by Neamat Imam
‘Sheikh Mujib has liberated us—it is a historical truth,’ I said. ‘Who can dispute that? He can live a thousand glorious lives only on the basis of that fact.’
‘We want every individual in this country to enquire about Sheikh Mujib when they wake up in the morning; we won’t stop until children refuse to go to sleep unless they are told stories of Sheikh Mujib, and girls refuse to get married until their grooms promise to be loyal to Sheikh Mujib. We will invade every brain and plant there the flag of Bengali nationalism. Bangladesh will be a different country soon.’
He was happy to see my willingness to help, he said, but he needed me for something else, for something more important. He pushed the stickers aside, dusted his palms on each other, and said, ‘There is a price for everything, Khaleque Biswas; there is nothing that money cannot buy in the time of famine. In fact, the famine has made money more powerful, hasn’t it?’
If I stayed with him, said Moina Mia, I would never have to worry about money again. ‘Khaleque Biswas, believe me. This is it.’ I should forget about being a journalist for once, he said, and let him guide me. He knew where the money was and how to win it. It was not any ordinary deal; it was a deal with Sheikh Mujib, the most powerful man in the country. Then he came to the point I was waiting for.
He wanted something I had, and he was ready to pay a price for it. In the same way, Sheikh Mujib wanted something he had, so Sheikh Mujib must pay him a price if he wanted to have it for himself. Did I understand what it was that he wanted to buy from me?
It was simple. I told him I understood and I was ready to sell. ‘Not a problem … not at all a problem. We are talking about our magnificent prime minister; when he wants something, he will have it. Have I shown any sign that I will refuse him anything?’
‘It is not that,’ he replied. ‘I knew you would not disagree, and I knew it on the first day we met. Your eyes spoke of great cooperation. There was no sign of pity or revenge in them. You were as simple as water. But we have to maintain a certain decency in dealing with each other, don’t we, especially when it is about such a sensitive product, so that our petty interests do not hamper our great future.’
My admiration for him had reached such a level, I said, that I could do anything for him. I was not teasing him. I really felt I had become a different person. ‘I am a nationalist,’ I said. ‘I have duties to my motherland. I will bring my product to you. From now on it is yours. Do whatever you want to do with it. I don’t need to know anything.’
He heard me silently, but did not answer.
I was aware of the quality of my product, I said calmly; I knew how much it was worth. I asked him if he knew he would have to come up with a competitive price. He said I should not worry about the price because the amount he was going to mention would surely surprise me.
Thus I sold Nur Hussain once again. First I sold him to the people on the street for their coins. Then I sold him to Moina Mia for his campaign. Now I sold him to Sheikh Mujib through Moina Mia. I believed he would accept it. He had never disregarded me, never wanted to understand money, though it was for money that he had come to the city from that distant village. Besides, he would be doing the same job. What would there be to complain about? The only difference was he would speak to a different, and a larger, audience now. We would travel across the country and speak for Sheikh Mujib. We would be sent a few days early, along with members of the militia. We would live in the area reserved for the VIPs. In due time, we would be advised when Nur Hussain would speak and for how long. It would be one paragraph of the 7 March speech or a few more paragraphs from it, which would be edited and supplied to us beforehand so that Nur Hussain had enough time to memorize it. Some new paragraphs would also be written to make the speech relevant to the subject matter of Sheikh Mujib’s speech of the day. They would have a particular message for the nation and it must be articulated religiously.
3
An Excuse for Killing
As I left I saw Abdul Ali waiting for me anxiously. He took my hand and pulled me aside to tell me that gatekeeper Ruhul Amin had decided to quit his job. He had a family with three children to feed. They would starve to death if he quit at this moment. ‘Is he out of his mind to come up with such a horrible decision? What does he think he is doing?’ Abdul Ali asked if I would be kind enough to have a few words with Ruhul Amin to convince him to stay. He had tried his best but it seemed the gatekeeper was adamant.
‘Use your best words, Khaleque sahib. Be brutal, if need be. A person of that nature deserves to be punished. I guess he does not understand he has no right to make a family suffer by taking such an obscene decision. An ideal worker will never succumb to the pressures of his workplace no matter what, what do you say? He cannot afford it. He will, in turn, force the workplace to succumb to him. He will fight till his last breath because he knows if he loses his job he will die anyway. So be aggressive. Yell at him as loud as you can. Slap him right in the ears, if you need to, so that he cannot hear even his own thoughts. Give him no chance to argue.’
I did not have any special relation with Ruhul Amin, and I did not think my words would work either. I had no idea why Abdul Ali thought I might be successful where he had failed. But out of courtesy I told him I would go to the cell and give it a try.
From his chair, Ruhul Amin saw me coming in. When I closed the door behind me, and stood with my back to the window, so that nobody could disturb us in case he broke into tears or became agitated, he looked at me once again. I did not know what to say; probably I was afraid to be alone with him, so I stood silently waiting for him to begin. The rifle was right on the table, within his reach. It was foolish, utterly foolish, to be there especially on a day that promised me a better future. Just at the moment I decided to leave, he spoke up.
‘They gave me no choice,’ he said, ‘absolutely no choice. They came to me, both of them, three, four times before last night, and asked me to leave the gate open for them, just for a few minutes, so that they could escape quietly with the rice on their backs. I knew the house had a large rice storage room and it was full; losing two bags from there would not hurt Moina Mia, and they were burdened with a large number of close relatives who had recently come over from the village. My problem lay elsewhere. I am the gatekeeper; I am entrusted with the responsibility of safeguarding the house and anything in it, precious or trivial. I cannot leave the gate open and unattended for them or for anybody, not even for a few seconds, so that they can steal from my employer. It will be a breach of my pledge. They refused to understand me; they knew nothing about pledges or promises or loyalty. They said, then, they would have to leave the house by climbing over the wall. Are you following me? That is what they said. Over the wall. I showed them my rifle; I told them it was active and always loaded, though it was not. “You don’t want to know what it is capable of doing. You really don’t want to know.”
‘“Stop us if you want,” they replied. “Perhaps it is better to take a bullet in the back once in a while than live in eternal shame.” I swear to you I have never heard anything stranger than that. I could not believe them. How could I—carrying, as I was, a rifle for such a long time on my shoulder, which I had always considered the source of such intense fear that no man would be able to conquer it? I did not believe they meant exactly what they said. Will anyone with the slightest sense of responsibility be actually rattled by such threats from burglars? “Poor people do not want to be friends with poor people,” I said. “They want to be friends with those that can provide. I am not your friend. When you need help I will not be on your side.” I spoke the truth, didn’t I, though it was lowly of me? Sometimes it is acceptable to disgrace yourself if that saves a life, don’t you think so? I wanted to frighten them. A gatekeeper has to be tactical if he wants to avoid trouble. I had no idea how desperate they were. They gave me the time when they would steal—the exact day and hour and minute. They even showed me which corner of the boundary wall they had chosen for their escape.
He knew his victims. He had warned them and frightened them, and tried to stop them. Yet they went ahead.
My head reeled. How could people be so reckless?
‘You want me to stay here?’ he asked. ‘I guess that is why Abdul Ali sent you to me. He is such a wonderful person. I wish him nothing but well. But you tell me, tell me sincerely, can I stay here any more after what has happened? Shouldn’t I be ashamed of what I have done? Shouldn’t I take the rifle, load it, and aim it at myself, ending the power of miracles forever?’
I had never come into contact with a killer. I wanted to thank him because he had told me honestly what he knew of the matter. But I found that I was growing angry. ‘You would not do that, mister,’ I said loudly, moving away from the window. I thought it was useless to protect someone who considered it wise to destroy himself. ‘You would not kill yourself or go to the police to surrender or even quit this job. You will have your lunch on time, relish your afternoon tea, say your evening prayers, and abide by your duties day in, day out. I guess I am a good judge of human character; I know exactly how far you’d go.’ I bent before him, and edged close to his face. ‘You’re a piece of dirt, you know. You’re a cheap, obnoxious, miserable Bengali man who is completely immersed in desperate lunacy. Don’t find my saying this outrageous, because even if I try and try really hard, I cannot be as outrageous as you have already been. You’re not only rude and unkind; you’re a shame on all of us. You’re worse than an animal.’
I opened the door quickly and rushed out while he stood up behind me to say something. ‘No, not a word. You don’t have to tell me anything, no further explanation of the situation, no excuses for your actions, no descriptions of the gloomy and dreadful night you’ve passed, nothing; not now, not ever. You knew what you were doing when you aimed at them. You could have made a difference by withdrawing yourself from your ego, by assessing your plans, your proactive practices or whatever you call them, but you chose not to. You had idle fantasies about being a loyal worker to your employer. You’re a damned man. I can’t help you.’
As if chased by crazy dogs, haunted by ghosts, I crossed the small street and came to the main road, where I entered a tea stall to drink a glass of water to the last drop, and started walking again. Under no circumstances would I deny that I had compromised my integrity to a large extent because of my present uncertain financial condition—but killing a person was not a game. There was no excuse for it—including the fact that Ruhul Amin was employed to protect his employer. What did Ruhul Amin think of human life?
A thin fog descended. Through it came the sound of cries from the tent city on the school field. There was a fire there, said someone. ‘So big a fire, as if from hell. Tents cannot burn so high and so bright. Impossible. What do we have in a tent? A couple of pillows, a tattered quilt, some earthen cooking pots, empty bottles of sweetened syrup, a bit of rubbish in a bamboo basket, ailing children and parents lying on the floor. They can’t burn for long. It is hell. It is definitely hell.’
I walked slowly up the filthy road. People ran any which way they could. Naked children ran, coughing, screaming, laughing like idiots, some standing back, throwing stones at the fire. Neighbours were fighting. Locals were chasing the migrants and the migrants locals. Some woman blamed God for everything that she saw. ‘What kind of God is He, no mercy in His heart? Who will bring Him flowers? Who will bow down westward?’ Biting her fingers, she watched as the smoke rose to the sky. Some other women, standing behind her, began to weep.
4
You, Not I
I did not want to waste my energy on Ruhul Amin. It would only end up filling my day with misery and thoughts of violence. It would tire me out. There were more important things to do with my time than focusing on other people’s idiocy, their chronic hysteria, how they perceived their lives, and whether they had any real desire to remain sensible and noble. ‘I am not that cheap,’ I said to myself. I wanted to be assured that I really had at my disposal what I had sold to Moina Mia.
‘We’ll be speaking for Sheikh Mujib,’ I told Nur Hussain immediately after I had returned home. ‘We’ll be speaking soon.’ Then I elaborated how soon. ‘Within three weeks or so. There is no specific date yet. We’ll be informed in time.’
He did not respond, so I told him again. This time I said he would be speaking soon. I said it a little louder and more distinctly. ‘Hello,’ I said, ‘I am talking to you, are you listening? Yes, you; there is nobody else in this flat.’ I did not care if I sounded rude. He needed to understand silence was not an answer.
He watched me for a moment and then said, ‘We will be speaking,’ which he immediately modified to, ‘I will be speaking soon. I will be speaking for Sheikh Mujib.’
His voice shook slightly. I enjoyed that. I enjoyed his weaknesses as much as I enjoyed his brilliance. I wanted him to understand perfectly when I was angry, what I would not tolerate and what gave me an allergy. I did not want him to move even an inch from where I wanted him to stay. I did not want him to understand what I myself did not understand and what I did not want him to understand. I wanted him to smile exactly when I thought a little bit of smiling was acceptable, not before or after that. We would have a beautiful relationship as long as he did not do something that would force me to yell at him.
‘Right,’ I said. ‘That is the deal. That is what we have promised Moina Mia today. Be ready for the call. Bath or no bath, food or no food, always on your feet. Always ready to serve. If you need anything in the meantime, let me know. Do not leave things for tomorrow. If you have any questions, let me know, so that they do not just remain questions and do not affect your performance. Either you solve them following my rules, or I solve them for you as I wish.’
He nodded. ‘I will be ready to serve,’ he said, ‘and I will not leave anything for tomorrow.’
‘Now another thing,’ I continued. ‘If Moina Mia wants to see me again, and you are not a part of the meeting, which may happen more and more as the days go by and as more parties get involved with our work, I will pass on to you upon my return what I know. Like I am doing now. You have to know things. I feel you have to know what’s going on even more than I do, and perhaps better than I do. That’s because you’re the showman and my station is only the backstage.’
‘I am the showman,’ he repeated obediently.
Then I reminded him he should be careful in his daily movements from now on, much more careful than he had ever been. A moment of complacency could complicate life seriously. He should not climb the stairs without maintaining three-point contacts, should not carry anything heavier than 5 kg by himself, should be careful with soap while having a bath so that he did not slip, giving rise to a first-aid situation. What would I do with a Sheikh Mujib who could not stand on his feet?
When he got up to go, I stood at the door to be sure he followed my advice and held the railing while walking down the stairs.
‘Good boy,’ I thought. ‘Very good boy. That is what I want from you. You will have everything if you follow me.’
The wind screamed at the window. The sun became pitiless.
Looking outside, I passed some time thinking. Then I walked across the room, listening to the silence, dusted the table, and thought. I ate some lentil soup which he had cooked I did not know when and which tasted I did not know of what and thought, while heavy sweat ran down my forehead and into my eyes and mouth. I thought about Sheikh Mujib, Moina Mia, Nur Hussain and myself—what we were doing and where we all n
ow belonged. We seemed to have become bound by an intricate relationship; something I never thought was possible but was now a stark reality. Sheikh Mujib was no different from Moina Mia or I—I found; we were all fallible and delusional, we were all manipulating in our own spheres of influence. Nur Hussain, who appeared like a ghost from a far-off village, was capable of doing certain things Moina Mia could never do though he wished he could. And despite the fact that I was as ordinary as any man on the street, I could despise Moina Mia as much as I could despise Nur Hussain, and Sheikh Mujib and no state technology or institution could do anything about it. We all were extraordinary and indispensable to each other. The Awami League was facing serious publicity problems. If 1971 was its best year, it was now a dying party. Its genitals were shrivelled; its collarbones were protruding; its soul had disappeared. Time was running out. But as long as the present situation continued, I thought, our relationship would become more active and interesting.
Then, lying in my bed, I thought about the price that Moina Mia had mentioned and I had agreed to accept.
I was shocked.
5
A Thought in the Dark
The night grew deeper. Nur Hussain had returned a lot earlier than I had expected. He had eaten his meal by himself, without saying a word, and then gone to bed without practising the speech.
It was a few days now since he had spoken it; some practice was necessary to maintain focus. But I did not insist. There would be time for practice tomorrow and the day after tomorrow.