Shame: A Novel Read online

  Preface

  Day One

  Day Two

  Day Three

  Day Four

  Day Five

  Day Six

  Day Seven

  Day Eight

  Day Nine

  Day Ten

  Day Eleven

  Day Twelve

  Day Thirteen

  Glossary

  n December 1992, a 450-year-old mosque was razed to the ground in India by a mob of fanatic Hindus. They claimed that this particular mosque was built after demolishing a Hindu temple which had been built earlier on the same spot in honor of Rama, an incarnation of God. Rama is actually the hero of a world-famous Indian epic, the Ramayana. Naturally, sensible and dear-headed people, who consider the Ramayana an outstanding work of art, nonetheless think Rama is actually an imaginary character. Likewise, most modern historians and archaeologists are of the opinion that no particular site could be identified as his birthplace. They also say it is difficult to ascertain whether this particular mosque was built after destroying a Hindu temple of worship. But a number of Hindus were determined to do away with the mosque, and with the support of ultranationalists and the rightest Hindu party called the Bharitya Janata party and their various front organizations, they accomplished their task The motivation behind this atrocious act was that it would pave the way toward establishing "Hindu Raj" in India by replacing the secular constitution which gives equal rights to Muslims, Christians, and believers of other faiths. There are millions of Muslims in India. They were naturally shocked, and came out in protest. Therefore, riots broke out in different parts of the country. Widespread violence and devastation took their usual toll in terms of life and property.

  The British carved a country, which is Bangladesh today, out of India as a part of Pakistan. The other part of Pakistan was at least one thousand miles away in western India. The logic behind this partition was that the Indian Muslims needed a separate homeland for themselves. However, the fact remained that, even after this partition, millions of Muslims remained in India. Another thing became obvious within a few years. The Muslims in eastern Pakistan realized to their horror that the Muslims of western Pakistan were subjugating them. There was no affinity between the language, culture, and way of life of the two people. Religion was the only bond, but co-religionists did not mind oppressing their fellow Muslims living in the eastern part of the country. They systematically tried to destroy the language and culture of the Muslims in East Pakistan. Naturally, at first there was resentment and, finally, a revolt. Bengali nationalism was roused and after a bloodbath, the Republic of Bangladesh was born in 1971. I was just nine years old when my country got its freedom.

  Bangladesh is predominantly a Muslim country, but there are at least ten million people living there who are Hindus. Besides the Hindus, there are Buddhists and Christian minorities as well. Previously the mosaic com prising the various minorities was more colorful. During the partition of India, millions of Hindus left for India with their families, leaving behind their ancestral home, farmland, and whatever they possessed. Similarly hundreds of thousands of Muslims migrated to East Pakistan across the border from the Indian part of Bengal.

  During Pakistani rule, this flux of Hindus occurred periodically. Comparatively fewer and fewer Bengali Muslims migrated to Pakistan from India. Perhaps the last time it happened was in 1964. After the emergence of Bangladesh, as a secular, democratic, socialistic republic, the founding fathers of the nation thought that nobody would ever be able to play with the minorities of the country. They knew that the Hindus had also suffered under the Pakistani rulers, and had shed their blood to overthrow these tyrants. They were given equal rights with the Muslims and allowed to live with dignity. But unfortunately, with the destruction of the mosque in India, the Hindus suddenly found themselves caught in an altogether different situation. They became the targets of Muslim fanatics. In protest against the nefarious act of demolishing a Muslim place of worship in India, their houses and business establishments were attacked and places of worship demolished, as if it were the Hindus of Bangladesh who were responsible for the demolition of the mosque. One of the consequences of the partition of India was that, if anything undesirable happened in one part, the other parts reacted immediately. As a result, a religious riot in India meant a religious riot in both parts of Pakistan. We had thought that it would be different after the formation of Bangladesh. We had thought that whatever happened in India, or any other part of the world for that matter, it would not affect the country's so cial structure. We had thought that Hindus and Muslims who had lived side by side for centuries would not be affected. We had shared the same culture, literature, and both had contributed to the growth of the Bengali language, literature, and culture. Both had contributed to the economic growth of the country, too. But in that black December, to my horror I found that around me, unexpected things were happening. Hindus were being persecuted by the Muslim fanatics through no fault of their own. Mobs were hunting them. Helpless people did not know how to save themselves or the honor of their women. They were bewildered. The police could give them little protection. The secular politicians and intellectuals were also, in a sense, dazzled. Of course there were protest marches, peace missions, human chains, articles and editorials pleading for peace and order. But it was the fanatical fundamentalists who had a field day during those troubled times. I was horrified, I was agonized. I felt outraged, and the reaction was this little book, Lajja (Shame).

  I was in a hurry. I did not know what to do, but I felt I must protest, and I must make this protest known to my people. The book was written almost in a trance. It was ready for the press within just a few days. I handed over the manuscript to a publisher and felt relieved. The book was published in February 1993. I was fortunate because, in retrospect, I feel it would have been very difficult for me to publish a book like Lajja in Bangladesh had there been no courageous publishers there. More than fifty thousand copies of the book were sold out in a very short time. Suddenly a government order was issued and Lajja was banned in Bangladesh. The argument in favor of this ban was that this book was a threat to social peace and tran quility, that it might endanger the relation between the two communities, and so on. After that, the events took a different turn. Pirated editions started to surface in the Indian part of Bengal. Lajja became a best seller in India on the black market. To my horror, I heard that the Bharitya Janata party, the very people who led to the demolition of that mosque, and whose followers were primarily responsible for the riots in India, took up my book in support of their subversive ideas. They translated the book into Hindi, and serialized it in their journals to rouse the sentiments of the Hindus against the Muslims. They said, "Look, here is proof provided by nobody else but a Muslim writer who has shown how Hindus are persecuted in Bangladesh today." Naturally, in my country I was accused of being an agent of Hindu fundamentalists in India. Some fundamentalist newspapers and journals in Bangladesh spread the canard that I had received millions of takas from Hindu fundamentalists for writing the book. Even my friends started looking disapprovingly at me.

  The book had two sets of critics. The literary critics who had praised my poetry or essays found it wanting. They said that it was no work of literature. Even the friendliest critic could only tell readers that the book was an important testament but still fell short. The second set of critics, both in Bangladesh and in India, were not just literary critics, but socially alert writers and journalists. Those who belonged to Bangladesh thought not only that it was a bad book but also that the timing of its publication was bad. I had done a disservice to Bangladesh, especially to the progressive forces who believe in secularism and democracy. "Did we not oppose the fundamentalists who were inciting the mobs to
oppress the Hindus? Were we not out spoken against them in newspapers and periodicals? Had we not organized marches and meetings?" They felt I had let them down, and that by providing a handy propaganda item to the Hindu fundamentalists in India, I had indirectly helped the Muslim fundamentalists to organize themselves. The fringe of the radical left went further. They dubbed me an Indian agent in Bangladesh, called me names, and declared that I was paid handsomely for denouncing my own country and people. This sort of criticism was heard in India, too. A segment of the leftist intellectuals there accused me of having helped the Hindu fundamentalists, and of putting down the progressive leftist forces of Bangladesh who were fighting the fundamentalists there. In short, both friends and foes alike criticized me for different reasons. Only a few critics from both sides of the border took up the book seriously and thought of it as an important book because of the subject and the writer. When in a predominantly Muslim country, a writer who belongs to the majority community sits down to write about the fate of the minority, especially in the charged atmosphere of communal violence, is not that something important? This was their argument.

  I do not think that I should apologize to anybody for writing this book. It is the agony of my heart, which I have poured out onto the pages of this little book. I had Hindu classmates in my school and college. We had Hindu neighbors with whom we had very good relations. Personally I have many Hindu friends of both sexes. I knew from my parents that many Hindu families had left our town after the partition. Why should people be compelled to leave their forefathers' land simply for the religion that they practice? I could not but feel sorry for such a situation. I know many Hindu families who stayed back after the partition and fought side by side with the Muslims to make their country free. Why should they be terrorized now, so many years after liberation? Why should they be penalized for a crime with which they were not even remotely connected? These were the questions that tormented me. Tears rolled down my cheeks and, to keep my conscience clear, I could not but write down this testament.

  Lajja is the testament of a writer. In this testament I have indicted my country, the ruling clique and the political parties in Bangladesh, and also the intellectuals. In the process I have indicted myself also. Lajja means "shame." I felt ashamed to see such human degradation. I felt ashamed for the government of my country, who could not come out to protect the minorities. Protecting them was the government's primary responsibility. I feel ashamed of my fellow writers and intellectuals who, despite their efforts, could do little to save their fellow citizens. Is not this failure a shame for us? Maybe there were similar failures on the other side of the border, maybe there were people who felt ashamed of the happenings in their own country. Maybe nobody felt as outraged as myself. Why should I remain silent because no other writer from the majority community came forward to indict their own government and society like me? Their failure is their own. My conscience is my own. I am not a practicing politician who is careful of the prospective voters' need. I do not believe in compromise when it consists of one's conviction. From a worldly outlook I may be considered a fool. I may be considered a tactless person. I may be considered too dogmatic. I do not care. I know I was honest, I know my sentiments were honest. I knew this little book was a cry of my agonized heart.

  Because of my ideals, I was threatened by the fundamentalists. They demanded my execution by hanging. They attacked me physically, launched hate campaigns against me. They organized meetings, processions, and skirmishes. They even manipulated countrywide general strikes in support of their demand. They have decreed a fatwa against me and set a price on my head. Not only that, I was a criminal according to the government of my country, too. My crime was that I said the religious scriptures are out of place, out of time. I was accused on charges of hurting the religious feeling of the people. An arrest warrant was issued against me. I was forced to go underground. I remained confined to a small dark room, which served as my hiding place for sixty long days. At last the pressure created by the international human rights movements and the democratic governments of different countries who believe in freedom of expression forced our government to grant me bail and let me leave the country. The trial is still going on. I have not been able to go back home. My future remains uncertain.

  The disease of religious fundamentalism is not restricted to Bangladesh alone and it must be fought at every turn. For myself, I am not afraid of any challenge or threat to my life. I will continue to write and to protest persecution and discrimination. I am convinced that the only way the fundamentalist forces can be stopped is if all of us who are secular and humanist join and fight their malignant influence. I, for one, will not be silenced.

  uranjan was lying still. Maya, his younger sister, had been nagging him all along to swing into action, "Dada, please do something. If you're late, things may get out of hand." Suranjan knew that "doing something" meant ducking in for some uncertain cover. It was just like a scared rat scurrying for a burrow and waiting for the allclear signal before venturing out. For them, too, this would be the ordained course: keep watch for the right time in a hideout till the situation outside cooled down. But why should he run away from his own home? Just because of his identity as Suranjan Dutta and his father being known as Sudhamay, his mother Kiranmayee, and his sister Nee- lanjana Dutta? Was that why they would have to run away and find shelter in the house of some sympathetic Kamal, Belal or Hyder as they had done a couple of years ago? At that time, smelling trouble, Kamal had virtually run all the way from his Iskatan residence to their place on October 30. He hustled Suranjan out of his bed with the frantic plea, "Hurry up, just pack a few bare necessities. Lock the house up and move out, all of you. Quick, quick" They had, of course, been well looked after at Kamal's house. They had had toast and eggs for breakfast, rice and fish curry at lunch. Their afternoons had floated on the wings of carefree idle talks on the lawn, with nights passing smoothly through undisturbed sleep on soft, thick mattresses; the days, free of anxiety, had indeed danced away on merry steps. But why should he be under compulsion to seek shelter in Kamal's house? True, Kamal had been his longtime friend. Without feeling the least uneasy he could be his guest even with his close relatives for a few days. But the question that ruffled him was: Why, first of all, should such a situation arise to make him look out for a hurried escape from his home? Yet Kamal, a Muslim, was spared this indignity. This country was as much his as it was Kamal's. Both of them were supposed to enjoy the same civil rights. But why couldn't he assume Kamal's inborn defiant attitude? Why wouldn't he be able to say: Look, I'm on the same soil as he is. Why can't I have the same rights of life, breathe the same free air; why the hell do I have to live in haunting fear?

  Suranjan remained glued to his bed, showing no signs of getting up. Maya paced restlessly within the confines of their rooms. She still went on hammering at him, trying to impress upon him that no crying over spilled milk would undo the misfortune once it overtook them. CNN was showing the live telecast of the Babri mosque demolition scene by scene. Sitting benumbed in front of the TV screen, Sudhamay and Kiranmayee were watching this macabre play. Their mind, too, ran along the same line as their daughter's. As he had done last time, perhaps this time also, Suranjan would whisk them away to the relative safety of a Muslim household. But Suranjan was thinking nothing like that. If Kamal or, for that matter, anyone came to take them under his protective wing, he would flatly turn down the offer, saying, "Look, I won't leave my home, come what may."

  The day was December 7. The previous afternoon an ominous darkness had cast its gloom on the bank of the Saryu river in the city of Ayodhya. Hordes of fanatics and religious zealots called "Kar Sevaks" had already demolished a 450-year-old mosque there. The incident had preceded the organization of bigots, Visva Hindu Parishad's, formal launching of the much-publicized "Kar Seva" voluntary service by twenty-five minutes. The "Kar Sevaks" had frenetically labored for about five hours to raze the triple-domed structure to dust. The top leadership of po
litical parties and outfits with strong religious overtones like the BJP, Visva Hindu Parishad, RSS, and Baj Rang Dal watched this bizarre incident. The contingents of armed security personnel like the Central Reserve Police Force, Provincial Armed Constabulary and Uttar Pradesh police watched the spectacle with idle detachment. At two fortyfive one of the domes was destroyed. At two forty-five one of the domes was destroyed. At four, the second was smashed, and by four forty-five the third dome was also broken to pieces. The madness had cost the lives of four frenzied men who lay buried under the rubble. A hundred more, overtaken by the same wild craze, had been injured. Lazing on the bed, Suranjan casually glanced over the screaming headlines of the morning newspaper: "THE BABRI MOSQUE DESTROYED, DEMOLISHED."

  He had never been to Ayodhya. Nor had he seen the Babri mosque. The reason was simple enough: he had just never had any occasion to step out of his land. Where Rama, the protagonist of the epic Ramayana, had been born or how the mosque sprouted or from which point of the soil, concerned him the least. His mind, anyway, glided along the paper's view, conceding: "The destruction of this sixteenth-century architectural movement hadn't hurt the sentiments of the Muslims alone; the Hindus, too, would be equally offended by this senseless act that had dealt a vicious blow to the whole idea of human welfare and to the collective conscience of humanity." He mused over the grim predictions of things to come.

  The Babri mosque issue would unleash a tremendous upheaval in Bangladesh, too. The Hindu temples would be demolished, the Hindu houses would be targets of arson, their shops would be looted in the massive retaliatory strike. The fanatics, egged on by the BJP, had in fact given extra muscle to the fundamentalists of this land by demolishing the mosque. Had the BJP, Visva Hindu Parishad and their camp followers thought that the impact of their crazy act would remain confined within the geographical boundaries of India alone? Bloody communal riots had already broken out all over India. The number of deaths had been mounting remorselessly-500, 600, 1,000. The death toll had been going up from hour to hour. Were the standard bearers of Hinduism aware of the existence of two to two and a half score Hindus in this Bangladesh as well? Why Bangladesh alone? Had the Hindu zealots even cared to think of what a catastrophe would strike their brethren in each of the West Asian countries? As a political party, the BJP should realize that India couldn't have an isolated existence like an island. The appearance of a pustule in India would send down waves of agony not only to its own people alone, but its ripples would spread all over the world and the sufferings would smother at least this neighboring country first of all.