Lajja (23 page)

It was Bijoy Dibosh, the Day of Victory—the day Bangladesh was liberated. Suronjon felt the word ‘freedom’ was poisoned; it stung him. There were programmes and marches all across the country commemorating the day. There was much delight all around. There was not a shred of joy in Suronjon’s mind. Normally, on this day, Suronjon would leave home early in the morning and be involved in different events. He would be singing as he traversed the city in a truck. Suronjon now felt that he had wasted many years in pointless pursuits. Did he have any freedom? What had he gained in free Bangladesh?

Throughout that day, Suronjon found himself often on the verge of bursting into the familiar favourite songs about the Liberation:
‘Joy Bangla, Banglar joy
’— Hail Bangla (desh)! Happy Bangladesh!;‘
Purbo digonte surjo uthechhe
’—The sun has risen in the eastern sky; ‘
Rokto lal rokto lal
’—Blood is red, yes, blood is red;‘
Bishwokobir sonar Bangla, Nazruler Bangladesh, Jibonanander ruposhi Bangla ruper je tar neiko sesh
’—This is the golden Bengal of Tagore, it is Nazrul’s Bangladesh, the beautiful Bengal of Jibanananda, oh, there is no end to its beauty;
‘Ek sagor rokter binimoye Banglar sadhinota anle jara amra tomader bhulbo na
’
—
We will not forget you, all of you who gave a sea of blood to liberate Bengal; ‘
Mora ekti phulke bachabo bole juddho kori, mora ekti mukher hashir jonyo juddho kori
’—We take up arms to guard each flower, we take up arms to bring back smiles. But he firmly restrained himself. He did not want to indulge in patriotic sentiment and ruthlessly crushed any such desire within himself.

Suronjon lay in bed all day. He felt the unfurling of a deep desire. He nurtured and guarded his secret wish, and let it flourish with its many branches and flowers. He watered the plant, saw it bloom and bud, and savoured the scent of its blossoms. He brooded all day long and finally left home in the evening around eight o’clock. ‘Go wherever you wish,’ he told the rickshaw-wallah. The rickshaw-wallah went through Topkhana, Bijoynagar, Kakrail, Mog Bazar and finally took him to Romna. Suronjon saw that the place was decorated with lights and wondered if the lit-up road was aware that he was a Hindu man. Maybe if it knew, the tarred road would break into two and ask him to sink into the earth. Suronjon felt that unless he gave shape to his inner longing that day he would not be able to quieten the flames that burnt in the depths of his heart. If he did not do what he wished, he would not be freed from his claustrophobic life. What he was about to do was perhaps not a solution but it would bring him relief and it might help lessen his anger, frustration and pain.

Suronjon asked the rickshaw-wallah to stop at the Bar Council. He lit a cigarette. He had given up all hope that Maya would be back. He would tell Sudhamoy and Kironmoyee that they should not expect Maya back. They should make-believe that Maya had died in a road accident. Suronjon found it difficult to accept the fact that his active, alert father was now bereft, isolated and helpless, groaning all day with the pain and agony of losing Maya. Maya’s abductors would be feasting on her like vultures devouring a corpse. They must be gouging her flesh out and tearing it apart. Were they eating her like the early humans feasted on raw flesh? An inexplicable pain left Suronjon shattered. He felt as though those men were feasting on him. He was being devoured by a pack of seven hyenas. He was still smoking his cigarette when a woman came and stood before his rickshaw. The sodium lights made her face seem bright. She must have painted her face and looked to be around nineteen or twenty.

He threw away his cigarette and called her.

‘Come.’

Moving seductively, she went close to the rickshaw and smiled.

‘What is your name?’ Suronjon asked.

‘Pinky,’ she said, smiling.

‘Your full name.’

‘Shamima Begum.’

‘Your father’s name?’

‘Abdul Jolil.’

‘And where are you from?’

‘Rongpur.’

‘And your name? What was it?’

‘Shamima.’

The woman was a bit taken back. People did not usually ask her father’s name or where she came from. This was an odd customer! Suronjon looked sharply at Shamima. Was she lying? It did not seem so.

‘Ok. Get in.’

Shamima climbed on to the rickshaw. Suronjon asked the driver to go to Tikatuli. He did not exchange a word with Shamima during the ride. In fact, he did not even glance at her. He did not seem to notice that a young woman was sitting close to him on the rickshaw and talking needlessly, sometimes even breaking into song and laughing and falling all over him. He was completely focused on smoking his cigarette. The rickshaw-wallah seemed to be in good spirits and swayed as he drove his rickshaw along, humming popular songs from Hindi films. The city was all dressed up that night and dazzling with coloured lights.

Suronjon was not drunk; he was completely in his senses and was fully aware of what he was doing. He had locked the door to his room. There was no need to call anyone to the front door—they went straight to his room.

‘We haven’t discussed payment,’ said Shamima, once they were inside.

‘Shut up! Not a word,’ snarled Suronjon.

The room was unkempt as it had been for days. The sheets were hanging down to the floor. He could not hear any sounds from the rest of the house. They were probably asleep. Listening carefully, Suronjon heard Sudhamoy whimpering. Was he aware that his illustrious son had come home with a whore? Of course, Suronjon did not look at Shamima as a whore—he saw her as a Muslim woman. He was extremely keen on raping a Muslim woman. He was going to rape Shamima, well and truly. He turned off the lights. He flung the woman to the floor and pulled off her clothes. Suronjon was breathing quickly and he sank his nails into her stomach and bit her breast. He knew he was not making love. He pulled the woman’s hair and bit her face, neck and chest. He scratched her sharply on her stomach, abdomen, bottom and thighs. She was a streetwalker and yet she was yelping in pain—this made Suronjon very happy. He kept hurting her; he ravaged and raped her. The woman was startled because she had never before had such a violent customer, who had torn her to bits. Like a doe escaping the lion’s paw, she bundled up her clothes and stood near the door.

Suronjon was calm. He felt unburdened. He had been able to do something with the desire that had gnawed at him all day. He would be even happier if he could now kick the woman out. He began breathing heavily. Should he kick the Muslim woman hard? The woman stood there naked, not knowing whether she was expected to stay the night or could leave. Since she had been commanded not to speak, she was too frightened to even open her mouth.

Where was Maya? Had they trussed her up and raped her in a closed room—all seven of them? Maya must have felt a lot of pain. Had she screamed?

One night, when Maya must have been around fifteen or sixteen, she had called out ‘Dada, Dada’ in her sleep. Suronjon had run to her and found her trembling in her sleep.

‘What’s up, Maya? Why are you trembling?’

‘We were visiting a lovely village, you and I,’ said a trembling Maya, describing her dream, as if in a trance.
‘We were walking through green rice fields. We were walking and talking. There were a few other people too. They were also talking to us, on and off. Suddenly, there were no rice fields. There was an empty field and some men were coming to grab me. I was frightened and running and looking for you.’

Oh, Maya! Suronjon began to breathe heavily. He felt that Maya was screaming loudly but no one could hear her screams. No one could hear her cries. Maya was crying. She was sitting in a dark room and crying before a pack of wild animals. Where was Maya? It was a tiny city and yet, he had no idea whether his beloved sister was in a rubbish heap, in a brothel or in the waters of the Buriganga. Where was Maya? That woman was still standing there—he wanted to give her a shove and send her packing.

Suronjon’s behaviour frightened the woman. She put her sari on quickly and asked to be paid.

‘How dare you? Get out!’ said Suronjon, jumping up in rage.

Shamima opened the door and set foot outside and then looked back, pitifully. The bite on her cheek was bleeding.

‘Please give me something, even ten takas would do.’

Suronjon’s body was racked with rage. However, he felt sorry when he saw the woman’s sad eyes. She was poor and sold her body for food. The wretched mores of society were not putting her labour or intelligence to use but pushing her to dark alleys instead. Today’s earnings would surely help her buy some rice. He had no idea if she managed two meals a day! Suronjon took out ten takas from his pocket and gave it to her.

‘You’re Muslim, aren’t you?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘The likes of you often change their names. You haven’t, have you?’

‘No.’

‘OK. Off with you.’

Shamima went away. Suronjon felt good inside. He was not going to feel bad about anything today. Today was the Day of Victory—everyone was happy and celebrating, setting off fireworks. It
was on this day twenty-one years ago that Bangladesh was liberated and this was also the day that Shamima Begum came to Suronjon Datta’s room. Glory to the Liberation! Suronjon wanted to snap his fingers. Should he sing that song ‘Bangladesh is first, and for me, also the last! Bangladesh is my life, and I will be with Bangladesh in death too!’?

He hadn’t told Shamima his name, not even once. He should have told her that his name was Suronjon Datta. Then Shamima would have realized that the young man who had scratched and bitten her and drawn blood from her flesh was a Hindu. Hindus also know how to rape, they also have arms, legs and a head, their teeth are sharp too, and they can use their nails to scratch. Shamima was a harmless woman but a Muslim, nevertheless. Suronjon would have felt delighted even if he could have just slapped the cheek of a Muslim.

Suronjon spent a restless night. He slipped in and out of a daze. He spent the night alone in a ghostlike silence, insecure and threatened by the dark shadow of terror. He was traumatized and could not sleep. He had wanted to take petty revenge but had not been able to. He was incapable of revenge. Suronjon was amazed as he realized that he felt sorry for that woman, Shamima. He felt pity. Not rage or envy. What was he avenging if he did not feel rage? It was a sort of defeat, was it not? Was Suronjon defeated? Yes, he had lost. He had not been able to make a fool of Shamima. She had been cheated already. She could not distinguish between coitus and rape. Suronjon curled up in bed in shame and agony. It was late! Why couldn’t he sleep? Was he destroyed? Had the Babri Masjid incident brought out the worst in him? He realized that his heart had begun to rot. Why was he feeling so awful? Why did he feel such pain for the woman whom he had ripped and ravaged with his teeth? If he could only wipe away the blood on her cheeks with a handkerchief! Would he ever find her again? If he waited at the Bar Council crossing and found her, Suronjon would ask her to forgive him. He felt hot even though it was a winter’s night. He tossed his quilt away. His sheets were tangled up near his feet. He lay on the dirty mattress with his head close to his knees. He curled his body up like a dog. When morning came, he had this great urge to urinate but he did not feel like getting up. Kironmoyee brought his tea but he did not want it. He felt sick. He wanted to bathe in hot water. But where would he get hot water? There was a pond in the Brahmopolli house and your hair stood on end if you stepped into it on winter mornings. Yet, in those days, Suronjon did not feel that he had bathed unless he had swum in the pond. He wished that he could swim several lengths that morning but there was no pond. Where could he get limitless waters? The water in the bathroom was limited. Why was everything in life limited and measured?

Suronjon finally got out of bed at ten o’clock in the morning. He was in the veranda, brushing his teeth, when he heard Khadem Ali’s son, Ashraf, talking to Kironmoyee.

‘Mashima,’ said Ashraf, ‘yesterday evening, our Putu saw a young woman like Maya, dead, floating below the bridge in Gendaria.’

Suronjon felt that his arm holding the toothbrush had turned to stone. His body felt as if it had just received an electric shock. He did not hear any sounds of crying from the house. There was stunned silence. It was as if the slightest whisper would reverberate in the air. It felt as though no one but he had lived in this house for a thousand years. He could see that the city was yet to wake up properly from the previous evening’s revelry. He stood there holding his toothbrush. Hyder was passing by on the road. He stopped when he saw Suronjon because Suronjon had seen him and so it was only polite to acknowledge him.

‘How are you?’ asked Hyder as he walked slowly towards Suronjon.

‘I am well,’ replied Suronjon.

After this, it would have been logical to ask about Maya but Hyder did not.

‘Yesterday, the Shibir people broke the plaque about the mass graves that was in the Zoha Hall of Rajshahi University,’ said Hyder, leaning against the railings.

‘Mass graves? What does that mean?’ asked Suronjon as he spat out a glob of toothpaste.

‘You don’t know about the mass graves?’ a startled Hyder asked Suronjon.

Suronjon shook his head. He did not know.

Hyder felt insulted and his face darkened. He could not understand why Suronjon, who was a leader of the Awareness Centre of the Liberation War, was saying that he had no idea about the mass graves. The Shibir people had broken the memorial plaque of the mass graves. So let them. They had many weapons and were using them. Was it possible to stop them now? Gradually they would destroy all the memorials to the Liberation like Aporajeyo Bangla (Indefatigable Bengal), Shoparjito Shadhinota (The Liberation We Won Ourselves), Shabash Bangladesh (Bravo Bangladesh!) and the Muktijoddha Memorial in Joydebpur. Who was going to prevent all this? There would be one or two rallies and meetings. Some progressive political groups would shout slogans like ‘End the politics of the Jamaat-Shibir Youth Command!’ That would be it. What would it lead do? ‘It will lead to zilch,’ thought Suronjon to himself.

Hyder stood there quietly, with his head lowered. ‘I guess you know,’ said Hyder, ‘Parveen is here now. She’s divorced.’

Suronjon listened but did not say anything in exchange. He was not particularly upset by Parveen’s divorce. In fact, he thought that it was funny and served them right. They had not let her marry a Hindu and chose a Muslim groom instead. What good had that done? In his mind, he imagined that he was raping Parveen. Raping someone early in the morning, soon after brushing one’s teeth, was not so delectable. However, the thought of rape had its attractions.

Sudhamoy was able to sit up now. He put a pillow behind his back and started listening to the sounds in the noiseless house. Sudhamoy recalled that it was Maya amongst all of them who had had the strongest desire to stay alive. If he had not had this misfortune, Maya would not have had to come back from Parul’s and nor would she be missing! Apparently, someone had found her floating under a bridge. But who would go to identify the corpse? Sudhamoy knew that no one would go because all of them wanted to believe that Maya would certainly return some day. If the body under the bridge was Maya’s then they could no longer cherish the hope that Maya would perhaps be back that day, the next day or the day after, or even after one year, or five years. There are some hopes that help people carry on. After all, there are so few things worth living for that one should not let go of one’s dearest wishes and hopes, however small. After a long time, he reached out to Suronjon and asked him to sit next to him.

‘I feel embarrassed to live with the doors and windows shut,’ Sudhamoy said in a broken voice.

‘You feel embarrassed? I feel angry.’

‘I worry greatly about you.’

Sudhamoy wanted to gently touch his son’s back with his left hand.

‘Why?’

‘You return home very late. Horipodo was here yesterday—apparently things are very bad in Bhola. Thousands of people are sitting out in the open, they have no homes. Girls and women are being raped.’

‘Is this something new?’

‘Of course, it is new. Have such things ever happened before? That’s the reason why I fear for you, Suronjon.’

‘You are afraid only for me? Is there no need to be afraid for you? Are you people not Hindus?’

‘What can they possibly do to us?’

‘They’ll cut off your head and float it in the Buriganga. You don’t yet know the people of this land—they snack on Hindus and make no allowances for the old or young.’

Sudhamoy frowned in annoyance.

‘Are you not one of the people of this land?’ he asked.

‘No, I can no longer think of myself as one,’ said Suronjon. ‘I wish I could! But it is no longer possible. Earlier, Kajol da and the others would talk of discrimination and I would get annoyed with them. “Stop your useless discussions,” I’d say. “There’s so much to do in this country. Is there any point in wasting time talking about what’s happening to Hindus somewhere and how many are dying?” Gradually, I’ve realized that they are not wrong. And I’m not sure what’s happening to me. Baba, this is not how it was supposed to be,’ said Suronjon in a choked voice.

Sudhamoy touched his son’s back gently.

‘People are on the streets,’ he said. ‘There are protests. There’s much writing in the newspapers. Intellectuals are writing every day.’

‘This will lead to nought,’ said Suronjon in an angry voice. ‘One group has entered the fray with weapons and there is no point in just shouting and gesticulating to oppose them. An axe has to be resisted with an axe. It is foolish to fight armed people without any weapons.’

‘Will we give up our ideals?’

‘What are ideals? Nonsensical stuff!’

Sudhamoy’s hair had gone greyer in the past few days. His cheeks looked more sunken. He was half of what he used to be. Yet he did not lose heart.

‘People are still protesting against injustice and wrong-doing. Does every country have this kind of strength, where people exercise the right to protest?’

Suronjon did not say anything more. He assumed that the People’s Republic of Bangladesh would soon change its name to the Islamic Republic of Bangladesh. The sharia law would reign in the land. He shuddered as he thought that women would be wearing burqas when they were out on the streets, the number of men with beards and in caps and kurtas would increase, instead of schools and colleges there would be an increase in the number of mosques and madrasas, and the Hindus would be silently decimated. Hindus were now expected to sit at home like frogs in the well. If they heard about movements or the sounds of rallies and protests, they were expected to bolt their doors and windows and remain indoors and away from the action because such things were now risky for them. Muslims could boldly shout slogans demanding this and that but not Hindus. A Muslim could loudly proclaim that Hindus were suffering injustice but it was not possible for Hindus to say so with equal fervour. They felt fear that assassins might come in the dark and cut their throats because they dared raise their voices. Muslims had declared Ahmed Sharif a traitor but had kept him alive; however, if Sudhamoy spoke out of line he was likely to be killed. Maulvis would certainly not tolerate aggressive Hindus but neither would progressive Muslims. Suronjon found it exceedingly amusing that progressive people had Hindu or Muslim names. He had always thought that he was a modern individual but these days he felt like he was a Hindu. Was he no longer the person he used to be? He had probably lost all that was good.

Sudhamoy asked Suronjon to move closer.

‘Will we not be able to find Maya anywhere?’ he asked in a broken voice.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Kiron hasn’t slept a single night since then. She worries about you too. If something were to happen to you . . .’

‘If I die, I’m dead. So many people are dying.’

‘I can sit up a bit now. Kiron holds me and helps me walk to the toilet. I can’t treat patients before I recover fully. We haven’t paid the rent for two months. If you could get a job . . .’

‘I can’t be at another’s beck and call.’

‘We have our home to run . . . we no longer have our zamindari. We have lived with storehouses full of rice, ponds teeming with fish and our own cattle. You people haven’t seen much of that. I sold all our land in the village. If we’d had that we could’ve gone back, built a modest home and spent our last days there.’

‘Why are you talking like a fool?’ snapped Suronjon. ‘Do you think you’d stay alive in the village? The hitmen of the powers that be would have hit you on the head with sticks and grabbed everything.’

‘Why are you disbelieving everybody? Are there not even a handful of good people left in the country?’

‘No, there aren’t any.’

‘You are feeling unnecessarily hopeless.’

‘Not unnecessarily.’

‘Your friends? All this time you studied communism with them, were part of movements, did so much together—aren’t they good?’

‘No, none of them. They’re all communal.’

‘I’m getting this feeling that you’re becoming somewhat communal too.’

‘Yes, true. This country is making me communal. I am not to blame.’

‘This country is making you communal?’ said Sudhamoy, in a voice filled with disbelief.

‘Yes, the country is doing it.’

Suronjon emphasized the fact that it was the country. Sudhamoy went silent. Suronjon looked at all the broken things in the room. There were still shards of glass on the floor. Did they not hurt anyone’s feet? Even if they did not hurt their feet, they surely hurt their minds.