like all others and should not be dependent on the mercy of some religious or political group, or the largesse of any particular individual. Why should Suronjon need the protection or sympathy of Kemal, Belal or Hyder to stay alive?
Lajja Page 20
