Lajja (10 page)

The phone rang again. The mild ring somehow seemed sombre and heavy, and Suronjon felt uneasy. It was a call for Pulok from Cox’s Bazar.

‘The Jamaat-Shibir have burnt the national flag in Cox’s Bazar,’ said Pulok as he finished talking on the phone.

Suronjon heard this and was quite taken aback as he realized that he was not particularly affected. Normally this kind of an incident would have made him boil with rage. Now it seemed as though he did not care if the flag was burnt or not. This flag was not his. What was happening to Suronjon? He berated himself, he thought he was very mean, low and selfish but was unable to shake off his indifference. He could not summon up any anger because the national flag had been burnt.

‘Don’t go back today. Stay here,’ said Pulok as he sat down beside Suronjon. ‘One never knows what kind of trouble might break out on the streets. It’s not a good idea for any of us to go out at a time like this.’

Lutfor had offered similar advice yesterday. However, Suronjon felt that Pulok was genuinely concerned, whereas Lutfor had been a little arrogant.

‘We cannot continue living in our country,’ said Neela, sighing deeply. ‘Maybe nothing will happen today, but something will surely happen tomorrow, or the day after. Our lives are so uncertain! It would’ve been so much better to have a certain and safe life, even if we were poor.’

Suronjon would have fallen in with Pulok’s proposal but he stood up to leave because he felt that Sudhamoy and Kironmoyee would be very worried.

‘What will be will be,’ he said. ‘Maybe I will find martyrdom at the hands of Muslims. An unclaimed corpse will lie under some shapla blossoms, our national flower. And people will say that was nothing but an accident, won’t they?’ Suronjon laughed after he said this.

Neither Pulok nor Neela could even manage a smile.

Suronjon boarded a rickshaw but did not feel like going home immediately. It was only eight o’clock! Pulok was a friend from his college days. He was now married with a lovely, stable home and had a family life! Unfortunately, Suronjon had got nowhere. He had met a woman called Rotna a couple of months ago. Occasionally, Suronjon was overcome by this desire to get married and have his own home and family. After Parveen had got married, he had thought of renouncing the world and becoming a monk. However, Rotna had managed to cause some ripples in his fragmented and disturbed existence. Now, he wanted to organize himself and feel settled. Of course, he was yet to say something to Rotna—something like, ‘Have you understood that I’ve begun to like you very much?’

‘What are you doing these days?’ Rotna had asked him, a few days after they had met.

‘Nothing,’ Suronjon had replied with a sneer.

‘Nothing? A job? Business?’

‘No.’

‘You were in politics, weren’t you? What happened to that?’

‘Left that too.’

‘I believe you were a member of the youth union—Jubo Union.’

‘Don’t like all that any more.’

‘What do you like?’

‘To roam around. To look at people.’

‘Don’t you like looking at plants and trees? Rivers and mountains?’

‘Yes, I do. However, looking at people is what I like best. I like unravelling the mystery that is there in people.’

‘Do you write poetry?’

‘Oh no. But I do have many friends who are poets.’

‘Do you drink alcohol?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘You smoke a lot.’

‘Yes, I do. But I don’t have much money.’

‘You do know that “cigarettes are injurious to health”?’

‘Yes, I do, but there’s not much I can do about it.’

‘How come you’re not married?’

‘Because no one liked me enough.’

‘No one?’

‘Someone did, but ultimately she didn’t take the risk.’

‘Why?’

‘She was Muslim and I am identified as a Hindu. She wouldn’t have had to become a Hindu if she married one but I would need to have a name like Abdus Saber.’

Rotna laughed. ‘Best not to get married. Life is short and it’s best to live it without ties.’

‘Is that the reason why you are not going down that road?’

‘Absolutely!’

‘That’s good in a way.’

‘Well, if you and I have made similar decisions, we should be good friends.’

‘I put a big premium on friendship. Can one be friends simply if one or two decisions match?’

‘Does one have to pray hard to be friends with you?’

‘Will I be so lucky?’ Suronjon laughed aloud.

‘Do you have very little confidence in yourself?’

‘That’s not it. I have faith in myself but not in others.’

‘Try me.’

Suronjon had felt very good that day, all day long. Today, he wanted to think about Rotna again, presumably to feel good. That is what he did these days—when he got upset, he thought about Rotna to feel good. How was Rotna? Should he go to Ajimpur and ask, ‘How are you, Rotna Mitra?’ Would Rotna be thrown a bit off balance to see him? Suronjon found it hard to decide what would be the best thing for him to do. He was beginning to understand that the communal tension had brought about a reunion amongst Hindus. And surely, Rotna would not be surprised! She would understand that this was the time when Hindus were looking each other up. That they were standing by each other during bad times. Surely, Suronjon did not need an invitation to visit her at such a time? Suronjon asked the rickshaw-wallah to go to Ajimpur.

Rotna was not particularly tall; she reached just below Suronjon’s shoulders. She had a fair, round face but her eyes seemed to hide depths of sadness that Suronjon could not fathom. He took out the address book that was always in his pocket, found her address and looked for her house. He would surely be able to find it!

Rotna was not home. An elderly man opened the door slightly.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

‘Suronjon.’

‘She’s gone out of town.’

‘When? Where?’ asked Suronjon and was a trifle embarrassed when he sensed the emotion in his voice.

‘Sylhet.’

‘Do you know when she’ll be back?’

‘No.’

Had Rotna gone to Sylhet on work, or on a private trip, or had she run away? Or is it that she was not in Sylhet at all? But Suronjon was after all a ‘Hindu’ name, and that should be cause enough for her people not to hide anything, Suronjon thought to himself, and began walking down the streets of Ajimpur. No one here could identify him as a Hindu. It was indeed amusing that no one—a passer-by wearing a cap, the agitated young men who stood in a circle on the road, the aimless adolescents on the street—could mark him out. Would Suronjon be able to stand up to them alone if they could identify him and decided to dump him in the burial ground? He could hear his heart thumping again. He found that he had begun to sweat while he walked. He was not wearing any warm clothes. He had only a thin shirt on and the air against his chest felt cold, yet there were beads of sweat on his forehead.

He reached Polashi and since he was there, he decided to look in on Nirmolendu Goon. There was a residential complex in Polashi for the Class Four or lowest grade of employees of the Engineering University. Nirmolendu Goon had rented the house meant for the gardener. Suronjon had a deep regard for this person, who always told the truth. He knocked on the door and a young girl of about ten or twelve let him into the house. Nirmolendu Goon was sitting on the bed and intently watching TV.

‘Oh, do come, come to my house,’ he sang out as he saw Suronjon.

‘What’s there to watch on TV?’

‘I watch advertisements. Advertisements for Sunlight batteries, Jia silk sarees, Peps gel toothpaste. I watch Hamad Nath. I watch readings from the Koran.’

Suronjon laughed. ‘Is this how you spend your day? I guess you haven’t gone out at all?’

‘A four-year-old Muslim boy lives in my house. We depend on him to stay alive. I went to Ashim’s house yesterday. The little boy led the way and I followed behind.’

Suronjon laughed again. ‘But you let me in without checking. Suppose it had been someone else?’

‘Some young men had gathered on the pavement at two in the morning,’ said Goon, laughing. ‘They were discussing abusive slogans that they could direct at Hindus. I yelled out and asked who was there. They moved away. Many see my hair and beard and assume I am Muslim, a holy man, a maulvi!’

‘Don’t you write poetry any more?’

‘No. What’s the point in writing? I’ve stopped.’

‘Apparently you gamble in Ajimpur Bazar at night?’

‘Yes. I kill some time. But I haven’t been there for some days.’

‘Why?’

‘I can’t leave my bed. I’m scared. I feel that if I get off my bed they’ll catch me.

‘Are they saying anything on TV? Have you seen temples being demolished?’

‘Oh, no. On TV it looks like this is the land of communal harmony. There are no riots going on in this country. Anything like that is only happening in India.’

‘The other day someone said that there have been four thousand riots in India till now. However, the Muslims of India are not leaving their country. But the Hindus of this country have one foot in Bangladesh and another in India. It means that the Muslims in India are staying on and fighting but the Hindus of Bangladesh are running away.’

‘The Muslims there can stay and fight,’ said Goon sombrely. ‘India is a secular country. And the fundamentalists are in power here. How can you fight here? Hindus are second-class citizens here. Do second-class citizens have the strength to fight?’

‘Why don’t you write about this?’

‘I want to write, but if I do I’ll be maligned as an agent of India. I want to write about many things but I don’t. What’s the point in writing?’

Goon stared at the television—a toy box—with expressionless eyes. Geeta brought tea and left the cups on the table. Suronjon did not feel like drinking tea. Goon da’s agony had touched him too.

‘You’re asking me many things,’ said Goon, laughing suddenly. ‘Are you safe?’

‘Goon da, do you ever win when you gamble?’

‘No.’

‘Why do you gamble then?’

‘They call me awful names if I don’t. Their epithets don’t spare my parents either and so I am compelled.’

Suronjon laughed out loud when he heard this. Goon laughed too. The man had a sense of humour and could laugh at himself. He was equally at home in America, gambling in the casinos of Las Vegas, or getting bitten by mosquitoes in the slums of Polashi. He had no problems with anything, and did not get annoyed at all. He was engaged in the simple pleasures of life, sitting in a room that measured only twelve feet by twelve feet. Suronjon wondered how this man succeeded in living in such pleasurable simplicity. Was he really happy or did he nurse a deep pain within? Did he laugh away these desperate times because there was nothing else that he could do?

Suronjon got up to leave. His sense of sadness was growing. Was sadness infectious? He began walking towards Tikatuli. He decided against taking a rickshaw. He had only five takas his pocket. He bought cigarettes at the corner in Polashi. The shopkeeper stared in surprise at Suronjon when he asked for Bangla Five. The stare brought back the familiar thumping in his heart. Had the man figured out that he was Hindu? Did he know that because the Babri Masjid had been demolished any Hindu could be beaten up on a whim? Suronjon moved away swiftly after he had picked up his cigarettes. Why was he reacting like this? He had left the shop without lighting his cigarette. Suppose people made out that he was a Hindu if he asked for a light? It was not as though one’s Hindu or Muslim identity was written on one’s body. However, he suspected that people could make him out by the way he walked, talked or even by the expression in his eyes. A dog barked as he reached the corner of Tikatuli. He was startled. Suddenly, behind him, he heard a gang of young men yell, ‘Catch him! Catch!’ Once he heard that, he did not turn around but ran at top speed. He began to sweat. The buttons on his shirt unfastened but he kept on running. After running for some time, he looked back and found that there was no one behind him. Had he run needlessly? Were those words not directed at him? Was he hallucinating?

As was his custom when he came home late, Suronjon let himself into his room without disturbing anyone. But as soon as he stepped in, he heard a pitiful wail of ‘Oh God, oh God!’ He wondered whether they had any Hindu guests at home who were invoking their gods. That was a possibility, he thought, and was about to go into Sudhamoy’s room when he saw that Kironmoyee had placed a clay image on a low stool and was sitting before it. She was squatting before the image, had wrapped one end of her sari around her neck and was weeping to God. This was not a sight that Suronjon usually saw in his home. This strange, unfamiliar scene stupefied him. He was unsure how to react. Should he smash the clay idol to the ground or grab Kironmoyee’s bowed head and raise it? The sight of bowed heads always filled him with disgust.

He went close to Kironmoyee and lifted her up, holding her arms.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ he asked. ‘Why are you sitting with that statue? Will that idol save you?’

Kironmoyee broke into a sob. ‘Your father’s arms and legs are numb. His speech is slurred.’

His eyes went immediately towards Sudhamoy. He was lying in bed. He was murmuring something but it was unintelligible. He sat close to his father and moved his right arm. There was no feeling, no strength. Suronjon felt as though an axe had battered his chest. One side of his grandfather’s body had grown limp like this and the doctors had said it was a stroke. His grandfather had lain inert and had to swallow medicine after medicine. A physiotherapist would come to exercise his arms and legs. Sudhamoy stared at Kironmoyee and Suronjon with dumb eyes.

They had no relatives nearby. Whom could he go to? Their close relatives had all left the country one by one. Suronjon felt very alone, impoverished and helpless. He was the son and ought to be responsible for everything. But he was the useless child of the family. Even at his age, his life was made up of wanderings. He was not able to stick to any job. He had wanted to start a business but could not do it. If Sudhamoy were to lie ill, they would not be able to eat. They would have to leave their home and be on the streets.