Lajja (9 page)

‘I don’t know.’

Suronjon’s air of indifference dampened Sudhamoy’s enthusiasm. He spread out the newspaper in front of him.

‘You probably don’t read the newspapers,’ he said. He sounded disappointed.

‘What’s the point?’

‘There are so many protests all over. So much resistance. I don’t think the Jamaat people will have the gumption to break police barricades and enter temples.’

‘What will you do with temples? You want to pray like a Hindu near the end of your life, is it? How does it affect you if temples are ground to dust? Let them break all the temples! I’d be happy.’

Sudhamoy was taken aback. Suronjon was deliberately hurting his father, the ‘good man’. He could not understand why his father spent so much time on these things. He was a second-class citizen in this country. Why was he, like a complete idiot, taking such pains to prove that he was a citizen with full rights? They had always stayed away from prayers and rituals, always thought of Muslims as brothers and friends, but had any of that helped Sudhamoy, or Suronjon? After all, everyone thought of them as Hindus. Their family had always believed in humanity and humanism, and been committed atheists, but did all of that help them in any way? They had people hurling stones at their house and they lived in constant fear! They continued to live in dread, wondering when the blind anger and fire of communalism would burn them!

Suronjon remembered the time when he was in Class VII; during lunch hour, what they called ‘the tiffin period’, his classmate Farook had called him aside.

‘I’ve got some delicious food from home,’ said Farook, ‘that I don’t want to share with the others. We’ll go up to the terrace and sit on the steps and eat it. All right?’

It wasn’t like Suronjon was frightfully hungry but he rather liked Farook’s plan. Farook went to the terrace and Suronjon followed. Farook brought out a kebab from his lunch box and gave it to Suronjon. The two friends talked while they ate the kebabs. Suronjon thought that one of these days, he’d bring some of his mother’s delicious
narkel naroo
as a treat for Farook.

‘Who made the kebabs? Your mum?’ he asked Farook. ‘One of these days, I’ll bring some samples of my mother’s cooking for you to taste.’

‘Hurrah,’ said Farook, almost as soon as they finished eating and before Suronjon could figure out anything, Farook ran down the stairs.

Farook told everyone in the class that Suronjon had eaten beef. The others encircled Suronjon and began dancing. Someone pinched him, another slapped him on his head, some pulled at his shirt, while others tried to pull down his trousers, still another stuck his tongue out at him, and some delightedly filled Suronjon’s shirt pocket with dead cockroaches. Suronjon stood with his head lowered, tears rolling down his cheeks. He was not upset because he had eaten beef. He was appalled by the beastliness all around him. He felt disconnected from the boys around him. He felt like he was outside of it all—these ‘friends’ were a certain kind of people and he was another kind of person. He cried his heart out at home and told his father that his friends had conspired to make him eat beef.

‘Why’re you crying?’ Sudhamoy had asked, laughing. ‘I’ll get beef from the market tomorrow and we’ll all have fun eating it together.’

Sudhamoy had bought a cut of beef from the market the next day. Kironmoyee had cooked it too, though reluctantly. Sudhamoy spent almost half the night explaining to her that not eating beef was a silly superstition, many great men had disregarded the ‘don’t eat beef’ cultural norm and the meat, after all, was rather tasty. He suggested that she fry the meat with chillies. Gradually, Suronjon had been able to overcome the shame, fear, anger and prejudices of his childhood. Sudhamoy was the guide and teacher of the family. Suronjon thought his father was a Superman-like person. It was no longer possible for a person to remain alive if he were as honest as Sudhamoy, so innocent, so full of wholesome thoughts, so sensitive and full of love, and so genuinely without any communal feelings.

Suronjon did not even touch the newspaper. He slipped away quietly from his father’s room. He did not want to bend over the papers, read the critical statements that intellectuals had made about the communal riots, or see photographs of peace marches and feel a comforting peace overcome him. No, Suronjon did not want any of that. He kept searching for the cat. A casteless cat. Cats have no caste or community. How he wished he were a cat!

How many days was it before Sudhamoy returned from the camp? Seven days? Six? He was always very thirsty at the camp. So very thirsty that even when his arms and legs were bound and he was blindfolded, he had tried searching for water by rolling on the floor. There was no chance of finding any water there, although he could hear the sounds of the Brahmaputra River at a distance. At the camp, they did not bother to fill the water pots.

Sudhamoy felt that his chest and tongue were bone dry all the time. He would moan for water and the soldiers would laugh horribly. One day they did give him water! They took off Sudhamoy’s blindfold, and before his eyes two soldiers urinated into a pot. They tried to pour the urine down Sudhamoy’s throat but he turned his face away in disgust. However, one soldier held his face such that Sudhamoy could not close his mouth. Another poured the pee into his mouth. The other soldiers at the camp laughed as they watched. The warm, salty liquid trickled down his throat and Sudhamoy silently wished for poison.

Very often, they would hang him from the roof beams and beat him. As they beat him they said that he should become a Muslim. They wanted him to recite the
kalma
and convert. This was like in Alex Haley’s
Roots
,
where the black boy Kunta Kinte was whipped by men who wanted him to say that his name was Toby but he kept telling them that he was Kunta Kinte. One day, after Sudhamoy had steadfastly refused to become a Muslim, they lifted his lungi and said that since he hadn’t agreed to becoming a Muslim, they were going to circumcise him—they sliced off his penis. Then they held up his organ and laughed. They laughed like they had when they’d made him drink urine. Sudhamoy
then lost consciousness. He had no hope of getting out alive. The other Hindus who were tied up there, in that camp,
were frightened into converting to Islam. Even then they were not allowed to live. They probably let Sudhamoy live because they had kindly ‘circumcised’ him. Since he came back alive in such a state, he could not possibly go to Nalitabari.

His body had been lain next to the drain near the government guest house
.
He was alert, therefore he realized that he was bleeding but not dead. Even to this day Sudhamoy was amazed to recall that he had actually made it to his Brahmopolli house with those broken ribs. It was probably that internal strength that still left him unmoved. He had come home and fallen flat on his face before Kironmoyee. She had shaken like a leaf.

Kironmoyee had then decided to take Sudhamoy away. They left their home and took the ferry across the Brahmaputra. The two naive children with them would often burst into tears. Kironmoyee could not cry. Her tears were gathering deep within her.

‘Let me call a maulvi. Recite the kalma and become Muslims. This’ll make things easier. Please explain all this to Maya’s father,’ Faijul’s mother would often tell her.

Kironmoyee had not cried even then. She had bottled up her deep, intimate pain. Once everyone in the house was asleep, she would cut up saris and bandage Sudhamoy’s wound. She did not cry. She had cried when the whole village began to celebrate, when they were happy with the birth of Bangladesh—Joy Bangla! She did not bother to think about what the villagers might think. She flung herself on Sudhamoy’s chest and wept all the tears she had collected. She cried out loud, like a baby.

And now, every time Sudhamoy looked at Kironmoyee he thought that she was storing tears like she had during those nine months in 1971. Suddenly one day, she would cry and her unbearable silence would end. But now, she was storing sadness inside her like dark clouds. One fine day, there would be rains and all of it would flow out. There would be some good news, news of the Liberation, like Joy Bangla. Some day, maybe, they would get news of complete freedom—a freedom that allows women to wear conch-shell bangles and sindoor and men to wear dhotis. When would they be rid of the suffocating and fearful long nights like those in 1971? Sudhamoy found that there were no patients coming to him any more. He used to get around six or seven patients even on stormy, rainy days. He did not like sitting at home all day. Sometimes processions passed by shouting slogans like ‘
naraye takbeer allahu akbar’
and ‘Hindus, if you wish to live, this land of ours, you must quit’. The house could be bombed any moment, the fundamentalists could set everything on fire; the house could be plundered or someone in the household could get murdered. Were the Hindus leaving? Sudhamoy knew that since 1990 many had left the country. The new census did not enumerate the Hindus and Muslims separately. If that had been done, there would have been specific information about the number of Hindus who had left the country.

Sudhamoy’s bookshelf was dusty. He tried to blow the dust away. That was not easy! So he used one end of his kurta, and chanced upon the annual report of the Census Bureau of the Government of Bangladesh. It was the census report of 1986 with figures from 1974 and 1981. The total population of the Chittagong Hill Tracts in 1974 was 508,000 and in 1981 it became 580,000. In 1974 there were 96,000 Muslims and 188,000 in 1981. In 1974 there were 53,000 Hindus and 66,000 in 1981. The rate of increase in the number of Muslims was 95.83 per cent and in the number of Hindus, 24.53 per cent. In Comilla in 1974 the number of Muslims was 5,250,000 and in 1981 it became 6,600,000. Hindus were 564,000 in 1974 and 565,000 in 1981. The growth rate among Muslims was 20.13 per cent, and for the Hindus, 0.18 per cent. The population in Foridpur had increased by 17.34 per cent between 1974 and 1981. The number of Muslims was 3,100,000 in 1974 and in 1981, it was 3,852,000, with a growth rate of 24.26 per cent. In 1974 the number of Hindus was 942,000 and in 1981 it was 894,000, with a rate of growth of −5.30 per cent. The population of Pabna increased by 21.13 per cent from 1974 to 1981. There were 2,546,000 Muslims in 1974; in 1981 the number increased to 3,167,000. The Hindus, on the other hand, numbered 260,000 and in 1981 they were 251,000. The growth rate of Muslims was 24.39 per cent and of Hindus, −3.46 per cent. In Rajshahi district, the population increased by 23.78 per cent. The Muslim population increased by 27.20 per cent while the Hindu population dropped by −9.68 per cent. In 1974 there were 558,000 Hindus, and in 1981 there were 503,000. Sudhamoy found some figures on page 112 of this book of statistics. In 1974 the Hindus were 13.5 per cent of the total population; in 1981, they were 12.1 per cent.

Where were the missing Hindus? Sudhamoy rubbed his spectacles on his sleeve. Were they leaving? Why? Did freedom lie in going away? Should they not have stayed and fought? Sudhamoy wanted to berate the Hindus who had gone away—they were cowards. Sudhamoy was not feeling well. While trying to put back the census report on the shelf, he felt his arm lacked its usual strength. When he called out to Kironmoyee, he noticed that his tongue felt heavy. He felt almost as if a wolf were at his door. A persistent wolf. When he tried to take a few steps, he noticed that his right leg was not as strong either.

‘Kiron! Kiron!’ he called out.

Kironmoyee had been cooking dal in the kitchen. She left it and went to Sudhamoy. He tried to stretch his right arm towards her but it flopped and fell.

‘Kiron, can you take me to our bed, please?’

She could not really figure out what had happened. He was trembling so! And why was his speech slurred? ‘What’s the matter with you?’ she asked, as she helped Sudhamoy to their bed.

‘Where’s Suronjon?’ he asked.

‘He’s gone out. He didn’t listen to me.’

‘I’m not feeling good, Kiron. Do something, please.’

‘Why is your speech slurred? What’s the matter?’

‘My right hand is weak. And my right leg. Kironmoyee, am I getting paralysed?’

Kironmoyee hugged Sudhamoy tight. ‘Heaven forbid!’ she said. ‘You’re weak, dear, because you’re not sleeping well. That must be it. You’re not eating properly either.’

Sudhamoy was restless and could not stay still. ‘Kiron, am I dying? Oh, this is awful!’

‘What shall I do? Shall I call Horipodo?’ she asked.

Sudhamoy gripped Kironmoyee’s hand. ‘Kiron, please don’t go. Stay with me,’ he pleaded. ‘Where is Maya?’

‘She’s there at Parul’s. She hasn’t come back.’

‘Where’s my son, Kiron? My son?’

‘Why’re you babbling so?’

‘Kiron, open the doors and windows, please.’

‘Why?’

‘I need some air. Some light.’

‘Let me call Horipodo babu. You lie down quietly, please.’

‘Those Hindus have left home. Call Maya.’

‘There’s no one I can send to call her.’

‘Kiron, don’t leave me even for a second. Call Suronjon.’

Sudhamoy murmured something else but Kironmoyee could not understand him. She shivered. Should she call out to her neighbours? Someone she had lived in close contact with for so many years? She stopped to think. Who was her neighbour? Whom could she possibly call? Hyder? Goutom? Someone from Shafiq sahib’s house? She felt helpless. The dal began to burn and the house was overrun with smoke and the acrid smell of burning.

Suronjon had no idea where he was going. He thought of Belal’s house in Chamelibag. He crossed Kakrail and on his right he saw that Jolkhabar had been destroyed. They had brought the tables and chairs out of the eatery to the road and burnt them, leaving only a heap of charcoal and ash. Suronjon stared as long as he could.Then he changed his mind and decided to go to Pulok’s house instead. Pulok worked in an NGO and lived in a rented flat, also in Chamelibag.

Suronjon asked the rickshaw-wallah to turn to the lane on the left. He had not seen Pulok for quite some time now. Suronjon often visited Belal who lived next door but somehow had never found time to meet his college friend, Pulok.

Suronjon rang the doorbell. Nothing happened. He continued to ring the bell.

‘Who is it?’ someone asked feebly.

‘It’s Suronjon.’

‘Suronjon?’

‘Suronjon Datta.’

He heard someone unlock the door. It was Pulok.

‘Come on in,’ he muttered in hushed tones.

‘What’s up? Why so many security measures?’ asked Suronjon. ‘Why don’t you have an eyehole on the door?’

Pulok turned the key in the lock and then pulled at it to see if it was fast. Suronjon was quite surprised.

‘How come you’re outside?’ Pulok asked in a low murmur.

‘I felt like it.’

‘What? Aren’t you scared? You want to be foolhardy and die? Or are you out on an adventure?’

‘Think what you will,’ said Suronjon as he sat on the sofa, beginning to relax.

Pulok’s eyes darted with anxiety. He sat on the sofa next to Suronjon and sighed. ‘You’re aware of the goings-on, aren’t you?’

‘No.’

‘Things are bad in Bhola. Nearly fifty thousand Hindus of ten thousand families have lost everything in the villages of Tojomuddin, Golokpur of Borhanuddin thana, Chhoto Dauri, Sombhupur, Dasherhaat, Khasherhaat, Dobirampur, Padmamon and Moniram. Everything has been plundered, destroyed and burnt. The losses are as high as 500 million takas. Two people have died and two hundred are injured. People have no clothes to wear and no food to eat. There’s not a single house left standing—they have all been set on fire. Hundreds of shops have been plundered. In Dasherhaat Bazar, you can no longer find a shop belonging to a Hindu. All these homeless people are sleeping under an open sky during this cold winter. In the city, the Modonmohon Thakurbari and its temple, the Lokkhigobindo Thakurbari and its temple and the Mohaprobhur Akhara have all been plundered and burnt down. No temples or akharas are left in Borhanuddin, Doulotkhan, Charfashion, Tojomuddin and in Lalmohon thana. All the houses were robbed and set on fire. There’s this place called Ghuinyarhaat, where a nearly two-mile-long strip of houses belonging to Hindus was set on fire. The big akhara in the Doulotkhan thana area was burnt on the night of 7 December. They also smashed the akhara in Borhanuddin Bazar and then set it on fire. Fifty houses in Kutuba village were reduced to ashes. Houses of Hindus in the Charfashion thana were ransacked and a man called Aurobindo Dey was stabbed.’

‘Where’s Neela?’

‘She’s quaking with fear. What about you?’

Suronjon made himself comfortable on the sofa and shut his eyes. He wondered why he had not gone next door to Belal’s but had come to Pulok’s instead. Was he becoming communal deep inside or was the situation turning him into a communal person?

‘Well, I’m alive.’

Pulok’s six-year-old son lay on the floor, sobbing his heart out.

‘Do you know why Alok’s crying?’ said Pulok. ‘The kids next door, his regular playmates, have said they won’t play with him any more. They’ve told him that they can’t play with him because the master has said that they mustn’t have anything to do with Hindus.’

‘The master? Who’s that?’ asked Suronjon.

‘He’s the maulvi
who comes every morning to teach them Arabic.’

‘You have Anees Ahmed living next door, don’t you? He’s a member of the Communist Party. He has a master teaching his children Arabic?’

‘Yes,’ said Pulok.

Suronjon shut his eyes again. He felt that he was Alok. He saw the child’s body racked with sobs and felt them touch his heart. Suronjon felt as though he too hadn’t been included in other people’s play. The people he had played with for so long and those he had thought he could play with were not including him in their games. The master had told them that they could not play with Hindus. Suronjon remembered that Maya had once come back from school crying. She said that the teacher kept turning her out of class. Religion was one of the compulsory lessons in school and so during classes on Islam, Maya was asked to leave the classroom. She was the only Hindu pupil, there were no books for her and neither was there a separate Hindu teacher for her. She would stand in the veranda, a Hindu girl, all by herself, feeling lonely, friendless and isolated.

‘Why do they turn you out of class?’ Sudhamoy had asked.

‘Everyone is in class but I am not allowed in. It’s because I’m Hindu.’

Sudhamoy had hugged Maya close. He felt humiliated and pained, and could not say anything for quite some time. Finally, he went to the teacher’s house with a request: ‘Please don’t keep my daughter out of the religious education class. Don’t let her think of herself as someone different.’

Maya’s psychological problems were resolved but she was enchanted by
alif, be, te, se.
When she played at home, she would murmur ‘
Al alhamudillahi rabbil amen, ar rahmanir rahim
’.

‘What’s going on?’ Kironmoyee had asked Sudhamoy. ‘Do we now have to give up our caste and religion to study in school?’

Sudhamoy was concerned. He had tried to ensure his daughter’s mental well-being but if that meant she would be attracted to Islam, then they’d have to deal with a new set of problems. After a week or so, he wrote to the headmaster of the school saying that religion was a matter of personal belief and need not be taught in schools. And also, if he did not consider any kind of religious education necessary for his child, there was no need for the school to compel her to receive some sort of religious instruction. Instead of religion, it would be better to create a course based on the teachings and lives of great personalities that could be taught to students of all communities. Such a measure would also help combat a sense of inferiority often experienced by those belonging to the minorities. The school did not respond to Sudhamoy’s suggestion and even now matters continue as before.

Neela joined Suronjon and Pulok. She was slim and pretty and usually well dressed. That day she was carelessly turned out, and the dark circles under her eyes betrayed anxiety.

‘Suronjon da,’ she said, ‘you never visit us or try to find out if we are dead or alive. But I hear you visit our neighbour quite often.’

As she was talking, she burst into tears. Was Neela crying because Suronjon had not visited? Was she crying because of the helplessness of her community? Or did Neela feel that the hardship she had to endure—the pain and the insecurity—was also Suronjon’s lot? It was this realization that allowed her to empathize with Pulok, Alok and Suronjon. The latter began to feel very close to that family. Even till a few days ago Suronjon had habitually dropped in at Belal’s for a good time with friends and not even spared a thought for Pulok. But now he felt quite differently.

‘Why are you so nervous? They won’t manage to do much in Dhaka. The police are out in Shakhari Bazar, Islampur and Tanti Bazar.’

‘The police were there the last time too. The fundamentalists plundered the Dhakeshwari temple and set it on fire in front of the police. Did the police do anything?’

‘Uh-uh.’

‘Why did you leave home, Suronjon da? You can’t trust the Muslims. You may think someone’s a friend but it’s highly likely that he’ll slit your throat.’

Suronjon shut his eyes again. Would shutting one’s eyes calm the turbulence within? There was much talking and shouting outside. Perhaps someone was breaking and burning shops that belonged to Hindus. Every time he shut his eyes he smelt burning, and he could see gangs of fundamentalists armed with knives and spades dancing before him. He had been to see Goutom last night. Goutom was in bed and had bruises under his eyes and on his back and chest. Suronjon sat with his hand on Goutom’s chest. He did not ask him anything. His hand on Goutom’s chest was enough—there was no need for words.

‘Dada, I didn’t do anything,’ said Goutom. ‘There were no provisions in the house and so my mother asked me to get some eggs. The shop’s in the neighbourhood, so I wasn’t afraid. After all, I wasn’t going far. I took the eggs and was taking back the change when I felt a kick on my back. They were six or seven young men and I was no match for them. They were returning home from the mosque after the afternoon namaz. The shopkeeper, the people on the road, all of them stood by and watched the fun and they did not say a thing. They beat me up for no reason. They shoved me down and thrashed me. They swore at me, “Hindu bastard, offspring of the damned, kill the fucker. You guys want to get away with destroying our mosque. We’ll chase you out of this country.”’

Suronjon listened but could not find anything to say. He could feel Goutom’s heart beat under his hand. Had he heard the same beat in his own chest? Maybe once or twice.

Neela brought some tea. As they drank tea, they talked about Maya.

‘I’m very worried because Maya may just end up marrying Jahangir.’

‘Goodness, Suronjon da! Try to bring her back. People make hasty decisions when times are bad.’

‘Maybe on my way back, I’ll drop in at Parul’s and take Maya back with me. She’s making the wrong decisions. She’s desperate to stay alive and may decide to become a Forida Begum or some such. Selfish!’

Neela’s eyes darkened with worry. Alok had cried himself to sleep, and there were tear stains on his cheeks. Pulok paced up and down, his restlessness infecting Suronjon. They had forgotten their tea and it had grown cold. Suronjon’s great need for tea seemed to have evaporated. He shut his eyes and tried to believe that this country was his, his father’s, his grandfather’s and his grandfather’s father’s father’s. He wondered why he felt so alienated. Why did he feel that he had no rights in this country?

He did not have the rights to move about, to speak, to wear what he wished and to think. He was expected to cower, to hide and not go out when he wished to or do what he felt like. It was as though there were a noose around his neck. He circled his neck with his hands and pressed hard to see if he would stop breathing.

‘I don’t like this, Pulok,’ he screamed.

There were beads of sweat on Pulok’s forehead. Why was he sweating in winter? Suronjon touched his own forehead and was surprised to see that he was sweating too. Were they scared? No one was beating them. Or killing them. Yet why were they frightened? Why were their hearts thumping nervously?

Suronjon suddenly remembered Dilip Dey’s phone number, so he picked up the telephone and dialled him. A firebrand student leader of yesteryear, Dilip was at home.

‘How’re you, Dada? No problems? Nothing’s happened, I hope.’

‘No problems, but I’m not feeling good. And why does something have to happen specifically with me? Things are happening all over the country.’

‘Yes, true.’

‘How’re you? You must’ve heard about the goings-on in Chittagong?’

‘What kind?’

‘Many temples have been destroyed—three in Bauria of the Sandwip thana, two in Kalapania, three in Mogodharia, two in Teuria, one in Horishpur, one in Rohomotpur, one in Poschim Sarkai and one in Maitbhanga. And in Poschim Sarkai they beat up a man called Sucharu Das and robbed him of 15,000 takas. They robbed two homes in Toukatoli and stabbed two people. One house in Kochua of the Patia thana area and a temple in Bhatikain . . .’

‘How did you get information in such detail?’

‘Because I’m from Chittagong. I get information from there even if I don’t ask for it. Listen, they’ve destroyed three houses in Boilchhori in the Banskhali thana and another three in Purbo Chambley. Five houses in Sorofbhata in the Rangunia thana, seven houses in the Payra Union Porishod, one temple in Shilok Union and one temple in Badamtoli in the Chondonaish thana. A temple in Joara has been plundered and demolished. In Boalgaon of Anwara thana, four temples and one house, and in Tegota sixteen houses have been attacked, plundered and destroyed. In Boalkhali thana the Medhasmuni Ashram was set on fire.

‘I have heard that ten temples of Kali including those at Koibolyodham, the Tulsidham ashram, the Abhoy Mitra cremation grounds, Ponchanondham and the Shoshankalibari have been completely burnt down.

‘The Sodorghat Kalibari and the Golpahar Shoshan Mandir have also been attacked. Shops have been ransacked on Jamalkhan Road and Sirajuddoulah Road. Shops and houses belonging to Hindus have been robbed and set on fire in Enayet Bazar, K.C. Dey Road and Brickfield Road. Thirty-eight houses in the Koibolyodham Malipara and more than a hundred houses in the Sodorghat Jelepara have been plundered and set alight. There’s been ransacking in Idgaon, Agrabad, Jelepara and in the Bohoddarhat Manager Colony. The most horrifying things have happened in Mirersorai and Sitakundo. Seventy-five families in Satbaria village of Mirersorai have been attacked, ten families in Masdia Union, four families in Hadinagar, sixteen families and three temples in Beshorot, twenty families in Odeopur, twelve families in Khajuria and eighty-seven families in Jafarabad! Their homes have been pillaged and set alight. There have been attacks on one family in the Muradpur Union of Sitakundo, twenty-three families of the Mohalonka village of the Dhala Union of Baraiya, eighty families of Bohorpur, three hundred and forty families and the Narayan temple of Baroipara, twelve families of Bansbaria, seventeen families and two temples of Barobkundo. Fourteen families in Forhadpur have been attacked, plundered and set on fire.’

‘How much more of this can I listen to, Dilip da? I don’t like this.’

‘Are you ill, Suronjon? Your voice doesn’t seem all right.’

‘I’m not sure.’

As soon as he finished, Pulok asked him to call Debobroto. Suronjon rang Debobroto, Mohadeb Bhattacharya, Ashit Pal, Sojol Dhar, Madhobi Ghosh, Kuntola Choudhury, Sorol Dey, Robindro Gupta, Nikhil Sanyal and Nirmol Sengupta, one after another. He asked them whether they were well. After a long time he spoke to many acquaintances and associates and felt quite close to them.