Lajja (4 page)

Suronjon’s friends were largely Muslim. Of course, it was not right to say that they were Muslim. They did not really set much store by religion. And even if they did, they had not hesitated to get close to Suronjon. It was only last year that Kemal had taken everyone in Suronjon’s family to stay in his house. Pulok, Kajol, Ashim and Joydeb were Suronjon’s friends but he was closer to Kemal, Hyder, Belal and Robiul. Whenever Suronjon had met with any trouble, it had been Hyder, Kemal and Belal who had been by his side rather than Kajol or Ashim. Once, they had to take Sudhamoy to Suhrawardy hospital at half past one in the morning.

‘It’s a heart attack; take him to the hospital immediately,’ said Horipodo, the doctor, who was also a friend of the family. Suronjon got in touch with Kajol.

‘How can you take him now, in the middle of the night?’ said Kajol, yawning. ‘Let it get light and then we can make some arrangements.’

However, when Belal heard about it, he arrived promptly with his car and ran around completing all the admission formalities.

‘Kaka babu, please don’t worry,’ he reassured Sudhamoy. ‘Please think of me as your son.’

Suronjon was gratified. And all the while that Sudhamoy was in hospital, Belal stayed in touch, requested the doctors he knew to take care of Sudhamoy, visited whenever he had time and let Suronjon have use of his car to make trips to the hospital. How many people would go to these lengths to help a friend? Kajol was comfortably off too but did he go out of his way for Suronjon? In fact, it was Robiul who provided the money for most of the treatment. He arrived at their doorstep and asked, ‘Your father’s in the hospital, isn’t he?’ Placing an envelope on the table, he said, ‘Don’t think that this doesn’t concern your friends,’ even before Suronjon could answer his first question. And he left as abruptly as he had come. Suronjon opened the envelope and found that there were 5000 takas inside.

The friendship did not exist only because they helped him. It was a fact that Suronjon had always felt a greater emotional and intellectual affinity with Robiul, Kemal and Hyder. He had not felt that closeness with Ashim, Kajol or Joydeb. And it was not just that—Suronjon did not think that he could ever love an Archana, a Deepti, a Gita or a Sunonda as intensely as he had loved Parveen.

Suronjon had never learnt to differentiate people on the basis of religious identity. As a child, he did not even know that he was Hindu. When he was in Class III or IV, in the Mymensingh District School, he was once caught in an argument with a boy named Khaled about something they had learnt in class. As the argument reached a crescendo, Khaled called him names like ‘son of a pig’ and ‘bastard’. Suronjon too gave it back in kind.

Khaled: ‘Offspring of a dog!’

Suronjon: ‘You are the son of a dog.’

Khaled: ‘Hindu!’

Suronjon: ‘You’re a Hindu!’

Suronjon thought that ‘Hindu’ too was a swear word. For quite a few years, he had thought that Hindu was a pejorative, mocking term. It was only as he grew up a bit that he understood that there was a community of people called Hindus and he belonged to that community. After some time, he began to believe that he belonged to the human race and a community called Bengali. The Bengali community had not been created by any religion. He wanted to believe that it was non-communal and inclusive. He believed that the term ‘Bengali’ signified non-divisiveness. He also believed that Bengalis wrongly thought that foreigners who were of the same religion were their own people, and that Bengalis of a different religious community were the Other, and this consequently created mistrust amongst Bengali Hindus and Bengali Muslims.

And now, it was 8 December and there was a general strike across the whole country. The Ghaatok-Dalal Nirmul Committee (the Committee for Eradicating the Killers and Collaborators of ’71) had called for this strike. And then, the Jamaat-e-Islami had declared a strike to protest the destruction of the Babri Masjid.

Suronjon got up from bed, stretched, and thought that he might as well go out and see what was happening during the general strike. It had been two days since he had set eyes on his beloved city. Kironmoyee was clearly petrified, but Suronjon couldn’t figure out if Sudhamoy felt any anxiety. He had told everyone at home that he wasn’t going anywhere to hide. If that meant death, then so be it. If some Muslims came and chopped everyone in their house to bits, well, that was it then, but Suronjon wasn’t going to leave. Maya had left of her own accord. She had a fierce desire to stay alive and had decided to take refuge in the house of a Muslim. She wanted to shelter under the shade of a Parul here, and a Rifat there, and save her life. Poor thing.

Suronjon was getting ready to step out, when a startled Kironmoyee asked him, ‘Where are you going?’

‘I’m going into the city. I want to see how the strike is playing out.’

‘Don’t go out, Suro. One never knows what might happen.’

‘All that has to happen will happen,’ said Suronjon, as he combed his hair. ‘Everyone will die some day. Please stop being so frightened. This kind of fear makes me angry.’

‘Listen to me, Suronjon,’ pleaded Kironmoyee, trembling with fear as she snatched the comb out of Suronjon’s hand. ‘Please be a little cautious. I hear people are attacking shops and burning temples even though it is a general strike. Stay home. There is no need to see what’s going on in the city.’

Suronjon had always been a disobedient son and he was not going to give in to Kironmoyee now. He disregarded all objections and left. Sudhamoy was sitting alone in the drawing room. He stared in surprise as his son went past him. Once outside, Suronjon felt that the serenity of the late afternoon was overpowered by the startling isolation and the ghostly silence all around. Perhaps he also felt a bit frightened. Yes, so it seemed. However, he had decided that he was going to roam the city that day and so he would stick to his plan. No one had come to check on them or take them home this time. Neither Belal, nor Kemal, nor anyone else. Of course, Suronjon would not have left if they had come. Why should he? There would be attacks every few days and they would be running around with their belongings! Shame! Going to Kemal’s house last year was an ill-conceived decision, indeed.

‘You’re going to kill us and then offer kindness?’ he would surely have said this time. ‘Isn’t that strange? Why don’t you do something else, instead? Take all the Hindus in the country to the firing squad and have them shot. Once they are dead you’ll be rid of the trouble. You won’t need to kill them, or devise clever strategies to save them.’

‘There, there, grab the Hindu,’ shouted a gang of boys as Suronjon reached the road.

The youngsters were from the neighbourhood. Suronjon had seen them around for seven years. He knew one or two of them. One of them, Alam, often came to collect contributions for their neighbourhood club. Suronjon had also sung for the cultural festivals of that club. He had even thought of teaching some of the young men the songs of D.L. Roy and Hemanga Biswas.

‘Dada, can you help us with this? Could you teach us this?’ they would ask, and turn up at his house every now and then in large groups.

And Sudhamoy always treated them for free because they were neighbours.

‘There goes the Hindu, grab him,’ said the same young men, gesturing that they might thrash him.

Suronjon took another road and swiftly walked away, feeling ashamed. He was not scared. He was ashamed to think that these young men he knew, his neighbours, were planning to hit him. He was not particularly embarrassed about getting beaten, but he was mortified that the young men would want to beat someone. Rarely did one feel shame for the oppressed—one was usually ashamed for the oppressor, the ruffian.

He kept walking and ended up at the Shapla locality. The atmosphere was ominous. People huddled together. The road was littered with bits of brick, burnt wood and broken glass. It was evident that something tumultuous had just taken place. One or two young men were running about helter-skelter. Some street dogs were running along the road. A few rickshaws went past with their bells tinkling. He could not really figure out what had happened and where. The dogs were not frightened. They had no communal identity. Suronjon assumed that they were running because they were happy to have empty roads. Suronjon felt like running too. The usually busy streets of Motijheel were deserted and Suronjon wanted to play football using a grapefruit, like he had as a boy, or draw stumps with chalk and play cricket. As he was thinking these thoughts, his eyes fell on a burnt building to his left. The signboard, doors and windows had been burnt to ashes. It was the Indian Airlines office. Some people stood around staring at it and laughing. Some looked at Suronjon and frowned suspiciously. He went past them as though he could not care less if these buildings were reduced to ashes.

He walked farther to see what else was burning. Perhaps he was thrilled to smell burnt bricks and wood; perhaps it was like smelling burnt petrol. Farther down, he found a crowd in front of the office of the Communist Party of Bangladesh (CPB). The road was full of bricks and stones. There used to be a bookshop on the pavement. Suronjon had bought many books from this footpath. He found a half-burnt book near his feet—
Mother
by Maxim Gorky. He felt like he was Pavel Vlasov and had set his mother on fire and was crushing her under his feet. His hair stood on end. Stunned, he stared at the charred book. Everyone was agitated and gathering in groups and whispering. People were talking about what had happened and what could happen. The CPB office was burnt down. The communists had changed their strategy and taken to invoking Allah and Khuda, but despite that they were not able to escape the fire of the fundamentalists. Comrade Farhad’s death was followed by the religious prayer or
janazah
, and even a milad, yet after all that the fire of communalism had incinerated the office of the Communist Party. Suronjon stared dumbly at the burnt office. Suddenly he saw Qaiser before him. His hair was dishevelled. His cheeks were unshaven and his eyes bloodshot.

‘Why are you outside?’ he asked anxiously.

‘Am I not allowed outside?’ Suronjon shot back.

‘You are not forbidden to come outside,’ he said, ‘but you can’t trust these beasts. They go on and on about religion but tell me, do they believe in any religion? The terrorists of the Jamaat-Shibir’s Youth Command did all this yesterday afternoon. They burnt the party office, the bookshop on the pavement and the office of the Indian Airlines. The anti-Liberation forces are always looking for ways to find issues that favour them and enable them to scream and shout. They want everyone to hear their loud voices.’

They walked side by side towards the armoury.

‘What else did they set fire to?’ asked Suronjon.

‘The Tulsidham in Chittagong, Ponchanondham and the Koibolyodham Mandir have been ground to dust. The temples in Malipara, Shoshan Mandir, Korbaniganj, Kalibari, Chotteshwari, Bishnu Mandir, Hajari Lane and Fokirpara have all been plundered and set afire. Of course, there have also been rallies promoting communal harmony.’

Suronjon sighed.

‘Yesterday it wasn’t just temples,’ said Qaiser as he pushed his unruly hair back with his right hand. ‘They set fire to Jelepara, the colony of fishermen in Majhirghat. At least fifty houses have been burnt to cinders.’

‘And?’ asked Suronjon indifferently.

‘The Madhob temple and Durga temple in Joydebpur have been attacked. The Annapurna temple in the Sherpur farmers’ centre and the Kali temple in the Sherighat Ashram have been destroyed. The temples in the Foridpur Ramakrishna Mission have been destroyed. The maharaj and his disciples are seriously injured.’

‘And?’ Suronjon sounded uninterested.

‘The temples and houses in Chalakachar in Norsinghdi and in Monohardi have been attacked. The temple in Marapara Bazar in the Rupganj police station area in Narayanganj has been destroyed. The old monastery, Abhoy Ashram, in Comilla has been burnt down. And disgusting things have happened in Noakhali as well.’

‘What kind?’

‘They have burnt the Awdhorchand Ashram in the Sudharam thana as well as seven other Hindu houses. They have plundered all the Hindu houses in Gangaram village and then set fire to them. They have destroyed the Shiva Kali temple in Sonapur, the
akhara
in Binodpur, the Kali temple in Choumuhuni, the Durgabari temple in Durgapur, and the temples in Qutbpur and Gopalpur. They have destroyed Dr P.K. Singha’s medicine factory, the Okhondo Ashram and the temples in the Chhoani area. They have plundered and burnt ten temples in Choumuhuni Babupur, Tetuia, Mehdipur, Rajganj Bazar, Tangirpar, Kajirhat, Rasulpur, Jomidarhat and Porabari, and also eighteen Hindu houses. A shop, a car and a woman have also been burnt. Thirteen of the seventeen houses in Bhobordi have been burnt, every house pillaged and the women of the family tortured. Biplob Bhowmik was stabbed. All the houses and temples in Birahimpur were attacked yesterday. They have robbed and destroyed the Jogonnath temple, three shops in Charhajari village and the village club. They have burnt two houses in Chorparboti village, one in Dasherhaat, two temples in Charkukri and Muchhapur, and the Joykali temple. Every person in Sirajpur has been thrashed, every house ransacked and ultimately burnt.’

‘Oh.’

Suronjon did not want to say another word. He simply wanted to move forward, kicking a stone or a bit of brick like he used to when he was a boy. Qaiser continued listing devastated temples, ransacked houses and other incidents of arson. Suronjon did not listen to all of it. He didn’t even feel like listening. Both of them stood before the Press Club. He stared hungrily at the journalists gathered there talking intently. He also overheard some of their talk.

‘More than two hundred people have been killed in riots in India till now,’ someone said, ‘and several thousand have been injured. Fundamentalist groups including the RSS and Shiv Sena have been banned. Advani has resigned as the leader of the Opposition in the Lok Sabha.’

‘Dipak Ghosh, an acolyte of the Nondonkanan Tulsidham in Chittagong was caught by some Jamaatis while attempting an escape, and they tried to set him alight,’ said another group, ‘but some watchmen who were nearby told them that Dipak was a Muslim. The Jamaatis then roughed him up but in the end they let him go.’