Lajja (19 page)

‘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.

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 poured 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.’

‘Why have you left the door open?’ asked Pulok as he came in.

‘The door is open, we’re drinking and shouting. Why should we be scared? If we die, it’s the end. How come you’ve left your house?’

‘Things have calmed down quite a bit, so I felt able to come.’

‘And if things heat up again, you’ll lock yourself in, right?’ asked Suronjon and began to laugh loudly.

Pulok was startled to see Suronjon drinking. He had come all this way on his scooter but had tried not to draw attention to himself. The country was in a terrible state and a politically aware man like Suronjon was at home—laughing and drinking. This was unimaginable! Why had Suronjon suddenly changed?

‘Ghulam Azam! Ghulam Azam! Ghulam Azam! What do I care?’ said Suronjon as he sipped his drink. ‘What will I gain if Ghulam Azam is punished? I have absolutely no interest in joining a movement to punish him. Maya’s skin crawls if she hears his name. She throws up every time she hears his name. During the Liberation War, the Pakistanis shot and killed two of my father’s cousins and three of my mother’s brothers. I don’t know why they let my father live. Perhaps they wanted him to enjoy the fruits of the Liberation. Isn’t he enjoying the Liberation? Dr Sudhamoy Datta is enjoying the Liberation with his wife, son and daughter, isn’t he?’

Suronjon was sitting on the floor, his legs stretched out. Pulok too was on the floor. The room was dusty, a broken chair lay there and books were scattered all over the place. There was cigarette ash all over and a broken cupboard stood in the corner of the room. Suronjon was in a temper and had probably destroyed things in a drunken rage. The house was deathly quiet—it did not seem like anyone else was home.

‘Ekram Hossen had been to Bhola. He came back and said that according to the police, the administration and BNP people in Bhola, whatever happened there was a natural reaction to the destruction of the Babri Masjid—a spontaneous response by robbers and thieves and nothing more than that. Many villages have been burnt and ravaged as a consequence of the Hindu Eviction Campaign. There’s a smell of burning in the air. Bales of straw, granaries—all have been destroyed. Everything has been plundered and burnt—they took clothes and shoes from houses, sheets and pillows, bottles of oil and even things like brooms, piled them together, poured kerosene and set them alight. Fires have burnt rice fields and coconut plantations. They have forcibly stripped men of their lungis. They have raped the women they’ve come across and taken away their saris and jewellery. The Hindus were hiding in the rice fields. Nikunjo Datta, a teacher of Shombhupur Khasherhaat School, who was hiding in the rice fields, was set upon and beaten for money. It’s unlikely that he will live. “Hindus, do you want to live? Then it is Bangla that you must leave! Go away to India!” is the slogan reverberating all over Bhola. Hindus are being asked “When will you leave?” and threatened with “We’ll chop you up and feed you to the cows.” The wealthy Hindus are in a similar situation too. They have nothing left. Everything has been burnt down. They are now drinking water from coconut shells and eating off banana leaves. The rice they are eating is from the “relief” supplies. They are gathering leaves and roots and managing one meal a day. The attackers are raping women—wives before their husband’s eyes, daughters and sisters in full view of their fathers and brothers. There have been instances where mothers and daughters have been raped together. Many people are now openly saying that they’d rather beg for a living than continue to live in Bhola. They are telling the relief workers: “We don’t need relief. Help us cross the border. We want to leave.”

‘M.A. Bachhet and Siraj Patwari have attacked Shombhupur Golokpur. They used to be leaders of the Shibir and are now with the BNP. Apparently in Lord Hardinge there isn’t a single Hindu house that hasn’t been set alight. Priyolal babu was a freedom fighter. Even his family was tortured. Their village was attacked by the Awami League leader, Abdul Kader, and the chairman of the Union Porishod, Belayet Hossen. Three power tillers belonging to Babul Das have been burnt. Ekram asked him about his future. He burst into tears at the question and said: “I’ll leave if I am alive.”’

Pulok would probably have continued talking if Suronjon hadn’t screamed, ‘Shut up! Not another word! If you say anything more, I’ll whip you.’

Pulok was initially startled by Suronjon’s anger. He could not understand Suronjon’s behaviour. Was he drunk? Perhaps. He looked at Debobroto and smiled wryly.

Everyone was quiet. Suronjon’s glass emptied rapidly. He was not a regular drinker. Occasionally, he would have a drink or two at social gatherings. But that day he wanted to swallow several litres of alcohol. The atmosphere had turned sombre after he silenced Pulok. And in that silence, Suronjon stunned everybody by sobbing loudly. He put his head on Pulok’s shoulder and howled. Soon he was rolling on the floor. There was a dim light in the room, the air was full of alcohol fumes and the sound of Suronjon’s heart-rending sobs. Everyone in the room was quiet and full of trepidation. Suronjon was wearing the clothes he had been wearing the day before. He had neither bathed nor eaten, and was covered in dirt.

‘They took Maya away last night,’ he said, rolling on the dusty floor.

‘What did you say?’ asked Pulok, shocked, and turned towards him. So did Debobroto, Noyon and Birupakkho.

Suronjon continued to sob. The bottle of booze was forgotten. Glasses lay on the floor, creating puddles. Everything seemed to be dwarfed by the news that Maya was gone. No one could find anything to say. They could not offer any consolation. It was not like someone was ill and they could say, ‘Please don’t worry, she’ll get well.’

Belal came into a room that was deep in silence. He sensed the atmosphere in the room.

‘Suronjon, I heard they’ve taken Maya away?’ he asked, putting his hand on Suronjon’s shoulder. Suronjon lay inert on the floor and did not even lift his face.

‘Have you made a General Diary with the police?’

Suronjon did not even turn towards Belal. Belal looked to the others, expecting a reply. The others gestured that they did not know.

‘Has he made any inquiries? Who are the people who’ve taken her away?’

Suronjon lay still. He did not look at him.

Belal sat on the bed and lit a cigarette.

‘What in the world is going on all around us?’ he said. ‘The hooligans have got a good opportunity. And there in India, they are killing us off.’

‘And who do you mean by “us”?’ asked Birupakkho.

‘Muslims. The BJP is chopping them off.’

‘Oh.’

‘And when they get news from that side, they are unable to keep their heads here. Whom can we hold responsible? We are dying there and you are dying here. Was there any need to destroy the mosque? It was such an old mosque. Indians are digging up a mosque to find the birthing room of a character in an epic. After this they’ll say that Hanuman was born where the Taj Mahal stands now, and then bring down the Taj Mahal! They say that India practises secularism! Why has Maya been abducted? Advani and Joshi are to blame! Apparently Metiabruz is going through hell.’

Suronjon lay on the floor like an unclaimed corpse. Belal’s sadness was drowned by the sounds of Kironmoyee’s sobs and Sudhamoy’s groans from the neighbouring room.

‘I’m sure Maya will be back. They won’t swallow a living woman. Ask Kakima to hold on. And why are you crying like a woman? Will crying solve your problem? And why are all of you waiting around like this? You can try to get some news about the girl.’

‘We’ve just learnt about this,’ said Birupakkho. ‘Can you ever find someone who’s been taken away? And where shall we look, anyway?’

‘Must be men from the neighbourhood, addicted to marijuana and heroin. They must’ve been eyeing her. They’ve taken her away at the earliest opportunity. Do decent people behave like this? Young men are up to no good these days. The main reason is economic uncertainty.’

Birupakkho bowed his head. Belal did not know any of them. He was agitated and took a cigarette out of his pocket and a lighter.

‘Is alcohol a solution?’ he asked. ‘Tell me, is it a solution? Has there ever been a major riot in this country? What’s happening now is not a riot. This is like boys attacking sweet shops because they covet the sweets. In India, there have been four thousand, no, six thousand riots till now. Thousands of Muslims have been killed. How many Hindus have died here? All the Hindu areas are being guarded with trucks full of policemen.’

No one said anything. Not even Suronjon. Suronjon did not want to talk. He was very sleepy. Belal did not light his cigarette. He said he had some work nearby and left. The others also left, one by one.