Lajja (12 page)

Horipodo had taught them exercises to strengthen Sudhamoy’s arms and legs. Maya and Kironmoyee were taking him through the exercises twice a day. They ensured that he took his medicines on time. Maya’s playfulness seemed to have gone out of her and she appeared crushed. Her father had been a vibrant man. And now he lay unmoving. Maya’s heart broke every time he called out ‘Maya, Maya’ in garbled tones. Her father’s eyes were helpless and dumb, yet it seemed that they were desperate to say something. Her father had always told her that she must grow up to be a true and pure person. He had always been honest and courageous.

‘Our daughter has grown up, let’s get her married,’ Kironmoyee would often say.

Sudhamoy had always opposed the idea. ‘She’ll complete her education and get a job and after that, if she wants to get married, she can do so.’

‘Should we send her away to Calcutta—to my brother?’ Kironmoyee would ask. ‘Anjoli, Nileema, Abha, Shibani—all the girls of Maya’s age have left and are studying in Calcutta.’

‘So?’ Sudhamoy would ask. ‘Is there a law against studying here? Have the schools and colleges all shut down?’

‘Our daughter is a woman. I can’t sleep at nights. Didn’t some young men accost Bijoya the other day when she was on her way to college?’

‘But that happens to Muslims too. Don’t Muslim women get raped? Don’t they get kidnapped?’

‘Yes, true. But . . .’

Kironmoyee knew that Sudhamoy would never agree with her. He may no longer have his father’s home but he still had his country—the ground beneath his feet was still the beloved soil of his homeland—and that was his consolation. Of course, Maya had never showed any enthusiasm about Calcutta. She had once visited her aunt, Kironmoyee’s sister, in Calcutta. She had not liked it. The girls there, her cousins, looked down on her and did not include her in their conversations and fun. She was left alone and did little except think of home. She was supposed to be there for all of the Puja holidays, yet before the holidays were over, she told her uncle that she wanted to return home.

‘How can that be?’ said her aunt. ‘Didi said that you’d be here for ten days!’

‘I’m homesick.’ Maya was almost in tears when she said this.

She had not enjoyed the noise and the raucousness of the Puja in Calcutta. The entire city glittered brightly, yet she felt so alone. No wonder she had left within a week, instead of staying the ten days as planned! Kironmoyee had hoped that if Maya liked it there, she would stay on.

Maya sat by her father’s bedside and thought of Jahangir. She had spoken to him on the phone from Parul’s house. They had had two conversations and Jahangir’s voice no longer had its earlier warmth. Jahangir’s uncle, his father’s brother, lived in America. He had written to Jahangir asking him to move there and Jahangir was trying to do so.

‘You’ll go away?’ Maya had almost screamed in anguish.

‘America! Why shouldn’t I go there?’

‘What will you do there?’

‘This and that to begin with and finally, I’ll get citizenship.’

‘You won’t return home, to our country?’

‘Come back here? Why? Is it possible to live in this awful place?’

‘When’re you planning to go?’

‘Next month. My uncle is rushing me. He thinks my political activities here are ruining me.’

‘Oh.’

Not once did Jahangir say anything about Maya. Would Maya go with him or would she stay back and wait for him? Had the American Dream made him forget this relationship that went back four years? Did he forget that they had sat in the restaurant by the Crescent Lake, in the Teacher–Student Centre, and talked about marriage? Was Jahangir so infatuated by dazzle and affluence that he could turn his back on a living, breathing Maya and leave her behind? Maya sat by her father and found her thoughts returning to Jahangir again and again. She wanted to forget but could not. And along with this, Maya was also trying to cope with her sorrow about her father lying ill in bed, unresponsive and still. It was difficult to make sense of Kironmoyee’s emotions. She would suddenly burst into tears in the middle of the night. She never explained why she cried or for whom. She worked silently all day: cooking, looking after her husband, which included cleaning up his pee and shit.

Kironmoyee did not wear sindoor. Nor did she wear the other signs of marriage worn by Hindu Bengali women. In 1971, Sudhamoy had suggested that she stop wearing them. After the events of 1975, she herself decided to stop wearing those symbols. After 1975, Sudhamoy too stopped wearing a dhoti. He bought metres of white cloth, went to the tailor and had himself measured for pyjamas. Once home, he said, ‘Kiron, do you think my forehead feels hot? I feel feverish.’

Kironmoyee did not say anything. She knew that Sudhamoy said he was feverish whenever he was very sad.

Maya was astounded at how Suronjon seemed to be quite removed from their family at a time like this. He stayed in his room all day long in a stupor. He did not say if he wanted to eat and did not seem to think that he ought to find out whether his father was still alive. He spoke to his friends when they visited him in his room, and he locked his room when he left the house but never bothered to tell anyone at home when he would be back. Did he have no sense of responsibility? No one expected him to give any money but as a son, could he not look in on his father, call the doctor, go to buy the medicines and spend some time with the others? Did he not understand that even if he sat with them for a bit, they would feel comforted? Surely, Sudhamoy could demand that Suronjon come and hold his left hand? His right hand was useless and still but his left hand was able to touch and feel.

The medicines prescribed by Horipodo had certainly brought a marked improvement in Sudhamoy. His speech was no longer as garbled as before. However, one arm and leg were still inert. The doctor had said that regular exercise would hasten recovery. Maya did not have much else to do because she no longer had any pupils left to tutor.

Maya used to have a student named Minoti. Minoti’s mother had said that there was no need for Maya to teach her any more because they were moving to India.

‘Why India?’ Maya had asked.

Minoti’s mother had smiled ruefully but not said anything.

Minoti studied in the Bhikarunnesa School. One day, as Maya was teaching her maths, she noticed that Minoti was keeping time with her pencil and muttering ‘
Alhamdulillahi rahmanir rahim ar rahmanir rahim
’.

‘What are you saying?’ asked Maya, astounded.

‘They take us through the sura in our school assembly,’ was Minoti’s pat reply.

‘Is that so? They recite the sura in the assembly in Bhikarunnesa?’

‘Yes, we recite two suras and then sing the national anthem.’

‘What do you do when the suras are said?’

‘I chant along too and cover my head with my dupatta.’

‘Are there no prayers in the school for Hindus, Buddhists and Christians?’

Maya was troubled. Surely it was not right that a prestigious girls’ school in the country was observing the religion of Muslims in its assembly and the Hindu students of the school were expected to participate in those observations without a murmur?

Sumaiya was another of Maya’s pupils and in fact was related to Parul.

‘Didi, I won’t be taking lessons from you any longer,’ Sumaiya said one day.

‘Why?’ asked Maya.

‘Abba has said that he’ll employ a Muslim tutor for me.’

‘Oh, I see.’

Maya had not told them at home that she had lost both her tutoring jobs. Suronjon was financially dependent on their family and how would Kironmoyee manage if she had to support Maya too? She decided that the family was in the midst of a catastrophe and so it was best to keep her disappointments to herself.

Kironmoyee had become very quiet these days. She went about her chores silently, cooking some dal and rice. Of course, she had to make soup and squeeze out fresh fruit juice for Sudhamoy. Who would buy the fruit? And Suronjon lay in bed all day! How was it possible for someone to stay in bed like that! Maya was feeling very let down by her older brother. On 7 December, she had repeatedly said that they should leave home and go somewhere else but he had paid no heed. Were they free of danger now? Maya too had become indifferent because she found everyone else in her family unmoved. She was now trying to cultivate detachment. Anyway, what was the point in getting worked up if Suronjon was so uninterested! And she did not have any friends to whose homes she could take her family to live. She had already been feeling awkward at Parul’s. Parul was one of her closest friends and she had often spent days and nights in her home, having a good time with friends. No one had ever asked why Maya was there. But that day, they had looked questioningly at Maya; it was like she was not the same person any more and they were all wondering why she was there. Of course, Parul kept explaining that it was not safe for Maya to be staying in her own house in these troubled times.

It was odd that the question of safety was revolving around Maya and did not hover over Parul. Would Parul ever have to leave her own home and move into Maya’s? Maya was embarrassed and wanted to shrink away, yet she wanted to stay alive and so continued to stay at Parul’s as an unwelcome guest. Parul looked after her well but many of Parul’s relatives visited their home, and asked awkward questions.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Maya.’

‘What’s your full name?’

‘She’s Jakiya Sultana,’ said Parul, stepping in.

This new name startled Maya.

‘I had to fib about your name,’ said Parul, after her relatives left, ‘because they are different and quite orthodox. They’ll tell all and sundry that we’re sheltering Hindus.’

‘Oh.’

Although Maya understood Parul’s argument, she felt very hurt. Was it wrong to provide refuge to Hindus? She spent sleepless nights wondering why Hindus needed to seek shelter and protection. Maya had passed her intermediate examinations with high marks—she was a star student, whereas Parul had average marks which placed her in the second division. Yet she was now at the mercy of Parul’s charity.

‘Baba, make a fist, please. Try lifting your arm.’

Sudhamoy obeyed Maya like a good boy. Maya felt that her father’s fingers were gaining strength gradually.

‘Isn’t Dada going to eat?’

‘I don’t know. He’s asleep,’ said Kironmoyee with a sorrowful expression.

Kironmoyee did not eat. She served Maya her meal. The doors and windows were all shut and the room felt dark and gloomy. Maya almost dozed off, but was woken out of her half sleep by sounds from the street.

‘Hindus, if you wish to live, this land of ours, you must quit,’ chanted a mass of people as they passed by in a procession.

Sudhamoy had heard the slogan too. Maya was holding her father’s hand in hers and she felt it tremble.

Suronjon felt his insides twist with hunger. Earlier, food would always be left for him on the table, even if he did not want it. He decided against telling anyone that he was hungry. He went out to the courtyard—the paved one—and splashed water on his face from the tap and then wiped his face on the towel that hung on the wire that served as a clothes line. He went back to his room, changed his shirt and went out.

Once he was outside, he could not decide where he wanted to go. To Hyder’s house? But Hyder was not likely to be home at this time. Should he go to Belal’s or Kemal’s? What if they thought that Suronjon had come because he was in trouble and wanted a bolthole or their sympathy? No, Suronjon would not visit them. He would roam the city all by himself. After all, the city was his own.

Long ago, he had not wanted to come away from Mymensingh because he had so many friends in Anondomohon and he saw no reason to come away to a new city, leaving them behind. However, waking up the morning after Sudhamoy had sold the house to Roisuddin in the dead of the night, Suronjon had no idea that the house he had been born in—‘Datta Bari’ or the house of the Dattas—which smelt of kamini flowers, with its pond filled with clean, clear water, where they swam, was no longer theirs. After Suronjon learnt that they were expected to move out within the next seven days, he was deeply upset and stayed away from home for two days.

Suronjon found it hard to understand why he felt so much hurt and anger. Not only did he feel that way towards his family but he also was often angry with himself. He had felt hurt and angry about Parveen too. When she was in love with him she would steal into his room.

‘Let’s run away,’ she’d say frequently.

‘Where to?’

‘Far away. To the hills.’

‘Where will we find hills? We’ll have to go either to Sylhet or Chottogram.’

‘Yes, we’ll go there. We’ll build a house in the hills and stay.’

‘And what will you eat? Leaves and plants?’

Parveen would roll all over Suronjon, laughing. ‘I’ll die without you,’ she would say.

‘Women say things like this but don’t die.’

Suronjon had been right. Parveen did not die. Instead, like an obedient daughter, she had agreed to get married.

‘My family’s saying that you have to become a Muslim,’ she told him two days before the wedding.

‘You know that I don’t believe in religion and stuff.’ He smiled.

‘No, you have to become a Muslim.’

‘But I don’t want to be a Muslim.’

‘Does that mean you don’t want me?’

‘I do want you. But is it right to ask that if I want you I must become a Muslim?’

Parveen’s fair face turned red in humiliation. Suronjon knew that her family was putting pressure on her to end their relationship. He was still curious to know which side Hyder had taken. Hyder was Parveen’s brother and he was also Suronjon’s friend. He had always been silent about their relationship. At that time, Suronjon did not like the fact that Hyder did not say anything about his relationship with Parveen. He always felt that Hyder should have made it clear which side he was on. In those days, Suronjon and Hyder would have long talks but Parveen was never discussed. Suronjon did not talk to Hyder about his relationship with Parveen because Hyder had never brought up the matter.

Finally, one day, Parveen got married to a Muslim businessman. Since Suronjon did not convert to Islam, it was possible that Parveen had let go of her dreams of living with him in the hills. Was it possible to let go of one’s dreams so easily? Could it ever be as simple as immersing clay idols in the water after the ritual worship was over? Could it ever be as easy to let go of dreams as it seemed to have been for Parveen? Suronjon’s religion had become an immense hurdle for Parveen’s family.

‘Looks like Parveen will divorce her husband,’ Hyder had told him that morning.

‘A divorce within two years?’ Suronjon had wanted to ask but did not.

He had all but forgotten Parveen but the news of her divorce made his heart jump. Had he wrapped Parveen’s name carefully in mothballs and hidden it deep within his heart? Perhaps that was it. He had not seen Parveen in so long! He felt a pain sharp in his heart. He forced himself to remember Rotna’s face. Rotna Mitra. A wonderful woman. She and Suronjon were a good match. What did Suronjon care if Parveen was planning to divorce her husband? She had married a Muslim man, someone approved by her family. Do marriages last just because you marry one of your own kind, someone of the same faith? So why did she need to come back now? Was it because her husband did not go up to the hills with her? Did he not fulfil her dreams? Suronjon was just an unemployed Hindu who was drifting in life; he was certainly not good husband material.

Suronjon climbed into a rickshaw once he was at the Tikatuli crossing. Parveen’s face kept jumping out of the deep recesses of his heart. When she kissed him, he would wrap her in his arms and say, ‘My little bird, my sparrow.’

‘You’re a monkey,’ Parveen would say, laughing.

Was he really a monkey? If he were not a monkey, how come he was not very different from who he had been when he was five? The years had passed by, like the water hyacinth that floated in ponds, but he had nothing to show for them.

No one had told him that she liked him very much. No one after Parveen.

‘Are you doing this on a dare?’ he had asked Parveen after she told him that she liked him.

‘What?’

‘Yes, someone’s dared you to say this to me!’

‘Certainly not.’

‘Do you really mean it?’

‘I never say anything I don’t mean.’

But this woman, who always held her head high, began to droop once her family began discussing her prospective marriage. Her fabulous dreams evaporated as did her desire to live on her own terms. She gave in to her family as they forced her into marriage. Not once did she say that she wanted to marry the monkey who lived in the house close by. Hyder’s house was only two houses away. Maya had gone to Parveen’s wedding and so had Kironmoyee. Not Suronjon.

He asked the rickshaw to go towards Chamelibag. It was getting dark. His stomach ached with hunger. He was prone to heartburn and often felt a sour taste in his mouth. Sudhamoy advised him to take antacid tablets. He hated those tablets which turned his lips white. And then, he never remembered to carry medicines with him! He decided that he would eat something once he was at Pulok’s house. He found that Pulok was home. He had been stuck at home for the last five days. In fact, he had locked himself in.

‘Please give me something to eat,’ Suronjon said once he entered. ‘I don’t think anything’s been cooked in our house today.’

‘But why?’

‘Dr Sudhamoy Datta has had a stroke. His wife and daughter are busy with him. Sudhamoy Datta, son of the once-wealthy Sukumar Datta, cannot pay for his own treatment.’

‘You should have done something. Got yourself a job.’

‘It’s difficult to get a job in this country of Muslims. And it’s also difficult to work under these bosses who know nothing.’

‘You’re saying such awful things about Muslims, Suronjon!’ exclaimed Pulok as he moved very close to Suronjon.

‘Why’re you scared? I’m calling them names in your hearing, not in theirs. Is it possible to abuse them to their face? Will my head remain on my shoulders?’

Suronjon gritted his teeth and gripped the handle of the sofa. Pulok sat stunned. Neela warmed the rice and vegetables and put the food on the table.

‘Suronjon da, haven’t you eaten anything all day?’ she asked in a voice filled with pain.

Suronjon smiled wanly. ‘Who cares whether I eat?’ he asked.

‘Get married.’

‘Married?’ he almost choked. ‘Who’s going to marry me?’

‘You’ve ruled out marriage because of Parveen? That’s not right.’

‘No, that isn’t it, really. I’d actually forgotten that I need to get married.’

Pulok and Neela laughed despite their troubles.

Suronjon did not really want to eat. However, he needed to quieten his hunger.

‘Can you please lend me some money, Pulok?’ he asked as he was eating.

‘How much?’

‘Whatever you can. No one at home is telling me whether they need any money. However, I can figure out that Ma has nothing more left.’

‘Sure, I’ll give you money. But do you know what’s going on in the country? In Bhola, Chottogram and Sylhet? In Cox’s Bazar? In Pirojpur?’

‘You’ll tell me that they’ve ground the temples to dust. Or that they’ve plundered the homes of Hindus or burnt them down. That they’ve beaten up the men and raped the women. Tell me if you’ve anything new to report.’

‘Do you think this is normal?’

‘Of course, this is normal. What else do you expect in this country? Our backs are not covered and therefore it isn’t right to get upset if people stab us.’

Pulok sat at the dining table, facing Suronjon. He was quiet for awhile, and then he began: ‘They’ve burnt Choitonyodeb’s house in Sylhet. They haven’t spared the old library either. My older brother is here from Sylhet. The Kalighat Kalibari, Shibbari, the Jogonnath Akhara, the Chali Bondor Bhoirobbari, Chali Bondor Shoshan, the Jotorpur Mohaprobhu Akhara, the Meera Bazar Ramakrishna Mission, Boloramer Akhara at Meera Bazar, the Nirmolabala Students’ Hostel, the Bondor Bazar Brahmo Mandir, Jogonnather Akhara at Jinda Bazar, Gobindji Akhara, Norosingher Akhara at Lama Bazar, Noya Sorok Akhara, Debpur Akhara, Tilagorh Durgabari, Biyani Bazar Kalibari, Mohaprobhur Bari in Dhaka Dokkhin, Gotatikor Shibbari, Mohalokkhibari Mohapeeth, Fenchuganj, Sorkarkhana Durgabari, the Sajibari at Biswonath, the Boiragi Bazar Akhara, the Chondogram Shiva Mandir, Akilpur Akhara, Companiganj Jibonpur Kalibari, Balaganj Jogipur Kalibari, Jakiganj Amolshi Kali Mandir, Barhata Akhara, Gajipur Akhara and Birosree Akhara have been completely destroyed. Benubhushon Das, Sunil Kumar Das and Kanubhushon Das have died in the fire.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Suronjon, all kinds of awful things are happening. I don’t know whether we can possibly continue living in this country. The Jamaat and the BNP have together burnt Hindu homes and temples in Chottogram. They are taking away even the pots and pans of the Hindus, along with fish from their ponds. Many Hindus haven’t had anything to eat for seven or eight days now.

‘The people from the Jamaat-Shibir threatened Kanubihari Nath and his son Arjun Bihari Nath in Khajuria village of Sitakundo. They held guns to their chest and said that they wouldn’t be allowed to carry on living in their own home if they didn’t give them twenty thousand takas. They have left home since. They picked up Utpola Rani Bhowmik, the daughter of a professor at Mirerserai College, at midnight on Thursday and brought her back in the wee hours. Tell me, are we not going to protest all these things?’

‘Do you know what’s going to happen if we do? You remember that poem by D.L. Roy, don’t you?

I may have landed just one kick on your back in anger,

If you say it hurts, I find your words too arrogant to bear.

Suronjon leant back on the sofa and shut his eyes. Pulok went on: ‘Several thousand homes have been plundered in Bhola and several thousand burnt to ashes. This morning there was a respite in the curfew for twelve hours. Three hundred people took spades and axes and attacked the Lokkhi Narayan Akhara for the third time. The police just stood by. More than fifteen hundred houses have been burnt in Borhanuddin. Two thousand have suffered some damage. Two thousand and ten houses have been destroyed completely in Tojmuddin. Two thousand are partially damaged. Two hundred and sixty temples have been destroyed in Bhola.’

‘You’re talking like a reporter,’ said Suronjon, laughing. ‘Is all this very painful for you?’

‘Isn’t this bothering you?’ asked Pulok, astonished.

‘Not a bit,’ said Suronjon, roaring with laughter. ‘Why should it upset me?’

Pulok was alarmed. ‘You see, I have many relatives there,’ he said, ‘and I’m worried about them.’

‘The Muslims are doing what they have to do—they’re burning the homes of Hindus. But that doesn’t mean it will befit Hindus to burn the homes of Muslims, does it? I can’t say anything to console you, Pulok. I’m sorry.’

Pulok went inside and came back with 2000 takas, which he gave Suronjon.

‘How is Alok? Are they including him in their games?’ Suronjon asked, after he had put the money in his pocket.

‘No. He sits moping at home all day. There’s nothing to do. When he looks out of the window, he can see his friends playing in the field. He’s suffering alone at home.’

‘Pulok, understand this, all the people whom we consider non-communal, our friends, are all communal deep inside. We have mingled deeply with the Muslims of this country and now our speech is peppered with ‘as-salamu alaykum’ and ‘khuda hafiz’. We say
pani
for water instead of
jol
, and for a bath we say
gosol
instead of
snaan
. How close are these folk to us—for whom we give up tea and cigarettes during the month of Ramzan, and for whose sake, through that month, we can’t even eat at a restaurant during the day?

‘Tell me, for whom are we making these sacrifices? How many days of leave do we get during the Puja? And in government hospitals, Hindus are forced to work through both the Id holidays!

‘The Eighth Amendment was brought in and the Awami League screamed and shouted for a while and that was it. And now, Hasina herself has covered her head! After she returned from hajj, she covered her head so that even her hair does not show. All of them are the same, Pulok, everyone of them. We have to either kill ourselves or leave the country.’

Pulok stood leaning against the wall. Suronjon walked towards the door. Kironmoyee had suggested that he go to Mymensingh and speak to Roisuddin—after all, he’d taken their house for a paltry sum of money and so, maybe he could help them during this crisis. Suronjon had never borrowed money from anybody. He always cleared his credit with the grocer at the end of the month. However, he had been able to comfortably ask Pulok for money. It could be because he had once helped out Pulok, or because he was Hindu and very few could understand the trials people belonging to the minorities were facing. Other people might give if he asked but they would not be giving from their hearts. Suronjon had decided that this time he would not ask any Muslims for help. Of course, people at home were not asking him to take any responsibility. They were probably thinking that he was devoted to his country and had, after all, spent hours and days thinking and working for his country, and had not even cared whether he had food to eat or even the most basic amenities, and so, there was no point in harassing him now. He would give this small sum of money to Kironmoyee. How was she managing to keep their family afloat? She never grumbled. She never even said anything against her errant son. She had never shown any irritation despite the terrible poverty she had had to endure.