Kironmoyee had never been particularly attracted to saris or jewellery. She had never said that she wanted a specific sari or a pair of earrings.
‘Kironmoyee, do you keep quiet about any hidden pain?’ Sudhamoy had often asked her.
‘No,’ Kironmoyee replied. ‘Our home and family embody my dreams and happiness. I don’t need any separate pleasure for myself.’
Sudhamoy had always wanted a daughter.
‘I can hear my daughter’s heartbeat,’ Sudhamoy would say, with his stethoscope on Kironmoyee’s abdomen, before Suronjon was born. ‘Do you want to listen?’
‘It is daughters who look after their parents when they reach the end of their lives,’ Sudhamoy would repeatedly say. ‘Sons move away with their wives. Daughters leave behind their husbands and families and tend to their parents. I see this all the time in the hospital. It’s the daughters who stay by their parents. Sons are there, they might visit occasionally, but that is it.’
Sudhamoy would put the stetho to Kironmoyee’s ears and let her listen to the lub-a-dub sounds of the baby’s heartbeat. People the world over want sons but Sudhamoy wanted a daughter. When Suronjon was little, they often dressed him up like a girl. Sudhamoy’s desire for a daughter was fulfilled once Maya was born.
‘This is my mother’s name,’ said Sudhamoy, as he named his daughter Maya. ‘My mother is gone but now I have another.’
Maya always gave Sudhamoy his medicines at night. That night, the time for his medicines was long past. He kept calling out for his precious daughter. The neighbours were all asleep. Kironmoyee was awake and she heard him calling out Maya’s name, and so did Suronjon and the black-and-white cat.
Part Eight
One
The bloody conflict that had begun in the country after the Babri Masjid was destroyed in the state of Uttar Pradesh, in India, was slowly losing its intensity. More than eighteen hundred people had already died in India. Kanpur and Bhopal were still in turmoil. The army was out on the roads in Gujarat, Karnataka, Kerala, Andhra Pradesh, Assam, Rajasthan and West Bengal. They were out on patrol. The offices of banned groups in India were locked.
Yes, there were spontaneous rallies in Dhaka asking for peace and harmony. So what? On the other hand, thirty women from Shombhu Golokpur were raped—Choncholi, Sondhya, Moni. Nikunjo Datta died. Bhogoboti, an old woman, died because she was so frightened that her heart stopped. In Golokpur there were incidents of rape during the day. Women who had taken shelter in Muslim homes were also raped. Nantu Haldar’s storehouse in Dasherhaat Bazar, where 56,000 kilos of betel nuts could be stored, was reduced to ashes. The police, the magistrate and the DC stood silently and watched when temples were being destroyed in Bhola. All the temple jewellery was plundered with impunity. A large laundry establishment run by Hindus was burnt to ashes. In Manikganj town, the Lokkhimandap, the Sarbojonin Shibbari, Dashora, Kalikhola, the enclave of goldsmiths, and Godhadhor Pal’s large shop of soft drinks and cigarettes were ravaged. Attacks were carried out in Twora, Baniajuri, Pukuria, Utholi, Mohadebpur, Joka and Shibaloy by truckloads of men. Hindu houses were plundered in Betila, a village just 3 kilometres away from the city. There were burnings too. The hundred-year-old temple complex in Betila was attacked. Jibon Saha’s house in Gorpara was set on fire, three of his cowsheds burnt down and several thousand kilograms of rice paddy were destroyed. Shops belonging to Hindus in Terosree Bazar in Ghior and houses in Gangdubi, Baniajuri and Senpara were burnt down. A Hindu homemaker was raped in Senpara. The Kalibari in Pirojpur, the Kali temple of the Debarchona Committee, the Monosa temple, the Durga temple, Shitola temple, Shiva temple, Narayan temple, the temple of Modonmohon in Pirojpur, Akhrabari, the Rayer Kathi Kalibari temple, Krishnonagar Rai Rosoraj Sebashrom, the temple and ashram of Dumurtola Sriguru Songho, the Kali temple belonging to Suresh Saha’s family in Dokkhin Dumurtola, the Monosa temple belonging to the family of Noren Saha of Dumurtola, the family home of Romesh Saha and their Monosa temple, the Baroari Kali temple of Dumurtola, the family temples of Suchoron Mandal, Gourango Halder, Horendronath Saha and Norendronath Saha, the Kali temple next to the Dumurtola High School, the temple of five goddesses in Ranipur, the Hularhat Sarbojonin Durga temple and the timber shop of Kartik Das, the Kali temple of the Kolakhali Sonaton Ashram, the Gourgobindo Sebashram at Jujkhola, the Horisobha Sonaton Dharma temple, the Kali temple in Ronjit Sheel’s home, the Baroari puja mandap in Jujkhola, the community Durga temple next to the Gabtola School, the family temple of Bipin Halder of Krishnonagar, the Sarbojonin Kali temple of Namazpur, the temple and monastery of the Biswas family of Kalikathi, the Kali temple at Lairi, the community temple at Inderhaat in the Sorupkathi police station area, the Durga temple in the home of Kanai Biswas of Inderhaat, a cinema belonging to Nokul Saha, Amol Guha’s Durga temple, the temple in Hemonto Sheel’s home and the Kali temple in the family home of Jadob Das of the Mathbaria police station were all burnt down. The Shiva temple in Syedpur Mistripara was demolished. The community temples in Rotdanga village in Norail district and in Ghona, the crematorium in Kurulia, the family temples of Nikhil Chondro Dey, Kalipodo Hajra, Shibuprosad Pal, as well as the family temples of Dulal Chondro Chakrabarty of Badon village and the temple in Krishno Chondro Laskar’s home, the community temple in Taltola village, the family temples of Boidyonath Saha, Sukumar Biswas and Pagla Biswas, the community temple in Ponkobila village and the Narayan Jiu temple in Purbopara in Doulotpur were completely ravaged. Ten temples were destroyed in Khulna. In the villages of Raruli in Paikpara, Sobonadas and Baka, four or five temples were ravaged and some homes were plundered. Two temples were destroyed in Talimpur in the Rupsa police station area and the Hindu houses nearby were robbed. On the night of 8 December, in Digholia and Senhati, they broke three temples and set them on fire. In Sohodebpur village of Feni, a group of people marched in a procession and attacked thirteen homes. The village of Joypur in Chhagolnaia was attacked and twenty people were injured. A mob of 200, led by Moajjem Hussain of Langolboa village, attacked the house of Gobindoprosad Ray. A man named Komol Biswas was very badly hurt and was unlikely to live much longer.
Birupakkho, Noyon and Debobroto sat by Suronjon and regurgitated stories about damage and plunder. Suronjon lay with his eyes shut. He did not say a word even after hearing about so much violence. These men did not know that it was not only the Hindu houses in Bhola, Chottogram, Pirojpur, Sylhet and Kumilla that had been plundered. A lovely young woman called Maya had been robbed from this house in Tikatuli. Women were almost like things and so like gold, silver and other precious possessions they had also picked Maya up and taken her away.
‘What’s the matter, Suronjon? Why aren’t you saying a word?’ asked Debobroto.
‘I want to get drunk. Can’t we have a long drinking session now?’
‘You want to get drunk?’
‘Yes. I have money. Please go out and get a bottle of whisky.’
‘Here? In your house? What will your parents think?’
‘Damn my parents! I want to drink and so I shall. Go get a bottle—you’ll surely get one at Biru or Sakura or Piyasi.’
‘Suronjon da, but . . .’
‘Stop pussyfooting. Go!’
They heard Kironmoyee sobbing in the next room.
‘Who’s crying? Your mother?’ asked Birupakkho.
‘She’s a Hindu, after all! Does she have a choice?’
The three young men went quiet. They were Hindus too and they could understand why Suronjon’s mother was crying. They could also feel the repressed tears trying to burst out from their hearts. Birupakkho took the money and went out swiftly, as though he would be freed of agony if he went away. It was very similar to Suronjon wanting to drink his pain away.
‘Debobroto, can’t we burn mosques?’ asked Suronjon after Birupakkho left.
‘Burn mosques? Have you gone mad?’
‘Come, let’s burn the Tara Masjid tonight.’
‘There are 20 million of us Hindus. We can burn the Baitul Mukarram if we want.’
‘You have never said you’re a Hindu. Why’re you saying so now?’
‘I always said I was a human being and a humanist. But the Muslims did not let me remain a human being. They’ve made me a Hindu.’
‘You are changing, Suronjon!’
‘That’s not my fault.’
‘What’ll we gain by destroying mosques? Will that bring back the temples?’ said Debobroto as he rubbed his nails on the broken arm of the chair.
‘We may not get them back. But don’t we need to tell them that we can damage things too and that we feel rage? The Babri Masjid was four hundred and fifty years old. Choitonyodeb’s house was also five hundred years old. Aren’t four and five hundred years of heritage being destroyed in this country? I feel like breaking the Sohbanbag Mosque too. The masjid in Gulshan One has been built with money from Saudi Arabia. Come, let’s take that over and turn it into a temple.’
‘What are you saying, Suronjon? You have surely gone mad. Didn’t you always say that you would dig large ponds wherever there were temples and mosques, and let plump ducks play in those waters?’
‘Did I stop there? I also said that let the edifices of religions crumble, let a blind fire consume all the bricks in temples, mosques, gurudwaras and churches, and on those ruins let us grow enchanting gardens of sweet-smelling flowers and build schools and libraries. Let places of worship be used for the good of people and be turned into hospitals, orphanages, schools and universities. Our new places of worship should be academies of art and culture, centres of creativity and institutes of scientific research. Let the rice fields with golden grain bathed by the early rays of the sun, the open fields and rivers, and the deep sea be our new places of prayer. Let humanity be the other name for religion.’
‘The other day I was reading Debesh Roy. He says that Bade Ghulam had picked up his surmandal and was dancing and singing “Hari Om Tatsat, Hari Om Tatsat”. Bade Ghulam continues to sing that same song. But those Hindus who have ground the Babri Masjid to dust and placed Ramlala’s image there and run away can’t hear this song. The Advanis and Ashok Singhals too can’t hear this song. Nor can the RSS or the Bajrang Dal. Bade Ghulam Ali was a Muslim. However, those Muslims who believe that the only way the destruction of a mosque can be set right is by destroying temples also cannot hear Bade Ghulam Ali’s “Hari Om Tatsat”.’
‘So you are saying that one should not destroy mosques to set right the fact that temples have been destroyed? You are talking idealism like my father! I hate him! I hate that haggard old man!’
Agitated, Suronjon jumped up.
‘Calm down, Suronjon. Calm down. All that you are saying will not solve anything.’
‘But this is how I want to solve things! I also want to hold axes, knives and pistols. I want stout sticks. Didn’t they pee in a temple in old Dhaka? I also want to pee in their mosques.’
‘Oh Suronjon, you are turning communal!’
‘Yes, I am turning communal. I am communal! Yes, I am communal!’
Debobroto was from Suronjon’s party. They had worked together many times. He was taken aback by Suronjon’s behaviour. Suronjon wanted to get drunk. He was saying that he had turned communal. He was also calling his father names.
Two
‘Riots are not floods, where you can move people away from the water and danger and get them something to eat and be done with it. Riots are not like a fire where you can put out the flames and be safe. During a riot, human beings put their humanity on hold. During riots, all the toxins in people’s minds are released. A riot is not an act of nature nor is it an accident. Riots are a distortion of humanness,’ sighed Sudhamoy.
Kironmoyee was bowing to her gods in a corner of the room. The clay image of the god was gone. They broke it on the day they took Maya away. Kironmoyee had a picture of Radha and Krishna that she brought out. She was touching it to her forehead, weeping silently.
‘Do Radha or Krishna have any powers to bring Maya back?’ Sudhamoy thought, as he lay unmoving on the bed. ‘Radha and Krishna form a picture and a story. How could they possibly rescue Maya from the clutches of a rigid, hard and cruel fundamentalism? I am not safe in this country in spite of the fact that I am a citizen and have been part of the language movement and been to war to chase the Pakistanis out and liberate this country. And so how can some Radha and Krishna from nowhere bring us safety and security? Do they have nothing better to do? Neighbours whom we have known from the time that we were born are taking away our property; our countrymen, our neigbours, have abducted our daughter. And you are expecting the butter thief to come and relieve you of your sufferings! The wife of Aayaan Ghosh will come! If your sufferings are to go, only those people who had fought together to create a nation of many different kinds of people will be able to make a difference!’
‘Kiron, Kiron,’ Sudhamoy called out in a tired, sad voice. ‘Has Suronjon gone out to look for Maya today?’ he asked, as Kironmoyee came and stood next to him, robot-like.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Apparently Hyder has sent out people to find her. Did he come?’
‘No.’
‘So there is no news of Maya? She can’t be found?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Kiron, will you sit with me for a bit, please?’
Kironmoyee plonked herself down like she was some inert object. And she just sat there. She did not reach out to touch her husband’s inert limbs, nor did she even look at her ailing husband. There was raucous shouting in the other room.
‘Why is Suronjon screaming so?’ asked Sudhamoy. ‘Why hasn’t he gone in search of Hyder? Best if I had gone! Why did I fall ill? No one would’ve been able to touch Maya if I had been myself. I would’ve thrashed them to death! If I had been well, I would’ve surely brought Maya back.’
Sudhamoy tried to get up and every time he did so, he flopped back on the bed. Kironmoyee did not help him. She simply stared at the closed door. She waited for the sound that would announce Maya’s return.
‘Call your precious son,’ said Sudhamoy. ‘The scoundrel! His sister’s not here and he’s at home, drinking with his friends and making merry! Shame! Shame!’
Kironmoyee did not go to call Suronjon and neither did she try to pacify Sudhamoy. She simply stared unblinking at the door. She had placed a picture of Radha and Krishna in the corner of the room. She was no longer willing to listen to her husband and son and practise atheism. There was no one to support them—perhaps God would provide succour.
Sudhamoy wanted to stand up and proclaim like Jonathan Swift: ‘We have enough religion to make us hate, but not enough to make us love one another.’
The history of humanity was scarred with religious quarrels, wars and jihad. In 1946 Sudhamoy had chanted ‘Hindus and Muslims are brothers’. And those slogans were still being chanted! Why did we need to keep saying the same thing for ever? How much longer will we have to shout this same slogan in this subcontinent? For how many years, how many centuries? There was still a need to remind people of this! Will this slogan be able to awaken people who have no sense or sensitivity? If people do not rid themselves of their deep communalism, then mere slogan shouting will not end fundamentalism and communalism.
Three
Suronjon had been to Hyder’s house. But he was not there. He had gone to Bhola—to see the misery of the Hindus. After coming back, he would surely make the right noises and also address various gatherings. People would be impressed. ‘Awami League workers are very compassionate,’ they would say. ‘They are not communal.’ So the Hindu votes would be theirs! But Hyder had no feelings for Maya, his neighbour. He has travelled far to see many more Mayas.
Suronjon uncapped a bottle and po
ured some whisky down his throat. The others were not too keen on drinking. However, they poured themselves some to keep him company. They were drinking on an empty stomach and feeling dazed.
‘Late in the afternoon, I’d often feel like wandering about. Maya too is very keen to go to different places. I’ll take her to Shalbon Bihar some day.’
‘The Ulema Mashayekh will begin a long march from
2 January,’ said Birupakkho.
‘A long march? What’s it for?’
‘They will march to India to rebuild the Babri Masjid.’
‘Will they take Hindus on the long march? I’ll go if they take Hindus. Will any of you come along?’ Suronjon asked.
Everyone was quiet. After a bit, they glanced at each other.
‘Why’re you always going on like this—this Hindu-and-Muslim business?’ asked Debobroto in a scolding tone. ‘You suddenly seem very Hindu.’
‘Debu, if men are not circumcised, you can identify them as Hindu. But how can you be sure about women? Take Maya. Suppose we leave Maya on the road. Suppose her arms and legs are bound. Her mouth is gagged. How will anyone make out that she’s Hindu? She could be a Muslim with her nose, eyes, mouth, arms, legs and a head.’
‘In Ziaur Rahman’s days there was a political long march right up to the border for the Farakka waters,’ said Debobroto without bothering to answer Suronjon’s question. ‘During Khaleda Zia’s rule, the year 1993 will begin with a communal long march to rebuild Babri Masjid. The Farakka march wasn’t about water. Similarly, the Babri Masjid march will not be about rebuilding the mosque. Actually, the idea behind all the song and dance about Babri Masjid is to make communalism a factor in politics and take the spotlight away from the movement against Ghulam Azam. It’s important to take note of the almost “airtight” silence of the government during these times. There is so much happening, yet the government persists in saying there is communal harmony in this country.’
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