Lajja (2 page)

Even now, after so many years, those scenes were vivid in Sudhamoy’s memory. His relatives—Kaka, Pishi, Mama, Mashima—left one after the other. The train from Mymensingh Junction moved towards Phulbaria. As the coal engine let out a skyful of black smoke and a sharp whistle, there were heart-rending sobs escaping from the compartments.

‘Sukumar, this is the homeland of the Muslims,’ advised neighbours as they left too. ‘There is nothing certain about our lives here.’

‘If there’s no security in the land of my birth, where in the world can I expect to be safe?’ asked Sukumar Datta in reply. ‘I cannot run away from my country. Feel free to leave, if you must. I’m not leaving my father and grandfather’s home to go somewhere else. I cannot leave all this—these coconut trees, betel-nut plantations, rice fields and my home spread over a generous two bighas of land—and become a refugee at the railway station in Sealdah.’

Sudhamoy was nineteen when all this was going on. His college friends were all leaving.

‘Your baba’s going to regret this,’ they said as they left.

‘Why should I leave my own country to go somewhere else?’ Sudhamoy had said in response, emulating his father. ‘If I die I’ll die here on my own land, and if I live, it’ll be in my own country.’

The college emptied out in 1947 and the few who were left were also on the verge of leaving. Sudhamoy finished along with a handful of Muslim students and a few poor Hindus, and began his medical studies at the Lytton Medical.

In 1952 he was a vigorous young man of twenty-four. The roads of Dhaka were resounding with slogans demanding that Bengali be made a national language. There was tension across the country. The brave and aware Bengali youth had begun resisting Muhammad Ali Jinnah’s decision that Urdu would be Pakistan’s only state language. Refusing to be cowed down, they had asked that Bengali become a state language and had stood firm before the Pakistani rulers. The police fired at processions, the roads were drenched in blood, but no one let go of their demand that Bengali become a state language. Sudhamoy was very excited and was in all the processions, shouting ‘We want Bengali!’ Sudhamoy was in the rally where Rofik, Salam, Borkat and Jobbaar were shot down by the police. There was a chance that he too could have taken a bullet to his chest that day and become one of the martyrs.

Sudhamoy didn’t stay home quietly during the people’s movement of 1969 either. Although Ayub Khan’s police were shooting at all processions and rallies, the Bengalis were determinedly marching. Alamgir Monsur Mintu was shot by the police and Sudhamoy was one of those who carried the corpse on his shoulders and marched through the streets of Mymensingh. They were followed by hundreds of stunned and grief-stricken Bengalis who clenched their fists in anger against the Pakistani military junta.

The language movement of 1952, the elections of 1954 that brought the United Front to power, the education movement of 1962, the six-point movement of 1964, the movement against the Agartala Conspiracy case in 1968, the general elections in 1970 and the
muktijuddho
or Liberation War of 1971 proved that it was wrong to have divided the land as per the two-nation theory of separate countries for the two religious communities.

According to Abdul Kalam Azad, ‘It is one of the greatest frauds on the people to suggest that religious affinity can unite areas which are geographically, economically, linguistically and culturally different. It is true that Islam sought to establish a society which transcends racial, linguistic, economic and political frontiers. History has however proved that after the first few decades or at most after the first century, Islam was not able to unite all the Muslim countries on the basis of religion alone.’

Jinnah was well aware of the hollowness of the two-nation theory. ‘A man is a Punjabi or a Bengali before he is a Hindu or a Muslim,’ he said when Mountbatten was planning to divide Punjab and Bengal. ‘They share a common history, language, culture and economy. You will cause endless bloodshed and trouble.’

The Bengalis saw endless bloodshed and trouble from 1947 to 1971 and this culminated in the Liberation War of 1971. The blood of 3 million Bengalis helped earn this freedom and also proved that religion could never be the foundation of a national identity. Language, culture and history provide the foundations for a national identity. It is true that the Bengali Muslims and the Punjabi Muslims had built a common identity and created Pakistan but the Bengalis of this country challenged the basis of the two-nation theory of dividing Hindus and Muslims into different nations and demonstrated the fact that they had not given into the Muslims of Pakistan.

In 1971 Sudhamoy was a doctor at the Surjo Kanti Hospital in Mymensingh. Things were busy both at home and at work, and his evenings were spent at his private clinic in a medicine shop at Swadeshi Bazar. Kironmoyee’s hands were full with their six-month-old baby and their firstborn, Suronjon, was twelve. Sudhamoy had many responsibilities and had to manage the hospital almost alone. If he ever had time, he would go across to meet Shorif and some other friends. It was probably 8 or 9 March, midnight. Shorif, Bablu, Faijul and Nimai knocked on the door of Sudhamoy’s house in Brahmopolli. On 7 March, they had been to the Race Course grounds to hear Sheikh Mujib.

‘If there is one more bullet fired, and if my people are killed again, then I request all of you to create forts in your own homes. We have to face the enemy with what each of us has. This is a struggle for liberation, this is a struggle for freedom,’ Sheikh Mujib had said.

They had been trembling in excitement.

‘We must do something, Sudha da,’ they said.

It was quite clear to Sudhamoy that the time for waiting was done.

‘We have to go to war. There is no other way,’ they had murmured as they knocked on his door on that dark night of 25 March, when the Pakistani soldiers had attacked Bengalis.

He had many family responsibilities, and was not really of a suitable age to go to war. However, he was unable to concentrate at the hospital, and paced the corridors, a solitary, lonely person. He was consumed by a sharp desire to join the war effort.

He was distracted at home. ‘Will you manage on
your own, Kiron?’ he would ask. ‘Suppose I were to go somewhere . . .’

‘Let’s move to India,’ Kironmoyee would reply, cold with anxiety. ‘All our neighbours are leaving.’

Sudhamoy had noticed that Sukanto Chattopadhyay, Sudhanshu Haldar, Nirmolendu Bhowmik and Ronjon Chakrabarty were all leaving. There was a rush to leave, like there had been in 1947. He had called them cowards.

‘The army is out on the streets, Sudha da. They’re grabbing Hindus. Let’s leave,’ said Nimai.

Sudhamoy found his voice, the same strong tone that his father had in 1947. ‘Please leave if you must,’ he told Nimai, ‘but I’m not running away. I will kill the Pakistani dogs and free my country. And if you can, do come back then.’

He decided that he would leave Kironmoyee and his children at Faijul’s house in Phulpur village and leave for Nolitabari with Shorif, Bablu and Faijul. However, he fell into the clutches of the Pakistani army. He had gone to buy a lock at Charpara crossing to lock up his home before he began his journey by buffalo cart. His chest heaved with excitement and emotions. The city felt like a cremation ground. Deathly still. A few shops were open, and that barely. Suddenly they shouted out for him to halt. There were three of them.

‘And what is your name?’ one of them had asked in Urdu, as he pulled the collar of his shirt roughly.

Sudhamoy was not sure how to answer that question. He remembered that Kironmoyee had said that their neighbours had advised her to change her name if she wished to live, and think of calling herself something like Fatema Akhtar. At that moment, Sudhamoy felt certain that it was not safe to use his Hindu name. He decided to forget his name, and that of his father Sukumar Datta and of his grandfather Jyotirmoy Datta.

‘Sirajuddin Hussain,’ he said and was startled to hear his voice say this new name.

‘Take off your lungi,’ someone shouted in a heavy voice.

Sudhamoy didn’t have to take his lungi off. They pulled it off him. At that moment, Sudhamoy understood why Nimai, Sudhanshu and Ronjon had fled. After India was divided, many Hindus had left this country. After Pakistan and India were divided along communal lines the border had been left open for Hindus. The affluent, middle-class, educated Hindus had left for India.

According to the 1981 Census, there were 10,000,570 Hindus in Bangladesh, that is, they were 12.1 per cent of the total population. After twelve years this figure should have increased to 20−25 million people. The government practice was to change the figures and present the numbers of Hindus as lower than what they actually were. Sudhamoy believed that 20 per cent of the country’s population was Hindu. The figures of 1901 said that 33 per cent of the population of East Bengal was Hindu. In 1911 this figure declined to
31.5 per cent; in 1921 to 30.6 per cent; in 1931 it was 29.4 per cent; and in 1941, 28 per cent. Before India was divided, there was a 5 per cent decline in the number of Hindus over forty-one years. However, after the Partition, in ten years, the percentage of Hindus in the population had declined from 28 per cent to 22 per cent. There was a bigger decline within ten years than there had earlier been across forty years. Under the Pakistani regime, Hindus had begun migrating to India. According to the 1961 figures, the number of Hindus comprised 18.5 per cent of the population, and in 1974 they were 13.5 per cent. However, after Bangladesh was liberated, the decline in the numbers of Hindus was arrested and it became almost like the pre-Partition days. If in 1974, Hindus comprised 13.5 per cent of the population and in 1981 this figure it was 12.1 per cent, then it was possible to say that fewer Hindus were leaving home than before. But for how long did the numbers stay low? Till 1983, 1984? 1989, 1990? Had the number of Hindus in the country not declined after 1990? And after 1992?

Sudhamoy felt the pain creeping up the left side of his chest. This was an old condition. The back of his head hurt too. His pressure was probably up. CNN was blacking out all references to Babri Masjid. Sudhamoy assumed the government was afraid that scenes from the site of destruction would cause people to violently fall upon the Hindus and so was showing pity. The people who pounced even after a tiny scratch were unlikely to wait for footage on CNN. Sudhamoy lay down, clutching the left side of his chest. Maya was still restlessly pacing the rooms and the veranda. She wanted to go away somewhere else but it wasn’t possible unless Suronjon woke up. Sudhamoy stared helplessly at the veranda. Maya’s shadow was lengthening. Kironmoyee sat still.

‘Let’s stay alive. Let’s go away somewhere,’ her eyes pleaded silently.

Where could Sudhamoy go, away from home and hearth? Was it possible for him at this age to rush around like before, when he would run to join any march or demonstration that was taking place. He was quick to join gatherings against the Pakistani rulers, getting there before anyone else. He had never felt restrained by home and family. Where had that courage gone! He had believed that Hindus in an independent, secular Bangladesh would enjoy political, economic, social and religious freedom. However, slowly and steadily the framework of the state got rid of the idea of impartiality towards all religions. The country adopted Islam as its state religion. The fundamentalist organization that had opposed the Liberation War in 1971 and had hidden itself since the Liberation was now out of its hidey-hole. Its members now walked about confidently, held meetings and demonstrations, and they were the ones who had looted, broken and burnt the temples, homes, shops and businesses of Hindus. Sudhamoy lay back with his eyes shut. He had no idea what would happen next. Aggressive, crazed Hindus had broken the Babri Masjid and the Hindus of Bangladesh were expected to atone for the wrongs done by those people. People like Sudhamoy, who were part of the minority in Bangladesh, had not escaped the clutches of the fundamentalist Muslims in 1990, and so it was unlikely that they would be able to escape their clutches in 1992. This time, too, the Sudhamoys would be expected to retreat into their ratholes. But why? Because they were Hindus? Because Hindus in another country had broken a mosque? Why should responsibility for that be foisted on the Sudhamoys! He stared again at Maya’s shadow in the veranda. He could see it moving; it was never still. The shadow flitted and finally disappeared. Maya came into the room. He saw that anxiety had gathered like drops of sweat on her enchanting dark face.

‘You people stick around here but I’m off,’ she shouted.

‘And where will you go?’ Kironmoyee snapped.

‘To Parul’s house,’ said Maya as she combed her hair swiftly. ‘There’s little I can do if you people don’t want to save your lives. Doesn’t look like Dada’ll go anywhere either.’

Sudhamoy lifted his head.

‘What will you do with your name, Maya?’ he asked, recalling the moment when he had identified himself as Sirajuddin.

‘Apparently you can become a Muslim by chanting “
La ilaha illallah muhammadur rasulullah
”. I’ll do that, and call myself Firoja Begum,’ she replied in an unwavering tone.

‘Maya!’ exclaimed Kironmoyee, trying to stop her.

Maya tilted her head and looked at Kironmoyee. She seemed to say that she hadn’t said anything wrong and this was bound to happen. Kironmoyee’s pale face couldn’t make Maya change her mind. Sudhamoy sighed and looked at Kironmoyee’s face and then at Maya’s. Maya was agitated. She was a lively young woman of twenty-one who had not seen the Partition or the riots of 1950 or 1964—not even the Liberation War of 1971. Ever since she was old enough to understand things, she had seen that her country had Islam as its state religion and that she and her family were members of a minority community, which had to keep making compromises. She had seen the blazing fires of 1990. Maya was prepared to take any step that would let her carry on living. She did not want to burn in blind fires. Sudhamoy felt that his blank stare had swallowed up Maya. He could no longer see her. He felt a sharp pain slowly spreading through his chest.