"Just call your dear son for once. An unadulterated scoundrel! His sister is missing. And he is indulging in a drinking bout in the house with his friends, raising a big fracas. What a shame."
Kiranmayee neither went to call Suranjan nor asked Sudhamay to be calm. She just kept staring at the door. She had installed the picture of Radha-Krishna in the corner of the room. Now she was not going to abide by the dictates of her son or husband to stick to their atheist attitude. At this moment, no one but God alone could help her out.
Sudhamay made another move to raise himself. He wished to say, like Jonathan Swift: "We have so many religions that teach us to hate each other. But there are not enough religions that preach love. Human history has been sullied again and again by religious frictions, battles and calls for holy wars."
Sudhamay used to raise the slogan, "Hindus and Muslims are brothers" during the pre-partition riots of 1946. Such slogans still had to be raised even now. Why did such slogans have to be shouted for such a long time? For how many centuries would these slogans remain relevant to this subcontinent? If people didn't feel any inner urge to be noncommunal, no amount of slogan-shouting would be able to eradicate the germ of communalism.
Suranjan had come back from Hyder's house without finding him. Hyder was not at home; he had gone to Bhola to make an on-the-spot study of the distress of Hindus there. After his return, he must be oozing "ohs" and "ahs" of commiseration. People would applaud in appreciation. They would say: The Awami League workers are very sympathetic, very noncommunal, so in the next election Hindu votes should be cast for that party. He has no sympathy for Maya next door. He has gone to a distant place to express his sympathies to others like Maya!
Removing the seal from the bottle, he poured some liquid freely down his throat. Others were not as keen as he was. Still, for the sake of keeping his company, they sipped their drink after diluting it with water. Suranjan's empty stomach churned with the liquor he was drinking.
"I used to love going for walks in the evening. Maya wanted to go with me. One of these days I must take her to Salbon bihar."
"From January 2, the Ulama Mashaekh will be going on a long march," said Birupaksha.
"What long march?"
"They are going to walk all the way to India for the reconstruction of the Babri mosque."
"Will they take Hindus in their long march? If they do so, I'll certainly be a volunteer. Will any one of you care to go?" Suranjan asked.
All of them remained silent and looked in one another's faces. Dababrata said with a hint of rebuke in his voice, "Why do you keep harping on Hindus and Muslims so much? You seem to have been inebriated with an overdose of Hinduism."
"Well, Debu, if the boys are not circumcised, they can be identified as Hindus. But how can the girls be spotted? Take Maya, for instance, if she is released on the road. Assume, for argument's sake, her hands and feet are tied up and her mouth taped. How can they know she is a Hindu? She will appear just like any Muslim girl with her nose, eyes, and mouth, feet and head all covered up."
Without replying to Suranjan's drunken query, Debabrata said, "At the time of Zia-ur-Rahman, a long march was undertaken on the issue of water from Farakka Barrage to the border. During Khaleda Zia Begum's regime, the year 1993 will commence with a long march with strong communal overtones demanding reconstruction of the Babri mosque. As the motivating factor behind the first march was not more water from Farakka, the proposed Babri mosque long march is also not aimed at the mosque's reconstruction. In fact, the Babri mosque issue is being harped on so much in order to convert the politics into a powerhouse of communalism and divert the people's attention from the mounting agitation against the Pakistani collaborator Gokam Azam. Also noticeable at this time is the 'airtight' silence of the government. Despite the waves of violence everywhere, the government has been parroting the theme of undisturbed communal harmony in the country."
Pulak entered the room at this juncture. He asked, "What's the matter, why you are keeping the door wide open?"
"The door is open. I have been drinking wine. I have been shouting. What's there to fear? If I die, I die. But why is it that you have come out of your house?"
"The situation is better now. So I ventured to come out."
"You villagers sit in your houses, closing the door, if the situation turns violent again. That's right, isn't it?" said Suranjan with loud laughter.
Pulak was shocked to see Suranjan drinking. He had cautiously come on a scooter, trying to attract as little attention as possible. He couldn't imagine the scene of a politically conscious youth like Suranjan drinking, doing nothing more than getting drunk at home! He couldn't believe his eyes. What had gone wrong? Why had his friend changed so dramatically?
Sipping his drink, Suranjan said, "Golam Azam and Golam Azam. What's that to me? What do I gain if he is punished? I don't feel the least enthused to take part in a movement against him. The very name makes me sick. I feel like puking. The Pakistanis killed my two paternal uncles and three maternal uncles during the liberation war. I don't know why they allowed my father to stay alive. Possibly to enjoy the fun of freedom. Isn't he enjoying it now? Isn't Doctor Sudhamay Dutta now basking in the sunshine of freedom along with his wife, son and daughter?"
Suranjan was seated on the floor with his feet spread. Pulak was also sitting likewise. The room was dusty with broken chairs lying scattered, cigarette ashes thrown perfunctorily all over. The lone cupboard stood broken in a corner. Violent tempered as he was, Suranjan might have wrecked everything in his drunken state. The house was so quiet that possibly no one else was within.
Pulak said, "Ekram Hussain had been to Bhola. On his return, he said the police, administration and BNP people were describing the incidents there as a natural reaction to the Babri mosque demolition. It was nothing but the misdeeds of looters. In the Hindu eviction drive, village after village was burned to ashes. The air was filled with the smell of burning haystacks, granaries; nothing was spared. Everything was laid waste. All the households had been robbed of not only valuables and clothing, but also shoes, mattresses, quilts; even brooms were thrown in a big pile sprinkled with kerosene and set alight. Paddy fields and coconut groves were set on fire. The men had been forced to discard their lungis. They raped any girl they found, robbing her of her sari and ornaments. Many Hindus fled into the paddy fields. Nikunja Datta, a teacher at Shambhupur Khaser Haat School, was violently assaulted while he was hiding in a paddy field after they demanded his money. He would possibly succumb to his injuries. Slogans were raised at Bhola: "Hindus, if you want to live, leave Bangladesh for India." Hindus were being terrorized with threats like, "You will be cut to pieces to be given to the cows as fodder." Even relatively affluent Hindus faced an identical crisis. They, too, had nothing to call their own. Everything was burned. The loss of utensils forced them to drink water from makeshift cups made of coconut shell, or eat the meager food supplied by charity on banana leaves. Some were taking a single meal a day cooking wild roots and leaves. There were instances of daughters raped before their fathers, wives in the presence of husbands, brothers standing helpless witnesses to their sisters' supreme humiliation capped by the simultaneous ravishing of mother and daughters. Many Hindus were openly saying, "We would rather beg elsewhere. We won't stay here." Those who were coming to collect relief were saying, "We don't need it, please help us cross the border to leave for good." At the van of raiders at Shambhupur were M. A. Bashet and Siraj Patwari, who were now Jamat-turned-BNP activists. Not a single Hindu house in the Lord Hardinge area escaped arson. The house of Priyalal babu, a renowned freedom fighter, was not spared from destruction. In his village the men who conducted the attacks were Awami League leaders Abdul Kader, the chairman, and Belayet Hussain. All three power tillers for cultivation belonging to Babul Das were set on fire. When Ekram, who reported all this destruction, wanted to know what Babul's future plans were, he burst into tears, saying, "I shall leave as soon as I can."
Pulak would
have perhaps continued with his narra tive if he had not been rudely interrupted by Suranjan with the shout, "Shut up. Not a word more. If you utter one word more, I shall whip you."
Pulak was at first bewildered at Suranjan's violent outburst. He couldn't fathom Suranjan's strange behavior. Was it the spell of liquor? Might be. He smiled uneasily and looked at Debabrata.
For quite some time, they sat tongue-tied and silent. Suranjan alone remained busy emptying and replenishing his glass. He was not used to drinking. He was a casual drinker and that, too, in small quantities. But today he was willing to gulp down several bottles. The atmosphere in the room remained charged with a silent tension after Suranjan stopped Pulak with a violent reproof. In the midst of the prevailing stillness, everybody was stunned when Suranjan burst into tears. Resting his head on Pulak's shoulder, he went on crying loudly. Gradually he sank to the floor. In the dim light of the room, between the smell of drinks and the heart-rending cries of Suranjan, the stunned members in the room became stiff with apprehension. His shirt and trousers were unchanged. He hadn't had a bath or eaten any food. He rolled on the filthy floor in anguish and his dirty clothes became even more grimy. Finally he sobbed, "They abducted Maya last night."
"What did you say?" a startled Pulak said, turning toward Suranjan. Simultaneously Debabrata, Nayon, and Birupaksha turned toward Suranjan as well.
Suranjan's body was still heaving with spasms of weeping. The drink was left untouched. Some glasses overturned, spilling the liquid on the floor. Maya was not there-this was enough to reduce all other things to insignificance. No one could get his voice back. Suranjan's agony couldn't be mitigated with pat consolations given to a sick person like, "Don't think about it, everything will be all right." While the room was still sunk in silence, Belal entered. He took note of the prevailing atmosphere. Touching Suranjan, who was still on the floor, he asked, "I hear Maya has been taken away."
Suranjan didn't raise his head.
"Have you lodged a complaint with the police?"
Suranjan still kept his face pressed to the ground. Belal looked at the others, expecting a reply. They indicated by gesture that they, too, weren't aware of this.
"Have you made any inquiries as to who the offenders could have been?"
Suranjan still did not raise his head.
Belal sat on the bed and said, "What a bad time we're in. All the rogues and hoodlums have found an opportunity to do whatever they like. On the other hand, 'we' are being constantly killed and maimed in India."
"What do you mean by'we'?"
"The Muslims, who are being merrily hacked by the BJP.
"Oh," came the monosyllabic exclamation.
"Listening to the news from the other side, the people here have lost their sanity. Whom should I blame? There 'we' are dying, and here 'you' are. What was the need for the demolition of such an old mosque? In the quest for the birthplace of Ram, a mythological, epic character, the Indians started digging up the mosque. Some day they'll claim their monkey god Hanuman was born at the site of Tajmahal. Then they will just destroy Tajmahal. And it is said that secularism is being practiced in India! Why are they now abducting Maya? The villains of the piece are, in fact, Advani and Joshi. I hear the situation at Metiaburuj in Calcutta is horrible."
Suranjan lay on the floor like an unclaimed body. Belal's sorrow became overshadowed by the wail of Kiranmayee and the groaning of Sudhamay from the next room.
"Maya will return certainly. After all, they can't devour a girl like Maya alive. Ask Auntie to be patient. And why are you wailing like a woman? Can you solve the problem by crying? And you, gentlemen, why are you sitting idle? You can find out where the girl has gone."
Birupaksha said, "We came to know of the incident just now. Is it possible to trace anyone who has been abducted? And where can we go in search of her?"
"Those chaps must be hooligans or heroine addicts, possibly of this very locality. They must have noticed her and, having gotten the opportunity, abducted her. Are normal people capable of doing such a heinous thing? The new generation has just gone to the dogs. The main reason is economic uncertainty, do you understand?"
Birupaksha lowered his head. None of them was acquainted with Belal. Belal was excited. He took out a packet of Benson and Hedges and a lighter. But the cigarette remained unlit in his hand. He said, "Is drinking any solution to the problem? You just say, can drinking solve anything? Has there been any massive outbreak of riots in this country? This is not a riot. It is the craving for tasting sweets that forces the boys to loot sweetmeat shops. In India, nearly six thousand riots have occurred. Thousands of Muslims have been killed. How many Hindus have died here? Truckloads of police have been posted in the Hindu areas."
No one said anything. Not even Suranjan. He didn't feel like talking. He felt very sleepy. Belal left his cigarette unlit. Saying he had business somewhere nearby, he left. One by one, the others, too, went out.
opal's house had been looted. The house was next to Suranjan's. A ten- or twelve-year-old girl, Gopal's younger sister, came to Suranjan's house. She looked at the wreckage. She paced the rooms silently. Lying on his bed, Suranjan observed the girl. Her eyes were terror-stricken even at this tender age. Standing at Suranjan's doorstep, the girl looked wide-eyed. Suranjan had lain on the floor through the night. The sun-bathed verandah told him the day had advanced well into the morning. He beckoned the girl to come near him and asked," What's your name?"
"Madol."
"Where do you study?"
"Shere-Bangla Girls' School."
The school was previously known as "Nari Shiksha Mandir." It was founded by the revolutionary leader Ms. Leela Nag. Was her name remembered anymore these days? When convention demanded that girls remain home bound, she approached every house to encourage the girls to get enrolled in her school. It was by sheer dint of her individual labor that she built up this girls' school. That school was still there, which meant the same school building stood in the same place. But the name had been changed. Possibly there was a ban against uttering Leela Nag's name. Who knew if there was a similar unwritten restriction on the name "Nari Shiksha Mandir"? This was another way of distorting the names of educational institutions, as with abbreviations like B. M. College or M. C. College. The expanded names might vividly reveal Hinduism in the land of Muslims. A conspiracy was hatched in 1971 by the Pakistanis to Islamize two hundred forty street names in Dhaka. Lalmohan Poddar Land was called Abdul Karim Gaznavi Road, Shankhari Nagar Road became Gul Badan Street, Bakhtiar Khilji Road replaced Nabin Chand Goswamy Road, Kali Charan Saha Road was renamed as Gazi Salauddin Road, Rayer Bazar turned into Sultanganj, Shashi Bhushan Chatterji Lane became known as Syed Salim Street, Indira Road was made Anar Kali Road, and so on.
The girl asked, "Why are you sleeping on the floor?"
"I like the feel of the ground."
"I, too, like the touch of the ground. We had a courtyard in this house. Now we are moving to a new house where there is no courtyard. Hence, no touch of earth under the feet."
"Then you won't be able to play."
The girl sat near Suranjan's head, leaning against a leg of the cot. She seemed to like his company. She sighed frequently and said, "I feel very bad about leaving because of my attachment to the house! The word maya, "attachment," reminiscent of his sister, Maya's, name, opened a raw wound in Suranjan's heart. He asked the girl to come closer to him. As if the girl were a replica of Maya, who, in her childhood, would like talking with her Dada about her school, her sports. For a long time, he hadn't talked with Maya sitting by his side. As children, Suranjan and Maya would build earthen houses on the riverside in the afternoons. During the night the river would wash them away. One by one he remembered his days with little Maya, when their tongues would turn red after consuming colored sweets; when they would go to the tribal festival of Mahua Malua; when skipping out of the house, they would roam through the dense expanse of white Kash flowers on the riverside.... Suranjan reached his hand out to
the girl. Her hands were as soft as Maya's. Whose hands were now holding Maya's? Must be some ruthless, cruel, rough hands. Was Maya trying to run away? She must be wanting to run, yet couldn't. He went on holding the hand of the girl named Madol. As if she were Maya. If he released her hand, somebody would take her away and tie her up firmly. Madol asked, "Why is your hand trembling so much?"
"Is it? I'm also feeling a deep attachment for you. You said you would be going away."
"But we're not going to India, we're going to Mirpur. Subal and his family are leaving for India."
"What were you doing when they entered your house?"
"I was on the verandah, crying. I was so scared! They've taken away our television, as well as the jewelry box from the cupboard. They have also taken away all the money that Baba had."
"Didn't they say anything to you?"
"Before leaving they gave me a couple of hard slaps on my cheek and said, 'Shut up and stop crying.' "
"Didn't they do anything else? Didn't they want to take you away?"
"No, they are perhaps beating up Mayadi severely, right? They've beaten up my Dada as well. Dada was asleep. They struck him on his head with a bamboo stick. He bled a lot."
Suranjan thought, had Maya been as young as Madol, she would have perhaps been spared. She would not have been dragged away in that manner. How many of them had raped Maya? Five, seven, or more? Was she bleeding much?
"Madol, would you like to take a walk with me?"
"Ma will be worried."
"We'll tell your ma before going."
Maya would often insist, "Dada, will you take me to Cox Bazar? Let us go to Madhupur forest. I would also like to visit the Sundarbans." Reading Jibananda Das's poem "Banalata Sen," she suggested a visit to Natore. Suranjan never attached any importance to Maya's importunities. He would say, "Get rid of those silly ideas. Better go to the slum areas at Tejgaon, see how the people are living there. It's much better to get an intimate view of human life than watching those inanimate trees and stones." Maya's enthusiasm would shrink from the cold waters sprinkled by Suranjan. Now Suranjan thought, What had he gained by watching and caring about human life? Had his dream for the well-being of the people been fulfilled? What had he achieved by thinking constantly of the movement of peasants and workers, the rise of the proletariat? In the end, socialism met with a disastrous end and Lenin's statue was hurled down with ropes. In the same way he had to accept the ignominy of defeat. A youth like him, who had always gone around singing in praise of humanity, had his house subjected to the most inhuman, barbaric attack.
Shame: A Novel Page 20