And an eternal river of flames.
In ecstasy,
I have read the startling secrets in your eyes—
But I have never been able to touch you.
Trusting hands have slackened, like creepers, and let go—
On my way to these unmindful revelries
I have brushed past my heart; or tissue as I call it now.
I could never touch you, the part of you that was mine—
Driven to madness, I have upset the calm,
Laid the quiet sky to waste,
And my soul has walked in the relentless rain.
To this day I have not been able to reach the part that makes you, you.
I kept staring for a long time at the flamboyant tree outside, laden with red blossoms, the sultry breeze brushing my skin softly. R was reading his poems, telling me how he had been writing with both hands, a lot of political poetry and a verse drama. At my behest he even handed me his notebook of new poems; I noticed that besides the radical, anti-establishment verses there was a new and different kind of poetry too, one of personal insight. Although it had taken him time and effort to arrive at this new form, nevertheless I was happy to note that he had broken out of time-worn shackles. This new poetry gradually transported me to a fantastic and exquisite world where R appeared more committed and more sincere.
On stage at the conference at Jhinaidaha, we read our own revolutionary poems against untruth, inequity, autocracy, injustice and oppression. The louder the voice of outrage grew, the louder was the applause—the most politically subversive poems drew the widest praise. This is a fairly well-known trend in poetry—those who only write poems of personal grief and happiness are not usually considered socially conscious enough. I had seen this in R too. He used to be much prouder of his political poems than he was of his other work, perhaps more so because in a time of social and national crisis such poetry becomes a clarion call for casting one’s personal grievances aside and coming out into the open, to reconnect and reconcile with humanity, and to compose lyrics reflecting collective desires.
Poets do not exist outside society. Just like others it is their duty too to attempt to find a cure for an ailing social order. Poets were very popular in Bangladesh; hundreds of people gathered at poetry conferences to listen to them and the poets would use this platform to call for social revolution. R too had taken on such a challenge and he was more than equal to the task, his fiery poems attacking the dictatorial government mercilessly. I was left wondering as to how someone with such a commanding voice and such a formidable ability to conjure blistering verses could be so icy otherwise. Off stage, on our way to somewhere else, I could sense R falling behind because of his slow, measured steps. He was walking a short stretch and then stopping to recover from the strain; every time I extended my shoulder in support. I felt so helpless seeing him it made me want to brush away his illnesses in the wink of an eye, grab him by the hand and start running—two mad, earnest and excited hearts leaving everyone else behind to bite the dust.
While my desires were being trampled under the feet of the people walking ahead, in the house of the director of the Jhinaidaha Cultural Association, the poet Asad Choudhury, was beginning an informal debate with his numerous admirers. Like most debates of the time the theme was rather topical—Hussain Muhammad Ershad3 and how he could be deposed. Critical arguments were bandied about on whether the political parties were succeeding in their anti-Ershad campaigns, whether Khaleda Zia and Sheikh Hasina were making any mistakes in their political strategies. R’s excitement about contributing to the discussion was palpable; I was intrigued too but I knew that any input would be impossible for me. I have never been very well versed in heavy political jargon and neither was I very good at exposition. It had taken me days to comprehend the meaning of the term ‘socio-economic’. What I knew for certain was that in order to create a healthy and safe environment all steps had to be taken to ensure the necessary sustenance, shelter, education and health care for all. There had to be equality between men and women, fair distribution of wealth, the eradication of superstition, bigotry, violence and ruthlessness from society. And all this required an efficient and honest leadership. Who was going to lead the nation?
Some were in favour of Sheikh Hasina while others wanted Khaleda Zia and various reasons were being discussed for and against both candidates among their supporters. The brightest spot in all this was the fact that both women had joined hands to fight Ershad. We were used to seeing the two at odds with each other, exchanging insults at random, but here they were united under one common goal, having set aside their differences at least for the time being. Of course, as much as this was a credit to both of them, the biggest effort had been put in by the intellectuals who had advised and inspired the two leaders to come together for the sake of democracy. Despite having gotten used to experiencing inequality, in effect all around me a new dream of a just and unbiased society was gradually beginning to take hold. Life is usually the most uncertain of all things; not just for a select few, it is so for everyone. That night in Jhinaidaha had managed to unearth a secret trove of hope, despair, new dreams and fresh nightmares.
One of the guests had informed our host that R and I were no longer married; while making arrangements for the night two separate rooms were allotted to us. We politely refused the gesture and slept on the same bed. After what seemed like ages R touched me again that night, kissed me again, our two bodies joining and converging at a point, an incredibly intimate moment after being apart for aeons. The morning after brought with it curious and speculative stares from the others. I did not feel the guilt everyone was expecting me to feel and nor was I perturbed by the disapproval. I might have separated from R in legal terms but if there was a man whom I considered my own it was R. There was not an iota of artifice or untruth in the fact that R was the only man I loved, regardless of the many hurts I nursed against him. I kept that love well hidden; it was the same useless sensation that made me place my hands on his warm, dark hands, made me sit by myself in solitude, did not allow me to make plans for my life and stopped me from thinking about my future altogether. On our way back to Dhaka, while engrossed in talking about poetry and reading stray lines to each other, R began reciting a very old poem of his. It seemed as if his time was slowly and irrevocably decomposing—
Take off my clothes.
These artifices, the skin on my flesh,
This crumbling casing of beauty—
Take off this shroud that the sun places on the day.
Time and every instant, like molten tar, is melting
Just like a woman or a child’s untainted feelings,
And Man’s faith, and love.
I cannot undo the relentless loss of civilization,
The wetness of self-stimulation, or flowers swept away by the currents,
Or dying children; I cannot turn back the epidemic,
The murder of embryos, predatory hands in the dark . . .
Unforgivable failures have piled high and become a mountain,
With a valley of golden indolence at its feet,
And a few stray, pale defeated demons.
Rip my consciousness to pieces,
Whip my static trustful body blood,
Throw my soul to a hungry lion.
I can’t rip off their original masks—
I can only burn,
And I can save some fire from the night,
To burn the morning.
I could sense a new grief stealthily approaching me. Brushing my pain aside impatiently R was telling me about a girl called Shimul he had met the year before at the book fair, about whom he had written a number of poems. ‘What kind of poems?’ I could not help but ask.
During dark summer storms,
I feel like holding another girl’s hand,
And losing myself in the remoteness.
My dreams take flight in the rain and the wind.
I wish I could bloom like a spray of shimul.
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‘And then?’
In the scorching afternoon heat,
I wish I could touch the solitary mole on her chin,
With love; blue eyes, and a body made of moonlight—
I wish I could feel the fine tendrils of memory,
Through my fingers, and move aside the locks falling lightly
Over a forehead of dreams.
‘What else do you wish for?’
I wish I could walk down the middle
Of the orderly city road,
And sweep aside all the prohibition.
I too wish I could cry.
‘Isn’t that a happy thing? What’s with the tears then? Why do you want to cry?’
‘Listen to me first,’ he laughed and replied.
‘Fine, tell me first.’ I laughed too.
I wish I could take the cuffs off,
I wish I could maul all the intrigue,
I too wish I could break your body into fragments.
‘Why do you sound like a butcher? Whose body do you want to cut into pieces?’
Before my faux ire could betray itself, with a smile R continued, ‘Have you read the verse dramas? They are about Shimul.’
I don’t know your name,
But I know you.
Where do I look for you now?
Where do I go and search?
In ceramic woods, or among the brick she-oak,
Where do I go and search for you?
Where are your placid mornings and serene days?
Where are your fulsome afternoons and lonely nights?
Where do I look for you? In the fallen leaves,
The evenings spread out in the grass? Where do I look for you?
‘You have looked enough. In the second verse drama you mention having lost sleep while looking for her and only realizing it in the morning. It’s the same in the third. You have crossed rivers, oceans and vast fields, mountains and forests and what not! You have even searched the sky but have you managed to find her after all?’ R smiled brightly and told me he had found her—he had found his Shimul. Apparently Shimul had been hesitant at first, had been cautious about opening herself up to him. R had done his best to coax her hesitations aside.
Be a little indiscreet in this cavalcade.
Why a little? Why only a little indiscreet?
You could open your heart to me,
Let your ebony tresses loose,
And you could reveal your deepest shame to me,
The still-fresh memory of the wound on your brow,
And your dreams of tomorrow.
You could simply brush aside the memory-fossils,
Let the silk-cotton float in the air,
And brush past the noisy afternoons, riding on the clouds.
You could toss the green paper,
On which you wrote your dreams to me,
Into the water under the bridge.
You could spread out your hand and ask for a summer storm,
Walk on the fragrant wet earth, and ask life to change for you.
Sensing the tears about to spill I turned towards the window to hide my face. As if specks of dust carried by the wind through the open window had gotten into my eye and I was trying to wipe them off. I did not want R to see how hurt I was. What reason did I have to be sad? Our lives were different. He was allowed to fall in love with someone else, even marry someone else if he wished to. Smiling as if his new-found love was quite amusing to me, as if it was making me deliriously happy, I asked, ‘And the girl is ready to change her life?’
‘Yes, Shimul has agreed to get married. But she wants to wait for a while.’
‘The two of you must be together all the time.’
‘Yes, we are.’
‘What does she look like?’
‘She’s young. Pretty.’
‘Great.’
‘What is great?’
R’s eyes lit up with a stunning light, his dreams reflected deep in them.
‘Have you kissed her?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you had sex?’
‘She wanted to. I said no.’
‘You said no! What are you saying! Why?’
‘I told her I wanted to wait till after we are married.’
‘She really wanted to sleep with you?’
‘Yes, she did.’
I was surprised to hear this. Bengali girls do not usually go out of their way to ask their boyfriends for sex, especially before marriage.
‘Then?’
‘What then?’
‘Do you honestly love Shimul?’
R was staring, numerous red shimul flowers blossoming in his eyes. Averting his gaze to rest upon the flamboyant tree in full bloom outside, perhaps hoping to chance upon a shimul among their mix, he answered in a happy voice, ‘Yes, I do.’
‘Truly?’
‘Truly.’
‘Why did you ask?’ he inquired.
My eyes fixed on the barren slice of land in the distance, I replied, ‘Just like that.’ R was beginning to appear distant; a friend still but not the same as before. We were close but not that close any more.
We reached Dhaka in the middle of the night and R took me to his newly rented house on Indira Road to spend the rest of the night. Following him up to his room on the second floor I was faced with a completely unknown space done up in a totally unfamiliar style. The only objects from before were the bed, the old sheets and the old blue mosquito net—all familiar things and yet so very unfamiliar to me. While he slept soundly I spent the rest of the night sleepless beside him on that bed. R had slept with countless women but he had always maintained that he was not in love with any of them; he had had no emotional ties to them. The same man was freely confessing his love for another person to me, unhesitatingly telling me their love story. Looking around among the shifting shadows in the room I was struck by a thought—surely Shimul must have been there, surely this was where their love-struck gazes had met and held.
In the morning I got up and placed two kisses on R’s forehead, ruffled his thick hair fondly and said to him, ‘Be happy.’ He nodded and replied, ‘I hope you will be happy too.’ Leaving him in bed I waved him goodbye and left. I was meant to leave anyway.
I walked out of the house and kept walking looking for a rickshaw. The balmy morning air was caressing my skin but it seemed as if a violent summer storm was bent on upsetting everything inside me, destroying everything and leaving me destitute. I felt alone all of a sudden, so very alone. It seemed there was not another soul on the road except me. Unaware as to where I was going I marched on aimlessly with a horde of my own memories in close pursuit—memories of Mymensingh, the college campus, the canteen, the Press Club and the Botanical Garden, those days of intense passion and dreams strung together with love. I suddenly found it impossible to disentangle myself from the hold my memories had on me. The tentacles, like those of an octopus, were gradually coiling around me, they had me in their chokehold and I could not breathe.
The Holy Carrot
To combat the growing menace of the Ershad Hatao movement, he dangled a holy carrot in front of the people. A new clause was unilaterally added to the constitution—a state religion—and consequently, Islam was declared the state religion of Bangladesh. Were there demands in public to instate Islam as the state religion? No, there had been no such demands. Were Muslims finding it difficult to practise their religion without the proviso? Nothing of that sort had happened and everything had been going on as usual. The Muslims were fine, they were constructing masjids and madrasas in every conceivable corner of the nation, seers and soothsayers were cropping up a dime a dozen and everything had been going to hell anyway. The only things missing had been the President’s personal interventions, which were finally at hand. By playing the religion card Ershad was effectively contributing to the din already audible everywhere.
Do nations need a religion? It is the people who need it. The nation is not one individual; it is a guarantor of safe
ty for people of all religious and ethnic identities. If the nation is not impartial, if a nation shows communal tendencies, then is it surprising that its people will protest and create disruption? This is something that is bound to happen. In an Islamic state a non-Muslim citizen is bound to feel insecure. The one true path to civilization lies in the separation of the state and religion—almost all developed nations have followed that path. The time when religion had been all-powerful has historically been regarded as the Dark Ages—a time when millions of people were burnt alive, when there had been no such thing as freedom of speech. I was worried that my country too was slipping back into such a time of darkness. I was anxious that the citizens of my country were about to be infected by a fatal virus that had been dispersed in the air. Ershad was coming up with fresh ruses to sustain his position. He had dissolved the assembly and conducted a sham election with some small and independent political parties as his opponents, since all the other major political parties had withdrawn from the contest. The bogus vote was meant to foreground the legitimacy of his claim to power but it had hardly managed to convince anyone. Such was his greed for power that on realizing the precarious nature of his seat he resorted to state religion to bail him out. Hence the divine carrot dangled in front of everyone’s noses to bring the faithful under his control.
The opposition parties had joined forces to form a coalition and many cultural organizations from the villages as well as the cities were joining their ranks to unite and combat Ershad. But it was not as if these coalitions were speaking out strongly enough against the idea of a state religion. The simple thing was that Islam had such a firm hold on people that most did not possess the courage to speak out against it. Nonetheless a few political and non-political organizations committed to social justice had taken to protesting the contentious eighth amendment to the constitution. A handful of writers and journalists too were writing against the idea of a state religion. That was—more or less—it.
In 1971 Bengali Muslims had revolted and waged war against their non-Bengali Muslim overlords to prove irrevocably that being a Muslim was not the only criterion for cohabitation. In 1971 Bengalis had proved that the partition of India on the basis of the two-nation theory had been a momentous mistake. The Bengalis who had participated in the Mukti Juddho (Liberation War) of 1971 had dreamt of driving back the non-Bengali Muslims and forming a nation called Bangladesh premised on their love for the Bengali language and culture. After a bloody nine-month-long war the country was liberated and Sheikh Mujibur Rahman assumed the leadership of the emergent nation. He may have had a hundred faults, despite being enormously popular he may have made many mistakes as an administrator, but he had also charted a robust constitution where Bengali nationalism and socialism had found pride of place alongside the ideals of secularism. It was Major Zia who had usurped power and effectively forced secular thought out of the ambit of governance. Following in his footsteps another military dictator had committed an even greater crime and added a poisonous clause to the constitution under the ruse of an amendment. Had that been our lot? The Hindus, Buddhists, Christians and Muslims—we had all been Bengali. Yet it was impossible to sing about communal harmony any longer. On 7 June 1988, a black day in the history of Bengal, they snuffed out the glorious prospect of a non-communal and just society in cold blood. After having made significant progress and achieving significant things, it was a day of regression, of relapsing to untruth, injustice and obscurity. That day we rewound the clock not by a couple of years but almost a millennium.
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