Split

by Taslima Nasrin

  Goon was at home, sitting on the bed. I sat in front of him for the longest time but did not know what to say. Why was I there? To comfort him? What was I even supposed to say? A group of boys were shouting on the road ‘Ekta duita Hindu dhor, shokal bikal nasta kor’ (Grab a Hindu or two and feast on them night and day). Once the shouting had died down Goon spoke. ‘I’m afraid of getting out of the bed. What if they grab me immediately?’ Even in the face of mortal danger Goon’s sense of humour had lost none of its sharpness and he was still trying to make people laugh. But was it only a joke, or was it also what he was anticipating? Was he truly afraid? Even in the eyes of someone as strong, resilient and dauntless as him I could see dark swirling masses of terror and uncertainty, despite his best efforts to hide it from me. Women had no security in this country and yet I felt safer than him simply because of my Muslim name. And despite being a renowned poet, a brave man and a clever political theorist, Nirmalendu Goon was not feeling safe. He appeared more helpless than I.

  ‘You have to come to my house with me.’ My words came out with a sigh.

  But Goon refused. He had a family of dependants—Geeta and her sisters. He was not going to leave them alone to find security. I asked him how Asim Saha and Mahadev Saha were doing but he had no news of them. He only knew that he was still alive and that was probably only because he physically resembled a Muslim maulvi. With his long beard and the kurta and pyjama he always wore, his neighbours in the slum had been convinced that he could not be anything but a Muslim. Such an unintentional deception perhaps worked with a few people but chances were slim it was going to work with everyone.

  On the floor a little boy of about four was playing, the son of Geeta’s sister Kalyani. Suman was Kalyani’s son from her marriage to a Muslim man. Goon pointed at the boy and said, ‘He is half-Muslim. We have hope because of him. I have asked him to sit here. If someone comes to attack us we will simply tell them that this house has a Muslim so they ought to be careful before they attack.’ I laughed at that but Goon did not. He was clearly convinced that he was going to be saved along with Geeta and her sisters by a four-year-old Muslim boy. Goon continued. ‘They are feeding Suman well and taking a lot of care. He is our protector and even he understands that. He keeps scolding me!’ I laughed louder at that but Goon remained serious. ‘I was wondering if I should go to Asim’s place to see how he is doing. I will take Suman with me. Suman will walk ahead and I will walk behind him. I’ll be a lot less scared with at least someone Muslim with me.’

  This time I did not laugh. Instead I could feel pain ring through my head. Helplessness was beginning to bite at me like a pest and I tried reassuring Goon as well as myself by changing the topic to the human chain being formed from Bahadur Shah Park to the Jatiya Sangsad Bhaban to protest against communal violence. Both the Awami League and the BNP were going to bring out peace marches; the student union peace march was happening already. Everyone was trying to hold back the Jamaat. Goon listened to me, his face betraying no reaction. He was always eager to discuss politics but that day all his natural exuberance had deserted him. I asked him if he was reading the newspaper and he told me he was neither reading anything nor watching television. He was sitting on the bed all day, eating his meals there, running to the bathroom whenever he had to and then running back to the bed again. Not that we were sleeping either, too afraid as he was that he was going to be killed in his sleep. Even Suman’s half-Muslim identity would not be able to save him then. A naked boy, covered in dirt and with a runny nose, was the most powerful person in their house. Suddenly even I could not help but feel Suman indeed was the strongest and the most intelligent person in the house, much more than all the other adults. Suman was their most valuable asset.

  I walked out of Goon’s house enveloped in despair and decided to visit Asim Saha and Mahadev Saha. Neither of them lived in a ramshackle shanty like Goon but the fears were identical. They were confined to their houses, limp with terror, their doors and windows bolted shut and their grown-up children huddling around them. Neither of them knew when they would be able to venture out, if at all. Asim Saha’s Ityadi press was shut. Mahadev Saha, an employee of Ittefaq, was not going to office any more. I had no fresh assurances to give them and the news of the human chain being organized the day after did little to allay their fears.

  While returning home I could not help but think that if well-known poets of the country were being forced to cower inside their houses, then how were the ordinary Hindu minorities doing? Nirmalendu Goon, Asim Saha, Mahadev Saha, each and every one of them was an atheist. But because of their Hindu names they were being compelled to cower in front of religion. I could have been a Hindu too and I could have been born in a Hindu family. What would have happened to me in such a scenario? Would I have been able to go out? Perhaps they would have caught and raped me. Or perhaps they would have destroyed my home and left me a destitute, or even burnt me to death.

  ~

  10 December. I reached the hospital quite early. There were no patients in the OT yet. While having tea and samosas in the canteen I noticed a two-day-old copy of Inquilab with the headline: ‘Hindu Temple to be Built In Place of the Babri Masjid, Right-wing Hindus Rejoice, 1000 injured, More than 200 Dead’. I turned the newspaper over and pushed it away. I was assured that the paper was doing its job ‘admirably’ in paving the way for more violence on Hindus in this country. Snatches of a conversation drifted towards me from a group of doctors at the next table.

  Eight members of the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) including L.K. Advani and party president Murli Manohar Joshi had been arrested and protests were being held demanding punishment for Kalyan Singh, the chief minister of Uttar Pradesh. Seven Hindu terrorists had also been apprehended. The Lok Sabha was suspended and the Vishwa Hindu Parishad (VHP), RSS, Bajrang Dal and Jamaat-e-Islami had been banned. And what was happening in our country? Hindu houses and temples were being looted and torched in broad daylight. Land was being taken away and some Hindus had even been arrested by the police. Section 144 had been imposed. The left parties, the Awami League and the student unions were issuing statements and holding meetings and marching to drive back communal forces. The forces that had been in favour of the Liberation War were being asked to come together in solidarity to preserve peace and harmony. And the Jamaat was at the centre of it all, inciting communal tension. The television channels were thankfully no longer showing footage of the Babri demolition and the leaders of the opposition along with government representatives were out on surveys to assess the violence-ridden areas. Despite all the things being done the Hindus were still not safe and the communal violence continued.

  I had no time to go join the human chain as my entire day passed at the hospital. The number of casualties in the Emergency ward was showing no signs of decreasing. News arrived that Mitford in Old Dhaka was full past capacity and many patients were being transferred to Dhaka Medical. That night I made a phone call to Abakash to ask if our neighbours were all right. Amlapara, our locality, was a Hindu-majority area and our household in fact had been the first Muslim family to move there. Gradually more had settled, and before 1971 there used to be many more Hindu families too, but many had left for India for good and Muslim families had moved in. Hindus still outnumbered Muslims, though.

  Mother informed me that while a number of Hindu families had abandoned their houses, many had chosen to stay back. But she had not heard of an attack yet. The atmosphere was tense and few people were out. I requested Mother that should someone come asking for shelter she must not turn them away. Mother gave me more news that upset me and relieved me in equal measure. Chotku’s friend Bhulan, a goon who was probably even capable of murder, was planning to contest the municipal elections for the post of commissioner. Hoping for votes he had arranged for the safety of the Hindu inhabitants of the locality, who had pledged their support for him in the upcoming elections in exchange. The fate of the helpless residents of Amlapara rested on a terrorist like Bhulan! For a mo
ment it seemed to me as if I was a Dolly Pal, a Gayatri Mandal or a Gautam Biswas—a Hindu—and a slow-burning fear crawled down my spine and spread across my body. Almost immediately a sudden flash of anger made me clench my fists, made me wish I could breathe fire, and I began to pace from one room to the other. When I finally went to bed I had an insane urge to fold my feet and huddle like I had seen Nirmalendu Goon doing, and an irrational fear took hold that they were going to come and kill me because I was a Hindu.

  News arrived at the hospital the next day that 700 houses had been set on fire in Chattagram. I got news of Bhola where the Hindu localities were in ruins, with thousands of houses completely gutted and nearly 10,000 families homeless and living under the sky. Tofayel Ahmed, the Awami League MP from Bhola, was in Dhaka. Was it not his responsibility to be in his area and take pre-emptive initiatives to combat communal forces? It seemed to me as if the Awami League was fine with the violence being rained upon Hindus to pave the way for their future campaigns against the BNP. This issue could become a potential trump card for the opposition and the thought made me even more angry and disgusted with political parties and the machinations of their leaders.

  The communal violence could have been easily avoided with proper precautions. The Indian government had managed to prevent many riots in the past with their timely intervention. Riots did happen in India, and even the minority Muslim community was at times responsible for violence committed during such riots. But in Bangladesh what usually happened was not a riot but a terror attack in which Muslims tortured Hindus.

  After finishing my shift I headed towards Old Dhaka. A group of protesters from the Jamaat-e-Islami was marching to the Indian embassy with a deposition. At the same time students were marching together shouting: ‘Golam Azam–Advani bhai-bhai, ek dorite phansi chai’ (Golam Azam and Advani are brothers-in-arms, hang them by the same rope). Truly, fundamentalist bigots of all countries were fundamentally similar. But was hanging both the leaders the perfect solution to every problem? I knew it was not. Because sooner or later someone new would grow and replace them; religious pedagogy and a decaying social order were the perfect grounds for breeding intolerance. When fundamentalists pushed their way out of the earth a few peace marches and speeches on fraternity and camaraderie could hardly be enough to combat them. Thus human chains were being formed while human rights violations were being simultaneously perpetrated.

  I roamed around various places in Old Dhaka. I had once brought writer Tarapada Roy and his wife to the Dhakeshwari temple when they had come to Bangladesh—I found the temple broken and burnt to cinders, and a few policemen sitting beside the ruins. If police had indeed been posted then why were they not posted on the night of 6 December itself? Obviously there was no one who had any answer to my question. None of the other temples in the locality had been left unscathed and neither had the Hindu shops and business establishments been spared. The same went for the houses too. I got off at Tantibazar and started walking. I walked into a narrow lane and reached a burnt house, on the ruins of which a man was sitting. Burnt wood, burnt books and burnt clothes were scattered across the yard. When I approached the man and asked his name he did not answer. Neither was he interested in who I was or why I was there. He simply sat there, like a charred piece of log himself, staring fixedly at his burnt house. Even the blank look of someone who has lost everything had deserted his eyes and I stood there amidst the ruins for a long time watching him. Walking out of the lane I met a man who seemed curious on seeing me. I asked him, ‘That man sitting there, do you know his name?’

  ‘Oh, that’s Satipada. Satipada Das.’

  It was dusk. I walked past the lane and kept walking till I reached the main road. I wished I could place a hand on Satipada’s shoulder and tell him, ‘Human chains are being formed, protest marches are being organized and peace brigades are being constituted in various localities. Intellectuals are writing harsh columns against communal forces and Bangladesh is not going to tolerate religious terrorism. Don’t worry, no one will ever harm you.’ I was unable to say any of it though and I could feel shame engulfing me. I was ashamed of my Muslim name and I was ashamed of the violence people were committing on their fellow humans. It was nearly the end of the twentieth century. Human civilization was in the middle of unprecedented advances in knowledge, science, technology and humanity. At such a juncture men were attacking each other like vicious, heartless butchers because one of them was of a different faith.

  I could barely sleep a wink that night. I lay awake with my thoughts and close to dawn I sat up and wrote about my shame, about the shame of not being able to touch Satipada.

  My shame refused to leave me; it accompanied me both times when I went to check up on Goon. I found him with his face buried among the tattered blankets and when I asked him why he was hiding his face he replied, ‘So I don’t have to see anything.’ I hated seeing him like that. I wanted him to roam the city like before, sit in his office in Azimpur and finish his writing, play chess during leisure or chat at Ityadi in the evening. I wanted to see him standing upright on stage and reading poems in recitals he was going to be invited to again. Instead, I heard him say what I had never expected to hear from him, that he was considering sending Mrittika off to Calcutta. ‘What are you thinking? If Mrittika goes away how will you live here all by yourself?’ I said to him.

  Mrittika, Goon’s daughter with his ex-wife Neera Lahiri, lived with her grandmother but he was the one who took care of her. She was his life and he loved her dearly. Even a day away from her unsettled him and he used to take her to school and bring her back home regularly. Neera worked at Komilla and only managed to come down to meet her daughter once in a blue moon. Goon lived nearer and was the one to manage all her demands. Despite not living under the same roof father and daughter were very close and the largest share of whatever he earned was spent on Mrittika, leaving only a pittance for himself and his dependants. His only aim in life was to bring Mrittika up with care and love and inculcate the right education and culture in her. And here he was contemplating sending her away! I was shocked and could not speak for a while.

  ‘No, you can’t send her away! Why should you? This is your country, hers too. Why should she have to leave?’ The words collided with his obvious anguish and lost some of their urgency.

  My shame refused to leave me. I heard that fanatics had burnt down Sri Chaitanya’s house in Sylhet and even the 400-year-old library had not been spared. I wanted to scream and cry; my identity as a human being had begun to mock me in the face of the inhumanity of my fellow countrymen. Many acquaintances came back from Bhola and described the vicious barbaric acts unleashed upon the people, the desperate cries of the persecuted and their anguished wails. I felt as if I was one among the homeless sitting on an open field in Bhola, a wretched soul who had been robbed and left penniless and whose house too was now a pile of ash.

  Even after the communal unrest died down in a few days this feeling refused to abandon me. We were hearing news of the mass exodus of Hindus from the country. Some were heard saying, ‘They should not have done that. They should have stayed and fought.’ Trying to place myself in a Hindu citizen’s shoes I tried to understand how strong the feeling of insecurity had to be for someone to arrive at such a devastating decision of leaving one’s home. I imagined myself to be a young man from Tantibazar with a Hindu name—Suranjan Dutta, atheist, a member of a progressive organization and most of whose friends were atheists too—who loved his country and was concerned day and night about the well-being of the nation, but whose life was being torn apart by communal violence, whose ideals were gradually eroding along with his love for his country, so much so that he was beginning to look at everyone with suspicion. He was afraid that Muslims were going to come for him any moment. His feelings of insecurity were not lessening despite the gradual easing of communal tensions and he was so afraid that any day there could be an attack on him for the flimsiest of reasons; that in the end, despite his own misgivi
ngs, he was losing a battle with himself and was being forced to decide to leave the country. I closed my eyes and visualized the small two-room house in Tantibazar, Suranjan’s family, his parents and his little sister . . . before I could finish sketching the image in my head I turned over on my bed and started writing.

  Suranjan is lying on his bed. An agitated Maya is telling him to hurry up again and again. ‘Dada, get up and do something!’

  Suranjan’s days from 7 to 13 December were sending my thoughts in disarray. I had no time to sit at home and write either because I had to get to the hospital soon.

  In the OT I injected sodium thiopental and suxamethonium chloride in the spine of the patient, induced sleep using oxygen and nitrous oxide masks, checked the blood pressure and pulse rate and then gave the surgeon the go-ahead. The OT at Mitford did not have modern machines for artificial respiration and one had to sit near the head of the patient and manually supply oxygen to the lungs using a mechanical balloon. At Dhaka Medical none of that was necessary and the machine did all the work. So I did not have to wait beside the unconscious patient, other than checking the pulse rate, blood pressure and breathing from time to time and, in case of a lengthy operation, re-administering anaesthesia. Sitting near the patient I continued writing Suranjan’s story. When the surgeon indicated the end of the operation I had to get up and resume my duties. The conscious patient was taken away and a new one brought in his or her place. The paper and the pen remained in the pocket of my apron and I began to spend the time between putting someone under and bringing them back out working on Suranjan’s story.