Lajja (18 page)

Suronjon felt giddy; it felt as if his head was whirling violently. He vomited, flooding the bathroom.

The sun’s rays lit up the veranda. The black-and-white cat was walking about. Was it looking for scraps or searching for Maya? Maya used to carry her around and she would curl up and sleep under Maya’s quilt. Did she know that Maya was not there?

Maya must be crying a lot. Maybe she was crying out for her brother too. Had they bound Maya’s arms and legs? Had they stuffed her mouth with cloth? A young woman of twenty-one was very different from a little girl of six. The reasons for abducting a twenty-one-year-old woman were also different from the reasons for taking away a six-year-old girl. Suronjon could well imagine the things seven men could do with a woman of twenty-one! His whole being went rigid with anger and pain. His body seemed almost lifeless, as if he were dead. Was Suronjon alive? Oh yes, he was alive. Maya was not there. Of course, that did not mean that Maya’s people would die because Maya was not there! Anyway, no one gives one’s life for the sake of another. Human beings are very selfish.

Hyder was certainly looking for Maya. Yet Suronjon continued to feel that Hyder had not given his best to the search. Suronjon was using one Muslim to hunt for another Muslim—set a thief to catch a thief. As Suronjon lay in bed and watched the cat basking in the sun on the balcony, he suddenly had a strong suspicion that Hyder knew who had taken Maya away. When Hyder was wolfing down his food at Superstar restaurant there had been no concern on his face. In fact, once he had eaten, he had belched with immense satisfaction and had a leisurely smoke. Looking at him, it was difficult to understand that he was out searching for someone and that it was necessary to find her as early as possible. And anyway, he often roamed about the city all night. So was he only indulging himself that night? Was he not really keen on finding Maya? It was as if he was somehow meeting the obligations of friendship. He wasn’t at all forceful with the people at the police station, and with his party men too, he first spoke of party matters and then talked about Maya’s abduction, as if Maya was not top priority, but of secondary importance. Was that because Hindus were second-class citizens?

Suronjon found it difficult to believe that Maya was not in the next room. He felt that if he went to the other room, he would find Maya helping Sudhamoy exercise his right arm. He felt that if he went into that room, he would find the olive-skinned girl looking at him with a beseeching expression that said, ‘Dada, please do something.’ He had never done anything for the poor girl. Her older brother had never met her demands for anything—taking her out, buying her something or giving her something. Yes, Maya had made demands, but he had never met those demands because he had been wrapped up in himself. He had his friends, his discussions and preoccupations, his party commitments. He was not particularly affected by the joys and sorrows of Maya, Kironmoyee and Sudhamoy. Suronjon had been keen on shaping his country. Had Suronjon’s beloved country shaped up the way he had wished?

Suronjon raced to Hyder’s house as soon as it was nine o’clock. Hyder lived close by. Suronjon waited in the drawing room. As he waited, Suronjon remembered that one of those seven men was called Rofik and wondered whether Hyder knew him. Was it possible that Rofik was related to Hyder? Suronjon shuddered. Hyder woke up after two hours.

‘Is she back?’ he asked Suronjon.

‘Would I be here now if she were back?’

‘Oh,’ said Hyder, sounding detached. He was bare-bodied and wearing a lungi.

‘It’s not been very cold this season, has it?’ he said, rubbing himself. ‘We have a meeting at the party chair’s place today. We’ll probably prepare for a rally. It’s a shame that riots broke out exactly at the time when the matter with Ghulam Azam was at its peak. Actually, all this has been engineered by the BNP. They wanted to divert attention from the issue.’

‘Hyder, do you know anybody called Rofik? One of them in the gang was called Rofik.’

‘Where does he live?’

‘Don’t know. He’s around twenty-one or twenty-two. May even be from this neighbourhood.’

‘I don’t know anyone who fits that description. Anyway, I’ll ask people to find out.’

‘Let’s go out. Doesn’t make sense to waste time. I can’t bear to look at my parents. My father had already had a stroke and I hope this kind of stress doesn’t lead to something worse.’

‘It’s not right for you to be out with me now.’

‘Why? Why isn’t it right?’

‘Why don’t you understand? Please try to understand.’

Suronjon easily understood why Hyder did not want him to go along with him. It was not right to be out together because Suronjon was Hindu and as a Hindu it was not proper for him to criticize any Muslim—even if the Muslim were a thief, a brigand or a murderer. And maybe, wanting to free a Hindu woman from the clutches of her Muslim captors was a display of arrogance.

Suronjon left. Where should he go now? Home? He did not want to go back to a house that echoed emptiness. His parents were thirsting like the mythical
chatok
birds and waiting for Suronjon to return with Maya and end their torment. He did not feel like going back home without Maya. Hyder had apparently entrusted his party men to look for Maya and Suronjon wanted to believe that they would rescue Maya one of these days. Yet he was apprehensive and wondered why they should care. After all, they felt no pity for her. Did Muslims feel any sympathy for Hindus? If they did, then how was it that Muslim homes in the neighbourhood were not plundered? It was Suronjon’s house that was ravaged, and those of Gopal Haldar and Kajolendu Dey that were burnt. Suronjon did not go back home. He roamed the streets. He searched for Maya all over the city. What had she done wrong that they took her away like that? Was it so wrong to be a Hindu? Being a Hindu was so terribly wrong that it was all right to trash her house, beat her as they wished, drag her away, rape her? Suronjon walked all over the place. He ran. Every time he saw a young man on the road who seemed to be in his early twenties, he wondered whether he was one of those who had taken Maya away. That feeling persisted.

He bought some muri from a grocer in Islampur. The shopkeeper looked at him out of the corner of his eye and Suronjon felt that this man too knew that his sister had been abducted. He walked around aimlessly and then sat for quite some time on the ruins of the Noya Bazar monastery. He could find no relief. It was difficult to go visiting because the only topic of conversation was the destruction of the Babri Masjid and its aftermath.

‘You folk can break our masjid, so what’s the problem if we break your temples?’ said Selim, laughing, the other day. There was no reason to think that because Selim was laughing the thought had not crossed his mind.

Maybe Maya had already come home. That was a possibility. It was important that she came back even if she had been raped. She had to come back. Suronjon went back home thinking that Maya had returned, and was met with two people sitting still, unmoving, with their eyes and ears on alert, waiting for her to return. What could be more cruel, pitiless and terrible than the fact that Maya had not come back! Suronjon lay down with his head buried in his pillow. He could hear the sounds of Sudhamoy groaning in the other room. Suronjon could not sleep a wink because the night’s silence was pierced by a sound persistent like a cricket’s cry—the feeble, whining sounds of Kironmoyee weeping. All three of them would be better off taking poison and killing themselves. They would then not be continuously flayed by pain. What was the point in staying alive? There was no reason to be alive in Bangladesh if you were a Hindu.

Sudhamoy assumed that he had either had a cerebral thrombosis or an embolism. A haemorrhage would surely have killed him. Would dying have been so bad? Sudhamoy hoped for a massive haemorrhage. He was half dead anyway, and wished that Maya could live in exchange for his life. The girl had really wanted to live. She had gone away to Parul’s by herself and it was his illness that had resulted in her abduction. Sudhamoy was racked with guilt. His eyes went moist. He stretched out his hand to touch Kironmoyee. No, nobody was there. Suronjon was not anywhere nearby, and Maya was not there either. He felt thirsty, his tongue and throat were parched and dry.

He had caused Kironmoyee a great deal of sorrow. She had been used to the religious practice of puja. After they were married, however, Sudhamoy made it quite clear that there was no place for puja in his home. Kironmoyee was an accomplished singer but people started saying that she was a bold, shameless woman and that Hindu women lacked modesty. Such censure made Kironmoyee uneasy. She started limiting herself, and finally Kironmoyee practically gave up singing. Did Sudhamoy really stand by her and support her singing? Perhaps he too felt that there was not much he could do to resist this public criticism. For twenty-one years he had lain beside Kironmoyee. That was it—he had been lying by her side. He had been guarding her chastity. Was there really any need for him to relish her chastity? That was a kind of perversion too.

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.

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.’

Debobroto was startled. He looked at Suronjon and Noyon, his eyes darting from one to the other.

‘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.