Lajja

by Taslima Nasrin

  ‘We cannot carry on living in this country, Dada. Our daughter has grown up and we live in dread of something horrible happening to her.’

  ‘Please don’t talk to me about leaving,’ said Sudhamoy, turning away from Nonigopal’s daughter. ‘I hear that Goutom’s family next door is moving too. What are all of you up to? Everyone is leaving at the drop of a hat! Don’t they have vandals and thugs where you’re escaping to? Is there nothing to fear over there? There are fears about women’s safety everywhere in the world. All of you think that the grass is greener on the other side.’

  Nonigopal was wearing kurta pyjama and his face was covered with stubble. He sat quietly with his head between his hands. Lolita sobbed with anxiety and apprehension. Kironmoyee could hear Lolita’s sobs and she sat there unmoving, like she had turned to stone. She could not bring herself to tell them that Maya had been abducted and that she had not yet come back.

  Nonigopal had a timber business. It had been burnt down. He was not as disturbed by that as he was terrified about his daughter, Anjoli. What if they took her away!

  ‘Dada,’ he said to Sudhamoy. ‘Lolita has a relative who lives in Chandpur in Feni. They took him away because they wanted his property. Finally, they killed him. Don’t you know that they took away Miko, the fourteen-year-old daughter of Ashwini Kumar Chondro and raped her? The girl died later. They abducted Nondita Rani Heera, the daughter of Horendronath Heera of Bedgram in Gopalganj. Young Muslim men of Banchharampur village grabbed and raped Korunabala, the daughter of Khitish Chondro Debnath. Tondra Rani, the daughter of Shobha Rani of Kalinath Bazar in Bhola was also abducted and raped. Abdul Qayum, a trader in human beings, took away Mukti Rani, the daughter of Sudhir Chondro Das, from Adalotpara in Tangail. The daughter of Purno Chondro Barman of Bhaluka was also forcibly taken away. They also made off with Joyonti Rani, the daughter of Tinkori Saha of Taraganj in Rongpur. Haven’t you heard about these things?’

  ‘When did all this happen?’ asked Sudhamoy in a tired voice.

  ‘In 1989,’ said Nonigopal.

  ‘You’ve memorized all this stuff? These events took place some time ago.’

  ‘Can one forget these things?’

  ‘Don’t you have any news about Poribanu, Anwara, Manowara, Sufia, Sultana and many such women? They are also tortured and raped.’

  ‘I heard about your illness,’ Nonigopal said after some time. ‘We couldn’t come to visit because we were caught up in our own worries. However, I thought we must see you before we leave. We will reach Benapol tonight. We were not able to sell our home and things. I have asked a cousin of Lolita’s to sell off our property whenever possible.’

  Sudhamoy realized that he would not be able to make Nonigopal change his mind. He found it difficult to understand why people left. Did they gain anything? Oppression of Hindus in this country would only increase if their numbers dwindled. Who would benefit—those who left or those who stayed back? Sudhamoy assumed that no one would gain and all would lose; the poor would lose and so would the minorities. Sudhamoy was keen to find out exactly how many Hindus in Bangladesh would have to die so that they could conclusively say that they had atoned for the wrong-doings of all the militant Hindus of India—those of the past, present and future. If he had a definite answer, he would gladly kill himself. He would also ask many others to kill themselves. He would do it if it helped the Hindus who remained.

  Three

  Aleya Begum, Shafiq Ahmed’s wife, came to visit in the afternoon. She used to be a regular visitor in the past. Many people, who were frequent visitors earlier, had stopped coming. Hyder’s parents no longer came. Sudhamoy began to understand that Kironmoyee felt lonely. She was a bit surprised when Aleya Begum arrived. It was as if she no longer expected people to visit them. Their home had almost become like an abandoned house. Sudhamoy saw Aleya Begum’s smile, her dazzling sari and bright jewellery and wondered whether Kironmoyee felt herself dull in comparison. He had perhaps been rather unfair to Kironmoyee all these years. He had brought a woman from an affluent, educated and cultured family into a poor family without a future and had also deprived her sexually. Sudhamoy had been focused on his own needs; had he not been so, he would have asked Kironmoyee to marry again. Would Kironmoyee have left if he had said so? Deep within herself, did she not desire a bright life like Aleya Begum’s? She may have left. You can never tell what goes on in a person’s mind. Fearing that she might leave, Sudhamoy had clung to Kironmoyee as much as possible. He had hardly ever asked friends home.

  ‘Sudhamoy, you became friendless by design,’ he told himself candidly as he lay on his sickbed. ‘You were afraid that if your friends milled around, Kironmoyee might find herself a virile man.’

  Sudhamoy’s love for Kironmoyee had an intensity born of selfishness. He wanted her to feel that she must not leave such love behind. Can love alone fulfil a person? Now, after so long, Sudhamoy felt that love alone was not enough, there were other necessities.

  Aleya Begum made the right noises as she surveyed the broken things in the room, understood that Sudhamoy’s limbs were paralysed and learnt the details of Maya’s abduction.

  ‘Boudi, don’t you have any relatives in India?’ she finally asked.

  ‘I do, most of my family is there.’

  ‘So why do you remain here?’

  ‘Because this is my country.’

  Aleya Begum appeared taken aback by Kironmoyee’s statement. It was almost as if this was the first time that she realized that this was Kironmoyee’s land too. Aleya was probably wondering if Kironmoyee could rightfully claim this as her land and country. Sudhamoy realized that Aleya’s and Kironmoyee’s situations were not similar. A fine difference had been created between them.

  Part Eleven

  One

  It was Bijoy Dibosh, the Day of Victory—the day Bangladesh was liberated. Suronjon felt the word ‘freedom’ was poisoned; it stung him. There were programmes and marches all across the country commemorating the day. There was much delight all around. There was not a shred of joy in Suronjon’s mind. Normally, on this day, Suronjon would leave home early in the morning and be involved in different events. He would be singing as he traversed the city in a truck. Suronjon now felt that he had wasted many years in pointless pursuits. Did he have any freedom? What had he gained in free Bangladesh?

  Throughout that day, Suronjon found himself often on the verge of bursting into the familiar favourite songs about the Liberation: ‘Joy Bangla, Banglar joy’— Hail Bangla (desh)! Happy Bangladesh!;‘Purbo digonte surjo uthechhe’—The sun has risen in the eastern sky; ‘Rokto lal rokto lal’—Blood is red, yes, blood is red;‘Bishwokobir sonar Bangla, Nazruler Bangladesh, Jibonanander ruposhi Bangla ruper je tar neiko sesh’—This is the golden Bengal of Tagore, it is Nazrul’s Bangladesh, the beautiful Bengal of Jibanananda, oh, there is no end to its beauty; ‘Ek sagor rokter binimoye Banglar sadhinota anle jara amra tomader bhulbo na’—We will not forget you, all of you who gave a sea of blood to liberate Bengal; ‘Mora ekti phulke bachabo bole juddho kori, mora ekti mukher hashir jonyo juddho kori’—We take up arms to guard each flower, we take up arms to bring back smiles. But he firmly restrained himself. He did not want to indulge in patriotic sentiment and ruthlessly crushed any such desire within himself.

  Suronjon lay in bed all day. He felt the unfurling of a deep desire. He nurtured and guarded his secret wish, and let it flourish with its many branches and flowers. He watered the plant, saw it bloom and bud, and savoured the scent of its blossoms. He brooded all day long and finally left home in the evening around eight o’clock. ‘Go wherever you wish,’ he told the rickshaw-wallah. The rickshaw-wallah went through Topkhana, Bijoynagar, Kakrail, Mog Bazar and finally took him to Romna. Suronjon saw that the place was decorated with lights and wondered if the lit-up road was aware that he was a Hindu man. Maybe if it knew, the tarred road would break into two and ask him to sink into the earth. Suron
jon felt that unless he gave shape to his inner longing that day he would not be able to quieten the flames that burnt in the depths of his heart. If he did not do what he wished, he would not be freed from his claustrophobic life. What he was about to do was perhaps not a solution but it would bring him relief and it might help lessen his anger, frustration and pain.

  Suronjon asked the rickshaw-wallah to stop at the Bar Council. He lit a cigarette. He had given up all hope that Maya would be back. He would tell Sudhamoy and Kironmoyee that they should not expect Maya back. They should make-believe that Maya had died in a road accident. Suronjon found it difficult to accept the fact that his active, alert father was now bereft, isolated and helpless, groaning all day with the pain and agony of losing Maya. Maya’s abductors would be feasting on her like vultures devouring a corpse. They must be gouging her flesh out and tearing it apart. Were they eating her like the early humans feasted on raw flesh? An inexplicable pain left Suronjon shattered. He felt as though those men were feasting on him. He was being devoured by a pack of seven hyenas. He was still smoking his cigarette when a woman came and stood before his rickshaw. The sodium lights made her face seem bright. She must have painted her face and looked to be around nineteen or twenty.

  He threw away his cigarette and called her.

  ‘Come.’

  Moving seductively, she went close to the rickshaw and smiled.

  ‘What is your name?’ Suronjon asked.

  ‘Pinky,’ she said, smiling.

  ‘Your full name.’

  ‘Shamima Begum.’

  ‘Your father’s name?’

  ‘Abdul Jolil.’

  ‘And where are you from?’

  ‘Rongpur.’

  ‘And your name? What was it?’

  ‘Shamima.’

  The woman was a bit taken back. People did not usually ask her father’s name or where she came from. This was an odd customer! Suronjon looked sharply at Shamima. Was she lying? It did not seem so.

  ‘Ok. Get in.’

  Shamima climbed on to the rickshaw. Suronjon asked the driver to go to Tikatuli. He did not exchange a word with Shamima during the ride. In fact, he did not even glance at her. He did not seem to notice that a young woman was sitting close to him on the rickshaw and talking needlessly, sometimes even breaking into song and laughing and falling all over him. He was completely focused on smoking his cigarette. The rickshaw-wallah seemed to be in good spirits and swayed as he drove his rickshaw along, humming popular songs from Hindi films. The city was all dressed up that night and dazzling with coloured lights.

  Suronjon was not drunk; he was completely in his senses and was fully aware of what he was doing. He had locked the door to his room. There was no need to call anyone to the front door—they went straight to his room.

  ‘We haven’t discussed payment,’ said Shamima, once they were inside.

  ‘Shut up! Not a word,’ snarled Suronjon.

  The room was unkempt as it had been for days. The sheets were hanging down to the floor. He could not hear any sounds from the rest of the house. They were probably asleep. Listening carefully, Suronjon heard Sudhamoy whimpering. Was he aware that his illustrious son had come home with a whore? Of course, Suronjon did not look at Shamima as a whore—he saw her as a Muslim woman. He was extremely keen on raping a Muslim woman. He was going to rape Shamima, well and truly. He turned off the lights. He flung the woman to the floor and pulled off her clothes. Suronjon was breathing quickly and he sank his nails into her stomach and bit her breast. He knew he was not making love. He pulled the woman’s hair and bit her face, neck and chest. He scratched her sharply on her stomach, abdomen, bottom and thighs. She was a streetwalker and yet she was yelping in pain—this made Suronjon very happy. He kept hurting her; he ravaged and raped her. The woman was startled because she had never before had such a violent customer, who had torn her to bits. Like a doe escaping the lion’s paw, she bundled up her clothes and stood near the door.

  Suronjon was calm. He felt unburdened. He had been able to do something with the desire that had gnawed at him all day. He would be even happier if he could now kick the woman out. He began breathing heavily. Should he kick the Muslim woman hard? The woman stood there naked, not knowing whether she was expected to stay the night or could leave. Since she had been commanded not to speak, she was too frightened to even open her mouth.

  Where was Maya? Had they trussed her up and raped her in a closed room—all seven of them? Maya must have felt a lot of pain. Had she screamed?

  One night, when Maya must have been around fifteen or sixteen, she had called out ‘Dada, Dada’ in her sleep. Suronjon had run to her and found her trembling in her sleep.

  ‘What’s up, Maya? Why are you trembling?’

  ‘We were visiting a lovely village, you and I,’ said a trembling Maya, describing her dream, as if in a trance.

  ‘We were walking through green rice fields. We were walking and talking. There were a few other people too. They were also talking to us, on and off. Suddenly, there were no rice fields. There was an empty field and some men were coming to grab me. I was frightened and running and looking for you.’

  Oh, Maya! Suronjon began to breathe heavily. He felt that Maya was screaming loudly but no one could hear her screams. No one could hear her cries. Maya was crying. She was sitting in a dark room and crying before a pack of wild animals. Where was Maya? It was a tiny city and yet, he had no idea whether his beloved sister was in a rubbish heap, in a brothel or in the waters of the Buriganga. Where was Maya? That woman was still standing there—he wanted to give her a shove and send her packing.

  Suronjon’s behaviour frightened the woman. She put her sari on quickly and asked to be paid.

  ‘How dare you? Get out!’ said Suronjon, jumping up in rage.

  Shamima opened the door and set foot outside and then looked back, pitifully. The bite on her cheek was bleeding.

  ‘Please give me something, even ten takas would do.’

  Suronjon’s body was racked with rage. However, he felt sorry when he saw the woman’s sad eyes. She was poor and sold her body for food. The wretched mores of society were not putting her labour or intelligence to use but pushing her to dark alleys instead. Today’s earnings would surely help her buy some rice. He had no idea if she managed two meals a day! Suronjon took out ten takas from his pocket and gave it to her.

  ‘You’re Muslim, aren’t you?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The likes of you often change their names. You haven’t, have you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘OK. Off with you.’

  Shamima went away. Suronjon felt good inside. He was not going to feel bad about anything today. Today was the Day of Victory—everyone was happy and celebrating, setting off fireworks. It was on this day twenty-one years ago that Bangladesh was liberated and this was also the day that Shamima Begum came to Suronjon Datta’s room. Glory to the Liberation! Suronjon wanted to snap his fingers. Should he sing that song ‘Bangladesh is first, and for me, also the last! Bangladesh is my life, and I will be with Bangladesh in death too!’?

  He hadn’t told Shamima his name, not even once. He should have told her that his name was Suronjon Datta. Then Shamima would have realized that the young man who had scratched and bitten her and drawn blood from her flesh was a Hindu. Hindus also know how to rape, they also have arms, legs and a head, their teeth are sharp too, and they can use their nails to scratch. Shamima was a harmless woman but a Muslim, nevertheless. Suronjon would have felt delighted even if he could have just slapped the cheek of a Muslim.

  Suronjon spent a restless night. He slipped in and out of a daze. He spent the night alone in a ghostlike silence, insecure and threatened by the dark shadow of terror. He was traumatized and could not sleep. He had wanted to take petty revenge but had not been able to. He was incapable of revenge. Suronjon was ama
zed as he realized that he felt sorry for that woman, Shamima. He felt pity. Not rage or envy. What was he avenging if he did not feel rage? It was a sort of defeat, was it not? Was Suronjon defeated? Yes, he had lost. He had not been able to make a fool of Shamima. She had been cheated already. She could not distinguish between coitus and rape. Suronjon curled up in bed in shame and agony. It was late! Why couldn’t he sleep? Was he destroyed? Had the Babri Masjid incident brought out the worst in him? He realized that his heart had begun to rot. Why was he feeling so awful? Why did he feel such pain for the woman whom he had ripped and ravaged with his teeth? If he could only wipe away the blood on her cheeks with a handkerchief! Would he ever find her again? If he waited at the Bar Council crossing and found her, Suronjon would ask her to forgive him. He felt hot even though it was a winter’s night. He tossed his quilt away. His sheets were tangled up near his feet. He lay on the dirty mattress with his head close to his knees. He curled his body up like a dog. When morning came, he had this great urge to urinate but he did not feel like getting up. Kironmoyee brought his tea but he did not want it. He felt sick. He wanted to bathe in hot water. But where would he get hot water? There was a pond in the Brahmopolli house and your hair stood on end if you stepped into it on winter mornings. Yet, in those days, Suronjon did not feel that he had bathed unless he had swum in the pond. He wished that he could swim several lengths that morning but there was no pond. Where could he get limitless waters? The water in the bathroom was limited. Why was everything in life limited and measured?