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  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 framewo
rk 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.

  Three

  Suronjon longed for a cup of tea. He left his bed and went to the bathroom. If only he could manage to drink some tea before he washed his face! He could not feel Maya’s presence anywhere in the house. Had she actually left? Suronjon brushed his teeth, taking a long time over it. The house felt heavy, almost stupefied, like it was waiting for an imminent death. It felt like thunder would soon strike the house, and everyone was waiting to die. Thirsting for tea, Suronjon entered Sudhamoy’s room. He sat on the bed, with his legs tucked comfortably beneath him.

  ‘Where’s Maya?’ he asked but no one answered.

  Kironmoyee was sitting by the window but she wasted no words and went towards the kitchen. Sudhamoy, who had been staring dumbly at the roof beams, turned on his side and closed his eyes. No one seemed particularly keen to tell him anything about Maya. He was aware that he was not taking on the responsibilities required of him. He should have taken everyone in the family to hide somewhere but he had not done that. Perhaps he did not feel like doing it. Suronjon had heard that Maya was seeing a young Muslim man called Jahangir. She was probably ‘dating’ him at every opportunity. Anyway, there was not much point thinking about it since she had already left home. Whenever riots broke out, it was fashionable amongst Muslims to check on how the Hindus were doing. Jahangir, too, would surely do these fashionable things. And Maya would feel grateful. And maybe after feeling continuously grateful she might end up marrying Jahangir! The young man was two academic years ahead of Maya. Suronjon doubted whether the man would ultimately marry Maya. His own life had shown him how he and Parveen had not got married though they had been on the brink of doing so.

  ‘Please become a Muslim,’ Parveen had said.

  ‘There’s no point in changing my religion,’ Suronjon had replied. ‘Let each of us stick to our own faith.’

  Parveen’s family had not agreed to the proposal of each of them continuing with their own faith. They had married Parveen off to a Muslim businessman. After some weeping and howling, she had agreed to the marriage.

  Suronjon stared sadly at their strip of a balcony. It was a rented property, there was no courtyard and certainly no patch of land where they could feel the earth and walk and run. Kironmoyee came into the room with a cup of tea. He took the cup of tea from his mother and chatted like nothing very much had happened.

  ‘It’s December already but not very cold yet,’ he said. ‘When we were kids we used to drink khejurer ras around this time.’

  ‘We live in a rented house now,’ sighed Kironmoyee. ‘Where will you get the sap of the date palm? We sold our house, with all its lovely trees and plants, those that we had planted ourselves, for practically next to nothing.’

  As he sipped his tea, Suronjon remembered the man who would climb the tall date palm to fetch the khejurer ras that had collected in the pots tied on top, as Maya and he stood trembling, below. In the cold weather, clouds of steam would escape when they opened their mouths to speak. The playing fields, the garden with its mango, jaam, guava and jackfruit trees, betel nut and coconut palms—where did they go?

  ‘This is the home of your forefathers,’ Sudhamoy would say. ‘Never leave it and go anywhere else.’

  Ultimately, Sudhamoy Datta had been forced to sell his house. Maya, all of six years old, had got lost while she was returning home from school. She could not be found anywhere in the city. She was not with any of their relatives, or other acquaintances. That was indeed a time of great stress. Suronjon guessed that a bunch of boys, with knives in their pockets, who used to hang around the gate of Edward School, had grabbed Maya. She came home after two days. She came alone and could not say who had taken her and where she had been. She behaved unnaturally for two months after that incident. She would repeatedly start in her sleep. She felt scared of people. Some nights people would rain bricks at their house; there were anonymous letters threatening to abduct Maya and telling the Dattas that they had better cough up money if they wanted to carry on living. Sudhamoy went to the local police station to make a complaint. The policemen at the thana took down his name and address in their register, and that was all. Often, some boys would saunter into their property and strip their trees of fruit, stamp all over their vegetable garden and tear flowers from the plants. Nobody could tell those boys anything. He tried discussing the issue with some of his neighbours but it did not help.

  ‘We can’t possibly do anything,’ they said.

  Things carried on in that fashion and nothing changed for the better. Suronjon and some friends tried to tackle the situation. It may have been possible to get a handle on things but Sudhamoy decided to take a transfer away from Mymensingh. He made up his mind to sell his home. The other reason why he wanted to sell the house was that it had been under litigation for a long time. Shaukat Ali, who lived next door, had forged papers and was trying to claim the property. Sudhamoy was irritated and very tired of visiting courts trying to fend such people off. Suronjon was not in favour of their house being sold. He was then a robust young man, a college student who had just won a student election. He could easily have roughed up those young hooligan
s. However, Sudhamoy was terribly eager to sell the house. He wanted to go away to Dhaka. He said that his practice too was not flourishing in Mymensingh. He waited at his chamber in Swadeshi Bazar every afternoon but there were hardly any patients. A few Hindu patients came but they were so poor that he did not feel like charging them a fee. Sensing Sudhamoy’s agitation, Suronjon did not try to persuade his father to stay on. Yet, even now, he had not forgotten their large house on two bighas of land. Sudhamoy finally sold their house, worth 1 million takas, to Roisuddin sahib for a mere 200,000.

  ‘Get ready,’ he said to Kironmoyee after the sale. ‘Pack everything.’

  Kironmoyee had flung herself on the ground and cried. Suronjon found it hard to believe that they were actually leaving their home behind. He did not want to go away, leaving the home that was his from the day that he was born, the playing fields of his childhood, the Brahmaputra River, and his friends. And Maya, who was the prime reason why they were leaving, did not want to go away either.

  ‘I won’t leave Sufiya behind,’ she declared, tossing her head.

  Sufiya was a school friend and lived nearby. They sat in the courtyard every afternoon and played with dolls and pots and pans. They were close.

  Sudhamoy was not to be swayed though he had the strongest ties to their roots. ‘Life is short,’ Sudhamoy had said. ‘I want a carefree life with my children.’

  Is a carefree life possible? Suronjon now knew that it was not possible. Sudhamoy came to Dhaka to breathe freely; however, it was in Dhaka, the capital of a free country, that he had to stop wearing a dhoti and don pyjamas. Suronjon understood his father’s pain, the hurt that he never expressed in words, though his sighs reverberated through the walls of the house. There was but one wall separating them, and they tried to climb over it. Neither Sudhamoy nor Suronjon could manage it.