Lajja (17 page)

This was followed by another voice bubbling out and filling the evening: ‘Listen to this bit of news from Noakhali! They’ve plundered and burnt seven houses and the Awdhorchand Ashram in Sundolpur village. Three houses in Jogodanondopur village were ransacked and burnt. And another three houses in Gongapur village. Ragorgaon village, Doulotpur, Ghoshbag, Maijdi, the Kali temple in Sonarpur, the akhara at Binodpur, the Kali temple at Choumuhoni, Durgapur village, Kutubpur, Gopalpur, the Okhondo Ashram at Sultanpur and several temples at the Chhoani Bazar have been destroyed. Ten temples and eighteen houses were set on fire in Babupur Tetuia, Mahdipur, Rajganj Bazar, Tangir Paar, Kajirhaat, Rosulpur, Jomidarhaat, Choumuhoni Porabari and in Bhobobhodri village. In Bororajpur village in Companiganj nineteen houses were plundered and awful things were done to the women. And a man called Biplob Bhowmik was chopped to pieces with a sickle.’

If only Suronjon could block his ears with cotton wool! All around him people were discussing the Babri Masjid matter and there were stories of breaking and burning. Oh, if only Suronjon could find some solitude! It would be good if he could get away to Mymensingh. There was far less breaking and damaging there. His body may have felt soothed if he could have spent an entire afternoon bathing in the Brahmaputra. He got up swiftly. Many people who were earlier in the room had left. Suronjon too decided to leave.

‘There’s rice for you on the table. Please eat before you leave,’ said Kajol da. ‘You fell asleep at an odd time. You’re all right, I hope.’

‘No, thank you, Kajol da,’ said Suronjon. ‘I won’t eat. Don’t feel like it. I’m not feeling so good.’

‘What is this now?’

‘I’m sorry but that’s how things are. I feel hungry and then the hunger disappears. There’s a sour taste in my mouth and heartburn. I feel sleepy but when I go to bed, I can’t sleep.’

‘You’re losing heart, Suronjon,’ said Jotin Chakrabarty, placing a hand on his shoulder. ‘Can we afford to be so disheartened? Be strong. All of us have a life to live.’

Suronjon was standing with his head bowed. Jotin da sounded like Sudhamoy. It was so long since he had sat by his ailing father. He would not stay out late this evening. One always got held up at Kajol da’s house because so many people came there and there were long, intense discussions. There were complex political and sociological discussions till the wee hours. Suronjon would listen to some and not pay heed to others.

Suronjon left without eating. He had not eaten at home in ages. He decided to eat at home that evening. He wanted to eat with Maya, Kironmoyee and Sudhamoy—all of them together. There was a vast distance now between him and the others at home; he had created that distance. Suronjon wanted to break down that wall. He had felt very good that morning and he wanted to be with the others with that sense of well-being, and laugh and talk, like they had when he was a child and they sat in the sun eating steamed
pithe
. Today, it would not be like they were father and son, or brother and sister, but as though they were all friends, very close friends. He would not go visiting again this evening—not to Pulok’s house, or Rotna’s. He would go home to Tikatuli, eat something as ordinary as rice and dal, and then chat till late at night with everyone and then sleep.

Kajol da walked him down to the gate.

‘Look, it’s not a good idea for you to be going around the city like this,’ he said with great concern. ‘We’re staying within this compound, not venturing out at all. All the people you found in my house today live close by. And you’re wandering the city all by yourself! You never know what might happen.’

Suronjon did not say anything but walked away swiftly. He had money and could easily have taken a rickshaw but he felt strangely attached to the money that Maya had given him. He did not want to spend it. He had not smoked a cigarette all day. Now that the evening was darkening, he craved a cigarette and that got the better of his attachment to Maya’s money. He stood in a shop and bought a packet of Bangla Five and felt like a king. He walked up to the crossing of Karkorail and then took a rickshaw. It seemed like the city went to sleep rather early these days. When people were not well they went to sleep early and it was the same thing with the city. What ailed the city? He remembered that one of his friends had once had a big boil on his bottom and had screamed in pain all day but he was terrified of medicines and shivered at the sight of injection syringes. Suronjon thought that the city had a huge boil on its arse.

‘Oh Maya, what is the matter with Suronjon?’ asked Sudhamoy. ‘Where is he roaming about during these troubled times?’

‘He said that he’d go to Pulok da’s house. Must be chatting there.’

‘But that shouldn’t keep him away till evening!’

‘I don’t know. What can I say? He should be back.’

‘Doesn’t he ever think that his folks at home are worried and he should come back?’

‘Let it be. Don’t talk so much,’ Maya said, interrupting Sudhamoy. ‘All this talking is making you tired. It’s not good for you. Lie down quietly. Eat a bit. After that, if you want me to read to you, I’ll do that. You’ll take your sleeping pills at ten o’clock and go to sleep. Dada will be back in the meanwhile, don’t worry.’

‘You’re in a hurry to make me recover, Maya. I’d rather be in bed for a few more days. Getting well has its share of problems.’

‘What kind of problems?’ asked Maya as she sat on her father’s bed, mixing his rice.

‘You are feeding me,’ said Sudhamoy, laughing. ‘Kironmoyee gives me massages every day. Will I get all this care once I’m well? Then I will have to see patients, go to the market and quarrel at least twice a day with you.’

Maya stared unblinking at the sight of her father laughing. This was the first time he had laughed since his illness.

‘Please open all the windows,’ he told Kironmoyee. ‘I don’t like the room so dark. I also want some fresh air. This time I didn’t get to experience the winter breeze. Do we only love the breezes of spring? In my youth, I used to be out in the cold air sticking posters on walls, wearing just a thin shirt. Moni Singh and I wandered the hills in Susong Durgapur. Kironmoyee, do you know anything about the Tonk Movement and the Hajong Revolt of those times?’

‘You told me so many things after we were married,’ said Kironmoyee, who was feeling good. ‘Moni Singh and you once stayed the night at a stranger’s house in Netrokona.’

‘Kiron, is Suronjon wearing anything warm?’

‘Oh no,’ said Maya, curling her lips. ‘Like you, he wears only a thin shirt. He is a revolutionary of these times, busy managing contemporary political currents, and is never affected by changes in the rhythms of nature.’

‘Where does he go all day?’ asked Kironmoyee in an angry tone. ‘Does he eat anything? He is becoming more and more indisciplined.’

Someone knocked on the door. Was Suronjon back? Kironmoyee, who was sitting next to Sudhamoy, went to open the door. It did sound like Suronjon! Of course, on nights when he was very late, Suronjon went straight into his room. Sometimes he also locked his door before leaving. Even when he did not lock his door from the outside, he managed to unbolt it without stepping into the main part of the house. Since it was not very late yet, it was probably Suronjon. Maya was mashing food for Sudhamoy with her hands to make it really soft so that he had no trouble eating. Sudhamoy had been on a liquid diet for days. The doctor had now prescribed a semi-solid diet. A fish stew had been cooked for Sudhamoy. As Maya was mixing the stew into the rice, she heard the knock on the door. Kironmoyee stood at the door inquiring who it was. Sudhamoy strained to hear the response to Kironmoyee’s question. Seven young men barged into the house as soon as Kironmoyee opened the door. Four of them were holding thick sticks and before they could figure out what the others had in their hands, the men had pushed past Kironmoyee and gone into the house. They were perhaps around twenty-one or twenty-two years old. Two of them were wearing kurta pyjamas and caps. The others were in trousers and shirts. They did not say a word to anyone as they came in; they started damaging everything in a frenzy—chairs, tables, cupboards with glass doors, television, radio, pots and pans, glasses, bowls, books, dressing tables, clothes, pedestal fans—anything that they could find. Sudhamoy tried to sit up but could not. Maya yelled out, ‘Baba!’ Kironmoyee closed the door and stood stupefied. What a terrible sight.

‘Bastards! You’ve broken the Babri Masjid. Do you think we’ll spare you?’ said one of them, as he drew a large sickle from his waistband.

Not a single thing in their home was left undamaged. Everything was broken. Things were destroyed in a flash—they could not even begin to comprehend it. Maya too was standing still, stunned. Then suddenly, she screamed when one of them pulled her by the hand. Kironmoyee too screamed, breaking down her wall of tolerance. Sudhamoy could only groan. He was unable to speak. He watched as they pulled Maya away. Maya clung to the bedposts and tried to stay put. Kironmoyee ran and threw her arms around Maya. They pulled Maya away—brushing aside the women’s strength and their screams. ‘Oh, my sons, let her be. Let my daughter be,’ shrieked Kironmoyee as she ran after them.

There were two baby taxis waiting on the road. Maya’s hands were still covered with the rice she had been mixing for Sudhamoy. Her dupatta had slipped off. She was screaming for her mother, a desperate look on her face. Kironmoyee had used every bit of strength she had but had not been able to hold Maya back. Ignoring their large, shining knives, she had tried to push two of them away, in vain. She kept running behind the two vehicles as they drove away. ‘They’ve taken my daughter away. Help me, my brother,’ she pleaded with each and every passer-by.

Kironmoyee stopped at the shop at the end of the road. Her hair had come loose, her feet were bare.

‘Please help me, brother,’ she told Moti Mian. ‘Some people have just taken away Maya, my daughter.’

Everyone looked at Kironmoyee with cold eyes. It was as if a madwoman was walking about spewing gibberish. Kironmoyee kept running.

Suronjon was shocked to see the door to their home wide open. All their things were in disarray, the table was overturned and books and papers were on the floor. Mattresses and sheets had been flung off the beds. The clothes horse was broken and clothes were lying all over the place. He felt that he was about to suffocate. He went into another room. The room was full of shattered glass, broken bits of furniture, torn books and damaged medicine bottles. Sudhamoy lay face down on the floor. He was in pain. He could not see either Maya or Kironmoyee. Suronjon felt too terrified to ask what had happened. Why was Sudhamoy on the floor? Where were the others? As he opened his mouth to talk, Suronjon realized that his voice was trembling. He stood there stunned.

‘They have taken Maya away,’ said Sudhamoy slowly, painfully.

Suronjon’s entire being was shaken.

‘Taken away? Who? Where? When?’

Sudhamoy had been lying there, unable to move or even call anyone. Suronjon picked Sudhamoy up and laid him on the bed. Sudhamoy was panting hard and sweating a great deal.

‘Where’s Ma?’ Suronjon asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Sudhamoy’s face was blue with anxiety and despair. He was shaking from top to toe. Anything could happen if his blood pressure went up. Suronjon could not decide what to do—should he stay and look after Sudhamoy, or go looking for Maya? He felt his arms and legs trembling. And his head felt like there were angry, turbulent waters whirling inside. In his mind’s eye he saw the pitiful sweet face of a tiny kitten being pursued by a gang of fierce dogs. Suronjon darted out of the room. ‘I will bring Maya back, Baba, somehow,’ he said, touching his father’s unmoving hand.

Suronjon banged hard on Hyder’s door. He banged so hard that Hyder himself opened the door. He was startled to see Suronjon.

‘What’s up, Suronjon? What’s happened?’

Initially, Suronjon was unable to speak. His pain was choking him.

‘Some people have taken Maya away,’ Suronjon somehow mumbled. He did not need to explain who had taken Maya away.

‘When?’

Suronjon did not say anything in reply. Was it not enough to know that Maya had been taken away? Was the timing important? Hyder’s brow wrinkled in thought. He had been to a party meeting and had just come home. He had not even changed his clothes. In fact, he had just begun unbuttoning his shirt when Suronjon knocked. Suronjon was staring blankly at Hyder. His expression was like the one on people’s faces after they lose everything in the floods. Suronjon stood holding the door, his hand shaking. He clasped that hand in his other hand to stop the shaking.

‘Calm down. Sit down and let’s figure out what to do,’ said Hyder with his hand on his shoulder.

Suronjon burst into tears as soon as he felt Hyder’s touch.

‘Bring Maya back, Hyder. Give me Maya,’ sobbed Suronjon as he wrapped his arms around Hyder.

Suronjon began slipping to the floor as he sobbed. He finally collapsed at Hyder’s feet. Hyder was taken aback. Suronjon had always been as strong as iron and he had never seen him cry. Hyder lifted him up. Hyder was hungry because he had not had dinner.

‘Come, let’s go,’ he said, with Suronjon riding pillion on his Honda motorcycle. They searched the lanes and by-lanes of Tikatuli. They went into houses Suronjon did not know. They went to some cigarette shops that were very dimly lit and Hyder had whispered conversations there. Hyder’s Honda did the rounds from Tikatuli to English Road, went on to Nobabpur, Lokkhi Bazar, Lalmohon Saha Street, Bokshi Bazar, Lalbag, Sutrapur, Wise Ghat, Sodorghat, Pyarimohon Das Road, Abhoy Das Lane, Narinda, Alu Bazar, Thathari Bazar, Pyaridas Road, Babu Bazar, Urdu Road and Chok Bazar. They waded through waterlogged muddy alleys and Hyder knocked on dark doors and searched for someone—Suronjon did not know who. Every time Hyder stopped somewhere, Suronjon hoped that they would find Maya. Maybe this is where they were keeping Maya with her hands and feet tied and beating her. Were they only beating her or doing other things as well? Suronjon kept his ears open to catch the sounds of Maya crying.

Suronjon heard sounds of sobbing near Lokkhi Bazar and asked Hyder to stop his Honda.

‘Doesn’t that sound like Maya crying?’ asked Suronjon.

They followed the sounds of the sobs. They found a child crying in a tin shack. Hyder did a thorough search—he looked everywhere. The night got darker. Suronjon did not stop. Red-eyed young men were clustered at the top of every lane. Every time Suronjon came upon such a group he thought that they were the ones who had done it—they had taken his poor, dear sister Maya and held her against her wishes.

‘Hyder, why haven’t you found her? Why haven’t you found Maya yet?’

‘I am trying hard.’

‘We must find Maya tonight, somehow.’

‘There’s not a single ruffian kind of fellow that I’m leaving out. What can I do if I can’t find her?’

Suronjon was chain-smoking. Maya had paid for the cigarettes.

‘Come, let’s go into this restaurant, Superstar. I’m hungry,’ said Hyder.

Hyder ordered paratha and a meat curry for both of them. Suronjon wanted to eat but the bit of paratha remained in his hand—he could not take it to his mouth. As time went by, the feeling of emptiness grew in his chest. Hyder ate heartily and then lit a cigarette. Suronjon rushed him.

‘Come, let’s go. We haven’t found her yet.’

‘Where else shall we look? We have looked everywhere. You’ve seen that!’

‘Dhaka is a tiny city. And we can’t find Maya here! Is that possible? Let’s go to the police station.’

The men at the police station wrote down their complaint with expressionless faces. And that was it!

‘It doesn’t look like they’ll do anything,’ said Suronjon as they left the police station.

‘They might.’

‘Let’s go towards Wari. Do you know anyone there?’

‘I’ve put our party men to work. They’re searching too. Please don’t worry so much.’

Hyder was trying hard but Suronjon was tortured by anxiety. They roamed Old Dhaka all night on Hyder’s Honda. They went to the drinking holes of gangsters, their gambling dens and also to homes of smugglers. And then it was time for the azan! Suronjon had always liked the melody of the azan—set to the Bhairavi raga. Today, he did not like it at all. The azan had begun and that meant that the night was gone and they had not found Maya. Hyder stopped his Honda at Tikatuli.

‘Suronjon, don’t feel so bad,’ he said. ‘Let’s see what can be done tomorrow.’

Kironmoyee was sitting in the ransacked room, staring at the door with anguished eyes. Sudhamoy also lay anxious and unmoving, counting the sleepless hours and hoping that Suronjon would return with Maya. They saw Suronjon return alone. Maya was not with him. They were speechless as they looked at the tired and sorrowful Suronjon, failure and shame written on his face. Did this mean that Maya would never be found? Both of them appeared shrunk with fear. All the doors and windows of their house were shut. There was no ventilation and the rooms were full of stale air. Everything smelt dank. They looked like their arms, legs, head had all curled up. They looked like ghosts and Suronjon did not feel like talking to anyone. The two of them had eyes full of questions. Of course, there was only one answer to all the questions: Maya had not been found.

Suronjon sat on the floor with his legs stretched out. He was feeling sick. By now, Maya had possibly been raped many times over. Maybe Maya would come back soon, like she had come back after going missing for two days when she was six years old. Suronjon had kept the door open so that Maya could come back with pensive steps like she had returned when she was a child. Oh, let her come back to this small, devastated and bereft family. Hyder had promised that he would continue to search for Maya. Was that enough for Suronjon to dream that Maya would come back? Why did they abduct Maya? Simply because she was a Hindu? And how many more rapes would Hindus have to submit to, how much more blood and property would they have to forfeit so that they may live in this country? How long could they live with their heads in the sand? Suronjon asked these questions of himself but could not come up with answers.

Kironmoyee was sitting in a corner of the room with her back to the wall.

‘They said, “Mashima, we have come to check whether everything is all right”,’ she said to herself. ‘“We live here, in this locality. Please open the door.” How old were they—twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two? Was it possible for me to match their strength? I went to all our neigbours and cried, and everyone merely listened. Some people made some sympathetic noises but no one lifted a finger to help. One of them was called Rofik—one of the men wearing a cap called out that name. She had hidden in Parul’s house for a few days. She would have been saved if she had been there. Will Maya not come back? They may as well have burnt the house down. Is it because our landlord is a Muslim that they didn’t burn the house? Why didn’t they kill us? They could have killed me but left the blameless girl alone. I have lived my life. Her life is only beginning.’