I had just
submitted my application form for the SSC Examination, when ‘a four feet one
inch cat-eyed Da Vinci’ Kalyani Pal, the Bangla teacher, declared that I
would not be able to take the exam. What was the reason? “You are underage, you
cannot take the exam at fourteen; you have to be fifteen.” But how was I
supposed to acquire a whole year? Disappointed, I returned home and informed
everyone that I wouldn’t be able to take the exam that year. Why not? I was
underage. After much deliberation Ma said “I have heard that many things can’t
be done because one is too old for them, you can’t join the University or you
can’t get jobs.” Maybe so, but for the SSC the reverse is true. If you are
underage, sit at home and grow old. Come back to take the exam when you are
fifteen. Towards dusk, Ma read the Esha Namaz and read two parts of the
special sixth prayer known as the Nafal Namaz as well, bowing her head
at the darbar of Allah. She informed the Almighty, in tears, that her
daughter was not being able to take her exams. However, she was sure that if
Allah chose, He could deliver her daughter from this terrible eligibility
problem; enable her to not only take the exam but also to pass successfully.
I do not know to
what extent Allah came to my rescue, but Baba certainly did. He went to my
school the very next day and scratching out the year 1962 from the SSC form, he
wrote 1961. He told me that from now on I had better glue myself to the study
desk and chair. I was to stop all gossip and mischief and concentrate fully on
my studies so that I passed my SSC exam in the First Division with four
Distinctions. If I didn’t, he would throw me out of the house he had said without
mincing words.
My age had been
increased by a year. A child, I would be taking the exam with elders. I was
overjoyed. Pricking my balloon of joy Dada said, “Who said you were born in
1961?”
“Baba did.”
“Rubbish. Baba had lowered your age.”
“That means I was
actually born in 1961?”
“Not 1961, you
were born in 1960. I remember seeing the parade at the Circuit House on 14th
August,
Chhotda got up,
and tightening the knot on his lungi and exposing his black gums, added, “What
are you saying Dada. How could she have been born in 1960? She was born in
1959.”
I was crushed. I
went to Ma and demanded, “Tell me my real date of birth, will you!” Ma said,
“You were born on the twelfth day of Rabi-ul-awal , the third month of the Muslim calendar
, I don’t recall the year.”
“All this Rabi-ul-awal
doesn’t work at school. Tell me the English year. The date.”
“Can one remember
years and dates after so long? Ask your father. He might.”
There were two
birth dates, Dada’s and Chhotda’s, written on the first page of Baba’s
Anatomy book. There was no trace of Yasmin’s and my birth dates or years in any
corner of any one of the twelve hundred pages of the book. In fact, they could
not be found on any scrap of paper in the house. Ma was born on Id, one of the
Chhota Ids. Which year? That was not known. Till today, no one has had the
courage to question Baba about the date or year of his birth. Most worried, I
was about to spend the entire day calculating anyone and everyone’s ages. Get
Ma’s age, by adding twelve years to Dada’s age and get mine by subtracting ten,
but Ma said “Leave all this and study. Years flow by like water. It seems just
a few days ago that I tied my hair into banana shaped plaits and ran to school,
and today my children are passing their BAs and MAs.”
Ma may not have
been worried about anybody’s age but I was. I asked any khala or mama from
Nanibari visiting us at Aubokash whether they knew the year of my birth.
No one did. No one remembered. I confronted Nani when I visited her.
Spitting a mouthful of paan juice into a spittoon, she said “Felu was born in
the month of Shravan, you were born the same year in the month of Kartik.
“Same year was
which year?”
“Who keeps track
of which year who was born! Kids have been born every year in this house. If
there had been only one or two, one could have calculated years and dates.”
I became obsessed
with as insignificant a thing as the date of birth. The matter induced a mood
of despondency amongst people both at Aubokash and at Nanibari. Nani
remembered that on the day that I was born, Koi fish spawn were cast
into the pond in her house. Runu khala remembered that Tutu mama
had been running between his room and the toilet that day, and had slipped and
fallen with a thud on the stairs, but she couldn’t recall which year that was.
Hashem mama remembered picking up four golden frogs from the courtyard and
dropping them into the well, but he didn’t have a clue about the date or the
year.
I had never before
felt this keen desire to know my year of birth. Baba had substituted 61 for 62,
ensuring that I took the exams. No one could complain about my being underage.
I was happy. I could experience the joy of studying in right earnest. But my
mind remained occupied with the unknown age factor. It was as if my age was a
person standing miles away from me. Someone whom I was always about to meet,
but never did, although the meeting was imperative. When I had enrolled at the
Ma came and sat on
the verandah. Since I did not like Jori’s mother’s answer about being nineteen,
I asked Ma about her age.
“She should be at
least forty or forty-two, could even be forty-five”, Ma said, looking
askance at Jori’s Ma’s loose breasts hanging from her limp body.
“How old is Jori,
Jori’s Ma?”
To tell us Jori’s
age her mother again straightened her waist and stood up. Ma scolded her. She
said, “Hurry up, sweep the courtyard and then go and eat. Then scour the
utensils, and put the rice for dinner on the stove.”
We all had had our
lunch. Only Jori’s Ma was left. She, alone, had to finish the cooking, feed
everyone, scour the utensils, clean and mop the house, and sweep the courtyard,
before she could eat.
To think of Jori’s
age, her mother needed to look up at the sky again. The reddish sky was filled
with flocks of birds flying towards their nests. Jori’s Ma had never been able
to return to any nest with her daughter. After the birth of Jori, she had been
bound to one house or another - bound by work.
“How old? Twelve!
Khala, won’t Jori be twelve years old?”
Jori’s mother
asked, looking at Ma helplessly.
“How can you say
twelve? She appears to be at least fourteen or fifteen.”
Ma did not know
when Jori was born. She had not seen her at birth. Jori’s mother had come to
stay in this house along with Jori only two years ago. Ma kept Jori’s mother
for this house, and left Jori at Nanibari to run errands for Nani. Whatever Ma
said about ages were all conjectures. Ma guessed ages looking at the physical
appearance of people. However, these conjectures were happily accepted by
Jori’s mother. From now on Jori’s mother knew her daughter’s age to be
“fourteen or fifteen”, and her own to be “forty or forty-two, or even
forty-five.”
Jori’s Ma gathered
the fallen leaves, branches and feathers in the courtyard and heaped them on
the garbage pile near the pond. She then lit a small oil lamp in the kitchen
and sat down to eat rice and aubergine curry. Meanwhile Ma sat on the verandah,
sorrowfully staring at the coops of swans and hens running about. I sat with my
legs spread out at her feet, listening to the whirring buzz about my head, of
the evening concert of dancing mosquitoes along with the sounds of ululation
drifting in from Dolly Pal’s house. I watched how darkness slowly fell from the
sky onto our cleanly swept earthen courtyard, like water droplets dripping from
the wet hair of a melancholy maiden.
Staring at the segun
tree behind the tin shed, I asked Ma softly, “How old is the segun tree,
Ma?”
Ma looked
strangely at the tree and said, “… seems to be three hundred years old.”
How Ma guessed
the ages of all human beings and trees, I could not understand.
“Why don’t people
live for three hundred years, Ma?”
Ma did not utter a
word. Darkness had enveloped her as though bats’ wings had flapped and covered
her face, which otherwise always had the carefree appearance of sea gulls
flying playfully over the waters.
Anxieties about
age have continued to haunt me since then. I suddenly had the desire to
celebrate my birthday according to the date written on my SSC form. It helped
that Baba was in a good mood. As soon as I asked, a cake, a basket of malaikari
sweets, one packet of chanachur, one pound of sweet biscuits and a
dozen oranges arrived. In the evening I lit a candle on the cake. In the
presence of whosoever was at home and one single precious guest, Chandana, I
blew out the candle. I cut the one-pound cake with the only knife that could be
found in the kitchen – the long knife used for the Holy Sacrifice of cows. Who
would offer the first piece of cake to me was a matter of hot dispute between
Geeta and Yasmin. Geeta finally won. Her desires and wishes, she being the daughter-in-law
of the house, were given more importance than Yasmin’s. Yasmin moved away from
the cake, sporting a long face. Meanwhile, before the camera light could come
on, Geeta fixed a sweet smile on her face and offered me a piece, with her eye
on the camera. My birthday was thus celebrated in the midst of cake-cutting,
clapping, camera clicks, biscuits soaked in the malaikari, and lips
licking the white icing on the cake. In this house it was the first time any
birthday had been celebrated, and that, too, owing to my own enterprise.
Chandana gave me three books of poems as a present. Raja Jaye, Raja Ashei
(The King goes, the King comes), Adiganta Nagna Paddhwani (Bare
Footfalls Reaching up to the Horizon) and Na Premik, Na Biplabi (Neither
Lover nor Revolutionary). Dada gave me Rabindranath’s Galpaguchho
(Collection of Stories). This was the first time in my life that I had received
presents on my birthday. I couldn’t take my hands, my eyes or my mind away from
the books. Much later that night, Ma said with a parched throat, “You could
have broken a piece of sweet and given it to Jori’s mother. She has never eaten
a sweet in her life. She could have tasted some, too.” I suddenly realized that
not just Jori’s mother even Ma had not got a share of the birthday food. Ma of
course said that she could do without it. If ever a biscuit or handful of chanachur
was offered to Ma, she said “I really eat only rice. You all are kids, you eat.
You all peck at rice like birds, so you need to eat other foods as well.”
After my birthday
celebrations, Yasmin became very keen to celebrate her own. She caught hold of
Baba to find out the date and month of her birth. Baba kept putting her off,
but Yasmin doggedly persisted. After keeping her hanging for almost two months,
Baba told her it was the 9th of September. That was all she needed.
Before the 9th of September could come, Yasmin sent Baba a long
list, three kinds of fruit, two kinds of sweet, along with chanachur and
biscuits. She had already invited almost all the girls at school. When Baba saw
the list he said, “What is a birthday? There is no need for having birthdays.
Study hard and become a worthy individual. I do not want any celebrations in my
house.” Ma cajoled Baba, in secret “She wants to celebrate her birthday, let
her! Girls are Lakshmis, it is not right to beat and discipline them.
They too have some desires. She is being childish, but indulge her for once.”
Ma would use the respectful address ‘aapni’ for some time and then
switch to the more intimate ‘tumi’. The reasons for descending or
ascending from the familiar ‘tumi’ to the formal ‘aapni’ were so
numerous, that by now neither Baba nor we were even startled by the change of
terms. However, whether she used ‘tumi’ or ’aapni’, in a light or
serious tone, whether she cried or laughed, whatever way Ma voiced her desires,
Baba gave them the least importance. Ma knew this as well as Baba.
“Forget all this
meaningless fun and games. The daughter dances and I see the mother doing the
same… nothing but a dance of apes.”
Ma did not get
cowed down by Baba’s frowns. She continued to cajole him while massaging hot
garlic oil into his cold-affected chest and back. “Once you marry off the
girls, they go away to another home. Whatever dreams and desires they have,
must be fulfilled in their parents home itself.” Even if the garlic oil
softened Baba’s flesh, it certainly didn’t seem to soften his heart. Yasmin was
disappointed. Nothing was being done to celebrate her birthday. However,
surprising everyone – that afternoon, Baba sent us all the items in Yasmin’s
list. The girl danced with delight. Arranging all the food in saucers, all
dressed up, she sat staring at the black main gate all evening, awaiting her
guests. Since no one appeared, Yasmin had no alternative but to invite three of
her neighbourhood gollachhut playmates when the girls came to the
grounds late in the evening, and feed them the birthday feast.
When Chhotda
returned home at dusk, he was surprised to see the display of food. “Hey, what
is the occasion today?”
Yasmin laughed
shyly and said, “It’s my birthday.”
“Who said you were
born on this day?”
“Baba said so.”
Once Baba had said something, it did not behove anyone to utter a word in
contradiction; for everyone at home, whatever Baba said, was the truth. There
was after all no one more knowledgeable and intelligent than him.
“Okay, understood.
You needed a birth date, so you asked Baba for one, and he made up one.”
Yasmin was stunned
at Chhotda’s audacity.
That day too, the
one who did not get to share even a single piece of Yasmin’s cake was Ma. She
had left the house in the afternoon to return only at dusk. In her hand was a
brown paper packet, inside which was a red coloured dress material for Yasmin.
Ma was going to stitch a frilled frock for Yasmin herself. Having no money, she
had, without telling anyone, borrowed some from Hashem mama, and gone to
Gaurhari Cloth House and bought three yards of the material.
When I saw it, I
leapt up shouting “But it is not her birthday today!”
“Who said it isn’t
her birthday?”
“Chhotda did.”
“So what!” Ma
scolded. “Never mind if it’s not her birthday. The girl wanted to have a little
fun, let her.”
We never got
clothes except on the occasion of Id. Baba gave us clothes only once a year and
that was on Chhota Id. Before the next year’s Chhota Id could come, our dresses
would either tear or become small. If one requested Baba for new clothes he
would snarl and say, “Don’t you have two dresses, wear one and wash it when
it’s dirty, and wear the other. There is no need to have more than two
dresses.” Ma would increase the length of our short dresses with sari borders,
or any other extra piece of cloth and mend the tears. School going girls
normally had two kinds of clothes, one to wear at home and the other to wear
outside. If ever I wanted to keep my Id clothes for wearing outside, and asked
for clothes to wear at home, Baba said, “Why do you have to go out? If you have
to go out anywhere, that is to your school. For that you have your school
uniform.” At school, girls were given the liberty to wear clothes other than
their uniforms when a cultural function was held or a picnic organized. The
girls wore different dresses for different functions. Since I wore the same
dress for each and every occasion, one of my classmates asked me once, “Don’t
you have any other clothes?” I was so afflicted by shame that I ran and hid
myself behind a pillar for a very long time. Baba had never refused us our
school uniforms. He personally took us to Gaurhari Cloth House to buy the
material and then went to the tailor shop at Ganginar Par. When the tailor took
our measurements, he repeatedly instructed the tailor to make the uniforms
larger, so that they would last longer. Even at the shoe shops, Baba would say
to the shopkeeper, “Make sure the shoes are a little bigger, so that they can
be used for a longer time.” I found that even the clothes and shoes larger in
size, shrank rather fast. Ma said, “The clothes and shoes don’t get smaller,
you all outgrow them.” As we kept growing physically, I used to be scared that
Baba would get angry. Later when Dada was studying at
Yasmin was
delightedly jumping all over the house wrapped in the red cloth that Ma had
bought for her. Ma sat in the dark verandah with her hair hanging loose, and
watched the bright red Yasmin, who appeared rather beautiful in the glow of the
lighted room.
Chapter
Two
She came on
transfer from Comilla and took admission in the new school in Mymensingh. We
established eye contact the very day she joined class. Her almost wholly shut
eyes spoke volumes on that first day itself. Of course, on that day, she stuck
close to her paternal or maternal cousin sister Seema Dewan. She did the same
on the second day also. She sat on my bench on the third day, and after that
she did not sit anywhere else. Chandana’s complexion was like virgin paper, her
nose was as if chiseled by stone. Half her eyes were concealed by her eyelids.
The other half twinkled directly at me and lighted up my heart. When her loose,
long, thick hair freely tumbled down her back like monsoon rain, it secretly
soothed my entire body. Ever since Dilruba left, the seat next to me had
remained unreserved. Before I knew it, Chandana had taken over that place.
Every day Chandana’s sounds, smells, complexion and Dilruba’s absence hovered
over me like shadows. Chandana was not the only girl newly admitted to the
class. Flocks of girls from Vidyamoyee were coming in. They were
the same rebellious friends of mine. Yet the
fragrance of our relationship in which I was totally submerged, remained fresh
and unaffected.
The Residential
Adarsha Balika Vidyayatan or
While I was flying
high with Chandana in her wild ways, my SSC exams hung over my head like
Damocles’ sword, threatening to invade my home and enter every nook and corner.
Baba advised me to learn by heart and internalize each word on every
page of every book. My world was to be surrounded by nothing else but dark
black letters. However, my desire to follow Baba’s advice would vanish
as soon as Baba left the house or the sound of his snores became
audible. On the way to school the one-class senior boys of
Asma Ahmed, with
her nose and chest both up in the air, was a good student who kept herself
aloof from everyone. It seems even she had exchanged glances with one of the
good students from the
If Borodada was
with me, I would sit in the rickshaw with my head bent in shame because of his
appearance. When I raised my head, it gave me the opportunity to furtively look
at the boys standing on the road. A new plump boy standing next to Lutfer,
wearing blue trousers and a white shirt, set my heart aflutter again one day.
One glance was enough to excite me. I kept feeling I was drowning in love’s
bottomless waters. I kept feeling that the plump boy would be thinking of me.
That he would be standing on the road at ten, when I would go to school, only
to get one glimpse of me. He did stand on the road the next day. When I saw
him, I was sure there was no one more handsome in the world than this
roly-poly. I was amazed at how my whole life now seemed centred around him.
How, if I didn’t see his smiling lips and eyes everyday, my life was futile.
Then suddenly one
day the mind switched from these instant love affairs, without which I had
thought I would surely die, to the books in the library. My eagerness to finish
reading as many books as were on the shelves gained the momentum of a hungry
shark. Once the books within our reach had been read, the ones beyond our reach
were obtained by either standing on our toes, or using ladders, and were
gobbled up by Chandana and me. These books were kept under our textbooks,
pillows, mattresses, in spite of the fact that our exams were looming ahead.
The home tutor Shamshul Huda, taught me physics, chemistry, biology, mathematics
and all the seven kinds of sciences. He would slap me almost every evening as a
routine. But despite that, as soon as Shamshul Huda had disseminated scientific
knowledge to me, had his tea and biscuits and left the house, I would bend over
those unwholesome books. Chandana was far ahead of me in this. Where I finished
two books, she finished seven. In the race to read books, I was always behind
her. It was my belief that Mamata, the bookworm, too could not keep up with
Chandana. The library books were called ‘outbooks’ by the girls at school. On
wanting to know what ‘outbook’ meant I was told that any book outside the
syllabus, was an ‘outbook’. Girls who read ‘outbooks’ were not looked upon very
favourably by the quiet, serious-minded good students. Those who read
‘outbooks’ were considered to be the kind who did not concentrate on their
studies. Their minds were restless. Most importantly, such girls were not good
students and got marks resembling zeros in their exams. This was the general
idea current in the school. Why this was so, I was unable to fathom. Even after
proving that I could read ‘outbooks’ and still do well in my exams, this idea
was not dispelled. Our addiction to these other books created a different world
for Chandana and me. Now, personal love stories of students or teachers did not
drift into our ears, they got stuck somewhere midway. The air around us was now
heavy with the tears of Parvati, the sound of Rajlakshmi’s bare
feet, Charulata’s loneliness and Bimala’s dilemma.
It was not that the
air was always heavy. Once in a while it cleared up with pure laughter, and
became free from gloom. Such an unblemished smile played often on our librarian
Syeduzzaman’s lips. He taught Islamiat once in a while. For this subject
the school had no teacher. Whenever a teacher was free, he came to take Islamiat
classes. Syeduzzaman’s unadulterated smiling stretched up to his ears in the Islamiat
class. His smile had value, because this class was less important than all
other classes. Kalyani Pal taught us Bangla wearing a Monalisa smile.
Such a smile had use in the savouring of the essence of literature. Suraiyya
Begum also exuded the scent of rajnigandhas through her toothy smile.
Could the scent of a flower be transmitted through a smile? Chandana said it
could. Our Mathematics teacher came to class with a grumpy face. Just as well.
Encouraged by Syeduzzaman’s smile, even if we sat in the Islamiat class
gazing abstractedly at the sky, writing copies full of poetry, spending
half-an-hour instead of five minutes in visiting the toilet or drinking water,
it did not make any difference. Syeduzzaman, too, spent more time on telling
stories than teaching Islamiat. His tales were not totally uninteresting
either. However, he repeatedly told us that as a subject Islamiat was
not entirely to be ignored, as it was a scoring subject. If one could write the
Surah Fateeha more or less correctly or give four names of the Asmani
books, one could
For the Mussalman
girls in class there was Islamiat readings, for the Hindus, Sanatan
Dharma teachings. In the whole school there was no one to teach Hindu
Religion either. Just because Kalyani Pal was a Hindu, she was constantly
pushed into that class. She would tell her students that instead of wasting
time with religion, they should spend time with mathematics that will be more
useful. The Hindu girls therefore got a big holiday in their Religion class.
They didn’t waste any time on mathematics and went straight to the grounds to
play, or spent time in adda , gossip in the empty classrooms. Since
Chandana was a Buddhist, she too should have left the class. When there
was no teacher for Hindu Religion, there was no question of there being a
teacher for Buddhist Studies. But she remained motionless in the Islamiat class,
either deep in some storybook, or in poetry. Sitting next to her I could
neither concentrate on Islamiat, nor open a Niharranjan Gupta under
Syeduzzaman’s nose. I would just scribble or compose verses.
“Syeduzzaman
fires a cannon
Loading a
religious horse on his shoulder
He speaks
whatever nonsense he can find
He not only has
a cough, he even pants.
He also puts a
cap on,
But does he
really believe in the Quran, the Hadith?
Or is it all a
put on?”
Having ripped
Syeduzzaman into shreds, I felt bad later. He was a thorough gentleman in shirt
and trousers, whose pate had not been adorned with any cap. Why had I slighted
him so! Actually it was not about Syeduzzaman at all. I could have done this to
anyone. A person looking like a puny tangra fish could safely be
converted into a wide-mouthed booal fish, especially with a little
indulgence from Chandana. When the Bangla teacher Suraiyya Begum would
waddle along, Chandana and I would follow her like two ants. Chandana would
whisper – “Olo Suraiyya, picking flowers, turning your face.”
I would add – “How
much longer will you waddle, the day has almost gone.”
Chandana, feigning
a deep sigh would conclude, “By the time you reach, you will be gone too.”
We knew the
teachers at the Residential Adarsha Balika Vidyayatan were not to be
disregarded. Nevertheless, we indulged in limericks, which rarely remained
secret, private or unknown. Other schools would recruit BA’s, but, if you
wanted to teach at the Residential, you had to be an MA, the qualification for
University teaching. None of these Vidyayatan teachers were from this
town. They came from very far, mostly from
Even the
auditorium in this school was worth a look, and so were the functions that were
held there. This auditorium was not a hencoop like in the other schools. It had
dimensions of a cinema hall. At the press of a button, heavy velvet drapes
moved from one end of the stage to the other. The stage itself was a revolving
one. The audience seating arrangements were extensive .The kind of plays,
dance-dramas, musical concerts and other functions that could be performed on
this stage could not be bettered by any other school. If not every month, at
least every two months cultural functions were held, apart from the various
festivals that were observed all the year round. If one solicited enough,
formidable teachers would come out of their shells and sing in amazingly
tuneful musical voices. There was no need for bombs to be thrown, requisite
amounts of tickling could bring forth poetry from the innermost recesses of
many, in fact even from that of the Maths teacher. It wasn’t as though apart
from these concerts we spent our time listlessly. Suraiyya Begum teaching Bangla
poetry, would very often recite the poems she had composed. Suraiyya
Begum’s heart may have been as soft as clay, but Jinnatoon Nahar’s was as hard
as a rock. She taught us English. Actually, I had never liked the English
teachers. The teachers of English were as tough as the subject was difficult. I
loved Bangla, so did Chandana. One day, as was our routine, we reached
school in the morning and stood in class-wise rows in the grounds. We completed
our daily exercises, and sang our National Anthem ‘Amar Sonar Bangla Aami
Tomai Bhalobashi , my golden Bangla I love you’ in front of the
Bangladesh National Flag. Then we went to our classes. As soon as we entered
our class room, our Principal informed us that writer Kazi Motahar Hussain was
visiting our school at that time and, if we wished to, we could meet him. Our
hearts trembled with excitement. Kazi Motahar Hussain was our Principal’s
father. He wrote very well, played very well, as it was with most intelligent
people – competent in every field of knowledge. He had fathered quite a few
talented children. Except for this Wabaida Saad, the others were all quite
renowned. His son Kazi Anwar Hussain was a famous writer. Daughters Sanjeeda
Khatoon and Faimida Khatoon, were both celebrated Rabindrasangeet exponents.
But, in going to meet this famous father of famous children, Chandana and I got
into a very embarrassing situation. At first we kept peeping through the door.
Soon we opened the door softly with eighty-five percent fear and fifteen
percent courage, and entering his room, we saw him laughing, waving his white
beard. His eyes were bright with curiosity. We entered the room,
saying in submissive tones that we had come to meet him. He listened to us,
smiled sweetly, and switched on a radio set kept on the table. The volume was
very loud. The radio remained on for quite some time. Chandana and I kept
exchanging astonished looks. His white-haired and bearded face glowed and he
continued smiling radiantly, with his ear glued to the radio. We again informed
him of the reason for our visit. This time he nodded his head, meaning that if
not then, now at least he had understood why we had come. Then immediately he left
the room, not just the room he left the house and walked rapidly towards the
school. Following him we found he had, Oh Ma, gone straight to
his daughter and was asking her, ‘You called for me?’ Wabaida Saad was stunned.
She had certainly not called for her respected father. What was happening? The
respected father was hard of hearing. How were we going to carry on a
conversation with him then! Wabaida Saad could not find any solution to our
problem. We had no alternative but to silently hurl our reverences at this
dignified figure of a much venerated, respected and saluted man. It was the
first time I had seen a living writer since I had grown up. I had heard from Ma
that when I was six months old, Rahat Khan, a writer friend of Baba, used
to visit us. He would rock me in his arms, and sing songs of his own
composition. The songs were dedicated to Farida Akhtar, a school friend of
Ma’s. “The mendicant maid of my dreams lives near a festering pond, but
I sailed my barge and went and saw her...” Rahat Khan was a master at
Ma was not as keen
as I was to hear stories of Rahat Khan. To a well-read girl, a writer was
someone great… someone who lived on a different planet. That those who wrote
books were human beings like us, that they too urinated and excreted, that
their noses too, once in a while, got stuffed with cold, that if they blew
their noses thick yellow mucous would come out, was something I could not
believe. I had the same belief about film stars. They led beautiful, elegant
lives, lived in a starry world, rode in shining cars and wore dazzling clothes.
They lolled on bolsters like kings and ate apples or grapes and they slept on beds
as soft as cotton-wool. They did not exude any physical smell, let alone that
of sweat. From them emanated the scent of roses. They never made even a single
mistake in their work, never spoke untruths and never caused anybody pain. They
were what could be called noble. I was as much a bookworm, as I was a cinema
addict. Chandana was the same. I would request and cajole Dada to take me to
the cinema, and we would pick up Chandana on the way. After a lot of trouble
and effort on our part Dada would arrange once in a while, to show us a movie,
but for my first chance to see a film magazine at home, I owe thanks to
Chhotda. Chhotda was a young man who could not concentrate on studies, who
roamed all over town; a jack of all trades, he was married rather prematurely.
Every week he would return home late in the afternoon with a Chitrali in
his hand to while away his leisure hours. Chhotda had no wealth, but he had a
heart. As soon as Chhotda’s recreation was over, my curiosity would be set
free. What was written in that paper with pictures? I was the kind of girl who,
whenever she saw printed words, would read them immediately. On the way to
school, in case there were no boys around, I would read anew all the signboards
I had read a million times before. After buying nuts, I would read what was
written on the packet while eating the nuts. After eating tamarind pickle, I
would lick the remnants and even decipher what was barely readable in the
oil-smudged paper. Why would a book worm like me allow a journal full of
amusement lie unread, because it was in pictures! It became a habit to look at
Chhotda’s Chitrali. The habit gradually descended to an addiction.
Or grew in to one, who knows! If Chhotda forgot to buy the magazine,
then what! Saving the rickshaw fare to school, I would buy the magazine and
read it from cover to cover. I’d go to sleep at night with all details at my
fingertips regarding the houses, cars, meals of all the heroes and heroines,
along with news of their love affairs and separations. In my dreams, I would
see one of the heroes meeting me on a starry night on the banks of a moonlit
lake with a soft breeze blowing. That hero would dance and sing for me as he
swore that he could not live without me, with the trees, skies, air, lake
water, moonlight everything as his witness. Unless I had the magazine in my
hand on Friday I could not digest my food, at least Ma thought so. I was not
worried about my digestion at all. However, if the magazine arrived while I was
eating, I would push my plate aside and get up. Or, I would be holding the
magazine in one hand and eating with the other. The hand holding the magazine
was invariably faster than the hand eating food. Chitrali had the power
to not only make me forget food it could even make me forget my parents.
This started when one of my articles was published in the Readers’ Page. I had
just sent a piece, on why the ethereal-voiced Sabeena was being ignored; given
the sweetness of her voice, Runa’s voice was harsh in comparison and so on.
That was the first time ever any article of mine had been published in a
magazine. Before sending the article, I had asked Chhotda whether Chitrali
would publish something I sent. Chhotda had said “Stupid” and pushed me away.
Apparently, Chitrali got five thousand letters a day. Four thousand nine
hundred and ninety two were never opened, let alone read, they were thrown into
the wastepaper basket. So if I sent a letter it would go straight to that
basket. Although Chhotda had extinguished with one puff, my chandelier of desire
and had heaped sacks of despair over my hopes, I had still secretly sent my
article to the Chitrali address, testing my fate. Quite delightfully, it
actually got published the very next week, the photograph of Sabeena Yasmin and
Runa Laila inserted. There was major excitement at home. I floated in the
currents of hip-hip-hurrahs. My name was printed in the magazine, an
unbelievable event indeed! Chhotda, after remaining totally open-mouthed for
sometime, finally stuttered “Wow, y-your wr-writing has been
pu-published!” As though I had accomplished the impossible! A victorious smile
was stuck to my lips like red ants on a sugar-candy. I brandished the magazine
innumerable times before everyone’s eyes except for Baba’s; in fact even before
Jori’s Ma’s eyes. Jori’s mother looked at the magazine with astonishment. “But
this looks no different from thongar kagoj, paper packets”, she said.
After this
unbelievable event took place, another equally unbelievable event occurred.
Next week, I found that several responses, both favourable and unfavourable, to
my article had also been published in Chitrali. My enthusiasm bubbled
like boiling rice. I began sending my articles not only to the Reader’s Page,
but also to the Letters section. Those days a new magazine called Purbani
modeled on Chitrali, was making its appearance in the world of
star-entertainment literature. I was not so heartless as to neglect Purbani.
I just had to have both Chitrali and Purbani every week. If
either of them carried my articles, Chhotda would say with a thin smile on his
lips, “Yes, it’s been published,” and if it was not he would say, “What
happened, didn’t they print your article?” Chandana did not have to be pulled
into this world. Struck by glamour she entered the arena herself. More was
written about me than I wrote myself. I was becoming like a member of the
group. It seemed the person who gave the replies to letters in Chitrali,
known to everyone as Uttar (answer) da, dipped into a pot of syrup while
composing his replies. As I continued to write, this unseen Uttarda began to
feel like my own Dada. After a small hair-pulling battle between Yasmin
and me over a pencil, I wrote to Uttarda to inform him of my unhappy
state of mind. Even if I was full of good spirits, I had to inform him first.
Plucking a phrase from the Golpukur adda, Chhotda one day said,
“Twenty springs of my life have passed by and not a crow has cawed let alone a
cuckoo sing here”. Cuckoo meaning the cultural luminaries, while crows stood
for the smaller fry in the cultural scene. I quickly picked up the phrase and
sent it to Uttarda. He was so upset to hear it that he chased all the
crows in
After my articles
were published in Chitrali, quite a few letters came in my name to the Aubokash
address, from various cities of the country with requests for pen-friendship.
This had never happened before. Till then, no letter had come for me from
anyone outside our relative circle. I was quite excited on getting these
letters. Pen-friendship was quite a unique affair – to know people far away
only through letters, and then to gradually get to know them almost as
relatives and friends. Jewel from
Chandana had begun
to read another magazine, ‘Bichitra’, apart from Chitrali and Purbani.
One of her articles had even been published in the Reader’s Page. On hearing
that women were to be recruited by the Police Force, Chandana gave a proposal
for the uniform the women police could wear. The Burkha. Remaining under the
Burkha would be in accordance with religious requirements and at the same time
the activities of thieves and robbers could be observed through the eye-holes.
No passerby would suspect she was a policewoman. Bichitra had published
her article along with a Burkha-wali’s cartoon sketched next to it. I
had to save four to six annas from the school rickshaw fare, to buy Chitrali
and Purbani. It wasn’t always possible to have the money to buy Bichitra.
I would perpetually beg for it from Dada. Dada enjoyed seeing my
outstretched hand, and once in a while, dropped some coins into it. With that,
I would buy Bichitra like an addict. To buy meant that I had to make
Yasmin or Jori’s Ma stand at the black gate, or stand there myself in order to
call a hawker as soon as one appeared. If there was no hawker, I would send
Yasmin to the Ganginar Par turn, and she would buy one. Since I was grown up I
was not allowed to walk alone on the streets. The prohibitory order had not
been imposed on Yasmin, so at bad times I had to depend on her. It wasn’t just
the expense of buying magazines, to write for the magazines and reply to the
pen-friends was also expensive. If one gave Chhotda the letters, even
the money for postage stamps had to be counted out. In case Dada’s mood was
off, the option was to sell “old glass bottles and papers”. Next to Aubokash,
hawkers would call out all day and pass along the three roads that went in
different directions— one towards Golpukur Par, another towards Durgabari and
another towards Sherpukur Par. They would call out melodiously- Sari and
kapod-wala, badam-wala, chanachur-wala, aachar-wala, churi
and pheeta-wala, ice-cream-wala, hawai-mithai-wala, ghee-wala,
murgi-wala, kabootar-wala, hans-wala, kotkoti-wala,
muri-wala, glass-bottle-paper-wala. As soon as I would hear the
hawker calling the last glass-bottle-paper-wala, I would send whoever was at
hand to catch the fellow. On his head would be a big basket. Before the basket
was lowered from the head, bargaining would be on. “How much?”
“Newspaper three
taka a ser, books and copies two taka.”
“What do you mean
by three taka? If you will give four taka, tell us.”
“Four taka would
be too much. You can take three and a half.”
“Are your weighing
scales okay?”
“Sell only after
you are satisfied.”
Once the hawker
lowered the basket and sat in the verandah, I would forget my fascination for
the old magazines under the bedroom cot, and get them out. I even hunted out
old books and copies. After selling them, I would get about ten or fifteen
taka. Even ten-fifteen taka made me feel like a king. Chhotda too
sold magazines, Ma sold old glass bottles after hoarding them, even torn scraps
of paper found in the courtyard while sweeping, were dusted and stored. The two
paise Ma earned from broken glass and torn paper, she kept under the
mattresses, or tied in the corner of her sari aanchal. This she was able to put
to use and stemmed at times Yasmin and Chhotda’s extreme penury. Chandana was
never lashed by poverty. In spite of living in a rented green tin house in
Panditpara, Chandana easily procured money for magazines every week. Chandana
may not have been able to go to the Town Hall premises full of men but she
would manage to do some amazing things without warning. She arrived one day at
the crack of dawn riding on her younger brother, Saju’s, cycle. On seeing
Chandana, my heart overflowed with joy. The rest of those at home scrambled out
of bed and stared open-mouthed at her. How daring a girl had to be to take a
cycle out in the streets of the city, whether early in the morning or at
deserted
While I was in
this frame of mind, almost every evening, after finishing his work, Shamshul
Huda would come to tutor me. As soon as I saw Huda’s face anywhere near the
black gate, I would start trembling. On a delightful evening I would have to do
sums, delve into physics and almost drown in the pond of chemistry. When
Rabindranath Das came to teach Yasmin, I found it quite enjoyable. Rabindranath
taught Yasmin for fifteen minutes and chatted for forty-five minutes. He did
not chat with just Yasmin, but with me too. He had a daughter, Krishna and a
son, Gautam, growing up in the Kaliganj
The SSC exams were
close at hand, in fact they were literally at the tip of my nose, so to speak,
and there was no option but to stay put in the house. Out of twenty-four hours,
I was at my study table for eighteen. Suddenly I became the most important
person in the house. If I went for a walk, everyone stood aside to give me
space. If I went to the toilet, Ma would herself go and place a pitcher of
water there for me. No one had to be told to fill my bucket of water, before my
bath it was always filled. Since I had to sit up at nights preparing for the
exams, special delicacies were cooked for me to eat. Ma was actually
feeding me with her own hands. Every so often, Baba would return home
with fruits and would caress me. There was pin drop silence in the house day
and night. The inhabitants in the house whispered amongst themselves so that no
sound disturbed my concentration. When the Puja songs started in the para,
Baba personally went and told the Chairman of the Puja Committee,
that the songs had to be stopped any which way, as his daughter was taking her
SSC exam. Understanding the importance of the SSC exam, Dilip Bhowmik actually
stopped the music. In case he had to play them, the mikes were turned the other
way. Next to my open books and copies on the table was also an open box of
biscuits. I was to eat them whenever I felt hungry while studying. Ma came and
gave me hot milk twice a day, saying, “Milk helps the brain to function and
helps remember all that is memorised.” One of the girls of this house was
taking the SSC exams, what could be bigger news, or of greater significance
than that? As the days drew closer, I got the feeling that the Angel of Death,
Aajrail, was coming to seize me forcibly. My heart trembled. My body, hands and
legs shook. At two or three at night, Baba would awaken me and say, “Splash
some water in your eyes, and sit down to study.” I would do so and sit down.
Baba would say, “If the water does not work, apply mustard oil.”
The first day was
the Bangla exam. I had never felt afraid about Bangla ever
before, but on the day of the exam I kept feeling I would not pass. Every
morning Ma gave me a fried egg to eat, saying it was good for me. But on an
exam day, an egg was not allowed, because if one ate an egg one scored an egg
too. A banana, too, would not do. Not even a kochu. Getting a banana or kochu
in the exams was the same as getting a rasgolla. Although bananas, kochu
and rasgolla were my favourite foods, I had to forego them while the
exams were on. I was the one having exams but Baba was more restless
than me. The night before, he hadn’t slept a wink. Seeing him, it felt as
though Baba was taking the exams. He repeatedly wanted to know if
I had memorised the whole book or not.
Ma was
tying two banana shaped plaits with my oily hair on my oily head. Now all that
was left was to tie the threaded paper with a knot in my hair. My eyes were
spilling over with tears of shame, but still Baba caught hold of me and
tied the small paper packet to my hair. Chhotda was in splits on seeing
me, so was Yasmin. Chhotda said, “You can’t possibly pass your SSC, but
with the power of this amulet you might.”
Baba handed
me not one or two but four new fountain pens and a new bottle of Pelican ink.
In case, the ink in my pen finished while writing, I was to fill up and
continue to write. Although everyone had been catering to the moods of the
examinee, no one listened to my ‘No’ regarding the amulet. That amulet surfaced
like a Kholshey fish on my oily hair. Chandana also took her exams at
“Mother Earth,
please swallow me up without further delay,” I prayed fervently for only the
second time in my life. But the Mother Earth did not comply.
“If I am to pass I
would do so anyway, not because of any amulet,” I said as soon as I returned
home, pulling it off my hair with one stroke.
Ma objected,
“It will help you remember your lessons.”
“I can remember
what I had learnt anyway,” I said gritting my teeth and suppressing my sobs.
Baba rebuked
me and said, “You can remember because this is on your head, otherwise you
wouldn’t.”
I stared in astonishment.
I could not believe that this man who had faith in blessings, obeisance,
amulets and charms was my father.
Everyday that
talisman was put on my head. None of my rejections were heeded to. Full of
shame, with my head bowed I had to go everyday to the
Chapter Three
TA TA THOI THOI – DANCING AWAY
Chhotda re-entered
Aubokash with his wife, just before my exams. This happened because of
Ma. She had been inconsolable in her grief over her son. When her appeals and
requests to Baba failed, she sent Hashem mama to fetch Chhotda and
his wife to the city, from some shanty in a village in Islampur. However,
reaching the town was no guarantee that he would get permission to enter Aubokash.
Baba straight away declared that they were not to even look towards Aubokash
even in the distant future. Ma cajoled Nani, and a room next to the well in
Nani’s courtyard, the room that used to be our dining room, was cleared out. A
wooden cot was laid out for them. Once Chhotda began to live there with
his wife, Baba issued orders by which at least Yasmin and my visits to
Nanibari had to stop. Ma, however, regularly visited Chhotda’s family.
Obviously she never went empty-handed. For the welfare of her son, rice, daals,
vegetables, whatever she could collect from Aubokash, she carried with
her. Whenever Baba was not at home, Chhotda dropped in at Aubokash.
He, of course, never dropped in without reason. He came only when he needed
something. Ma would think of Baba’s cruelty and say, “Is
he a man or a stone?” But her untiring efforts softened Baba a
bit one day and he agreed to allow Chhotda and his wife to enter Aubokash,
but they were to only stay in a small room in the corner. They were not allowed
free access to the rest of house. Baba only agreed because he wanted to
see (since Chhotda was already married, although there was no
justification for marriage at this age) if he could complete his studies and
earn his own keep. Ma arranged the small room that she occupied for
them. To hang their clothes, she placed a clothes rack in front of the door
adjoining Dada’s room that she kept shut. Chhotda’s old cot was brought
from Dada’s room and placed in the small room. Chhotda insisted
that the dressing table be moved into his room. Nana had gifted Ma this
dressing table along with the pots and bedspreads for her wedding. Wooden
flowers and leaves were carved around the mirror and at the bottom and they
swung if the table was moved. It had two small shelves on both sides and two
drawers. This leonine four-legged table was dragged from Baba’s room by Ma
herself and put in the small room. She wiped the dusty mirror with her sari
aanchal. Geeta would spend an hour before the table, getting ready, and would
go out with Chhotda almost every evening. I looked at them with longing eyes.
If only I, too, could do the same!
Baba had
sworn he would not look at Chhotda and his wife. However, within two
days of their coming to stay at Aubokash permanently, he called for me
after having his morning bath. Clothed in his shirt, pant, shoes and tie, with
a head full of curly hair, combed and doused in mustard oil, he was sitting
cross legged in the drawing room. When Baba called, it meant that wherever you
were, whatever you may be doing, you had to drop everything and rush to stand
before him. As soon as I stood before Baba, he said, “Call those two.” ‘Those
two’ were which two? I had the opportunity to ask that question, but didn’t.
Since Baba had given orders, I had to figure out which ‘two’ in the
house were ‘those two’. Why only me, everyone at home had to know which ‘two’
Baba could summon at this time. I figured out who were ‘those two’.
Entering Chhotda’s room I said in hushed tones, “Go, summons have come, not
only for you but for both of you.” Chhotda’s face turned pale in a
second. He got out of bed in a hurry, tying the knot of his lungi.
He asked Geeta, a
score of times to accompany him. She sat motionless on the bed, while
agitatedly Chhotda moved back and forth between the bed and the door.
“Nasreen,” – with a weird sound the second call came from the drawing room.
This meant why ‘those two’ were taking so long! Finally, when the ‘two’
mustered up enough courage to drag themselves up for the audience and stand
before him, I pressed my eyes, ears and nose to a crack in the door. Geeta bent
down and touched Baba’s feet. For a Hindu girl, kadambusi, much like a pranam,
was nothing new. Baba coughed to clear his throat, although there
was no such cough filling up his throat. Looking at Chhotda with eyes as
red as it was possible to make, he said, “Have you thought about your life? You
have got married so your studies have been abandoned. You went to set up house
in the village with a hundred taka job. What job was this, may I ask? A
coolie’s work, right? What else would you get but a coolie’s job with your education!
You have dug your own grave. Has it hurt anyone else? Has anything happened to
me? Nothing has happened to me. It has to you. Even a madman understands
himself, but you don’t. If you ask a madman for his money, will he give it? If
you ask him for his food, will he give it? No, he won’t.”
Baba paused
for a while. I don’t know whether he was waiting for words of defense from the
‘two’ embodiments. Then he said, “Go and take admission in Anandamohan. You
have a third division in the intermediate, so your chances are dim, but go and
try at least. When you go, take money from my chambers.” Baba now turned
to Geeta, and screwing up his eyes and nose said, “What were you thinking of
when you did this? You did not think even of your own future, did you?” Geeta’s
eyes were not visible as they were cast down, her hair arrangement could not be
seen because of her aanchal-covered head. Geeta’s mouth was a small one
and in her small face the mouth looked smaller. Baba paused again, cleared his
throat in spite of the absence of cough, and said, “Geeta, both my daughters
have to study. Let me not see you chatting with them. Have you understood?”
Geeta nodded her head to convey she had understood. Baba got up noisily
and loudly closed the door adjoining my room. Leaving orders that they were to
use the inner verandah door only, he opened this door noisily and left equally
noisily. Chhotda had no option but to follow Baba’s orders. He secured
admission in Bangla Honours at Anandamohan and returned home.
Hearing of this, Baba went around with a sarcastic smile on the corner of his
mouth for a week saying, “How many men have succeeded studying Bangla? Bangla
graduates are qualified, at the most to drive bullock carts, not much
else.” That was all he said. Baba had seemingly given up hope,
and did not drag Chhotda to get him admission in some science subject.
Chhotda safely kept spending his married life in Aubokash. Once
in a while carrying a copy in his hand and a fountain pen in his pocket, he
would go to college, and return with a despondent face.
In spite of Baba’s
strict orders, Yasmin’s and my friendship with Geeta grew. When the elders were
not at home, I was normally the one who was ‘the leader of the mischief makers,
the King of Lanka’. We would play in the grounds or climb up the terrace and
survey the world. The world meant the dozens of different people on the
streets, the houses and courtyards of neighbours, the holy Tulsi corner ritual,
the evening incense, and the singing of kirtans with the accompanying music
of the cymbals. It also meant watching the procession of women, each clad in a
single wrap of coloured sari and carrying bell metal pitchers, led by a hired
band, heading towards the
“You won’t be able
to climb the banana tree, will you?” I asked once. “What do you mean won’t be
able to?” Even in a sari she would climb up the banana tree and go straight up
to the topmost branch. Perched precariously, she would even eat the guavas
which were within her reach. The neighbours could see the new bride of the
house perched on the tree from the streets. We were awestruck at Geeta’s
antics. We stuck to her like a tail. I had no knowledge of climbing trees,
Geeta initiated me. She taught me many other things as well. When it rained, it
was our old habit to run around in the courtyard and grounds and get wet, climb
up the stairs to the terrace and dance all around it. Geeta was not satisfied
with just running and dancing in the rain. Drenched like a wet crow, she would
climb up the thatched roof of the hut and sit there.
I was sitting in
the verandah watching her and saw her fall. She had heard the sound of the
black gate, and in her attempt to clamber down she had fallen. What was worse,
she fell on the broken brick laid courtyard. Having slipped on the wet roof,
she had rolled down like a ripe pumpkin torn from its stalk. Yasmin too was on
top of the roof. Seeing Geeta fall she was not sure whether to laugh or cry.
Geeta sat in the courtyard, with a pale face and a wet crumpled sari. Meanwhile
Ma had come and was hanging up her wet burkha on the clothes wire in
the verandah. She was shocked to see the bride of the house sitting on the
macadam. She exclaimed, “Afroza, what are you doing there?” Geeta said, “No,
Ma, I’m doing nothing, Yasmin is up there on the roof, so I am sitting here and
watching her.”
“Yasmin has
climbed the roof?”
“Yes, see, there
she is, sitting. I told her so many times not to climb, she will fall, but she
didn’t listen.”
Yasmin came down
from the top of the roof when Ma scolded her. Geeta, meanwhile went to the
bathroom, changed her sari and came back looking completely innocent. Ma cooked
khichuri ,a concoction of rice and lentils, in the afternoon and poured
some onto Geeta’s plate. Heaving a sigh of relief she said, “Since you are
looking after the two girls, I can now peacefully go to Naumahal sometimes and
hear the Quran Hadith”. Geeta said, “Ma, you don’t worry at all, I’m looking
after them. I will see that they do not get into any mischief”. Ma served
Geeta three pieces of meat instead of two, with mango pickle on the side. Geeta
said, “Ma you have cooked delicious meat. How do you make such tasty
pickle?” Ma served her more meat and pickle and carried on
enthusiastically, “I will teach you how to make the pickle. It’s very simple.
Cut the mango into slices and soak them in a jar with mustard oil, a few pods
of garlic, and a few dried chillies. Once in a while you must put out the jars
in the sun.” Geeta stared wide-eyed and said, “Really?” Geeta seemed to fall
from the skies in surprise. Once Chhotda’s childhood friend Khokon had come
from
Geeta not only
looked like a small baby, she also sounded like one. A heavy burden of hair was
on her head. Her nose was as sharp as a parrot’s beak. Her lips were like
Aphrodite’s, actually closer to home, her lips were more like split chillies.
She had small teeth like mice and a lean neck, like a crane. She had tiny
hands, tiny feet and a petite body. No one called a dark girl beautiful, but we
thought she was the most beautiful girl in the world.
When the big drums
heralding the Pujas began to
beat, we whispered to our baby, “The Pujas
have started from today.” Geeta fell from the sky. “Really? I didn’t know!” she
said Clucking our tongues in sympathy, we felt that having married into a
Mussalman household, she was not being able to enjoy the Pujas. We could
attend all the Pujas throughout the year, moving from one community
celebration to another. On Ashtami and Rath Melas, we could buy
sugar candy toys and wheat crispies. However, since Geeta had converted from
Hindu to Mussalman, we felt very sad for her as she would no more be able to do
so. Suddenly, Chhotda came running and said, “Its late Geeta, quickly,
wear that sari of yours”.
“Which sari?”
Geeta asked in surprise.
“The one I bought
yesterday, that one”.
“The one you
bought yesterday? Which one?”
“Arrey,
your Puja sari!”
“What do you mean
by Puja sari? What all you say!”
Having noted my
presence with a slant of his eyes, he laughed in embarrassment and said, “You
know that blue sari you have, the one your mother gave you, wear that one”.
“Say that then.
Instead of saying that, why did you say that you had bought it? Where do you
have money that you can buy anything! You can’t earn a penny and yet you talk
big!”
“Hurry up, its
getting late”.
“Late for what,
where are you going?”
“We have an
invitation at Babua’s house, have you forgotten?”
Dressing Geeta up
like a fairy in blue, Chhotda left. These outings happened quite often.
Visits to the houses of old friends, Chipachosh members and new friends
at the Golpukur Par adda sessions. But they didn’t only spend time
visiting friends’ homes. They attended various functions also and enjoyed
themselves at music concerts, dance recitals, theatre, and cinema. In fact,
they didn’t even miss jatras if possible. Seeing all this I was filled
with longing. Chhotda had sold his guitar. The reputation he had in town
as a good guitarist was disappearing like cotton wool in the wind, but it did
not seem to bother him at all. He was living and eating in his father’s hotel
with his wife but that there was another life beyond, for which he should be
looking frantically for a job …
After the Pujas,
Yasmin returned from school and gave me some news secretly. On Puja day
one of her friends had seen Geeta entering her parents’ home in Peonpara.
Followed by Chhotda. I talked to Chhotda about the incident, and was
cautioned that no one, not even the birds, should get hold of this news. The
birds did not get to know. The birds did not even get to know that very often
when Baba went to the bathroom in the morning, Chhotda would
stealthily enter his room as if he had to fetch something he had left
there. Or, as if he had some very important matter to discuss with Baba; his
face would have such a calm yet serious look. Meanwhile, from the pocket of the
trouser hanging on the rack, he would pick the change, whether ten taka or
twenty. His hands did not shake to remove even fifty. Ma saw everything,
but pretended she hadn’t. I trembled with fear at Chhotda’s daring. To gauge
what would be the outcome, if he got caught, required the kind of courage which
neither Yasmin nor I had.
The tree-climbing
Geeta not only jumped on trees, she jumped under them too. In order to teach us
dance, she would make Yasmin and me get up from the study table and move around
the whole house tapping ‘ta ta thoi thoi’, with our feet. If Yasmin and
I did not believe that we were soon to become ‘great danseuses’ Geeta certainly
did. As soon we heard Baba return, we left our dancing and ran
helter-skelter to sit at our study tables. The disturbance caused by our
rushing around touched Baba’s body like the wind. Almost every night, before
going to bed, he would call me and ask in a cool voice, “Have you eaten?”
Clutching the
drapes of the door, I would reply, “Yes”
“Have you
studied?”
“Yes”
“Have you played?”
The answer ‘yes’
was almost at the tip of my tongue. Swallowing in time I would use another
word, “No”.
“Have you
gossiped?”
“No”
Baba looked
at me in astonishment. “Why not?”
Forget the other
word, no word came to me at that moment.
“Why haven’t you
gossiped now that there is no dearth of friends in the house?”
I began to twist
the curtains on the door around my finger.
Baba said,
“Adda is a good thing. You don’t have to study, or pass exams. Look at
Chhotda, what a beautiful life he leads! He has to do the useless job of
studying no more.”
I was now
untwisting the drapes from around my finger.
“When I leave home
tomorrow, you will sit down to gossip, have you understood! Till I return, you
will continue to gossip, have you understood what I am saying?”
Normally, when
Baba made you understand something, you had to nod your head and say,
“Understood”. But now I clearly realized it would be very dangerous to say
that.
Baba feared
that in Geeta’s company our studies would suffer badly. He had already got the
door in my room adjoining Chhotda’s locked. So they were using the verandah
door. However, the day Chhotda’s friend Khokon spent the night, he slept
on Chhotda’s bed. Consequently, Geeta had to sleep on mine. It was only a
question of one night, nothing much. Though, it may have been nothing much to
us, it certainly was not so to Baba. He woke up late at night to drink some
water, and was pacing from one room to another, when he discovered Geeta in my
bed. He screamed, shouted, threatened and roared and turned the silent night
into a clamorous afternoon. Geeta was compelled to spend the rest of the night
on the same bed as Chhotda and Khokon.
Even though Baba
tried his best to remove Geeta forcibly from our proximity, our attraction
did not diminish, instead it grew. We would ignore our studies and wait on her
all day just to make her smile. If she asked for her shoes, or comb or water I
would put it before her. If she broke her glass, I would tell Ma it had broken
because my hand had knocked it over. I saved her from many other misdemeanors
as well. One evening she called us all to the terrace and lit candles on the
railings for Victory Day. She then walked on the railings like any circus girl.
She knew that if she slipped even a little, she would surely fall and crush her
head, still she continued. In fact, she incited us to do the same. Lying
horizontal on the railing, she reached into her blouse and took out a packet of
cigarettes, and a matchbox. She lit the cigarette and took a puff, leaving us
stunned. The people on the road saw her openmouthed. Geeta said, “Let them
look. I don’t care! It is my wish if I want to smoke. Who has anything to say?”
In our house no one smoked cigarettes. I had not even seen any male relatives
do so. In these circumstances, a woman, and that too a new bride, was now
smoking in full view of the neighbours and passersby, lying openly on the
terrace railing. If this reached Baba’s ears, it would be horrifying. Just
visualising what this unmitigated disaster would result in, made my body turn
cold. Geeta said, “Arrey, nothing will happen. Come on, take a pull!” My
voice shook, as I replied “Baba will kill me if he comes to know!” Geeta
was least bothered about what would happen or not if Baba got to know.
She taught me how to smoke. Inhaling deep mouthfuls of smoke I would throw it
out towards the smoky clouds covering the blue sky. My cold body would slowly
turn lukewarm. I felt an odd attraction towards things denied me. “Where did
you get the cigarettes from?” I asked. Geeta just said, “Got them,” wearing
only a slight smile on the corner of her lips. She never said anymore than
that. In this smoke of cigarettes and mystery, Geeta appeared like Devidurga.
I came down from the terrace, washed out my mouth to remove the smoke smell and
I sat down with lips locked. It was not only Geeta I saved from minor household
incidents or accidents, I saved Chhotda as well. Chhotda, out of
dire need, had completely stopped going in the direction of
“Don’t have five
taka.”
“Then give me
four”
“Don’t have four
either”
“Okay, then give
me three at least”. If not three then two taka, if not two then one, if not
even that, Chhotda did not even leave eight or four annas. He
swooped down to pick up anything he could. Secretly, he even removed medicines
from Dada’s medicine chest. Even though we knew, we kept these incidents
to ourselves. It was like allowing pinworms to eat up our stomachs. Dada went
to the bathroom in the morning. Since he normally finished his toilet, shaving
and bath in one go it took him at least one hour. Chhotda could at this time,
pick the loose change from Dada’s pocket without any fears. Taking money
from Baba’s pocket entailed a big risk. Baba had his bath so swiftly,
that exactly when he would come out was never known. Moreover, Baba’s room
directly faced the bathroom. In comparison, Dada’s room was some
distance away, across the verandah and beyond another two rooms. Chhotda’s needs
were never satisfied. Under the wood apple tree, where not even the fallen
leaves would get to know, Chhotda would walk soundlessly towards the
black gate. He would carefully open it and leave, carrying either big paper
packets or shopping bags full of medicines under a panjabi or a loose shirt.
Initially, he said he needed medicines. There was no end to his physical
ailments. However, I questioned him when I saw him taking the medicines out of
the house. “Where are you taking these medicines?” Chhotda’s melancholic answer
was, “Friends ask for them; they want vitamins”.
Chhotda did
not stick to vitamins for too long. Very soon he was removing medicines not
only for cough and fever, but even stronger medicines for very serious
diseases. Why? Friends want. Why? They want medicines, some for cough or fever,
and others for stomach problems, even ulcers. But are friends sick throughout
the year!
“Do I have only
one or two friends?”
That was true,
Chhotda had countless friends. The people who came home looking for
Chhotda varied from journalists, poets, playwrights to Chipachosh
friends. From students, businessmen and executives to the unemployed - all
kinds of friends came. Their ages and sizes varied from ankle high to head
high. Some even higher than the head by a couple of feet. I watched them from
behind the drapes, watched and wished that like Chhotda, I too could chat with
them. That I had neither the courage nor the opportunity to do so was something
I realized very acutely.
“You say your
friends are always so sick, but they look quite healthy.”
“It’s not just the
friends. Their fathers and mothers too are sick. They have no dearth of
relatives!”
One day I
confronted him. “What do you really do with these medicines, Chhotda!
Tell me truthfully!”
Chhotda smiled
mysteriously and said, “Why what happened?”
“Nothing, but
first tell me what you do with them, otherwise I will tell Dada.” My threat
worked.
Chhotda said,
“I sell them”.
Chhotda’s words
worked, too. I melted in sympathy. I would myself take out expensive medicines,
two at a time, from Dada’s chest and hand them to Chhotda, so would
Yasmin. As soon as Dada left, Chhotda would immediately enter the
room and apart from medicines, would look for any money Dada might have
forgotten in his room. Finally, he would take a shirt from the clothes rack,
wear it and leave the room. Dada had innumerable shirts, so he never
found out. By chance if they met face-to-face at the black gate or on the
streets, Dada’s face would darken and he would ask, “What Kamaal? Why
are you wearing my shirt?”
Chhotda would
say, “I have worn it, but don’t worry I will take it off and keep it back.”
Another day, Dada
would ask “Achcha, where is my blue Tetron shirt?” With a vest on top of
his trousers and socks on his feet, Dada would go around asking the
whole house about his shirt, looking here and there stupidly.
“Who knows, Ma might
have taken it for washing”.
“Arrey no.
That was already washed and ironed”.
“Then I don’t
know.”
“And where is the
white shirt, by the way? The one on which Sheila had embroidered flowers on the
pocket?”
“Didn’t you wear
that yesterday?”
“Arrey no,
yesterday I wore a red shirt”.
“Ask Ma, I don’t
know.”
Dada would
ask Ma. Ma wouldn’t know either.
Wearing a crumpled
garish red shirt, Dada would go out very unhappily. He was very busy.
Being a representative of the Fisons Company, he had to go to Tangail one day
and to Netrakona the next, and after returning from Netrakona, again to
Jamaalpur. Dada’s fair face was slowly getting burnt black as he went
around in the sun. I felt sorry for Dada as well.
I told Chhotda,
“You get a lot of money selling the medicines. Then why do you take two or
three taka from me as well?”
“What are you
saying? I don’t get so much money! These are doctor’s samples, don’t you see
‘not to be sold’ written on them? The shopkeepers give less than half the price
for these,” Chhotda explained to me.
Ma too
noticed Chhotda holding the medicine bag and disappearing very often
under the wood apple tree. She asked Baba gently, “Can’t a good job be
arranged for Kamaal?”
Baba’s tone was
also soft. “Yes, I can. I can arrange for him to work as a coolie.”
“What are you
saying?”
“Why? A coolie’s
job is a good one. Aren’t people living on a coolie’s income? Let him do it.
Coolies do not need to study. You only have to carry bags on your head. You do
not need to know physics or chemistry.”
Seeing that Baba’s
tone was fast changing from gentle to angry, Ma moved away.
Geeta was always
wearing new saris and going out with Chhotda. She had a lot of new cosmetics.
Seeing all this, Ma told Chhotda, “Well, Kamaal. You do not even have a
good pant or shirt. You wear Noman’s shirts. You can buy a shirt and pant for
yourself at least. Even in the house you wear a torn lungi. Why do you
punish yourself?”
“Is there any
money that I can buy anything?” Chhotda said with a glum face.
“Why isn’t there
any money? Don’t you work?”
“The money I get
from work doesn’t even pay for a rickshaw.”
“For your wife you
seem to buy things alright.”
“For Geeta? I
can’t give Geeta anything. Whatever she has is her own. Her mother gives her.”
“Listen Kamaal. We
do not ask anything of you. You buy for your wife that is a good thing. If you
don’t give your wife, who will! What I’m saying is buy something for yourself,
too. You don’t even have a good pair of sandals. Buy one.”
“Give me the
money, I’ll buy,” replied Chhotda.
Ma was silent for
a long time. When she spoke, it was as if she had finally climbed out of
a pool in which she had been swimming all by herself in absolute silence.
“If I had money, I
would definitely give you. Who gives me any money?” Ma sighed long and
deep as she spoke. “If I could read and write, I would have at least been able
to do a job. Would I have had to depend on anyone?”
Thereafter, for
two weeks Ma kept begging Baba for money. She went and bought Chhotda
a lungi, two shirts and a pair of Bata sandals. However, Chhotda’s wants
did not end. He continued to remove medicines both in the morning and evening.
“Accha, has
Sharaf been here?” Dada asked with a crease between his two eyebrows.
“What do I know, I
have no idea.”
“He must have
come.”
“How do you know
he did?”
“I’m finding my
medicines short in count.”
“Is Sharaf mama
taking them or what?”
“He is a big
thief. He must be taking them.”
In a cracked voice
Ma said, “Look Noman, don’t accuse a person without knowing or hearing
anything. Sharaf has not visited this house in the last three months. What
makes you call him a thief? What has he stolen?”
“You have no idea,
Ma. He had taken fifty taka loan from me, saying he would return it the very
next day. It is five months now and there is no sign of him giving it back.”
Ma went to
the other room. She sat there alone. Through the window in this room the breeze
blew very strongly. What conversation Ma had with it, who knows. None of
us understood Ma’s pain. Taking up Dada’s cue, I said, “Sharaf
mama is really a thief. He came the other day. I left him in the room
just for a little while and went out. I returned to see my gold earrings
missing. I had kept them on top of the table.”
“Then those earrings
of yours were taken by Sharaf only,” Dada was sure.
Dada of
course ultimately solved the mystery of his periodically disappearing
medicines. If he ever entered Chhotda’s room for some reason, his eyes fell on
the clothes rack. Picking up six or seven of his shirts, he would leave the
room. Out on the verandah, he would show them to Ma and say, “I found
these on raiding Kamaal’s room”.
Seeing all this,
Geeta told Chhotda, “Can’t you die? Why do you have to live this life! If you
have the capacity, go buy some shirts. If you can’t buy them, then remain
naked.” On hearing this Chhotda exposed his black gums and laughed.
Geeta said in a subdued tone, “Go on! Laugh! You have no self-respect. Everyone
at home insults you but you learn nothing. Why have you brought me into this
hell?”
No one at home had
the capacity to understand Geeta’s moods and temper. One moment she was dancing
and laughing and the next she was sitting with a long, gloomy face. Sometimes
she locked the doors and stayed in bed the whole day in her room. At mealtimes
Ma would stand in front of the closed door and call, “Oh, Afroza,
Afroza! Get up. Aren’t you going to eat anything? If you don’t eat you’ll feel
ill. Get up Afroza and have your food.” Geeta Mitra alias Afroza Kamaal would
make a bitter face and would wake up only after being called several times. She
would then eat and drink and go back to sleep. After a long time, Ma had
got her younger son back. This child who was weaned late, spoke late, a
semi-lisping, semi baby and his wife were now being given food cooked
personally by Ma. She not only served them herself in their room but if
possible fed them with her own hands as well. Ma put in every effort just to
make her half-Hindu half-Mussalman daughter-in-law happy. If she was happy, Ma
felt Chhotda would also be happy. Either Ma tried really hard
to win Geeta’s heart over, because it was not possible to win anyone else’s at
home, or maybe by spoiling her Ma wanted Geeta to get used to this
household. After all, she was completely unused to Baba’s bullying and
intimidation. On returning home, Chhotda would go straight to his small
room without so much as looking in any other direction. If I ever pushed open
the half closed door, I would see Geeta lying down facing the wall, while Chhotda
would be petting her all over. Like a holy man in a trance, he would be
chanting, “Geeta, Geeta, Geeta! Oh Geeta!”
Chhotda was
constantly handed lists. Geeta needed blouses, saris, lipsticks, rouge, powder
etc. Chhotda’s wan face looked even more so. The skin of his lips was so dry
they had started to chap. He never spoke to the people in the house unless
required. He was completely oblivious to everything else.
Baba, on hearing
of Chhotda’s job, heaved a long sigh and said, “To one who digs his own
grave, what can anyone say?” No, no one can say anything. Chhotda had
really dug his own grave rather deep. A journalist now, he would leave in the
morning with a diary in his hand. Returning in the afternoon, he would have
lunch and go out again. He came home in the evening sometimes carrying a sari,
or a blouse or cosmetics for his wife. The minute he came home, Ma would
go into the kitchen to get food. The days he returned only in the evening, Ma
would be waiting with the table laid out. Chhotda would emerge from
his room with a drawn face to eat. No, not alone, he would be holding Geeta
around the waist and dragging her to join him at his meal. Geeta, while trying
to untangle herself, would say, “What is there about my food! I can do
without it.” Yet, Geeta had not only eaten with us already, she had even taken
a long nap. However, her face looked so wan that Chhotda was made to
think his beautiful wife was turning into a stick, deprived of food. Since
Geeta would not eat, Chhotda would not eat either. Ma would say,
“Since he is asking you to, why don’t you eat once more with him Afroza?”
“No, no. I will
not eat.”
Chhotda would
pull Geeta to the table and make her sit beside him. He would mix rice and
vegetable and feed her. Geeta would take the food in her mouth with her nose
and mouth crinkled up, as if poison was being given to her. She would keep the
poison in her mouth, neither chewing nor swallowing it. Chhotda stroking
her head and back would start saying, “My precious, my jewel, eat a little. If
you don’t eat, I won’t either.”
Geeta refused to
swallow the morsel. Chhotda refused to eat. He got up. Ma almost
ran up from the kitchen to the dining room, a bowl in hand, a bowl full of
meat. “What happened? I just got you more vegetables. Why did you get up? Come
on eat. You haven’t eaten the whole day, Kamaal!”
Chhotda would
say with a small face, “No, Ma. I have eaten outside.”
Ma would
sit sadly at the dining table with Chhotda’s uneaten rice and vegetables in
front of her.
Ma’s eyes
were like deep pools with tiny currents on the surface.
Till just the
other day, Ma had given Chhotda a bath in the courtyard, made him
sit on a stool and scrubbed his back. Now, Chhotda had his own bath. Ma
would say very often, “What’s wrong? Why is there so much dirt accumulating
on your heels? Don’t you scrub them?” Ruffling his hair, Ma would rub
her fingers behind Chhotda’s ears, shoulders and neck and say, “Warts have
developed.” Ma wrinkled her nose and spat in the courtyard. Chhotda looked
neither at his ankles, nor at Ma. He only looked at Geeta. Why was Geeta’s face
so glum? Geeta’s face was not gloomy a little while ago. She had been playing
ludo with Yasmin and eating egg-pudding. It seems she hadn’t had egg-pudding
for a long time. On her complaint, Ma had quickly made it for her. After
the pudding, she had wanted payesh made with date jaggery. Ma had
made even that for her. Ma had lit an earthen stove by blowing into it and had
cooked on dry leaves in the absence of khori ,firewood. She had then
served the meal on the table. Chhotda was sitting with Geeta on his lap,
kissing her lips. He was kissing her and saying, “Why are you so glum? What’s
happened?” Geeta sighed very deeply and gave no reply. As soon as Chhotda came
home, Geeta’s smiling face would suddenly turn weepy. Her face looked as though
she hadn’t eaten the whole day, not even drunk water. The look on her face
suggested as though the people at home were always abusing her in unspeakable
language. Whatever time Chhotda spent at home, he spent it trying to
make Geeta’s drawn face pliable and in trying to bring a smile on the weepy
face. His days and nights were occupied bending over Geeta. Ma noticed
it. We saw it, too. Ma sighed heavily in secret. We were more fascinated
with the love story being enacted in our own home than with those in novels and
cinema theatres. Never before had we ever seen any one embracing another in
front of a whole houseful of people. Touching lips to lips!
Yasmin and I would
look at Geeta in amazement. Geeta took out ironed saris to wear at will. She
wore high heels, she applied lipstick, she wore a dot on her forehead and had a
bath with scented Lux soap. Everything about her was different. We washed our
hair first with local Bangla soap, then with the bath soap. From our
childhood, Ma had taught us to wash this way. If one used the bath soap
to wash dirty hair, then the soap would not last long, hence the economy. Baba
sent mostly Bangla soap home. The scented bath soaps came only once in a
while. Ma had to economise in all things. Ma explained that
Baba’s wealth was not for one household alone. He had to look after his parents
and siblings in the village and also his second wife’s family in the town. Ma
had to cook two kinds of meals— one kind for all members of the house and the
other for herself and the domestic servants. In that other kind, except
for stale daal, dried fish curry or vegetables, if anything else was
available, it was at the most the tiny kachki fish or tangra-putti curry.
If fish or meat was cooked, it was only for us. That meant Baba, we brothers
and sisters, and the newly arrived Geeta.
We knew Geeta from
before her marriage, she was not new to us, but her arrival as Kamaal’s wife
made her appear different at Aubokash. Covering her head before Baba,
uncovering it before Ma, her unrestricted antics before us, her cheerless face
before Chhotda, everything about Geeta aroused Yasmin and my catlike curiosity.
Of married life, what we had seen at the most was Ma and Baba’s. The
relationship between Baba and Ma was bound by accounts of oil,
salt, rice and daals. I had never seen them close together or exchanging
any sweet words or going out. In fact, they didn’t even sleep in the same room
now, let alone the same bed. After Ma’s small room was arranged for
Chhotda and Geeta to stay, her existence became like that of a refugee.
One day she would be in my room, on another she would make her bed on the
drawing room floor. Baba was the head of the household, Ma had to
follow his orders, and run the house as he directed. That was the norm. Used to
this system, we noticed in shock, a couple before us, where the husband was
constantly alert to the welfare of his wife. This was very different from Baba,
no doubt. Ma noticed what was happening, so did we. Yasmin and I were full
of curiosity. Ma wasn’t. Ma soon realised that her baby boy, her lisping
son had left his mother’s lap and arms forever. In Chhotda’s whole world and in
his life, at that time, there was no one but Geeta. His whole world revolved
round making Geeta happy, whatever it would take. To him now his parents,
brother and sisters were of no importance. Ma sat sadly alone on the
verandah, sighing deeply once in a while saying, “I do not know when Kamaal
comes home, when he leaves. He no longer calls me, nor does he call out to me
‘Ma, I’m going … Ma I’m back’.”
One day Geeta
suddenly took the decision to move to
Chhotda had
friends all over town. If they came looking for Chhotda at home, he
normally took them out with him. Once in a while only, Chhotda sat with
friends in the outside verandah room. He would tell Ma to serve tea. Ma
would make tea and send Jori’s Ma to serve it. The requirements for
making tea were not always available at home. If sugar or milk were not there,
either a cup of sugar or milk was borrowed from M.A. Kahhar’s house. Even from
as rich a man’s house as M.A. Kahhar, people came to borrow sugar or milk, this
borrowing was to us a routine affair. With tea it was mandatory to offer either
two toast biscuits or Nabisko biscuits. Biscuits were not always there at home,
so then one had to make do with only tea in our hospitality. One night, quite
late at night actually, almost twelve-thirty, when one of Chhotda’s friends
knocked on the door, he was about to go to sleep. I was awoken by the sound of
knocking. Parting the curtains in the drawing room, I saw moonlight kissing the
smooth unmoving face of a boy whose doe eyes had a sweet smile in them. Seeing
just half of my face peeping out, the boy said, “Aren’t you Nasreen! How grown
up you have become!” The boy’s shining eyes did not move from my face. I shyly
lowered mine.
“You don’t
remember me? I am Zubayer.”
I did not make any
reply. Zubayer asked, “Do you like songs?” In a low voice I said, “Yes, I do.”
I was still standing when Chhotda said, “Go inside, tell Ma to
make two cups of tea.” Ma was sleeping, I shook her awake saying, “A
friend of Chhotda has come. Give them two cups of tea.” Ma turned
over and said, “Tell Jori’s mother”. Jori’s Ma was curled up like a dog
on the floor. Waking her up, I said, “Make two cups of tea”. Sleepy eyed,
Jori’s Ma went into the kitchen and stuffing dry jackfruit leaves into
the oven lit the fire for the tea-water. The water boiled but where were the
tea leaves, sugar, or even the milk! Ma knew where they were. I called
Ma again, “Get up and make the tea, the water is boiling.”
Ma again
turned to sleep, “Don’t bother me so late at night, I’m not feeling very well.”
Ma did not get up.
She asked if Baba had returned. When I told her that he hadn’t, she said, “He’s
spending the night with that woman.” Giving up, I lay flat on my bed and stared
helplessly at the beams. Zubayer was singing in a wonderful voice. On the
threads of silence, the melody of the song was floating into the room. A tune
that did not awaken anyone yet did not let me sleep. I wished I could listen to
the songs the whole night, completely absorbed, sitting close to Zubayer,
washed in the moonlight, oblivious of the whole world. At
The next day
Chhotda came home in the evening and lay down on the bed quietly.
“Why are you lying
down at this odd time?”
“I am not feeling
well.”
“What happened?”
“Yesterday –
Zubayer who came, my friend – I was meeting him after many years.”
“He is very good
looking and sings beautifully as well.”
“Early this
morning Zubayer committed suicide.”
Something cold, I
don’t know what, moved out from within my breast and spread all over my body in
moments. The girl with whom Zubayer had been in love, had been forced by her
father to marry someone else, Chhotda informed me in a thin voice. Last
night, Zubayer had not spoken one word about that girl. He had said, on such a
wonderful full moon night, he had not felt like being all alone in his room.
That is why he had come out. He was dying to sing songs. When Zubayer was
singing, Chhotda was sitting beside him, dozing. Zubayer had wanted to
sing more songs, but Chhotda had told him to leave as he just couldn’t
stay awake anymore. Suicide and love are very closely connected. Chhotda too
had swallowed poison before his marriage. He survived only because he was
removed to hospital in time and the poison was pumped out from his stomach by a
tube.
I was unable to
sleep for quite a few nights after Zubayer’s suicide. I kept thinking that
piercing through the night, a song was floating towards me, “I will go away
soon, but will not let you forget me.”
Chapter Four
TALES OF
TINY SORROWS
Baba may
not have liked anything about Ma, but he was very fond of one of her limericks.
In a good mood, he would ask Ma to repeat it. Ma would laugh and
while swaying from side to side, would recite it:
One
paisa of oil,
On
what did it get spent?
On
your beard and my feet
Some
more on your son’s physique.
The
children’s weddings took place
Songs
were sung for seven days
Some
pitiable women indoors went
And
none of the oil was found to be left.
Ma had
windswept rough hair with no oil or soap ever used on it. She tied the strands
at the back with a string, if it was available. She normally used old ribbons
discarded by Yasmin and me, if not, then a string. After a bath too, she would
tie her wet hair at the back of her neck. As a result, her hair shed even more.
Ma used to have very thick long tresses at one time, now no more. She
lamented their loss, but what remained, from lack of care kept falling, but she
never looked back. When Ma told me to take care of my hair, I told her,
“What is the point of taking care now? My hair is like yours, thin.” I told her
regretfully also about my small eyes. “Yasmin’s eyes are so beautiful; she’s
inherited Baba’s eyes. Mine are like yours.” I commented on my nose as
well, “My nose is not sharp. How can it be? After all, I’ve inherited it from
you.” If I was a little fair in complexion, it was thanks to Baba, and any
darkness was because of Ma. I gradually began to seriously believe that
whatever defects there were in my appearance, were inherited from Ma. “I’m
lucky to have got Baba’s chin. There is a dimple in the chin. The girls
say because of this I look pretty. Because I’ve got a little of Baba’s looks,
at least I appear human.” One day, after looking for a long time at Ma, I
asked, “Ma, where is your neck?”
“What do you mean,
where is your neck?”
“You don’t have a
neck. Your chin goes straight down to your chest. You don’t even have
shoulders. That’s why your blouse keeps slipping off.”
Opinions on my
features and physique were not a new thing in the family. Ever since I became
aware of things I would find different parts of my body, eyes, nose, ears,
lips, the lengthy details of my figure, my complexion etc. being examined,
seriously discussed and compared by relatives. If anyone came visiting too, the
same thing happened. In case someone saw me after a long time, they would
immediately say, “Good, this girl is growing really tall. She has got her
father’s physique.” Or, “What’s wrong? Why is she turning so dark?” Eyes, nose,
ears too were critically examined and opinions were expressed on which was good
or which bad, which was like Baba’s or like Ma’s or whether like
anyone from Baba or Ma’s side of the family. Ma too would
say, “Yasmin’s hands and feet are like her paternal aunt’s.” When Jhunu khala
came visiting from
When bath soaps
came home, Ma kept them for the children. She never got any herself. If
body odours started she would have a bath with washing soap. Months would pass
and Baba would not send coconut oil. There was no khori. Ma would
light even the oven with dried coconut leaves and branches. These did not light
very well but Baba had clearly said, “You have to put only coconut
leaves and branches. Coal is very expensive.” Because khori costs so
much, Ma had to gather the leaves falling from the trees and store them.
Rashid, the dab-wala ,tender-coconut seller would come and would
scramble quickly up the coconut tree like a squirrel being chased. Tying ropes,
he would drop tender and ripe coconuts on the ground. After which he would
clear the trees, free of charge. Rashid’s job was to buy our coconuts and sell
them at a profit in the markets. Rashid came every three or four months to our
house to buy the coconuts. After he cleared the trees and left, there would be
piles of coconut leaves in the courtyard and fields. Ma would then sit
with her iron cutter next to these huge coconut branches, and take out one
stick at a time and make up brooms to sweep the courtyard, clean the bathrooms
and dust the beds. The leaves and stems would then be collected together. If it
rained, she would run back and forth to heap the coconut leaves and branches,
jackfruit leaves, mango leaves, jamun leaves drying in the courtyard,
onto the kitchen verandah. Ma’s torn sari tore even more. The old
mattress on Ma’s bed had torn and hard cotton lumps had come out. The
mattress was heavy on one side and light on the other. If you lay down on it,
you would think you were lying on the stones on the railway tracks. Ma had
been talking of a new mattress for a long time, but who was bothered about what
Ma said! Ma’s mosquito net had big holes. To say ours didn’t have
holes would be wrong, they did but they were tiny. Ma had mended the
small holes in our nets. It was not possible to mend the ones in her own
mattress. Everyday Ma’s body would be covered with mosquito bites. Ma
spoke of a new mosquito net for quite a few years, Baba did not
bother. When the net finally came, she hung that on our bed, and hung the old
hole-ridden net on her own.
While cooking at
home, if one day there was salt, then there were no onions. If there were
onions then there was no turmeric. If there was turmeric then there was no oil.
Baba would angrily shout whenever he heard, “Not there.” “Didn’t I just
buy oil day before, where did the oil go?”
“It was used in
cooking.”
“A whole bottle of
oil finished in two days of cooking?”
“Not two days, the
oil was purchased two weeks ago.”
“How could one
bottle finish even in two weeks?”
“Do you know how
much cooking is being done?”
“Stop the cooking.
There is no need to cook anymore.”
“I’m not worried
about myself. What will the children eat?”
“The children
don’t need to eat. They are not exactly overwhelming me with any great
happiness. It is better not to have children than have this kind.”
Ma’s life
did not attract me in any way, Baba’s did. Baba had a lot of
power. If he wanted to, he could starve all of us. If he wished to, he could
also give us all the satisfaction of a well-fed stomach. If he desired, he
could keep everyone on their toes with fear, or he could himself speak and
laugh and make everyone happy. Nothing was done in the house according to Ma’s
wishes. Ma’s world was very small. Apart from the torn saris, torn
mosquito nets, torn blankets, lumpy mattresses and the blowing into an earthen
stove, Ma’s life was also an oilless-soapless existence. With this life,
she sometimes ran to a Peer’s house. Sometimes to Nanibari. Apart from
these two houses, Ma had nowhere else to go. At home, the only regular
visitor for Ma was Nana. When Nana visited towards afternoon, Ma
would scrub him, give him a bath and make him lie down after a meal.
Whenever there was no fear of Baba coming home, Ma would make
Nana sit for a meal. Even if we saw Nana eating, Ma would
get very embarrassed. Before saying anything else she would state, “I’m feeding
Bajaan my portion.” Now, no one ever came from Peerbari. Whichever other
house they might visit, they would not go to a kafir’s house. If any
mama or khala came home, Baba would look at them sharply.
That Baba did not like any of them visiting was clear, not only to Ma,
but to us too. If any relative of Ma visited, Baba would call
aside the servants and find out whether Ma had given them anything or not.
Whether she had fed them, and if so, what did she serve, so on and so forth.
The servants also understood that Ma’s relatives were unwelcome in this
house. Chhotku had got a job as Munshi in Peerbari. One day he
came to Aubokash wearing a very long panjabi and skull cap. Baba
had thrown him out. When the people in Ma’s world began to get
thrown out from this house, Ma became very lonely. She began to fill up
her world with animals and birds. Ma wanted to raise hens. Ma would
relay her wishes to Baba everyday while massaging mustard oil into
his body. Baba, of course, did not call these desires, he called them
nagging. “Why? What will you do with hens?” “Hens will lay eggs, these eggs the
children will be able to eat. The eggs will hatch into chicks then they will
grow.”
Ma’s dream
finally came true. As soon as Baba understood that it would be to his advantage
if ten hens could be had from one, he bought four hens for Ma. Ma made a
coop for the hens with her own hands. In the morning, she would open the coop
and personally feed them tidbits. The hens walked all over the courtyard and
dirtied it. Ma waited. One day the hens would lay eggs. Under Baba’s bed,
spread out on a jute cloth were kept onions and potatoes. Next to them, Ma placed
a basket. In this basket lined with straw, a red hen roosted the whole day. One
day I saw one mother hen followed by many chicks walking all around the house,
verandah and courtyard. The chicks looked so pretty, you wanted to pick them up
in your hands. Ma said, chicks didn’t grow if you held them in your
hands. Ma was overjoyed seeing the chicks. But though Ma counted
twelve chicks while putting them back in the coop, the next day two were
missing. It was surmised that while Ma was walking behind the hens in
the courtyard, a cunning mongoose took the opportunity to catch and eat them.
This mongoose lived behind the tin shed in some hole. At sudden intervals, one
could see it running.
Ma wanted
to rear ducks as well. Baba snarled about the ducks too and said, “Why
ducks now?” Ma took a long time to explain why the ducks were needed.
Baba rejected Ma’s proposal. Ma placed it before Nana.
Nana bought two ducks and delivered them to our house. One white duck and one
brown swan. When the ducks came home, only two of the twelve chicks had
survived. The others were lost to disease, dogs and mongoose. The swan laid an
egg. Ma made the red hen roost that egg. The egg hatched and a duckling
emerged. The duck went swimming in the waterhole. Behind the kitchen, just
beyond the small wooden gate, on the boundary wall meant for the sweeper, was
the bathroom of Prafulla’s house on the left. On the right was a muddy water
body covered with waterweeds. To call it a pond would be too much, though a
waterhole did not exactly describe it but it was one. A kind of waterhole, a
fishless, dirty, muddy, snake and leech infested hole. The ducklings walked
alongside the chicks; they looked similar, both were yellow in colour as well.
It was difficult to tell which were ducklings and which were chicks. Ma’s ducks
and hens did not last very long. The eggs had to be fried for people at home.
As soon as the chicks grew a little, Dada would say, “The mongoose will
eat them up anyway, it is better you use plenty of onions and roast a hen for
me, Ma.” Ma cooked the hen and secretly wiped her tears. Whenever
there were guests, someone would say, “What can be served, there isn’t
anything. Okay, let a hen be slaughtered.” Ma would look dreamily at the
hens playing and ask, “How do you slaughter house reared hens?” Dada said,
“Say Allahoo-Akbar, slice the end of the neck and slaughter, Ma. Very simple.”
Ma’s pet hens were constantly used in satisfying Dada’s palate,
in filling up our stomachs and in serving guests until none were left. Ma had
never put a piece of either her pet chicken or ducks into her own mouth. She
would make roast potatoes and eat her meal. The duck and hencoop was empty
before even a month was over. Not just the ducks and hens, we constantly ate
bottle-gourd, beans, pumpkin, cauliflower, cabbage, tomato and other greens
from Ma’s plants. Except for rice, daal, oil and salt in months
and years, nothing major had to be bought from the market. Whatever fruit Baba
brought home, Ma would plant the seeds in the ground. From these
planted seeds grew the dalim ,pomegranate, the fazli mango, the
star apple, the red guava, even the lychees. Suddenly, shaking herself out of
her grief for the ducks and hens, Ma one day went and got two kid-goats.
Feeding them milk in bottles like human babies, Ma nurtured the kids
till they were full grown goats. As soon as they grew up, the two goats began
to eat up Ma’s fruit trees right to the roots. Ma put barriers.
The goats jumped over the barriers and extended their overlordship. Ma desperately
tried to save her trees on one hand and keep the goats happy on the other. The
two goats were named Lata ,creeper and Paata ,leaf. Lata and
Paata had a wonderful life eating up their namesakes wherever available. Ma cared
for Lata and Paata so much that she would bring them into her own room in case
they got bitten by something while sleeping at night in the courtyard or
verandah. Ma’s room would be awash with the cries of the goat and their
urine and faeces. I myself chose to climb up the jackfruit tree and pluck
leaves for Lata and Paata. If Lata ate jackfruit leaves, then Paata didn’t. Her
face would look very sad. Her name Paata got wiped out when I began calling her
Bairagi, the Stoic. Bairagi got lost one day. He was grazing in the field.
Someone had opened the gate and had come in, leaving it open. Seizing the
opportunity, Bairagi left home, true to his name that meant a recluse. He had
forsaken the bonds of home and family. The whole colony was searched. He was to
be found nowhere. Ma went looking in Akua’s cowshed, where stray cows
and goats found on the streets were collected and kept. Not there. Ma cried
her heart out, went to the Mazaar , shrine of the old Peer,
across the river and poured out money, lit a candle, and asked the blessings of
the Peer, so that Bairagi would forget his renunciation and return home. The Mazaar
of the old Peer was an amazing one. It was on the banks of the
Everyone left Ma
and went away. Ma sat alone with her torn sari, unruly hair and
rough skin. She tossed from side to side on her lumpy mattress and under her
torn mosquito net. Ma’s lungs were full of cough. She would cough and
spit out the phlegm on the floor of the room itself. I felt nauseated. Ma had
wanted someone for herself, if not human then at least an animal or a bird. The
humans certainly did not stay, but neither did the animals or the birds. From
morning to night, Ma cooked for us, fed us, cleaned the house and washed
the clothes. We would eat, make merry and keep busy with our studies, games,
music etc. but for Ma there was no one, there was nothing. That was how
it was. Ma was to do her duty. She did too. After finishing her
household duties, Ma would sit alone and read the Darood ,invoking
Mohammad’s name, trying to put her mind to the teachings of the Quran.
That Baba had really married Razia Begum, that it was not a falsehood,
was something she kept reiterating. On her way to and from the Peer’s house,
it seems Ma had very often seen Baba on the road to Naumahal. I
believed that whatever Ma said against Baba, she made it up. No matter
how distant a person Baba was and how much I was cowed down by his power and
personality, a kind of respect for Baba remained with me. This did not
die even in the very worst of times when I bore his boxes, blows, slaps and
took the whippings on my back. Even after hearing Ma’s complaints, we
did not react. At least I wasn’t in the habit of believing what did not happen
before my eyes. I never thought of Ma as anyone but a woman of mean
understanding and one who cried unnecessarily for every little thing. Ma couldn’t
possibly have any brains, otherwise why did she believe in Allah Rasool! If she
did, why did she sit alone with Aman kaka in the room and whisper under
the pretext of giving him advice? Baba stopped Aman kaka’s visits to
this house. Aman kaka’s wife came one day and informed Ma that
her husband was working in Gaffargaon and had recently married a woman there.
Ma replied in an unaffected voice, “He is a man; he will.” Ma apparently
had no respect for any man. Yet, as soon as Baba called, how Ma ran
to him like a hen! Ma’s sitting around, lying around, walking about, running
and going, everything appeared extremely disgusting to me.
Everyone was busy
at home. Baba was occupied with his patients and landed property in the
village. Dada was busy with his job. Chhotda was occupied with
Geeta. Geeta after roaming around the Physics department for a few days, gave
up her chance of becoming a physicist, and had poured her whole body and soul
into the art of dancing. She was going to
Baba heard
and said, “What a drama over nothing.”
Ma had
softly asked Baba many times, “Is there no treatment for piles?”
Baba had
said, “No.”
“So much blood is
lost. The stools are full of blood. Isn’t it dangerous to lose so much blood?”
In a grave voice,
Baba replied, “No.”
Ma had been
wearing torn slippers for quite some time. Baba was told about buying
her a pair. Baba pretended not to have heard. If Ma had to go
somewhere, she wore either mine or Yasmin’s slippers. In the house, verandah
and courtyard, she was of course barefoot. People at home hardly ever noticed
what Ma didn’t have or what she needed. A wastrel and vagabond like Nana,
however, noticed Ma’s slipper-less life. One day, he came bringing a
pair of white cloth slippers, which he had bought for Ma. Nana had no idea that
women never wore such shoes. But Ma was delighted with the pair. She
showed everyone at home the shoes her Bajaan had brought for her. That
day Ma made payesh with more sugar for Nana, even though she knew
he was forbidden sweets. Nana ate, passed his hands over his daughter’s
head and asked for blessings so that his daughter went to behesht,
heaven. Nana described the food in heaven. “The food you ate once in
heaven, you could continue eating for the next forty-thousand years. Even the
belch would carry the aroma.” Listening to Nana’s description I was sure
Nana observed Namaz and Roza only to greedily sample all the good
food in heaven.
The Naumahal
Peer’s fame had spread so much that even the rickshaw-wala did not have
to be told anymore. “Earlier you had to ask him to go behind the Naumahal
Chandu’s shop.” If you now said Naumahal Peer’s house, the rickshaw-wala
knew where to go. Earlier, Ma used to pay four annas. The rate increased to
eight annas later and even went up to one taka. Ma never had so
much money that she could afford to make frequent trips to her parents or the
Peer’s house. Very often she had to control her desire to go. The other
day, I was ready for school when she asked, “Will you drop me at the corner of
the rail tracks?” Looking at her from head to toe, dressed in a single folded
sari, with a faded burkha on top, and Nana’s gifted white cloth shoes, I
wrinkled my nose and said, “You can always take another rickshaw!”
“I don’t have the
fare.”
“Then take the
fare.”
“No one would give
it to me.”
“Then don’t go
today, leave it. Go another day.”
Ma did not
follow my advice. There was no difference between one day and another for Ma. I
had no option but to take Ma along that day. I had to pray with all my
heart and soul that there would be no familiar person on the road. Let no one
see me accompanying someone wearing a faded burkha and sock-less white shoes.
After crossing
“I never saw you.”
“How could you
have?” You were staring at the ground. You looked like a coy family
bride.”
“What rubbish!”
“At the Mahakali
corner, my rickshaw crossed yours. You were accompanied by your maid.”
I could hear the
thud in my breast. It was at the tip of my tongue to say that, ‘No that was not
a maid, it was my mother’ but I gulped it down silently. I don’t know who
sealed my lips tightly together. The whole day, I wanted to rectify
Ashrafunnisa’s mistake, but couldn’t.
On returning from
school, Yasmin whispered a secret into my ears. Some girl had told her, “Your
Baba has married a second time.”
“What did you
say?”
Yasmin said, “I
told her my Baba had not married again, it was a lie.”
I too whispered
back, “The other day, a girl in my class told me the same thing.”
Ma was
sitting unhappily in the verandah. Finding me nearby she said, “Your Baba has
married Chakladar’s wife”
I said, “What all
you say, Ma!”
“Yes, everyone at
Naumahal said so.”
“Who is everyone?
How do they know?”
“They’ve seen.”
“What have they
seen?”
“They have seen
the woman living in the house at Naumahal and your Baba is constantly
visiting that house.”
“That is not new;
you have suspected this for a long time.”
“They have seen
your Baba entering with their own eyes. They have even spoken to the
woman. She herself has said she is married.”
“Nonsense!”
“If it is
nonsense, then why does your Baba go to the house?”
“He can go. Does
that mean marriage?”
That visiting
someone’s house did not amount to marriage, was an argument I tried to make Ma
understand. Why did I do it? Was it so that Ma would not feel bad,
or was it my deep faith in Baba that he could not possibly have done
something as shocking as this? Or was it because, Baba’s two marriages
were so shameful to me that I was desperately trying to refuse to bear this
burden of shame. I really didn’t understand.
Ma said, “I had
gone to Akua. I met Soheli’s mother. She said she saw your Baba and
Chakladar’s wife going to the cinema. Your father never takes me to the
cinema!”
“Would you go to
the cinema? You were supposed to be following Allah’s path!” Saying
this, I moved away from Ma.
In spite of Ma’s
grumbles about Razia Begum, she still gave full attention to her cooking.
She fed her husband and children. If there was no oil or onions, she cooked
without them, her face unhappy. Serving the food, she would say, “How can food
taste good without oil or onions! Eat it up somehow today, I’ll see tomorrow if
…”
The next day, the
oil came but not the onions. With the onions, Baba had sent a
bagful of rotten Koi fish from the market. As soon as she opened the
bag, Ma detected the smell of the rotten fish. But her children were not
to stay hungry because of the smell. She tore a handful of leaves from the lemon
tree and put it in the fish curry, hoping to suppress the rotten fish
smell with the scent of the lemon leaves. Greens could not hide the smell.
Maybe the scent of lemon leaves would but the very presence of lemon leaves
made me suspicious. I turned up my nose as soon as I sat down to eat. “Why have
you put lemon leaves, Ma? The fish must have been rotten.” A sliver of a smile
appeared for a second at the corner of Ma’s lips and immediately
disappeared. Ma put an un-broken fish on my plate and said, “The fish
were alive.”
“Swear on Allah
and say they were alive.”
“It is wrong to
swear on Allah on every instance,” Ma scolded mildly.
Dada ate
one and took a second fish. I moved away my plate, saying, “The fish is rotten,
I will not eat it.”
“How can the fish
be rotten?”
Ma called
Jori’s Ma from the kitchen, “You tell her, weren’t the fish jumping when
you were slicing them?”
Jori’s Ma nodded
her head and said, “Yes, they were jumping.”
“Let them. I will
not eat fish. If there is something else to eat then give it to me.”
Dada explained to
Ma, “If the fish have turned a little rotten, just fry them. If fried, they
don’t smell anymore.”
“Nasreen has the
nose of a vulture,” Ma said.
When Baba returned
that night and was changing from his pants into his lungi, Ma asked
him, “For whom are you saving this money?”
“For whom am I
saving it? Meaning? I am feeding so many people, educating them. Can’t you see
with your eyes?”
“I’m not speaking
of myself. I can have even a meal of only daal. I’m speaking of the
children! Why do you send rotten fish? They come back hungry from school and
can’t even eat their rice.”
“Was the fish
rotten?”
“Wasn’t it? The
smell almost brought down the house.”
“Hmm...”
“There are no
onions either for the last one month. Is there no money even to buy onions?”
“Didn’t I just
send onions a few days back? They finished?”
“A few days back?”
Ma took some time to count on her fingers, and replied, “Today is
Sunday, even on the Sunday before the last Sunday, cooking was done without
onions. The Tuesday before that, you sent onions.”
“Why do they
finish so soon? Why don’t you use them economically? Do you have any idea how
much onions cost in the market? You don’t earn anything. If you did you would
appreciate.”
Ma heaved a
long sigh. Was it that she was not earning because she didn’t want to?
Whenever Baba’s
medical shop assistant, Abdus Salaam came to deliver the shopping, Ma always
called him aside and questioned him. One evening, I found her sitting in the
kitchen feeding Salaam fish and rice. “Salaam, eat well, whatever you may eat
in the morning, you don’t get any food after that!”
Ma’s habit
of feeding this or that person was nothing new. If any hungry beggars came
home, she made them sit and fed them as well. Stale vegetables, fermented old rice,
dry chillies. They blissfully ate even these. If she heard a landowner had
fallen on bad days and was being forced to beg, she would add two pieces of
freshly cooked meat too. Ma was a generous person. After Salaam had
eaten and left with a happy face, Ma called Dada and me and told
us, “Do you know why your father buys rotten fish and sends it? Why he doesn’t
get oil and onions home?”
“Why, Ma?” Dada
asked.
In the manner of
Detective Kiriti Ray revealing an ancient secret, Ma said, “Because he
has to send provisions to two places! How can he manage so much! That woman
sends her servant to the pharmacy and your father walks to the market himself,
shops and sends provisions to her house. He has married that woman. The woman’s
younger son even comes and sits at the pharmacy. He pays for his education. He
is actually your father’s son. Not Chakladar’s”
I felt
uncomfortable listening to Ma’s accusations. So did Dada. He said, “I
don’t know what all you keep saying, and from where you hear all this to scream
about.”
“From whom do I
hear? Okay, why don’t you go? She stays in Naumahal. Go to the woman’s house
and see. Find out if she has married your father or not, whether he daily sends
provisions or not?”
“Yes! Why not? I,
of course, have nothing better to do but to go to that woman’s house!” Dada moved
away from Ma. So did I. Ma’s complaints were all familiar to us, as were
Ma’s sorrows and angers. Ma’s shouts and screams did not arouse
any sympathy in us. If anything, they aroused only nausea.
Ma sat all
alone. There was no one at home to listen to her sorrows. She called Jori’s Ma
and said, “Look Jori’s Ma, I have no peace in this household. My fate was
sealed the day I stopped studying, that very day. Today if I was educated,
would I be slaving in my own house? The children are all worshippers of their
father. They do not even care that I am their mother.”
Jori’s Ma did
not understand Ma’s sorrow. In comparison to her own, Ma’s sorrows
were nothing. She had been married into a household of three wives. She had
been traumatised by the tortures of the co-wives. Her husband had tortured her
no less. After Jori’s birth, he stopped giving her food. Finally he beat her
and kicked her out of the house. In this household, Ma was at least
getting food. The co-wife stayed in another house. Not in the same. To Jori’s
Ma, Ma’s house seemed to be a lovely golden one.
At Ma’s words,
Jori’s Ma would heave deep sighs. I’m sure they were false.
Even in so much
sorrow, Ma still decorated the house. She would rearrange the furniture.
I liked this exercise of Ma’s. The rooms always looked new. It felt as though a
new life was starting. Not just the house, Ma beautified the courtyard
and the field as well. She always decorated them with greens and vegetables,
fruit and flower trees. Every season had a different variety. For those trees
that were leaning over, a barrier of bamboo sticks was put up. The grass was
weeded, the earth was dug up and put back all by Ma herself. Ma loved
vegetables and she insisted on reciting verses while feeding us. She always
tried to give us fresh fruit and vegetables. Ma thought we would happily
dance and eat our greens if we heard her rhymes. Ma was also under the
impression that like her, we too, had a special weakness for vegetables planted
with her own hands. The whole year around while serving vegetables she would
say, “Bottle-gourd from the plants, beans, tomatoes from the plants, this from
the plants, that from the plants.”
One day at
mealtime I caught Ma as soon as she said, “Gourd from the plants.”
“What do you mean?
Bottle-gourd is grown on plants only, as though gourds grow otherwise!”
Ma said,
“These are grown on plants, not bought.”
“Are gourds that
are bought grown below the ground?”
“Rubbish! Why
should gourds grow underground?”
“That means they
do grow on plants.”
“Of course!”
“Then why do you
keep saying it? Even the gourd bought from the markets grows on plants.”
“Arrey,
these are from the home garden.”
“Then say so. From
the home garden. You can’t even speak properly.”
“I am illiterate,
I have not studied. You are educated. You can speak correctly,” Ma said
haltingly. Ma’s regrets about her lack of education were lifelong. Just
before my SSC exams, when I was bent over a table full of books and notebooks,
Ma in a small voice said, “If I could have only taken the SSC
privately.”
I laughed, “At
this age you want to take the SSC?”
“So many people
do.”
“During the
disturbances, many people even older than me took the exam. The Government
passed them all. That Chakladar’s wife cheated in the exams during that time
and qualified the SSC. Your father only made her take the exam.”
That was true.
After
“Now you can’t
cheat, how will you pass?”
“Why should I
cheat?”
“Then how will you
pass?”
“I will study and
pass.”
Suppressing a
bellyful of laughter, I said, “Will you remember what you learn?”
“Why not, I will.”
“You are always
searching all over the house for keys which you are holding in your hands. How
will you remember?”
“If you’d just
help me a little with maths, you will see I will qualify. Bangla and
English are no problem. History and geography I will learn by rote.”
Ma’s eyes
shone with dreams. The dreams remained in the eyes. With dreamy eyes she said,
“If I could take the exams I would surely pass. I used to be the ‘first girl’
in the class. I came first in every exam. Even when I got married, my school
masters had told me, ‘Don’t give up your studies, Idul.’”
Without any
hesitation, I told Ma that she would never understand these difficult
subjects; that those times of turmoil were no more there; that one could not do
just what one wanted today. Also, that she was too old. At this age if she took
her SSC, people would laugh. Ma sighed deeply. Her pride at having been
the best student of her school at one time was now hidden under the
embarrassment of old age. Ma went and sat alone in another room. There, she
talked by herself to the wind blowing through the room.
It reached Baba’s
ears that Ma dreamt of taking her SSC exam. Baba laughed
aloud. So did we. The whole of Aubokash rang then with the sounds of
laughter. Ma gradually began to shrink. Since the floor of this house
was made of strong bricks, Ma’s dreams fell on it and broke like glass.
Ma finally satisfied her desire to study in another way. At Peerbari,
girls learnt Arabic. There was no age restriction. A girl could begin learning
at any age. Ma came home from Peerbari with about three Arabic language
books. Taking money from Nani, she bought big register copies. On those copies
she neatly wrote out the Arabic grammar according to the rules and regulations,
just the way we had learnt the English
language, ‘He plays, he is playing, he has played, he played, he was playing,
he had played, he will play’. Ma’s Arabic handwriting was as beautiful
as her Bangla.
“What will you do
with learning Arabic, Ma?” I asked.
She smiled sweetly
and said, “I will be able to read Allah’s teachings. I will be able to
understand and read the Quran Hadith.”
We had exams
before us, but we did not study as much as Ma did. She sat up nights and
studied. Ma had no letters to write, no gossip. Baba noticed Ma’s
studies. One day, as soon as he returned home, he called, “All students,
come here.”
Yasmin and I went
and stood before Baba. Baba scolded us, “Where is the oldest
student of the house?”
I was stunned. I
thought I was the oldest student of the house. Couldn’t Baba see me? I
stopped twisting the curtain in my fingers and came before Baba’s eyes
so he could see me clearly. Of course, unless you stood right before him, he
did not consider it correct.
Looking at me, he
said, “Call the oldest student.”
“I’m here only,” I
said.
Baba said,
“Are you taking your Ph. D.?”
“No.”
“Then go and call
the one taking her Ph. D.”
I still couldn’t
get who Baba was referring to. Yasmin was sharper than me in such
things. She stood at the threshold and called, “Ma, come quickly. Baba is
calling.” Ma closed her books and copies and came before Baba. Holding
the shopping list Ma had given in his hand, Baba asked her, “How
did the salt finish?”
Ma said
quietly, “In the cooking.”
“What great feast
are you cooking that two and a half sers of salt finished in two days?”
“If you are so
interested in knowing, sit in the kitchen and watch how it finishes.”
“Have you any idea
of the price of salt?”
Ma made no
reply.
Baba gritted
his teeth and said, “I will only buy salt next month. This month you all will
have to eat without salt.”
“I can eat without
salt, your children can’t. They all need extra salt on their plates,” saying so
Ma went away. On the table in the verandah, Ma’s books and copies
were scattered, the pages fluttering in the breeze.
After returning at
night, Baba called Jori’s Ma and in a low tone asked her, “Accha,
does Noman’s mother remove onions, garlic, rice, daals, oil etc.?”
“Who knows? I
don’t.”
“You haven’t seen
her taking anything away?”
“There are so many
things she takes.”
“What does she
take?”
“How can I see
what she puts in her bag? I am a servant, I do my work.”
“Does she take her
bag and go out?”
“Of course, she
does. Wherever she goes, she always carries one.”
“How big is her
bag?”
“A bag is never
small; it is always big.“
On her return from
Baba’s room, Ma asked Jori’s Ma, “What did he call and ask you?”
“He wanted to know
if you carried provisions to your parents’ house.”
“What did you
say?”
“I said I didn’t
know all that.”
Ma flared
up. “You don’t know? Don’t my parents have provisions? Has my father turned
into a roadside beggar? Even now, the cooking at my house is done in huge
utensils. There is no dearth of food there. Our father may not have built a
house, but he never deprived us of food and clothing. He buys big Rahu fish,
Bangash fish, Katla fish and brings them home. He does not send
rotten fish. In fact, it’s the reverse. I bring money home from my mother. He
is making such untruthful allegations about me. Allah’s wrath will fall
on him. This wicked man’s pride will be destroyed.”
Ma angrily
muttered through half the night. Jori’s Ma sat cross legged on the floor
and listened to her.
The next day, Baba
went into the kitchen, opened the cupboard and checked what provisions were
there. Detailed accounts of what had been bought and when and when what had
finished were taken by Baba. As the accounts did not match, Baba got a
big lock and put it on the kitchen cupboard. Now whenever anything was
required, he would open the lock and give it out. Baba left with the
keys in his pocket. From the next day, before leaving home, he would call Ma,
open the cupboard, tell her what to cook and measure out the required
provisions to her.
In the evening he
did the same for the dinner. That is how it went along.
Ma remained
alive like a mother. I hardly saw her. When I sat at the study table, Ma left
a glass of hot milk, in the afternoon there was sherbet. I saw the milk and
sherbet, not Ma. Ma would come out of the toilet and collapse on
the stairs, unable to stand because her head was spinning. To the question,
“What is wrong?” she would reply in a broken voice, “The bleeding because of
the piles is too much, I feel weak”. I never noticed Ma’s health or
weakness. I only picked up the word ‘piles’.
“What is piles,
Ma?”
“A lump forms in
the anal canal, and then if you are constipated, it bleeds.”
“What is the
treatment?”
“I have asked your
father so many times for some treatment. He never does tell me anything.”
“Hmm.”
“That is why I
say, have wood apple sherbet, vegetables in greater quantities. You don’t want
to eat them at all. How will your stools remain soft if you do not eat
vegetables! You too are constipated. If your stools remain soft, you do not get
the Arsho disease.”
“What is Arsho?”
“Just another name
for piles.”
“That means the
signboards we see on the streets ‘Here there is treatment for Arsho’ that
means this disease?”
“Yes.”
Ma slowly
got up from the stairs and went to her room. She lay down on the bed with her
face turned to the beams. She was very weak. I sat in the next room and thought
about the word ‘Arsho’, and kept wondering how such a dirty disease
could have such a wonderful name!
That was Ma’s life.
We were as used to seeing this life, as Ma was used to living it. One day
on hearing the sound of the black gate I ran out only to see Ma speaking
to a stranger and then closing the gate.
I asked her who
had come.
Someone came
looking for Kamaal.
“Who? What was his
name?”
“I don’t know. I
didn’t ask.”
“What did he say?”
“He asked me who I
was. I said no one. I worked in this house.”
“Why did you say
that?”
“This boy may have
got shocked to hear I was Kamaal’s mother. I am wearing such a dirty torn
sari.”
I kept shut. Maybe
Ma was right in telling a lie, I thought. Ma had saved Chhotda’s
reputation. If Ma had said she was Kamaal’s mother, I feared that when
the boy met Chhotda he would have said, “I saw a maidservant in
your house. She said she was your mother! The audacity of maidservants is
really increasing nowadays.”
I could neither
accept Ma nor reject her. Ma cooked for us, fed us even before we were hungry,
saved us from Baba’s spankings saying, “Girls are the household’s Lakshmis, it
is not correct to beat them. They are only there for a few days; they will go
away to another home.” We survived because of Ma’s intervention no
doubt, but the phrase ‘will go away to another home’ inflamed me so much, that
my anger was more at my mild and mellow mother than at my ferocious father.
“What does ‘go
away to another home’ mean?”
“You have to go
away. Won’t you have to, when you get married?”
“No, I don’t have
to.”
“How can that
happen?”
“It happens. Of
course, it does.”
“Does anyone live her whole life at her
parents?”
“They do. I do. I
will.”
Whenever I heard
the word ‘marriage’, my whole body rose in revolt.
“Once a girl gets
married, she becomes another’s, Ma. Girls are like guests in
their father’s home. Love and take care of them as much as you can. No one
knows what is in their fate, happiness or sorrow!”
Even though spoken
in a soft tone, Ma’s words pierced me like poisonous arrows. First I am born
then my roots spread, all these years I live close to her, and it seems I
belong to others. Whereas the boys who were always away, left the house after
marriage, or were immersed in dreams of getting married, were more hers than I
was! For me, however cruel my Baba was, and ugly and illiterate my Ma,
misbehaved and garrulous my sister, I could not think of them as third persons.
They were the people closest to me. Some strange person would come along and
become more close to me than them! Impossible! I purposely pushed Ma away,
closed the door on her face with a bang.
“Ma give me my
food, Ma where are my clothes, where for heavens sake is my bath soap, Ma”.
Even when I had no rickshaw fare, I took rides relying on Ma to pay for them,
when I reached home. “Ma give me three taka,” or “Ma dear, I think I am getting
a fever.” This was enough to make Ma touch my forehead, make me lie down, cover
my shaking body with a warm quilt, call for Baba to come and check my fever,
and give me medicines. Apart from these minor matters, I did not think I
required Ma for anything else in my life.
When Baba opened
the black gate, I recognized the sound wherever I was in the house. If I had a
doubt I looked out of the window to see if it was him. If it was Baba, then I
would run back to my place. The problem was that if he found us sitting before
our books at
“He is lying
down.”
“Weren’t you eating?
What made you get up?”
Ma, while removing
the woodworms from the rice said, “Your father has never been able to tolerate
my eating.”
“You can’t be
alive if you don’t eat! Doesn’t Baba know that?”
“He does. However,
he gets very irritated if he sees me eat before his eyes.”
Just as we would
stop playing out of fear of Baba, Ma would stop eating.
After feeding
everyone, Ma would sit to eat in the kitchen very late, and whoever was
around, maid or daughter, sat with her. This was a sight I was used to. Even at
other times, during functions and festivals too, Ma never sat to eat
with her husband and children. Why this was so, no one had asked so far. This
was obviously not a question bothering anyone’s mind, hence, they hadn’t. When
we ate, Ma would stand beside us and serve us. That’s what Ma did
and that is what suited her as far as Baba knew and so did we. Ma cooked
and served very well, was what everyone believed.
Very often I
returned home from school in the evening and ate something because I was hungry.
Ma would then be eating her lunch, mixing her rice. I would see a
somewhat embarrassed smile at the corner of her mouth. She would take her plate
elsewhere or wash her hands saying she would eat later.
I would laugh and
say, “Why did you get up? Are you shy?”
Ma gave no
answer. Ma somehow never could eat except secretly, she never could. She
really felt shy to eat in front of others. If Baba came home of course,
Ma did not even eat secretly. Baba had the habit of ferreting out
details from every nook and corner. Therefore, no secrets were possible. Even
if Baba were lying down, you could not think of playing or chatting,
because one could never guess when he would get up, and roam the whole house
pussy-footed. Consequently, if he was at home, even fast asleep, no one
ventured to do anything Baba might not approve of.
Baba would
come home in the evenings without warning. On one such day no one heard the
black gate opening, and hence, no warning was called out either. Baba entered
the kitchen to find Ma eating.
“How much do you
eat? Whole day there is only eating and eating. The fat in your body is
increasing with your incessant eating.”
Ma heard
this, and putting her plate away, washed her hands.
I heard Baba, so
did everyone else at home. To us, it was like Baba telling us when we’d
been dozing at our study tables late at night, “How can you feel so sleepy?
Whole day you sleep. How much rest do your bodies require? One whack on the
back and all this rest will vanish.”
With Chhotda,
discussions on art and literature were as engrossing as they were on politics.
“Accha Dada,
why did Major Dalim, Rashid and Farookh have to leave the country after the
coup?”
“Arrey,
underneath that coup, another coup had taken place. Then Dalim and all had no
power.”
“And Safiullah? He
was the Chief of the Army Staff, why didn’t they kill him? He was on the side
of Mujib.”
“Mujib had phoned
him at night, to send the army to Number Thirty-Two his residence. Safiullah
called Zia. Early morning, Zia came and said, ‘No need to go to Number
Thirty-Two.’ Safiullah could do nothing.”
“Safiullah had
understood by then that Zia was not following his orders.”
“How could he not!
Safiullah was then almost under house-arrest. No one was following the Army
Chief’s orders.”
“Who made Zia the
Army Chief? Mushtaq? Or did Zia make himself the Chief?”
“They all were in
the conspiracy.”
“Khaled Musharraf,
who put Zia into jail and took over the powers, was himself killed three days
later by Colonel Taher. Then why did Zia kill Colonel Taher? Colonel Taher had
after all revolted for the benefit of Zia.”
“Taher had wanted
to remove Khaled Musharraf and form a national government. He did not want
Zia.”
“Colonel Taher was
a Muktijoddha ,fighter in the Liberation Army. He even lost a leg in the
war. Can a fighter injured in battle be hanged? Achha, has any leader
ever been hanged till today?”
“No. This was the
first hanging of a Muktijoddha after the Independence of Bangladesh.”
“I can’t really
understand Major Dalim’s differences with Zia.”
“The law and order
in the army had completely broken down then. Zia had imprisoned Safiullah in
Bongo Bhavan, and declared himself General. Some supported him, others went
against him.”
“Did Dalim go
against?”
“No. He sent Dalim
abroad mainly because Zia had not wanted anyone who had been directly involved
in the coup to be around him. Once you got used to doing coups, you wanted to
do them repeatedly.”
“So he removed the
risk?”
“Yes, you can say
that. Before going he had Dalim kill many in jail. Four leaders were killed. He
also sent the others on excellent assignments. Dalim was made Ambassador. Dalim
was happy, and Zia got what he wanted.”
Ma suddenly
entered our discussion and said “Dalim? – Dalims are ripening on the tree, why
don’t you eat one!”
I burst out
laughing.
“Arrey we
are discussing politics, not the Dalim on the tree.”
“What about
politics?”
“You won’t
understand.”
“All you have to
do is make me understand.”
“Do you understand
coup? Coup?”
“Coup? In the dark
of night, when the Nation’s government is slaughtered, that is called coup
isn’t it?”
Ma’s words
irritated me so much, that I said “Go now, Ma! You do not have the capacity to
understand such discussions.”
Ma went out. There
were beggars sitting on the verandah. Sitting with them and sighing deeply, she
listened to the details of their miserable lives. She understood their talk,
they understood hers. Someone’s house had been washed away by floods, another’s
father left home and never came back, someone’s husband had died, another was
blind, or handicapped. Someone’s uterus had come out of the body. Ma gave
special attention to Dulu’s Ma, whose uterus had come out. Instead of a
handful, Ma gave her a quarter kilo of rice. If she saw her hungry face, she
would come forward and say, “Dulu’s Ma, have something to eat.” That day too,
while I was having a serious discussion about politics in Chhotda’s room, Ma
was feeding Dulu’s mother. After eating the rice and vegetables given to her at
the verandah, Dulu’s Ma raised her hands to bless Ma. “Allah, give her as
many years of life as there are hair on my head. Keep her happy, who has fed
me. The one who gave peace to my soul, give her the same peace, Allah. May she
live always in peace and happiness with her sons and daughters!”
Ma listened to
Dulu’s Ma’s blessings with an utterly expressionless face.
Chapter Five
My joy new no
bounds once the exams got over. I had unlimited time to do whatever I wished.
Watch movies, read storybooks, recite poetry, write verses. However, Baba
ordered that no film magazines were to be read. All third rate magazines
carrying pictures of film heroes and heroines were banned at home. If one
wanted to read, one had to read good journals. Only journals that helped to
increase our knowledge were allowed. So, what was the name of this good
knowledge disseminating journal? I was very curious to know; at that point I
was not particularly critical of any thing. Given a chance, I could read the
whole world. The journal of Baba’s choice was called Begum. It started
coming regularly to our house. In one day I read the magazine from cover to
cover. I learnt how to cook different dishes, to style hair, to grow fruits or
flowers in the garden. There was also information about decorating rooms,
childcare, even husband care. The next week, the same sort of things appeared
in Begum. I didn’t read half of it, and less than half, in the third
week. It is not that Begum remained untouched subsequently. In fact our
interest in it increased to the extent that the pages tore due to excessive
handling. It was Dada who made Begum popular. The minute he saw a copy
with the hawkers, he swooped down on it and was the first to pick it up. Then
he began pouring over it. Not only did he do so himself, he made the entire
household follow suit. It had even happened that five to six black heads had
spent a whole afternoon pouring over Begum. Even when the other heads
moved away, Dada’s remained. During the lazy evening, right through the night,
after all others were asleep, Dada poured over the pictures of groups of girls.
Whoever wrote for Begum, whether stories, poems, articles on human or
plant care, had their photographs published on one page. To be able to see
twenty to twenty five photographs of girls at one go was not a matter of joke.
Nothing else gave Dada the joy that Begum did. Every week he would
choose a girl from its pages. The very next week this girl was rejected and
another chosen. Actually if in the next week’s edition he found some one better
than his last week’s choice, then things became complicated. Unable to decide
whom to send a marriage proposal to, he would wait for the next week’s copy,
just in case he found someone even better. Once he chose a beautiful girl named
Dilshad Noor, but on reading this line in her poem ‘The one who has gone is
not returning. If he does, I will lay my head on his breast and sleep…,’
Dada pouted and said “No, I can’t marry this one.”
“Why not?” I
asked.
“Can’t you see
she’s waiting for some fellow!”
“Arrey this
is only a poem.”
“So what if it is
a poem!”
“If you write in a
poem that you are flying in the sky, are you really doing so?”
“Even if I am not
flying in the sky, I am in my mind. In poetry, you write what you feel.”
So Dilshad was
rejected. When he rejected anyone, Dada looked very despondent. As though the
most difficult to capture bird had just flown out of his hands. Of course, in
Sultana’s case Dada hadn’t felt that way. Dada’s pen friend Sultana, had sent
him a photograph of herself, sitting on a mora ,wicker stool, wearing a
sari. Dada spent many sleepless nights with that photograph, before he decided
that this was the girl he wanted to marry. He had bought new clothes, a new
perfume, and a pair of shoes. Spending two and half hours in the morning, he
bathed, dressed in his new clothes, poured half the bottle of perfume on
himself and left for
“Why?”
“If there is
anything really ugly in this world it is that woman.”
“What are you
saying? She looked quite pretty in her photograph.”
“Oof! If only you had seen her. A dark, scar faced woman,
frail and old. When she laughed, her protruding teeth came out like a rakshas
,witch . Her gums were as black as the underside of a pot. I had never seen a
hag before, I have just seen one today.”
“Why, I saw she
had long hair way below her hips!”
“Hair? What use is
long hair to me?”
After a pause he
said, “I think she wore a wig for the photograph. One of her protruding front
teeth was also false.”
Dada had carried
some presents for Sultana in gift wraps. They came back unopened. Not having
eaten the whole day, Dada gobbled his food, washed off the grime of his journey
and took a long nap.
Casting aside his
dreams of Sultana, Dada began concentrating on Begum from the next day
again. I told the hawker of Begum to deliver Chitrali, Purbani
and Bichitra as well. However, now that I did not have school,
there was no rickshaw fare to save from, there were not even any papers at home
to sell to the glassbottlepaperwala and earn a few coins. I was dying to
read the magazines, but where was I to find the money to buy them! Like people
normally depend on Allah, I depended on Dada. Of course, Dada was not always
sympathetic. Dada was not only not worthy of being compared to the benevolent
Allah, he was a reputed miser. Where the rickshaw fare was two taka, he would
put an eight anna coin in the rickshaw-wala’s hand and send him off with a
rebuke. Not only did those at home hear Dada screaming at the rickshaw-wala, so
did the whole neighbourhood. This did not bother Dada. In his language, he had
been paying eight annas till yesterday.
“Just the other
day?” Ma would say, “That was five years ago.”
To Dada, five
years seemed ‘just yesterday.’
If Ma had money
with her, she gave the rickshaw-wala four instead of two taka. In case the
rickshaw-wala described his penury on the way, then Ma would give him not only
money, but on reaching home, she would choose a ripe and hardened coconut from
the pile under the cot. Giving it to him, she would say, “Eat it with your
children.” Seeing the way Ma behaved, Dada remarked, “Ma is a duplicate of
Nana. Whatever she has, she gives away to people.”
Dada had certainly
not inherited Ma’s nature. Dada’s mind always told him that everyone in the
world was out to cheat him. Hence, he too tried various methods of doing
the same. It was Dada’s habit to bargain at the shops. Everyone did, but no one
could beat Dada at it. I would always be very embarrassed when I accompanied
Dada to the shops. If asked for fifty, most people would try and bring it down
to thirty or forty. When Dada heard the price fifty, he would say, “Will you
give it for three?” The shopkeeper would stare at him open-mouthed. What on
earth was the connection between fifty and three! Dada would then progress from
three to three and half and upward. The shopkeeper would finally agree to
twenty or twenty-one. He agreed alright, but also told him off, “I have seen
many customers, bhai, but never one
like you. You have cheated me. Forget a profit I haven’t even got my cost
price.”
I did depend on
Dada, but when his stinginess crossed all limits, I had no option but to follow
in Chhotda’s footsteps. Since Dada normally took at least an hour in the
bathroom, my trembling hand entered the pocket of his trousers hanging on the
rack in his room. As soon as my initiation in this skill was completed through
Dada pockets, my hand began to enter Baba’s pockets as well. Now not only my
hands, but my heart too trembled. Even though the pickings were never more than
five or ten taka, I had to hang my head in shame. I got no peace. Later, this skill
oppressed Yasmin as well. Dada’s anger at Chhotda increased day by day. Before
leaving home, Dada had now begun to lock his medicine chest inside his
cupboard. But it was not possible to lock one’s room all the time. If Dada was
at home the door was always open. At such times, as soon as Dada was out of his
room, Chhotda would send us to get medicines out of his chest. Since it might
be dangerous to bring the medicine out in our hands, we were ordered to pass
them from under the door. The green wooden doors in Dada and Chhotda’s rooms
had gaps enough to pass through capsules and tablets, if not bottles. Chhotda’s
single-minded Bahini ,workforce constituted of Yasmin and me, showed exemplary
courage in regularly conducting these operations. One day Dada came to know. He
closed the gap in the door with a plank bought to size from the woodshop. Not
that there was any ebbing in the medicine flow even after this. We became used
to not only smuggling out capsules and tablets, but even medicine bottles under
our loose clothes.
In gentleman’s
language, it could be called the war of the ‘Haves’ against the ‘Have-nots.’ In
spite of all these, Dada was unable to build up a snake and mongoose
relationship with Chhotda. This was because of his ‘bone-cracking’ malady. This
malady conferred amazing pleasure on Dada. The sound produced by bones grazing
against each other created sweet musical tremors in his ears. Dada cracked
every bone he had in his body everyday. He produced sounds from every bone in
his fingers by pulling the joints in all directions possible. He did the same
with all the toes. He then needed to crack all the bones in his spinal
column. With one hand on one chin and the other on his head, he would
jerk the head first to the right, then to the left, and crack the bones in his
neck. Dada could do this himself, but with Chhotda’s help the job was done even
better. The minute he found Chhotda close by, he would lie upside down on the
bed or floor. He would then extremely solicitously keep calling out to Chhotda.
“Come on Kamaal, give me a pull, please.” It seemed that if asked to touch
Chhotda’s feet, he would be willing to do even that. Chhotda would hold the
flesh above Dada’s spine tightly, and jerk it upwards. Crack! Beginning
from the nape of his neck, he would crack every vertebrae right down till the
buttocks. Once he’d finished cracking the vertebrae on Dada’s spine, Chhotda
would lie down in a similar fashion. Then Dada would do him the same favour.
With the object of
remaining faithful to his plan of boycotting Chhotda, Dada one day called me to
crack his back bones. I did not have the same magic in my hands. Even using
every ounce of strength in me to pull Dada’s flesh upwards, I failed to move
even a single bone. “Go girl, you can’t do it; call Kamaal.” Perforce, Chhotda
came to administer medicines for Dada’s malady. Not just on his own, Dada
pounced on other people’s bones as well. He could never figure out how people
could survive without having their bones cracked. Once after cracking the little
fingers and toes of my hands and feet with excruciating pain, Dada had caught
hold of my neck in order to crack those bones. When he jerked my neck to the
right, I screamed with pain and ran away from him. He ran behind me saying that
the pain would increase if he did not crack the other side as well. I certainly
did not allow Dada to touch the other side. Apart from this bone-cracking
malady, Dada suffered from another ailment, called flatulence, ‘passing wind
through the anus.’ This was so frightful that instead of providing food for
other people’s laughter, it developed into a cause for irritation. Ma said
“Noman’s stomach condition has not improved even today. Since his birth, he has
suffered from stomach upsets.” To gauge whether it was judicious to enter
Dada’s room or not, I had to extend my nose first instead of my feet. His
flatulence caused no end of trouble. Just when an adda would be getting
interesting, thanks to the terrible odour, except for Dada everyone else had to
come away covering their noses and mouths. Dada would be reading from
Rabindranath’s Golpoguchcho to which I would be intently listening. Just
then, thanks to the same reason, I would have to leave, while Dada was left
alone with the book in his hand. If anyone beat even Dada in this, it was
Borodada. Once on observing Dada’s flatulence, he had challenged him. “Let’s
compete.” If Dada blew down the room, Borodada blew down the house. The sounds
and smells had thrown all of us as far as possible. At one point, because of
scarcity of gas in his stomach, Dada was unable to create any sounds in spite
of his best efforts. Borodada happily crowned himself King of Sounds. Dada
became so desperate to win the challenge that he began to contract his whole
body, in a superhuman effort to produce at least one sound, however soft.
Borodada warned him, “Don’t strain too much, you will defecate.” Definitely
something unbecoming must have occurred that day, otherwise why had Dada
retreated from the battlefield and run towards the bathroom!
If one overlooked
Dada’s reprehensible habits, he was not a bad human being, or so I thought.
Sometimes things would suddenly fall through the cracks in his miserliness. In
Baba’s stinginess there were no chinks, no chance of anything ever falling
through. This time, Dada bought Yasmin and me satin cloth and not landir
maal to make our Id dresses. When Ma was making them for us, Dada had only
one request. “Please make them in the same design Sheila had made earlier.” Ma
did exactly that. Like Sheila, Ma too made the same scalloped design at the
neckline. Dada was not satisfied. He thought Sheila’s were better made.
Clicking his tongue, Dada said, “It’s okay. But not exactly like Sheila’s.”
Since some of the satin cloth had remained unused, I took Dada with me and gave
Chandana the rest of it, to make a dress for herself. On returning from
Chandana’s house, Dada said “Don’t you have any normal friends apart from these
Garo, Chakma, Mog, Murang and Hajong people?
“What do you mean
by normal? Is Chandana abnormal?”
“Of course she is
abnormal”.
“There is no one
as normal as Chandana”.
“Chandana is not
bad. If only she had had a sharp nose I could have married her. But...”
“But, what?”
“She’s a Chakma,
a low caste Buddhist!”
“So what if she’s
a Chakma?”
“No way! Am I going
to finally marry a Chakma? What will people say?”
“What people will
say comes later, how did you presume that just because you want to,
Chandana would marry you?”
Dada laughed
uproariously, as though I was cracking a joke.
“In her whole
life, will she ever get some one as eligible as me?”
“Yes, Chandana has
better things to do than to marry you!”
After remaining
silent for a long time, Dada said, “Your friend Dilruba was beautiful. Pretty
girls don’t remain available for very long. They get married while they are
still in school. Those girls who are studying IA, BA, MA, are the ugly
unmarried ones.”
If he was in a
good mood, Dada bought presents for Yasmin and me, even apart from
Ma said, “Noman,
why do you sniff at these?” We too reproached him about it. Sometimes he even
asked us to sniff at his dirt balls. Once when I asked for digestive tablets,
he very seriously handed out three globules for me to swallow. They looked like
pills, and I was about to take them, when Yasmin came running in a frenzy, and
said, “Those are Dada’s filth.” I had to run to the bathroom to vomit.
Dada was in
service. He was paid a handsome salary at the end of the month. He attended
company meetings well-dressed in suits and boots. He had even received awards
as the company’s best representative. Unfortunately, however high Dada rose in
his career, his bad habits remained unchanged. A small man with big, big airs.
Our small wishes, if not immediately, were fulfilled by him at some time.
Almost every evening when from the terrace, I saw a boy dressed in a white
shirt and brown trousers and felt attracted, I thought why can’t I wear
the same kind of clothes! Baba had never been forthcoming in fulfilling our
desires, Dada was the only one. I got Dada to buy me white Tetron cloth and
even brown cloth to make the trousers. Hearing my wish, Dada said, “Not a pant,
but you can make a pair of pyjamas with this cloth.” When Dada went with me to
the tailor at the corner of Ganginar Par, I said “pant”, Dada said “pyjamas.”
“Do girls wear
pants? Pants are for boys.”
“What is the
problem if girls wear them?”
“There is a
problem. People will stare.”
“Why should they?
Is there something wrong in this?”
“Yes, there is.”
Eventually, Dada
felt sorry to disappoint me, and asked the tailor, “Can something like a pant
be made for her?”
The tailor laughed
and said, “A lady’s pant can be made.”
“How is a lady’s
pant made?”
There would be no
pocket, no open fly at the centre, the slit would be on the left side with a
zip, no cloth hooks around the waist for a belt - this was a lady’s pant. Well,
something is better than nothing, so I had accepted eagerly. Since it was
impossible to order a shirt for me, I had to settle for a dress. However, I
made a tiny request. Could my dress sleeves be turned up like a shirt, on the
outer side and not on the inner side? The tailor took my measurements with a
long measuring tape. While doing so his hands repeatedly touched my breasts.
Embarrassment made me stiff. But I told myself that it was impossible to take
measurements otherwise. The day the ‘lady’s pant’ and the dress were ready, I
was not just delighted, I was absolutely over the moon with joy. But as soon as
I wore it, there was chaos. Baba saw me and couldn’t believe his own
eyes. Angrily he asked, “What is this you are wearing?”
I said, “Pants.”
“Why are you
wearing pants?”
I did not reply.
“Why are you
wearing these obscene clothes? Don’t you have any shame? Take them off
immediately. If I see you wearing these clothes ever again, I will flog you
till there is no flesh left on your body.”
I had to shed my
pants and wear pyjamas. It is not that I didn’t wear those pants ever again. I
did, only of course, when I knew Baba was not within a mile’s distance.
Dada’s presents
now began to cross the limit of clothes and jewellery and progressed to paint.
Not paint for colouring pictures, but paint to make up our faces. He bought a
makeup kit for me. I had not asked for it; he had bought it of his own wish. I
had no experience of using a makeup box. No idea of what to use and how. Then
Chhotda came to my rescue. He made me sit on a chair like a statue and coloured
my face, eyes, eyelashes, cheeks, chin and lips. He dressed up Yasmin as well.
I began to think of it as a magic box. How wonderfully it transformed my
appearance. I began to look like the film stars, Kabari, Babita and Shabana.
When Chandana came home, she too was made to sit and was made up. When Chhotda
was applying pink powder from the box on to Chandana’s cheeks, Ma said,
“Chandana is fair, does she need any powder?”
Dada did not just
give Yasmin and me presents, he gave presents to Ma, too. Ma hid her tears in
her soiled saris so that no one could see them. Even if they could be seen, we
had got so used to them that we were never shocked. In fact we would possibly
notice more if she were to wear a new sari. If she wore a pretty sari
there would be a storm of questions and comments. “Bah! What a lovely
sari! Where did you get it from? Who gave it to you?” Some times however, we
did take notice even though our eyes were so used to her blouse-less,
petticoat-less saris and the fact that tears were not such a great disaster for
her. In case we suggested, “Ask Dada for a sari,” Ma would reply, “How much
more is Noman to give? He’s already giving you all. The man, who’s actually
supposed to give, is living comfortably. He has forgotten his responsibilities.
He doesn’t ever think of buying anything for anyone.” Ma obviously wanted that
Baba should give her something, not Dada. Ma waited like the Chatak bird
waits for the first drops of rain. She waited hopefully for Baba to think of
her, to do something for her, however small, however insignificant. Baba never
noticed anyone’s hopes or desires, especially not Ma’s. It appeared that
now Baba was not keen to give us even our rationed Id clothes. That we were
getting them from Dada, he of course knew. Not only would he not give us
anything, he even called Dada and rebuked him. He reminded him not to indulge
us too much, because if he over indulged us, we would go to the dogs.
I don’t think Dada
really remembered this advice. The very next day after Baba’s scolding he came
to me and said, “Hey, want to go for a picnic?” Since I was always waiting for
an opportunity to leave the house, I jumped at the offer. My afternoon and
night sleep just evaporated with this proposal.
This picnic was
not to be in the
Jhunu khala had
passed out of
Another came in
front, giggled and said, “Yes, they have.”
“How do you know?
Have you touched them?
The gang of boys
burst into loud laughter.
“Is she willing?”
“How much does she
want?”
“She doesn’t say?”
“Why doesn’t she?
Is she dumb?”
All the limbs of
my body were shaking. My throat was drying up. What if they were now to hit me
on my breasts, just as a boy had done once before on these very shores of the
“Hey, what’s your
name? Where do you live?”
“Hey, girl, do you
have a father?”
I didn’t answer
any of the questions. One of the lungi-clad boys threw a stone at me. It came
and hit my back. Another boy came close to me and poked my feet with his.
From the back, another one poked me. As though I was some strange creature who
had fallen out of the skies, all of them were poking me to see how I would
react. Not responding to either the stone or the pokes, I turned to the lapping
waters of the
The boys began to
giggle and smirk.
“She’s finally
spoken. She can speak then, she can speak…”
One of them lifted
his lungi and started to dance before me. On seeing him another joined in the
dance. The rest were laughing and clapping their hands. One of them came at me
with his two claw paws directed at my breasts. I pushed away those paws with
both my hands. The paws advanced again. I kept whimpering, then groaning. My
dress was being pulled by two boys. They were widening their eyes, displaying
their teeth, showing their tongues. They were playing with me. Having fun. All
they needed was to pull my dress off. Why only the dress, why not even the
pyjamas! In this deserted park, no one would see what was happening on this
side. Suddenly I saw two people entering the park, and some life came back to
my limbs. The two men wearing shirts and trousers were coming towards this
crowd. The two gentlemen were coming. Seeing them the boys moved back.
The lifted lungi dance also stopped. In the hope of being rescued from
this atrocious scene, I moved towards the men. But one of the two men asked the
boys, not me, “What’s happened?”
“This girl is
sitting alone in the park.”
“Alone?”
The other man
asked with a serious face, “What is she doing alone?”
“That’s what we
are asking. She doesn’t say.”
“Why doesn’t she?”
The two men stood
in front of me. They did not look at my face, but at my breasts. They laughed
coarsely. My sixth sense told me they were not my saviours. My sixth sense told
me, run. I couldn’t make out in which direction to run. This dilemma was
causing someone to come at me with hands and teeth out, and another to let fly
a raucous laugh. The laugh was causing the river to tremble. I began to feel
they were going to tear me apart. Eat me up. Bite me. Chew me. The dusk
was falling. The egg-yolk-like sun was sinking in the
I didn’t say
anything. White Shirt walked ahead talking. I followed panting and silent.
“Why were you
running? Did those boys do something to you?”
No reply.
“Did they say
something to you?”
Again, no reply.
I was too ashamed
to tell him what the boys had done and said. As though the blame for all their
exploits was mine, and so was the shame. The boys had done wrong, but it was as
though it was my fault that they had.
Reaching close to
I shook my head
from side to side.
“Then where will
you go?”
My head shook
again. A ‘nowhere’ or ‘I don’t know’ kind of reply.
Following White
Shirt I happily went to their house, not exactly their house, their land lord’s
house, not even the house really but its terrace. Sitting on the terrace and
enjoying the breeze was White Shirt’s elder brother and his friend. As soon we
reached the terrace, the brother and friend quickly went down.
“What will you
eat?”
I shook my head, I
didn’t want anything.
Except for nodding
my head, I was unable to utter even one word in answer to White Shirt’s
questions. White Shirt called out to his younger brother from the terrace,
threw down some money and ordered him to get ‘One Seven-Up.’ The younger
brother ran to get the Seven-Up, while White Shirt in the darkness of the
terrace tried to put both his arms around me like Razzaq embraced Kabari in the
movie. Such an invitation should have excited my desire to melt into the
embrace as well. But I noticed that my body remained as stiff as wood.
The wood leapt away and stood. The Seven-Up came, stood by itself, I was unable
to touch it. When I had watched White Shirt from the terrace of Aubokash,
walking from Golpukur Par to the corner of Sherpukur Par and disappearing, I
had thought I’d fallen in love with him. It wasn’t as if my heart had not beaten
excitedly. But this matter of rushing like Razzaq to embrace me, appeared so
artificial to me, that deep down in my bones I understood that just by wanting
to be Kabari, I couldn’t be, by wanting to be Babita, I couldn’t be. Life was
not entirely like the novels and the movies. If that was so, then I would
have enjoyed that embrace. Or I would have, with great strength, been able to
uproot the teeth of that gang of boys and those two pant-shirt clad, uncouth
men. I could not.
I had walked out
in the afternoon. Now it was dark. I did not have the power to imagine what
punishment awaited me at home. In that house, White Shirt said, “Let me take
you home.” As I had nowhere to go, I came down from the terrace and started
walking listlessly.
If I stood on the
terrace, a boy younger than me standing on the verandah of his house would lift
his lungi and show his penis. I had to turn my eyes away. I had to move away
from the terrace railings. These eyes wanted to see something else, something
beautiful and elegant. These evenings on the terrace, out of the damp rooms,
enjoying the fresh air, watching the world on my own, were very happy times for
me. For me the wide world was confined to only that much. All my freedom was
here. When the cool and calm evening breeze began to bid farewell to the
burning heat of the afternoon, it was the time to stand on the terrace and
imbibe the refreshing air, in one’s body. Not just in the body, I imbibed it in
my soul as well. But, now, realizing that I was not safe even on the terrace,
caused me gradually to shrink. Was I at fault for making that good boy
lift his lungi? I searched desperately for my faults. My own existence kept
mocking me. I myself felt ashamed of myself, to myself. I was very
embarrassed when a marriage proposal came from the house opposite our black
gate. Next to Swapan’s house was a Mussalman house, where an ugly lungi-vest
clad boy would stand. He sent his proposal to our house through the hands of
Abdul Bari’s wife, who belonged to Jaglupara. The Mritunjay School Master,
Abdul Bari’s balloon faced, freckle cheeked wife came home once in a while. She
would chat about routine household and cooking matters and go away. On hearing
of the marriage proposal from her mouth I trembled with fear and burnt with
anger. Ma of course did not say anything insulting to her. With a disapproving
face and gloomy expression she said, “The girl’s father wants to educate her
further. He will get very angry if he hears of a marriage proposal now.”
Even after hearing Ma’s answer, Abdul Bari’s wife called me aside secretly.
Taking a crumpled letter out of her blouse, she pulled out my hand and tucked
the letter in it, before leaving in a confused hurry. I opened and read the
letter in the bathroom. There were two pages crammed with ‘I love you’
type of words. For the first time, I tore a letter written to me into
bits, and threw it into the filth in the toilet. After throwing it, without
informing any one of the letter, I sat alone, hidden from every one.
On seeing my
growing body Baba collected an odhna from Ma, and hung it over my
shoulders, telling me, “Wear it this way, you will look nice”. Baba’s words
were so intensely insulting that they tied me up in knots. My shame over my
developing breasts was so acute that I buried my head in my pillow and cried
all night. I felt ashamed to wear this extra cloth to cover my breast. To
me, this was the proof that something was hidden behind it, something soft,
something modest, something one couldn’t talk about. That was why it had to be
covered, because what was there, was
very obscene, something growing uncontrollably, and definitely not to be seen.
So that I wouldn’t have to wear an odhna, and no obscene part of my body
was visible, I walked with my back hunched up. It became a habit. Ma boxed me
on my back saying, “Walk straight, wear your odhna. If you wear it, you
can walk straight. If you hunch your back from now on, later your backbone will
never straighten up.” Even then I didn’t feel like straightening up and
covering myself with an odhna. I found the article increasingly awkward.
Whether I wore it or not, people knew I had grown up. By the time girls had
taken their SSC, Ma said they were not only married, they sometimes even had
children. Hearing this, a sharp thorn pierced my breast. My breast trembled. I
did not want to grow up. Marriage appeared to me not only something
fearful and troublesome, but also obscene. Maybe it happened to others, but may
it never happen to me. I threw away the odhna Baba had covered me with.
I had grown up, yet I was afraid to make people understand this fact.
After my exams, I
had dreamt of getting a break from my school books. When I returned from the
The day the SSC
results were declared, Rabindranath Das came rushing to Aubokash and
enthusiastically sounded the victory bugle. I had passed in the First Division.
On getting the news, when I was jumping all over the house with joy, Baba
arrived with the exam results in his hand. I was quite sure he was going to
call for me and hug me saying, “Ma-Ma”. He would bring baskets of
rasgolla, malaikari, kalojaam, chum-chum and feed every one at home.
When he called me, I went before him with my face brimming over with happiness.
Just when I was physically ready to feel Baba’s embrace, and mentally prepared
to accept his elation, slapping me hard on my cheeks, he said “You have got a
Third Division. Aren’t you ashamed ?”
“Third Division?”
My stupefied face corrected Baba, “But I have got a First Division.”
While raining
continuous blows on my head and face, Baba said “Have you got a Star? No, you
haven’t. How many Letters have you got? A First Division without a Letter means
you have just about made it, and that means getting a Third Division.” From the
Adarsha Balika Vidyayatan, only three girls had passed in the First Division.
No one was Star-spangled or had secured Letters. So what? “Girls from
Vidyamoyee had, from the
Late at night when
everyone was asleep, I walked stealthily around the house looking for
rat-poison. My developing body coupled with my strange existence and my useless
brain – everything made me feel so small, that I wanted to become smaller and
smaller, so tiny in fact that I would not even be visible. I could not find the
rat-poison. What I did find was a dusty rat-trap in one corner of the room.
Chapter Six
MY VERY OWN
LITTLE BIRD NAMED CHANDANA
Every year I was
given a scholarship at the Residential, right from the seventh grade onwards.
But I was not allowed to keep a single taka of it for myself. Baba counted
every penny and took it all. Ma said, “Your Baba is keeping it aside for your
future. He will give it back to you when you grow up.” I believed what Ma said.
In a way I felt content that all the money with Baba was actually mine. I
dreamt of being able to buy books enough to fill a whole room when I grew up.
Yasmin, after failing twice in the fifth grade, had actually done something
surprising. Baba had made her take the School Board scholarship exam, and she
not only did well, she even got the scholarship. Now if Baba wanted to call for
Yasmin, he would say, “Where, where is that scholarship winning student!” I had
not been able to take the fifth grade scholarship exam, and though I had taken
the eighth grade one, I was not fated to be successful. It was because of my
failure that Baba made it a point to call Yasmin “scholarship winning student”
in my presence. Not just that, Baba compared me very often to the worms found
in dirty sewers. Repeatedly called a worm, I soon began to think of myself as
one. When I did not get a star-spangled First Class, I again began to think of
myself as a dirty worm. Chandana had passed in the Second Class. She was not at
all worried about this. Most of the students had done the same. I was, however,
very sure that if I, too, had secured a Second Class, Baba would have whipped
me till I was covered in blood and thrown me out of the house. I was saved
because that disaster had not taken place. Having secured a First Class, I
would get a scholarship in college and I would study for free. Baba was very
fond of scholarships. If he was pleased, I would at least be free of some of
the pressure of having to perform. If even this had not happened, I would have
had to face Baba’s snarls at every juncture. Not that I was not facing them
now. Anyway, I was positive the frequency would have been much more had I not
got the scholarship.
There was no need
to take entrance exams for admission. The college admitted me on the basis of
my SSC results. I regretted having wasted so much precious time studying my old
school books even after my exam. My time had flown by, literally gone with the
wind. Would such a leisurely time ever come back! Maybe, there would be other
times, but the vacation after one’s SSC exam would never return.
I had wanted to
join
Chandana hated the
odhna as much as I did. Very often we appeared in college without wearing it.
On seeing the wide-eyed shock of students and teachers, we realised that by
removing this absolutely mandatory piece of clothing, we had upset them all.
However, none of us were of the kind to be affected by the feelings of others.
Once college started, from the knowledge we gathered about our teachers, we
realised that the one class we could not afford to miss was that of our Maths
teacher Debnath Chakraborty even if the world were to turn upside down. The
rest, we could miss unless there was something really important. The Bangla
teacher Abdul Hakim mispronounced most of the words. In his class we could
exchange little notes, draw Hakim’s picture, round haircut, glasses hanging
from his nose. There was no reason to be interested in the poems in the
textbooks as our minds were already infused with poetry. Srimati Sumita Naha
also taught Bangla. When she explained the poetry and prose, except for those
sitting in the first row, it was impossible for anyone else to hear her voice.
She seemed to keep her voice close to the ground as if she wanted to protect
it. Perhaps she feared that if she raised her voice too high, it might just
crash and fall on the ground! She was a well known Rabindrasangeet exponent.
Her husband Alokmoy Naha was also an artist. An artist and a politician. He
stood for elections and won. He was a good politician, but that was not the
reason he won. He won because he was a good singer. The Chemistry teacher’s
nose was always wrinkled up, as though every possible thing in this world was
stinking. She taught us in a nasal tone. Whether or not her students understood
what she was saying, she continued to teach. As soon as the bell rang, she
would leave immediately, her nose still crinkled up. One day Chandana and I
were suddenly sent out of her class as punishment for being unable to suppress
our laughter. We were, of course, thrilled at this opportunity to leave the
class. Chandana and I tried to gauge in which girls’ hearts a warm breeze blew
whenever our Physics teacher entered the class with his crooked smile. The
Biology class created some waves. One had to catch frogs and lay them on their
backs in trays of wax. Their chests and stomachs had to be cut open to show
their digestive systems. On thick white paper we had to draw pictures of
various creatures. Drawing meant it was my day to reign as Queen. The whole day
I would elaborately sketch pictures with HB, B, 3B and other types of pencils,
as though I had joined an art school. Seeing this Baba would say, “Leave all
this worthless exercise and learn your texts by heart.” To Baba, drawing
pictures in Biology was also worthless. A frog had to be taken to college, so a
race after a frog would begin all round the courtyard. The frog ran and we ran
after it. Yasmin, Ma and I. Finally, I carried a golden frog in a paper packet
to college. The frog which had been ambushed while sitting in the corner of a
room had its limbs ultimately stretched out and pinned down by me. I even cut
it open to expose its digestive system, but my pity for the frog made me so sad
that until Chandana came and shook me, I did not feel normal. Once I did, I
left the room. The less time spent within the suffocating environment of the
classrooms the better for us. I left the biology laboratory. We wanted to
spread our wings. Within us was born a strong desire to break our bonds.
However, as we were unable to cross the limits of the college boundary, we were
forced to sit under a red cotton Simul tree in the extreme corner of the
compound. In a futile attempt to quench our thirst for milk with whey, we read
each other’s poetry. All the students in the college stared at us unblinkingly.
It seemed we were “different”, not really normal. At that time Chandana was in
the process of falling in love with a boy she saw on her way to college.
Hearing her story of ‘falling, falling’, I too felt like creating some waves in
the dull routine of my life. But there was no one close at hand to create a
ripple. I had no ‘falling, falling’ story. My life was only full of the empty
silences of the afternoon and the hot dusty winds of the summer. I felt like a
destitute. One day I got Yasmin to secretly give White Shirt a note asking him to
meet me near the college gate at ten. He was the same White Shirt who made my
heart beat faster when I used to see him from the terrace. The next day,
instead of entering college I picked up the waiting White Shirt and went
straight to Muktagaccha. This method of taking a rickshaw on a long trip to
Muktagaccha was something I had learnt from Chhotda. He used to do the same
with Geeta. However, all the way I only
looked at the villages, the farmers ploughing the land and the emaciated cows
sitting on the edges of the road. At the
famous Gopal Sweet Shop, I bought two of their popular mondas, and rode
back to the college gate on the same rickshaw. On the way White Shirt had asked
some casual questions which I had been able to answer only in the negative or
positive, nothing more. There was no doubt that I got a great thrill out of
engineering this episode, and was considered very daring when I described the
whole incident to Chandana in detail. But I noticed that for White Shirt I did
not feel anything. I did not even want to run away with him again somewhere and
enjoy the weather.
In the meantime
something awful happened. Baba had engaged Debnath Chakraborty to teach me at
home. Students thronged to his house to study, and a Pandit like Debnath
Chakraborty had actually agreed to come home and tutor me. This was no ordinary
matter; it was an extraordinary privilege! However, I noticed a big danger in
this arrangement. In the classroom he had to see my pretty face, not just see,
but every question he had to ask was directed at me, and he expected the
correct answers from no one else but me. Naturally I was unable to do so.
Therefore, in every class he showered slaps, boxes, the duster and everything
else at my head. When he appeared at Aubokash in the evening, my body
turned numb. With a figure like a round potato, wearing the perennial blue
shirt and black pants, carrying a fat black pen in his shirt pocket, black
rubber shoes on his feet, hair parted and combed, a mouth full of paan, a
swaying gait, the man could have been any Kalimuddin-Salimuddin walking along
the road. But no, he was Debnath Chakraborty with a big head full of
complicated scientific knowledge. Without his tutoring it was not possible for
any student to do well in the exams. Thanks to Debnath Pandit, every evening of
mine was ruined. If I made any mistake in Maths or in the laws of Physics, he
would immediately tear my books and copies and throw them on the ground. Yasmin
hovered close by to pick these up and put them back on the table. With my head
the target, a continuous stream of powerful beatings, boxes and slaps rained
down on it. People at home watched my pitiful condition from behind the drapes.
One day, Ma stricken with compassion, sent a branch broken from the jackfruit
tree with Yasmin, so that it could be used on my back. She was keen that the
beatings fall on my back alone, not on my head. “The way he beats her on the
head, one day she won’t have one at all!” Ma was really worried regarding my
head. When Debnath Pandit’s temper rose, however, he rarely noticed the branch
of the jackfruit tree. The branch stayed where it was, and as before his
beatings again rained down continuously on my head, and he resumed tearing my
books and throwing them down. Not just my evening, Debnath Pandit managed to
make my whole life utterly miserable.
****
In this unbearable
existence, there was no dearth of other tensions. When the magazine Bichitra
started a section called ‘Personal Announcements’, Chandana and I decided we
would write for it. For one word the charges were eight annas, for four, two
takas. It was not possible for me to manage more than two or three takas.
Saving my rickshaw fare for college, on the way back home, we stopped at the
Post Office and wrote our notices on money order forms and sent them. We had
finally got a formidable opportunity to write what we pleased, beyond the usual
movie talk in cine magazines, and the hackneyed monotony of
nation-times-society discussions in Bichitra. We were two individuals
extremely impatient to do as we pleased. Seeing Poet Rafiq Azad’s personal
notice “One poem for one kiss”, our enthusiasm began leaping like a kangaroo.
Chandana and I together wrote, “We are one soul, one life.” I wrote, “I am an
unmanageable turbulence.” Chandana wrote, “I am the greatest.” Just like the
reaction in Chitrali, if I wrote one, twenty others wrote about me, some
for and some against. Hardly two or three words used to create a statement,
like throwing a stone into a still pond, and creating ripples. Sitting on the
edges, Chandana and I both enjoyed the experience of watching the waves. Ours
was a sheltered existence. We had barriers and wire meshes all around us. There
were prohibitions at every step, denials at every stage. We acquired the
strength and courage to disobey these restrictions through words. Our words
were pronounced with such pride and arrogance that anybody who read them
assumed we were two haughty, immodest, headstrong, disdainful, fierce young
women who did not accept restrictions and cared two hoots for customs, rules
and regulations. Whereas, the reality was the absolute opposite; this
unrestricted free life was only the life of our dreams. Many even thought, we
were the two names behind which a man was hiding, that Taslima and Chandana
were not two different individuals at all. Like ants in winter, whatever money
we gathered and saved in two and four annas from one rickshaw fare, from our glassbottlepaperwala, from the pockets
of our fathers and brothers with or without their knowledge was perpetually swallowed
up in the fast-flowing stream of our personal announcements.
Chandana and I had
never spoken in pure Bangla; we had always used the Mymensingh rural dialect.
Chandana was much more of an expert at this than I was. Initially I used to
laugh at Chandana but gradually I fell into the trap of this language myself.
Between us, the competition was about who could use the maximum number of
regional terms. I lost to Chandana repeatedly. People going through schools and
colleges tried to overcome their provincialism as much as possible. Chandana
had come from the hilly regions of Rangamati in Chattagram. At home she spoke
the Chakma dialect. However, outside her home very few people knew the level of
pure Bangla that she used, just as even people born and brought up here could
not match her mastery of the tone and rhythm of the local dialect. Chandana
enthralled me no doubt, but she surprised me as well. Whenever I spoke to
Chandana it was in rural Mymensingh dialect, even letters were exchanged in the
same language. I had always known that whatever language people used while
speaking, they always wrote letters in pure Bangla. However, Chandana had never
followed this norm. In whatever language she spoke to a person, she wrote
letters to that person in the same language. Before coming to Chattagram, she
lived in Comilla. She wrote to her friend there, in Comilla dialect. Before
Comilla, she had been in Chattagram, she wrote to a friend there in the local
dialect. After meeting me, she gave up all other friends and gave me her
exclusive attention. In my life, too, apart from Chandana all other friends had
begun to fade away. I had no hand in this. Chandana’s individuality, novelty,
rarity overwhelmed me, at all times I felt awed by her. After SSC and before joining
college our chances of meeting were very few for similar reasons. Just as I had
to sit at home, Chandana had to sit at home, too. There was no question of
visiting friends whenever we wished. Going out meant visiting Nanibari. I had
given up visiting Peerbari ages ago, or going to functions with Chhotda with a
reluctant consent from Ma, or watching movies with Dada. As far as movies were
concerned I could only go to matinee shows, so that Baba did not get to know.
As soon as the show would get over, Dada, Yasmin and I would hurry home and sit
with faces which appeared as though we had never known what cinema was all
about. I had taken Chandana sometimes with me to the movies, but even that was
under Dada’s supervision. After seeing Alamgir Kabir’s film Seemana Periye
(Beyond the Limits), the dialogues of Bulbul Ahmed were always on our lips.
Enacting the part of a moronic stammering man on a remote island, Bulbul had
told Jayshree, “Wha-what haven’t I done for you, I have he-held you-you close
to my hea-heart, carried you on my ba-back…!” This dialogue of Bulbul, Chandana
and I knew by heart. Chandana started it. She had a battle with her younger
brother Saju once. Soon after being beaten up by him, a very aggrieved Chandana
described the whole incident to me saying “Wha-what have I no-not done for him,
I have he-held him clo-close to my hea-heart, my sto-stomach, my he-head, my
shou-shoulders.” Chandana never bore a grudge against her brothers even when
she was hurt by them in fights. But one hurt she bore all her life. When Molina
Chakma had given birth to a girl child, Subroto Chakma had come into the labour
room with a big chopper to kill his own daughter because he did not like girls.
Thanks to the intervention of family members in the labour room, Chandana’s
life was saved no doubt. Molina Chakma having subsequently given birth to two
male offsprings, Subroto Chakma’s anger with Chandana had abated somewhat, but
Chandana had never been able to forgive her father. Even now, like a nightmare
the scene stubbornly remained day and night in her mind.
Chhotda brought
the news that Chipachosh was having a function. The one and only Bulbul
Ahmed was coming from
Chandana suddenly,
abandoning her casual love affairs with neighbourhood boys who threw notes or
wrote letters, became absorbed with Jaffar Iqbal. Jaffar Iqbal was the most
handsome hero in the world of films. Many things were written about the love affairs
of hero Jaffar Iqbal and heroine Babita in the film magazines. We never
bothered about such things. It was a question of good looks. There was such a
bankruptcy of handsome men about us, that we both knew we had no option but
Jaffar. One day, Chhotda went to
*****
The shame of
having lied devoured me. Putting the phone down, I went and hid my face under
the quilt on my bed. Later, as soon as I met Chandana I sighed deeply and told
her about the embarrassing incident. “I’ve ruined it. Trying to appear older in
age, I went and told a lie.” Jaffar Iqbal knew that Chandana was my friend. If
one was a liar, then the other could be one too! After sitting desolately for a
long time; Chandana suddenly shook off her sorrow and said, “You spoke only the
truth, don’t we study at the University? We do. In our minds.” When Baba
removed the telephone from the drawer, and walked out of the house with it
under his arms the very next day, I kind of heaved a sigh of relief. The torn
phone cable kept hanging for a long time. Chhotda bought an old telephone, from
where, only he knew. He tried connecting it to the torn cable and tested it
only to get no sound. Meanwhile out of shame I did not reply to Jaffar’s
letter. Chandana continued to receive letters from him. His letters had now
gone beyond friendship and were hinting at love. So were Chandana’s. I was the
listener for both sides. This role suited me. I also realised that I did not
have the capacity to accept any other role.
Chhotda was again
organising a function for Chipachosh. Shahnaz Rahmutullah, the renowned
singer, and her brother, our one and only excellently beloved Jaffar Iqbal were
coming from
Chandana had
squashed quite a few lovers meanwhile. She had abused their neighbour, Magistrate
Akhtar Hossain as an “old bull”, had spat out in disgust on seeing Antu, the
boy who sang, walking bare-chested on the terrace, and had rejected Sandipan
Chakma, the paying guest in their house for a few months, on seeing him eat.
Chandana could not bear to see bare-chested men or those chewing food. Romance
disappeared in fright from her mind. She had even said on and off, “Do you know
when it is that people always look awful?” “When?” “When they eat. There is an
orifice called mouth in our body, people stuff all kinds of things into it,
rubbing their two sets of teeth on them in the most obscene manner … Chhi! The
one I love should not eat in front of me, not undress before me or go to the
toilet in my presence. Bas, that’s
the simple equation.” During the vacation, Chandana once went to visit
Rangamati. The Raja of the Chakmas, Debashish Ray was then looking for a bride.
At a family function he was amazed to see Chandana. Where would he ever get
such an eligible bride! Where else in Rangamati was there anyone as beautiful
and intelligent as her! He wanted Chandana. Wanted means wanted. Debashish Ray
was a friend of one of Chandana’s paternal cousins. Through him, Debashish
sought an opportunity to meet and speak to Chandana. Subroto Chakma was over the
moon with joy. His daughter was about to become a Rani. At her cousin’s request
Chandana went to meet Debashish at the banks of a big pond. In its clear water,
flocks of white swan were swimming with their smooth necks held high. Sitting
on the grass nearby, when Debashish like a lover had extended his sweaty hands
towards her and had just begun to speak words of love in a serious voice,
Chandana had burst into laughter. Returning home she told her enthusiastic
cousin that Debashish may be a Raja and what not, but he certainly did not know
how to make love. Marriage would not work out with him. Subroto Chakma,
initially in a soft tone, then in a strong voice told Chandana to accept
Debashish’s marriage proposal. She did not agree. Beatings did not work either.
Chandana was totally against marriage. She could not even imagine a bare-bodied
man sharing a bed with her. Then he would do things, make her do things, which
even if other girls were agreeable to, Chandana certainly wasn’t. Merrily
rejecting the royal proposal, Chandana came back to Mymensingh when the
vacations finished. She anyway disliked any blunt nosed Chakma man, however
great a Raja he might be. Chandana’s ability to quickly fall in love like this
and as quickly reject the lovers was very fascinating to me. I had no one to
reject, and I did not fall in love with anyone either.
At Chhotda’s
request Chandana wrote a letter to his childhood friend. Gradually Hassan
Mansoor Khokon grew to be Chandana’s number one pen friend. As the name Khokon
was associated with being a mama’s boy, Chandana rejected it, and chose to
address him as Hassan. She regularly listened to the song “Na Sajni, I know she
will not come”, and added the name Sajni, meaning ladylove, at the end of her
name. She did not like the name Chandana, and certainly did not care for the
title Chakma at all. However, as they were her own names she could not drop
them. Even if anyone was called witch, she had to retain the name as her own.
Chandana read Hassan’s marvelous letters, and after writing Sajni Hassan on
paper, moved around to see how good it looked. Jaffar Iqbal had been handsome
no doubt, but his letters were full of wrong spellings and faulty language.
This could be forgiven a couple of times, not everyday. Chandana got involved with
Hassan. Just as Hassan wrote poems about forests and seas, about getting lost
one day on some unknown island, Chandana too wrote of her perfectly beautiful
dreams that were like feathers floating sorrowfully in the colourful sky. What
Chandana wrote to Hassan, or even what Hassan wrote to Chandana was all read
out to me. There was not even a single little thing that was secret between
Chandana and me. I couldn’t believe that Chandana was really keen to meet, in
reality, any of the people she wrote to. She liked to play with words and
dreams; she played. I told Chandana that my heart fluttered when I saw Hassan’s
crooked smile. I even told her that Hassan was very handsome. In fact in my
childhood I had thought that there was no one in the world more handsome than
Hassan. Chandana listened very carefully to what I was saying, and while doing
so she mentally began walking in some faraway forest holding Hassan’s hand. The
same Hassan, almost half-mad with reading Chandana’s letters, one day arrived
in Mymensingh from
“I had already
told you how handsome Hassan was, did you see!”
Chandana laughed
loudly.
“Come on. Tell me
quickly.”
“What do you want
me to say?”
“Tell me how you
liked Hassan.”
“Dhoor, he was rotten! The fellow had a
paunch.”
Hassan was
rejected. I too looked closely at Hassan, the fellow really had a paunch.
Chandana opened my eyes for me, opened my mind for me. I clearly understood
that Chandana and I both liked everyone, and yet didn’t like them. We wanted to
fall in love, and yet didn’t want to. We knew all about love, we had read about
it, seen it, but somehow its existence in our own lives was acceptable, yet not
really so. We swung between liking and not liking, Chandana and I.
Even though we
bunked class, we had not been able to hoodwink Gagan, the guard. So we
discovered a thorny bush at the end of the college grounds and one day, even
though we got badly scratched, we escaped from under it into the streets. We
had got out but where could we go? The afternoon was in a daze, deserted and
burning in the rays of the sun. Chandana suggested going to the park. My heart
trembled at the thought of the park. Suppose I was confronted again by those
gangs of boys! Chandana caught my hand and pulled me ahead. Her touch was
enough to make me more restless, lively and activated. Floating for the moment
on the wings of Chandana’s daring, I temporarily forgot the gangs of boys and
went to that same
In the college
premises, Chandana and I gradually became isolated in our different world. Not
that we didn’t want to meddle sometimes in the gossip of other girls. Once
there was no class. Sitting in the midst of a group of gossiping girls, I heard
about when which girl was getting married, which boy was coming to see which
girl and when, the boy’s name, address, what he did etc. Both Chandana and I
had smiles peeping out of the corners of our mouths. None of the girls liked
our smiles. One of them wanted to know why we were grinning.
“We are laughing
because you are talking about this disgusting subject.”
“Disgusting subject?”
Some girls’ eyes had reached their foreheads; others near their noses, and some
girl’s eyes had bulged out of their sockets. It was as though Chandana and I
could not possibly be human; we must be some strange creatures from another
planet.
Irritated, one of
them asked, “Why should it be disgusting?”
“Of course, it is
disgusting,” said Chandana.
“You are behaving
as though you will never get married.”
“We never will. I
can be married only if I want to!” I said.
Chandana said,
“Phoo! Am I mad to get married! No one but mad and stupid people get married.”
“We will never get
married.” On hearing this declaration of ours, the girls wanted to know what
was the reasoning behind our decision.
“Is there any
reason for getting married, if there is, then what is it?”
“To have a
household. There is need for a family.”
“What is the need
for domestic life? Do people not survive without it?”
“There will be
children.”
“What happens if
you don’t have them?”
“Who will feed
you? Give you money?”
“I will complete
my studies and work. I will earn money. I will stay alone. Eat and drink. Roam
around. Enjoy myself. Do whatever I please.”
“Is that
possible?”
“Why not? Of
course, it is. You only have to wish to do so.”
We moved away. We
could make out that many eyes were staring unblinkingly at our backs. Taking my
hand in hers, Chandana walking towards the Simul tree, said, “Don’t look back.”
We walked along together like this, holding hands with our arms around each
other’s waists and shoulders, without looking backwards. This was nothing new
in the college grounds. Friends spent time talking to each other in this way.
However, the girls said that the slight slant of our necks indicated an
invisible pride and arrogance.
To Chandana and
me, poetry became more important than romance. Everyday we wrote poems, or we
wrote stories. Whatever I might write, in comparison to Chandana’s, mine
appeared very ordinary. If she created a beautiful red flowering Krishnachura
Gulmohar tree, mine appeared like a wilting, flowerless plant. I was so
enchanted by her beauty, her aura, her essence and her extraordinary
originality, that if ever a trace of jealousy was born in my mind, it
disappeared in seconds. Chandana and I could never become Chipachosh
members; we could never even go to any societies or meetings; we were not for
such things. Ours was a different world. We were involved in the endless,
unworried, solitary and pure game of words. We did not take our words to
demonstrations and shout slogans, nor did we know how to play the game of
politics. During that period of poetic abundance, one day Chhotda brought home
Shafiqul Islam. Shafiqul wore thick lenses. His head was bigger than his body,
and it was covered with tough, wiry hair. He looked as though he had not taken
a bath in two years, nor changed his clothes. This garrulous man was constantly
talking in the regional tune and tone. As soon as he saw me he said, “What’s
up, you have become very famous! I publish a little magazine. Write a poem,
will you?” In one evening I complied with his request, and wrote a new poem
called ‘Free Bird’. It went a bit in this way – “Open the window, I want to go,
I want to fly all over the sky.” Maybe I was inspired by hearing Ma, who
whenever she sat on the verandah would suddenly break into the song, “I am a
free, flying goose, I spread my wings in the far away blue sky”. Two weeks
later when Shafiqul’s poetry magazine came out, my poem was published in it.
Padmarag Mani had also written a poem in it. Padmarag Mani came to visit
Chhotda and Geeta at Aubokash once in a while. From a distance I had
exchanged glances, subdued smiles and even a couple of words with this
eye-catching beauty. Once my poem was published in Shafiqul’s magazine, other
such poetry magazines began to float in. Rush in and even crawl towards me.
Chhotda came home with numerous small magazines after meeting various poets in
town. Frequently he demanded, “Write a poem for Banglaar Darpan.” I
wrote, it got published. “Tell Chandu Mastaan to write a poem.” Chandana too
kept giving Chhotda poems, and they too got published. Since the day Chandana
had arrived at Aubokash early morning on a cycle, Chhotda had named her
“Chandu Mastaan, the hell cat”. Chandana was not displeased. Chhotda was told
by the Dainik Jahaan also, to get me as well as Chandana to write poetry
for them. Entering the material world of poetry, those were my first uncertain
steps. So were they Chandana’s. Our poetry notebooks were overflowing with
words. Chitrali and Purbani began to fade away. We neither wrote
for them nor bought them. We hardly remembered sending personal announcements
to Bichitra. If the topic came up, Chandana would say, “There are
dangers in advertisements. A printing error could change a 24 year old heroine
into a 42 year old harlot.” So advertisements were out. If we had to send
something, we would send poems, either to the Sunday or Searchlight’s
literary page.
****
At the end of the
first year at college, there was to be a promotion exam to the second year.
Debnath Pandit came home to tutor, rained boxes and slaps on my head and back,
to his heart’s content, and went away. Chandana did not have this Debnath
Pandit problem. She was happy. Chandana had always been unconcerned about
things like studies. I, too, would have been, but could not be, thanks to Baba.
I was forced to study in the English medium because Baba wanted me to. Chhotda
had studied in this medium and some of his books were lying around at home. I
dusted them and arranged them on my table. Before the exams Debnath Babu
informed Baba, “She should study in Bangla only, she would be unable to cope
with the English medium.” Bangla books were brought and the English removed. I
had to rush through the books, as the exams were round the corner. I didn’t
know why, but just before the exams, Debnath Pandit would appear at all odd
hours – his hair ruffled, the ink from the fountain pen in his pocket soaking
almost half his shirt – and give me a few questions to write, saying, “Study
these answers really well.” Bas,
after learning these answers very well, when I went to take my exams I mostly
found only these questions in my papers. The exams got over, the results were
declared. I had come first. I became famous in college. The Principal called me
to her room and said, “You are the pride of this college. Continue to work hard
we want really good results in the final exams.” Baba was not really happy,
though, on getting the news. He noticed that many letters addressed to me were
coming home. He asked Dada, “Who are the people writing to Nasreen?”
“Penfriends.”
“Penfriend means
what?”
In a disinterested
tone Dada replied, “Friendship through letters.”
“What does that
mean?”
Dada did not
reply.
“What do they
write in these letters?” Baba was very astonished.
“Who knows, I have
no idea.”
“What do you mean
you don’t know?”
“She doesn’t show
me the letters.”
“Why doesn’t she?
What is there in these letters?”
Dada was quiet.
“Whom does she
write to?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t we need to
know to whom this girl is writing, what she is writing, why she is writing?”
“There’s nothing
much. It is just normal friendship!”
Dada tried to cool
Baba’s growing temper, but it didn’t work. Baba’s voice grew steadily louder.
“What is the
meaning of normal friendship?”
Dada stared dumbly
at the white wall.
“Are they women or
men? Whom is she writing to?”
“Both.”
“You mean she is
making friends with men?”
Getting no reply
from Dada, he huffed and puffed saying, “Does she want to get married?”
Dada said, “No,
not marriage.”
“Then what?”
“Just like that.”
“Meaning what?
Just like what?”
“She just writes
casually.”
“Why does she
write casually? What is the need?”
“No, there is no
need.”
“If there is no
need, then why does she write?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why don’t you?”
Baba went on
questioning Dada – his eyes red, swollen and ready to gobble Dada up. To escape
from the torture of this questioning, Dada excused himself by saying he needed
to go to the toilet, and went and sat there. Baba repeatedly took off his
glasses, and wore them; kept walking from one end of the verandah to the other
and rummaged amongst the books on my table. Every book, every copy. Under the
table, every fallen piece of paper there. Even under the bedsheets, pillows and
mattresses. He was looking for something.
After this
incident all my letters stopped coming. They were now going to the Notun Bazar
address of Arogya Bitaan. Baba had wangled the postman into doing this.
I was sure of this the day Chhotda informed me that he found many letters
addressed to me at Aubokash, all opened, in Baba’s drawer at Arogya
Bitaan. As soon as Baba had left for the Bazaar, Chhotda had made this
discovery. There was only one thing that I had felt at that time, that this was
wrong. Baba, being Baba, did not think that there was anything wrong in this.
But why should the postman do this? That I would get no help from anyone if I
complained, I was sure. So I wrote a letter. In the Readers Page of Bichitra,
the letter was published the very next week. Letters for Aubokash,
Amlapara were being delivered at 69,
“Wherever they are
delivered, he is your father after all.”
In a soft voice I
corrected him, “Yes, he is my father. He is not me. My father and I are not the
same, we are different.” The official went away. The problem remained unsolved.
Chhotda helped me out of this situation by allowing me to use his friend’s
stationery shop address. I informed my penfriends of my new address. Chhotda
faithfully acted as my postman. I was very friendly with him. We read the Id
Edition of Bichitra, stories, and novels together, that is, I read them
aloud and Chhotda listened. Most of the story books were also read in this way.
Some of these Chhotda did not like, and these I read by myself. The stories of
the wicked forest elf of my childhood were forgotten. I had given up reading
Niharranjan Gupta, Phalguni Mukhopadhyay, Nimai Bhattacharya, Bimal Mitra,
Jarasondho ages ago. I had nothing left of Saratchandra to read. I had even had
enough of Rabindranath and Nazrul. Michael, even Jibanananda had been consumed.
From Shakti, Sunil, Shamshur Rahman, Al Mahmud to the recent Nirmalendu Goon’s
books, whatever had been published, I had read. I wanted something different.
On the way back home from college, I stopped at the bookshops at the corner of
Ganginar Par, and searched for books. Prose, poetry, essays, all kinds of books
attracted me. But I didn’t have enough money to buy books. Chhotda rescued me
from even this misery. One evening he took me to the Public Library. As soon as
I entered it, a wonderful peace and calm embraced me. From the floor to the
ceiling of the room, were bookshelves. There were books all around. In the
centre there were study tables; there was pin-drop silence; one or two people
were studying seriously. Purposely, I spent the whole day in this clean, neat
and peaceful temple-like room. If only all the books in the library could be
carried home and read today itself! That very day I became a member and carried
home as many books as I could hold in my two hands. The books kept passing from
my hands to Chandana’s and back to mine. Once we’d gone through Sayyed
Waliullah, Saikat Usman, Hassan Ajijul Haq, it was Satinath Bhaduri, Naren
Mitra and Jagdish Gupta. We returned books and got more. We hungrily read all
the books, as though very soon we had to take an important exam on the books in
the Public Library.
****
The exams were
approaching. In refined terms the Higher Secondary, in colloquial, Intermediate
and in bookish Bangla ‘Uchcho Madhyamik’ exams. Instead of three days, now
Debnath Pandit was coming home five days a week. He didn’t come to teach me
actually, only to beat me into a worthy person. Like Baba’s, Debnath Pandit’s
eyes strayed to the small bits of paper. One day a half-finished letter to a
penfriend fell out of my Maths book. Before I could pick up the fallen letter,
Debnath Pandit grabbed it, read it from top to bottom, and put it into his
breast pocket. What was this! He was behaving just like Baba. Was he now going
to break the firewood in the courtyard on my back, because of this letter!
Every so often he felt his breast pocket, and seemed to feel a kind of joy in
ascertaining that the half –finished letter still existed, and instead of
flying away somewhere, was still inside his pocket. It was the kind of joy that
inflamed one, that made the hair on one’s body stand on end, and settle down,
that made the head throb and not do so at the same time. Debnath Pandit was
unable to teach. He kept shifting from left to right, from back to front. His
mind was restless. I finished the sums he had given me; there were no mistakes.
Suddenly he clutched the Physics book with all his ten fingers as though the
book had wings and would fly away if he loosened his hold. Turning the pages,
he began to ask me the most difficult questions. I don’t know with whose blessings,
but even these I was able to answer correctly. With Chemistry, too, my fate was
the same. After that, he suddenly pushed away the Maths, Physics and Chemistry
books with both hands and without any reason gave me one great blow on my head,
on the right side of my forehead. Why! No, there was no reason for it. He said,
“Why aren’t you doing the sums I gave you to solve yesterday!”
“I have done
them.”
“If you have done
them, then why can’t you show them? Where is your mind?”
This was the
golden opportunity to punish me for the half-finished letter. I held the Maths
copy before him. Even after doing so I got a sudden blow on my back. My lungs
felt the impact.
“How many times do
I have to tell you to leave a margin when doing sums?”
This was first
time he had mentioned a margin. Whatever. Then he came to the actual topic.
“Who have you
written the letter to?”
“Which letter?”
This time a slap
landed smack on my cheek.
“As though you
don’t know which letter? This one!”
He took out the
half-finished letter from his breast pocket.
“Who is Jewel?
Where does she stay? What does she do?”
“She stays in
“You don’t know?
Are you fooling me?”
How could I fool
Debnath Pandit? I didn’t have that kind of courage. Debnath Pandit sat before me
with his huge body, massive physique, arms like the trunks of a banana tree,
and fingers like hard, solid bananas. I tried, on the other hand, to lie at his
feet like a dying blade of grass, as lifeless as I could possibly be. Tearing
the letter into bits, he threw the pieces on my face and left the room
breathing fumes of anger. I sat alone, amidst Debnath Pandit’s beatings, Baba’s
scolding, Ma’s nagging, Chhotda’s sorrow, Geeta’s pride and Dada’s bossing. I
buried my face in books. The exams were approaching. I knew that, but that did
not prevent me from looking at Chhotda’s friends who visited our house. There
was Jyotirmoy Dutta’s son Babua Dutta. There was Tafsir Ahmed, son of the
editor of Takbir, so handsome one couldn’t take one’s eyes off him. Another
reputed lady-killer was Sohan, the D. C.’s son, who lived in the saheb
quarters. Whoever I saw, I not only fell in love with mentally, I even heard
his personal thoughts in my own mind, “Where will I get a pitcher, girl where
will I get a rope, you are the deep river, and I am the one who is drowning.”
Yet not one of them bothered to give me even a second glance, and I began to
feel like the ugliest girl in the world.
Just like Chitrali
and Purbani stopped coming, letters from penfriends also began to peter
out. I only replied to some really good, poetic letters written in neat
handwriting. A final year student of the
I did not reply.
He laughed and
said, “Naked.”
Instantly the word
that was coming and going from my tongue finally came out. I said, “Bye” and
left without demur. Salim was left behind, sitting in a state of shock.
That very day
Chhotda came back with the news. “It seems you went to the Tajmahal?”
“Who told you?”
“It seems you were
sitting and chatting with some fellow? The whole city has come to know. You are
really crossing all limits now.”
That I had crossed
limits I understood very clearly. But this girl who had managed to do so also
felt herself to be extremely dumb and stupid. How come she was unable to speak
to Salim! By leaving the restaurant without any warning, what was she trying to
prove? Was she trying to say that she was not a bad girl, that, she didn’t chat
with boys! She was from a highly placed gentleman’s family, a good girl, who
avoided the company of boys! She had to meet Salim only because he had come all
the way from
Since he met me,
Salim’s letters surprisingly became more passionate. There were more waves in
the sea. I was moving backwards, because his lips had not appeared like lips to
me but had appeared if not like a whole, atleast half a tandoori roti. I
gradually reduced my letters to Salim, and one day Salim, too, stopped writing
to me. No letters, none at all. After a very long time, suddenly I received a
letter from
My address was now
no more Chhotda’s friend’s stationery shop, but Post Box Number 6. Suspecting
that his own letters were being removed from the stationery shop, Chhotda had
taken a box in the Post Office. We both had now begun to use that. I had an
invitation to contribute to the Personal Advertisement Column of Bichitra,
from the Section Editor. The request delighted me, but did not arouse any
desire to embark on the path of advertisements. Even if I had forgotten this
world, the people of the advertisement world could not forget me. I was no
more, but I lived in the advertisement page. In the New Year titles, a name was
given to my lost self. Some called me “scented rose”, others “Not a rose, but
its thorns.” Hate and love. Both sentiments kept me afloat, even though I did
not know anyone of the writers personally. Even when reminiscing, there were some
who could not resist mentioning my name. Plenty of letters came to my address.
Most of the letters offered friendship. Some blind admirers had also appeared.
Shahin, junior to me by a year, waited for me everyday with a flower in her
hand. With the flowers there were letters, she thought of me as a Devi,
Goddess. The girl was rather shy. With lowered eyes and face, she would come
before me, with a warm heart and a frigid body, I would remain speechless. The
girl had no idea that her Devi was even more diffident than she was herself!
From Chattagram, a millionaire called Pahari Kumar wrote letters in very neat
rounded handwriting, on scented, blue-tinted paper. Chandana was at Aubokash,
the day the postman delivered Pahari Kumar’s gift parcel. We were sitting and
chatting in the fields, when the packet brought our conversation to a halt. As
this was a packet, and had to be hand-delivered and signed for as received by
me, so the peon had not gone to Arogya Bitaan, but come home. Inside the
big packet, was a smaller one, and only after a few more small packets within,
the final one revealed the gift. As soon as it was out, Chandana jumped a foot
away and screamed, “Throw it.”
“Why should I
throw it? What’s happened?”
“Throw it. Throw
it. Throw it right now. That bastard dog, he’s sent something rotten, throw
it.”
Not knowing what I
was supposed to throw, I sat perplexed. Curiosity was consuming me to such an
extent that, even though I didn’t want to, my hands wanted to go towards the
present. Chandana’s hand plunged and removed my hand from the article. The
present fell from my hand, on to my lap, and then face forward on to the
ground.
“What is it?”
My ignorant eyes
moved from the ground, to Chandana, and at Chandana’s nausea.
“Can’t you make
out what it is?”
“No, I can’t. What
is it?”
“This is a panty.
Quickly, go and throw it away.”
I ran to the
garbage pile and threw the gift along with the wrapping into it. Nausea was
creeping up in me as well. Chandana actually brought up her rising nausea at
the corner of the field. This had happened to Chandana before. About porno
magazines like Desire & Woman, too she said, “I read them once, I
vomitted in disgust. I washed my hands with Bangla Soap and then with Lux soap.
While eating Saala I was scared some
of it might get into my stomach.” Those hands never picked up those filthy
things anymore. The world we dreamt of was a world where nakedness did not
exist. To Chandana, a man’s physique was something very ugly. Yet she believed
deeply in love.
Chandana had begun
talking of Platonic Love. I asked her, “Now, what’s that?” “This was love and
romance, in which there was no wickedness or filth.” My two eyes looked
fascinatedly at Chandana’s two shining ones.
Chapter
Seven
“SHENJUTI – EVENING LAMP”
Chandana suddenly
left me after taking the Higher Secondary Exam. She left me all on my own. She
didn’t really leave me; she was forced to go to Comilla by her father Subroto
Chakma the man who was husband to her glum-faced mother Molina… the man who had
been satisfied when his craving for male offspring had been fulfilled with the
birth of two sons, after Chandana. Before leaving for Comilla, Dada had taken
Chandana and me to the Dhaka Board to pick up our certificates. We had to go in
the morning and return in the evening. In the afternoon, while taking us to
lunch at the Chinese Restaurant Tai Tung in the Motijheel, Dada said, “What,
Chandana, why don’t you keep your eyes and ears open?”
“Why, what is it
that we haven’t seen or heard?”
“Aren’t you going
to look out for a pretty girl for me? You’ve been studying in college for two
years!”
“We were so busy
looking at the boys, we had no time. When were we to look at the girls?”
Chandana laughed. Excepting the men in her family, Chandana was the most free
with my elder brothers. Thinking of the Raja of Chakma, Dada sadly clucked his
tongue and said, “You made a great mistake, and will have to repent it in
future. You didn’t give a Raja any importance!”
Chandana laughed
loudly.
Dada’s sorrow did
not end there. “When we visited Rangamati, we could have stayed as the Raja’s
guests! Thanks to you we have lost this opportunity.”
Chandana laughed
again.
“Who knows which
Fakir beggar is written in your fate!” Dada said.
Telling us about
Rangamati, she talked more about Cherag Ali rather than Debashish. There was a
Daroga, a sub-inspector of police, by this illuminating name, which meant lamp.
Cherag Ali said that his light glowed during both day and night. After some
time, Chandana became serious and said that recently, Cherag Ali was glowing a
little less as he had lost his job. Although it was a short sojourn, Chandana
and I enjoyed ourselves, being able to get away from the familiar environment
of Mymensingh. Before Chandana left for Comilla I had told her, “Don’t go. If
you go, how will I survive?” Chandana had the same query, but neither of us had
the answer to this question. Chandana had even told Subroto Chakma that she
would not leave Mymensingh, she would stay at Aubokash with me, and
continue her studies. He had not agreed. Chandana’s half-closed eyes were red
on the day she was leaving. She whispered in my ear, “You watch, I will run
away one day and come back to you. The two of us will live together all our
lives.” From Comilla she wrote two to three letters a day. She wrote long and
lengthy letters, describing each and every event of every day, every disaster.
She penned her feelings, her loneliness and the emptiness of each day. How,
whenever she looked at the red blooms of the Krishnachura tree, it
reminded her of me. Reminded her of the life she had left behind her, every
word, every sound, every bud and every flower. She wanted to regain her past
life. I did not feel that Chandana had left forever. To me she had left only to
return. We would meet again and once again rock in our cradle of happiness.
Sitting once more in the stern of the boat, I would look at the colours of the
sky, while with lapping sounds Chandana would row far away, way beyond the
horizon. It would be a world where there would be no sin, viciousness, jealously,
hatred, cruelty, meanness, where there was no wrong, no discrimination, no
disease, no sorrow, no death. Here we would live with beauty, imbibing the
scent of purity, and love would never leave our side. Suffering from
depression, Chandana would write, ‘I am not feeling happy, as though I am above
everything that is worldly. Liking, loving, all these words seem very old to
me. I am unable to make you understand. I keep feeling I am not myself. I have
been sad the whole day. When a little touch causes the mahogany leaves to fall
peacefully like a shower of tiny flowers, I wish I could rest my head on the
back of some jean-jacket, and go for a Honda ride somewhere far away. I know,
and how cruelly I know, though I have never spoken of it to anybody, that for
me these are only empty dreams. Hurt me! Unless I have tears in my eyes I don’t
stay well. Never! Actually I cannot even tell you what has happened to me. Then
they will know; everyone will get to know. I am just restless, I am dying of
anxiety, yet do you know, you will never know the whole story, never. You who
are my own, so close to me, so close to my heart, I won’t be able to tell even
you. Poor heart! This heart is my biggest enemy. Just when everything is going
well, just at that moment I change. This thing, called heart, betrays me. I am
not well, not at all, I want to scream, I am continually being torn apart by a
kind of jealousy and envy, and yet I cannot make anyone understand. I can’t
understand against whom I feel this envy, why this rivalry. Is it that I want
to be vociferous against myself? Do I not love myself anymore? Who knows…
suppose some blue eyed Greek youth, some Apollo had spoken to me of love…!
Everything is turning topsy-turvy within me. I do not feel joy in anything
anymore. I remember Sadananda in Ashami Hajir (Here Stands the Accused)
who groaned in some unspeakable torture. I think that I, too, am crying in some
equally unspeakable pain. I can’t bear this mundane life anymore. Will you be
able to uplift me on to some enchanting plain? My heart cries, who have you
left behind, dearest heart, that your life is over and you have not gained
peace as yet! Can you understand what I am saying? Can you? I want you close to
me. I only want you – how long since I have seen you. Let us leave this world
and all its emotional ties behind, and roam around with the ektara, monochord
of a Baul, the Hindu devotional singer. You will be the Vaishnavi. Both of us
will pick tung-tang sounds on the ektara, and sing songs like The bird
tosses restlessly, it can’t tear its chains or break open its cage, it dies
tossing restlessly within. Or Eyes are called mirrors, one day they will
be lost, what I saw with my burnt eyes, will be what is left behind.
Apart from writing
long letters to Chandana, there was only one thing I did sitting in the corner
of the room, in the verandah, on the grass in the field, under the early
morning flowering Sheuli, horsinghars, in the shade of the Segun tree. I
wrote poetry. From various towns of the country, poetry journals came to my
address. From many districts of
“Be patient, be
patient.”
“How much more
patience should I have?”
“You must have
more. Much more.”
“How many days?”
“Another few!”
I was unable to
keep my patience. I became more and more restless everyday. Finally I handed
over the manuscript to Chhotda. After giving Shenjuti to a printing
press in Chhotabazar, I kept at Chhotda’s tail, “When will it be printed?”
”It is going to
take some time.”
“How long?”
“It will be
printed next month.”
”Oof, so long!”
“You think the
press has nothing else to do?”
“Will you take me
to the press one day?”
“Why do you want
to go? I will get it printed and bring it.”
This wish to go to
the printing press was nipped in the bud by Dada, “Why should you go to the
press?”
“I want to see how
the printing is done.”
“Girls do not go
to the press.”
“Why not?”
“They don’t.”
“Is there any
reason?”
“Girls should not
go to the press.”
“Why not? What
happens if they do?”
“There are
problems.”
“What problems?
People will stare?”
“Maybe not, but
they will laugh.”
“Why should they
laugh? What is there to laugh at? I am editing the magazine, why shouldn’t I go
to the press?”
“Editing can be
done even at home. You don’t have to run to the press like a man.”
Dada was unable to
dampen my enthusiasm. I went to the press with Chhotda. Somehow I managed it.
Black were the tables laid out dividing the room into columns. Sitting at them,
were people picking out each type-set letter from its case and placing it on an
iron sheet. For every word, however small, one had to reach out several times
to pick each letter. How did they know in which place which letter was, how did
their hands move so fast! I felt like spending the whole day at the press,
watching how letters were joined together to form words. The printing machine
was noisily printing beedi paper, incense stick covers, box covers for
ointments, wedding cards and political posters. Seeing the manuscript of Shenjuti,
the owner of the press, Hare Krishna Saha gave a smile, sensing a different
kind of task. His smile was different, too. He said he would print it soon.
Every format would cost two hundred taka. Not just that, more money was
required to buy the paper. I went home and began selling all the paper whether
whole or in pieces. Old Chitralis and Purbanis were put in the
sun and dried in order to shake off the termites. Setting aside my weakness for
old Sunday Sandhanis and Bichitras, I sold them all to the
glassbottlepaperwala in order to
collect money. I even managed to get some money out of the knot tied at the
corner of Ma’s sari aanchal. From here and there I managed some more. Guarding
this money like a miser, I took Chhotda with me, chose paper from a shop next
to Hare Krishna Saha’s press, and delivered the paper to him. After this
Chhotda bought the proofs home, and showed me how to proof-read. Since he
himself worked for a newspaper, he knew. I relied on Dada for the money
required to print the magazine. Though I did not get the money at one go, I did
get installments.
The day 500 yellow
coloured Shenjutis came home printed I imbibed their beauty, essence and
aroma. Sitting on the bed, I began to fold the pages, pin them together and
keep them aside. I quickly pushed them under the bed on hearing the sound of
Baba’s entry into the house. Baba’s eyes could see under the bed as well.
According to Yasmin, Baba’s eyes were like a vulture’s; no one could possibly
hide anything from him. He knew what was going on in the house, even when he
was not there. It was impossible to guess who were acting as Baba’s informers
and when. He called Ma and asked her, “What is going on, what is the girl doing
neglecting her studies?”
In a disinterested
tone, Ma said, “I don’t know what poetry magazine she has printed.”
“What is a poetry
magazine?”
“She writes
poetry, prints a magazine.”
“What will she get
out of a poetry magazine? Haven’t I told her to study? Who will pass her in the
medical entrance exams? Will she pass with poems?”
Ma had to bear the
brunt, mostly.
“Where did she get
the money?” Baba’s curiosity was brimming over.
Ma told him dryly,
“Noman gave it to her.”
“Why did Noman
give her?”
“She asked him. He
gave her.”
“Do you have to
give just because you are asked?”
“It was his
younger sister’s wish, so he gave it.”
“What does Noman
get out of it?”
“Does everyone
look for profit? She writes poetry because she likes to. Noman too used to
publish a poetry magazine. Now Nasreen has taken it up.”
“I work days and
nights to feed them. Is my hard work for them to waste their time in all these
useless activities?”
Ma said, “Why do
you ask me? Ask your daughter.”
Baba never came to
ask me anything. He caught hold of Dada, “Why are you inciting her, just
because she’s gone crazy, do you have to turn mad too?”
Dada mumbled, “I
have not incited her.”
“Why did you give
her the money?”
“I didn’t give her
much.”
“But you did. If
you hadn’t given her the money, could she have done all this?”
Dada swelled with
pride and said, “No.”
“By writing poetry
what do you get in life? Do you achieve anything?”
“No.”
“Then why does she
write?”
“Just like that.”
“Does poetry give
you food?”
“No, it doesn’t
give you food.”
“Do you get
clothes?”
“No, you don’t.”
“Does it give a
home?”
“No.”
“Does it provide
electricity?”
“No.”
Dada continued to
answer softly with his head bent.
“You have seen the
life of the people on the rounds of the city. Have you found anyone who built a
home by writing poetry?”
“No.”
“Do gentlemen
waste their time in useless work?”
“No.”
“Does anyone
except for the mad, write poetry?”
Dada did not give
any answer to this one. Baba asked him the same question twice over. He still
made no reply. Leaving the silent Dada, Baba walked out, making snapping noises
with his shoes.
Baba kept his
mouth sealed as far as I was concerned. He would speak to everyone, but not to
me. When Baba did not speak it also meant whatever money he was giving would be
stopped. I did not even have to go to college now, so I would not need rickshaw
fare. In a way I was relieved that I would not have to face Baba’s red eyed,
snarling teeth, abuses and orders to sit down and study for a while. This was
Baba’s habit to stop talking suddenly, without warning. This would go on for
many, many days. Except for the domestic help, he had stopped talking to almost
everyone in the house by turns. When talk resumed, he himself initiated the
process. He locked and unlocked his mouth at will; the key remained in his
breast pocket. Very often we found it difficult to figure out for what reason
he had stopped talking to a particular person. The reason for not talking to me
this time was Shenjuti. Not even a week had passed since he’d locked his
mouth, when he began writing letters addressed to me. Without opening his
mouth, he put his words into letters and began to send them to me blending the
polite and refined with the colloquial. The letter bearer was an employee of Arogya
Bitaan, Salaam. Ma called him by his full name. Salaam was one of the
ninety names of Allah. It was incorrect to call anyone directly as Allah,
hence, if one added Abdus, or Abdul, then the name came to mean Allah’s servant.
Since man was in any case a servant of Allah, Ma, therefore, called him Abdus
Salaam, i.e. Allah’s servant. Ma had a neighbourhood brother called Quddoos.
Everyone called him Quddoos, Ma called him Abdul Quddoos. After Abdus Salaam
handed me the letters, Ma made me read out every one of them to her. I read
loudly, so that not just Ma, but everyone at home could hear me. The letter was
of ten to twelve pages. It began with a description of the advantages of
obeying a father’s orders and restrictions, and ended with complete
disappointment and desolation. In between there flowed a stream of moral
advice. The final signing off was the usual, ‘your unfortunate father!’ I read
the letter alright, but did not bother to pour over the books required to be
studied for the entrance exams. I didn’t do so because I didn’t want to. Even
though I did not spend any time on the kind of study Baba wanted me to do, I
did spend my days and nights on a different kind of reading and writing.
Just a few days
after copies of Shenjuti were sent to various poets and little
magazines, plenty of letters poured in. With the letters came poems. They had
to be read, corrected and set aside to be printed in the next issue. I had made
Shenjuti a trimonthly. But I wished I could print it the very next day.
It was unbearable to wait for three long months. There were so many letters
that Baba told Ma in my hearing, “Hasn’t she stopped writing here and there to
her penfriends as yet?” The penfriendships here and there stopped alright, but
the poetry writing here and there did not. It continued. One day he carefully
removed a copy of Shenjuti which was lying on the table in the verandah.
After eating lunch, he read every poem in Shenjuti, while lying on his
bed in the afternoon. After reading it, he put it into his pocket and went out.
What was about to happen was something I was unable to gauge. At night, he
called Ma, made her sit next to him and read out one of the poems from Shenjuti,
and told her, “Look, here the poet is saying that paper is earth, the pen is
the shovel, and writing poetry is to dig your own grave. The poet has spoken
the truth, don’t you think? The poets dig their own graves. That is something a
poet himself has said.”
Baba did not get
any rejoinder to his letters. He came home with a dark face, and left in the
same way. My tall, fair, curly haired filmstar, Uttam Kumar like Baba, kept
within himself, Lord knows how many scoldings and abuses, all waiting to burst
forth. After all, silence was also one of his many moral lessons. Since I was
not weakening in spite of his attacking letters, what he did next was quite
unique. He pasted a paper onto his door, on which he had written,
I
am no more able to bear so much wrong
Was
this what was written in my fate, all along,
My
children have all gone to the dogs
Secretly
I weep as I die drop by drop.
After reading
Baba’s poem, I used some rice starch to stick a paper on the red glass of his
red and blue windows. On the paper was written,
What
is wrong that I all of a sudden have done?
My
days and nights are spent
Sitting
at Aubokash, going nowhere
I
do not even take a step beyond the doorway.
When Baba returned
home, I remained curled up in my room. Keeping my ears open for the reaction
did not help. Baba came home silently, and as silently left. After his
departure, when I went to check on the state of the paper on the window, I
found another paper posted next to mine, on which was written:
“Staying
at home doesn’t always make one virtuous
The
man here gets to know, which is obvious
The
happenings at Aubokash always reach his ear
That
wishfully a life is being destroyed without fear.
Penfriendship
has never lead to success
And
illiteracy only causes life’s pillars
To
shake and undergo stress.”
After reading
Baba’s missive, I wrote again in big, big letters. While writing Yasmin’s head
would just not move away from mine.
I
know that, as though I don’t.
However,
one thing I do not condone.
That
beating is the only way to mould
Do
fathers feel great pleasure?
When
daughters weep and tears roll!
Baba returned by
dusk and spent an hour in his room without calling anyone. After asking Ma for
a glass of water, and whether any groceries were required at home or not, he
left again. I sat in my room cowering in fear. My heart was thumping.
Ultimately how explosive would this cannonade of public poetry prove to be, who
knew! As soon as Baba left, I came out of my coil of fear.
Baba had this time
pasted his poem, on the purple glass of the window.
The
core of a father’s heart hurts when daughters weep
The
bond between them only a father knows how deep
Today
he is present, may not be so tomorrow
Hence
on his daughter his wish is to generously bestow,
Education
and culture and to guide her onto the path of truth
A
path universally approved.
What
else, would a father bless his daughters with, forsooth.”
*****
This dialogue
encouraged me tremendously. Everyone at home came to the window to read the
poems pasted on the glass. Leaving Dada’s gifted diary in which I wrote poems,
I got completely involved in this game of poetry on the window.
Is
there no truth in Tagore?
Would
anyone succeed in dismissing Nazrul of yore?
And
Sukanta? Absolutely outstanding;
Does
poetry follow the path of lies?
If
so, then I will give an undertaking
That
path, I will not tread,
I
will not increase anyone’s dread.
As
insignificant and trivial a person
As
I
Only
knows
That
for jewels I do not die.
My
evening lamp should be lit,
That
is my most urgent desire.
As soon as one
window was covered, the poems were being pasted on the next. Reading this one,
Ma said, “Cut out ‘as trivial and insignificant a person as I.’”
“If I cut it out,
what can I fill it with?”
“Write ‘as
extremely intelligent a person as I’.”
The words were not
cut, because Baba’s footsteps could be heard. Baba nowadays came home rather
frequently. Apart from calls of nature, even to drink a glass of water he came
across all the way from Notun Bazar to Amlapara. The purpose, of course, was
poetry. It sometimes even happened that within half an hour of writing a poem,
he returned without any rhyme or reason. He checked whether anything new had
been pasted on the doors and windows of his room. Without any need, he would
pass by my room, and glance in to see if I was there or not. We never came face
to face; he avoided that and so did I. During these periods of mutual silence,
this system of avoiding even the sight of each other was taught to us by Baba
only.
Rabindranath
wrote poetry without a thought.
Zamindar’s
lives could after all be spent doing nought.
Does
poetry really behove a student life?
This
unfortunate struggles rather hard for children and wife.
Does
he get the fruits of his strife?
Do
any of them at all think of their father?
I
do not see any such respect or honour.
How
much I urge them to become worthy persons.
Yet
there is still no awareness or perceptions.
Time
waits for no one.
There
will be none to stand by you, when father’s gone.
In
student life, there is nothing called leisure
Repeatedly
I have pointed this out, as I do even now in greater measure.
Neglect
will only ruin your life.
Seeing
this, the pain will be no one’s but mine.
*****
Baba took quite
sometime to write this verse. From Salaam, we got the news that Baba now took
pen and paper to Arogya Bitaan, and sat scratching his head. Patients
kept sitting in the waiting room. He would be scratching, writing, throwing and
re-writing. Later, after telling his patients to wait for a little more time,
he would make a round of the house. The round was to basically paste a poem on
the window.
Reading this poem
Ma snorted, “Hmm! What tough time does he have running this household? In seven
days, he shops once. For that woman’s house, fish and meat are bought everyday.
It’s not that he doesn’t earn a good sum. What does he give you all? Has he
ever fulfilled any of your desires?”
Inspired by Ma I
wrote,
How
much do you spend on us really!
Half
the time we seem to go hungry.
For
Id we get clothes, sometimes not even this,
The
thoughts in our minds never come to our lips.
All
around us girls talk so much
In
our house alone, in dread, we live as such.
Hope
however still lurks in our hearts,
Baba’s
love will surely someday wash away our sad thoughts
We
will then be able to rise so high,
Maybe
even touch the sky
To
the other side of the horizon,
We
will one day fly.
Reading the poem
Ma said, “Why have you written about flying away?” Dada read it loudly and
said, “Nicely written.” After this, Baba wrote nothing more. That there was a
lot of difference between the world of poetry and the world of reality, was
brought home to me one day by Baba’s screaming call for me, “Nasreen.” As
always, I stood before Baba with head and eyes both lowered. He, too, as usual
snarled at me and said, “What do you think you’re doing?”
I was silent.
“Can you spend
your life chatting the whole day?”
No reply.
“Can’t you
understand that a donkey like you can never pass the medical?”
No reply.
“You write poems?
Do you think you alone can write poetry? Everyone can. Ask the maid Malleka;
she too can write.”
From the “donkey”
a sound emerged, “But Malleka doesn’t know how to write.”
“So what, she can
speak can’t she? Did not Lalan Fakir recite poetry orally? Did not Hachhon
Raja?”
No reply.
“I am giving you
my last warning. If you don’t get admission into
No reply.
“The architecture
entrance exams are next month. You will have to go to
Silently digesting
Baba’s advice, I left his room with my head still bent. However, I didn’t sit
down to Maths, but to celebrate. Celebrate the joy of going to
Jhikir
jhikir Mymensingh, in
In
Baba had himself
asked me to take the architecture exam. What more could I have possibly asked
for? If I talked about studying Bangla at
I informed
Chandana that I was soon to become an architect. Chandana was taking the
***
For Shenjuti’s
second issue, Chandana had sent a poem called “Youth, the Name of an
In
the boundless waters around me,
Play
a number of handsome youth.
A
storm rises in Draupadi’s breast
Resulting
in an endless animated frenzy,
In
which they are plundered and ruined utterly…
Obviously Chandana
while sitting by the window, had been looking not only at the red blossoms of
the Krishnachura, and the falling Mahogany leaves, but also at handsome
young men. She had even gone and met one of them without really thinking things
out in her mind. She had given a very graphic description of that meeting, that
exchange of glances, that fluttering of the heart. The handsome boy had wanted
to hold hands, but Chandana had carefully removed hers. She had only liked the
exchange of glances, and this much had been enough to keep her wrapped up in a
strange rapture for the rest of the day and night. I thought there was nothing
as beautiful in this world as love. I listened to tales of love with complete
absorption. In my imagination a Prince would come flying on the back of the
King of Birds. “It is now the time for me to love, I too can let flow a
flood of love, if I so wish…” I kept writing poems like this, as
well.
Rudra Muhammed
Shahidullah, one of
Pipes
do not play again and again, they play just once
Copper-metalled
shepherd
Your
loneliness and grace resound around you. Your lost illusions
Hover
about you day and night, like inaccessible strains
Yet
your pipe remarkably still silent remains.
With his poem
Rudra had sent a letter, a letter written in red ink. He was keen to be
introduced to the Editor of Shenjuti. He wanted to address her as tumi,
because he thoroughly disliked the formal address ‘apni’. He wanted to
know why Shenjuti was yellow in colour. The answer was simple— the light
of the evening lamp was yellow coloured, hence yellow. The next letter
effortlessly addressed me as tumi, as though he was someone very close
to me! Since the capacity to make people close through letters was part of my
character, I was not surprised.
Poems for Shenjuti
were coming from the cities, towns, villages, market-places, roads, lanes,
nooks and corners of two districts. From Kolkata, Abhijeet Ghose, Nirmal Basak,
Chaitali Chattopadhyay, Jibon Sarkar and many others were sending poems. I
printed them, not looking at the names but the poems. If the poem was good, even
if the poet was new, or belonged to some remote village, I did not bother. I
noticed that all around spellings of words were changing. The spoken word was
being brought into the written language. Many alphabet and rolling vowels were
being dropped by poets like Rudra. Even punctuation marks were changing, in
some cases adapting the English ones. Although I found these changes strange, I
welcomed them in Shenjuti. After all, language was no decrepit pond that
would remain unmoving. In Shenjuti’s ‘Tidbits’ column, I gave news of
other little magazines, their addresses as well, so that anyone reading Shenjuti
would also be able to contact atleast 20-25 other little magazines. Not just
news of little magazines, but also of where poetry meets were being held, who
was writing and how. Whose book and which book was appearing soon. Shenjuti’s
publicity was that ‘Any unadulterated poetry lover was unquestionably a
claimant of Shenjuti. Shenjuti’s bright glow would wipe out all
the darkness in the world of poetry. Shenjuti was eternally true and
beautiful. For Shenjuti one had to pay only four quarter taka coins.’
Not that anyone was really paying those 4 quarters to buy Shenjuti. This
magazine with no advertisements was being published out of my personal funds,
and I was sending copies to everyone who wrote poetry or published poetry
journals. Sending copies also made quite a hole in my pocket. ‘Read poetry, buy
poetry magazines and poetry books’, this was the request I was making to the
ordinary public through Shenjuti. I could not rest till I had converted
the whole world into a world of poetry. I had really got addicted to poetry. It
was my companion all day and all night.
‘At home, all alone I sit down to worship poetry,
offering flowers and sandalwood paste with my hands
Unaccountably I spend the whole day vainly sitting
idle.
At the door ungrateful words wink and laugh at me
insultingly
In the silvery moonlight, words of critics and
vilifiers await their opportunity.’
Reading Abhijeet’s
long poems written in blank verse, I seemed to have moved far away from
metrical measures and versification measures, on a stream of timelessness.
Rudra had sent his
recently published book of poems called Upodruto Upokool (
I
still smell dead bodies in the air.
Even
today I see the naked dance of death on this earth.
In
my dreamy sleep I still hear the pitiful cries of outraged women.
Has
this country forgotten the nightmare and the bloodshed?
In
the air was the smell of carcasses.
On
the earth were stains of blood.
Those
who tied their fates and hearts to this blood-soaked soil,
And
found in the wounds of their ragged lives a forbidden dwelling place,
Today
their love for this dark cage, keeps them awake in the cave of night.
The
flag of nationhood has once more been grabbed by the old vultures
Those
who were covered in bloody shrouds and eaten by dogs and vultures,
Were
my brothers, my mother and my beloved father.
Freedom
is the dear one whom I have won, after losing all others.
Freedom
is the invaluable harvest bought with the blood of my beloved people.
My
raped sister’s sari is now my blood-soaked national flag.’
Rudra’s poems made
me sit up. Made me stand up. Made me pace up and down the verandah. Such honest
words, strong and forceful statements, could not but attract me. Rudra’s poems
were the kind which had to be read aloud, recited before a room full of people,
out in the grounds, in a public meeting. Poetry recitation was not something
new for me. Dada was taught by Ma in his childhood, and when I grew up I was
trained by Dada. I had now started instructing Yasmin. Yasmin had put her name
down for the school recitation competition. Not only the school, but the
Mymensingh District Literary and Cultural Festival was also on, and she had entered
her name in the recitation event there as well. On the slated days she went and
recited and came home with all of three prizes. From the hands of the
Mymensingh District Magistrate she was given bulky volumes of the Rabindra-Rachnabali,
Gitobitaan, collections of Nazrul and Tagore. She even began singing songs
from the pages of Gitobitaan all by herself. She had a wonderful voice,
and hearing it I always said, “She should have a harmonium.” There were no
musical instruments at home. Dada’s fiddle was lying broken, and Chhotda had
sold his guitar to buy Geeta a sari. Baba did not like songs and music. To ask
him to buy a harmonium for Yasmin was to invite two slaps on the cheek.
Yasmin’s dreams of singing had to blow away with the wind as of then. It was better
to recite poems, to read poetry; at least no instruments were required.
When my head was
full of Shenjuti, and my heart full of poetry, Dada took me to
“Why, why was
there no need to go to
Baba said in a
grave tone, “You do not have to study architecture.”
The architectural
masonry of my own dreams came crashing down all of a sudden. With a heart full
of cracks, I sat extremely depressed.
I did not have to
study architecture, “because I had to study medicine.” My name had appeared in
the list of those who had qualified the medical entrance.
Chapter Eight
What Baba brought
into force at home, did not always remain in force for years to come. The
strings were in his hands, he could loosen or tighten them as and when he
wished. One fine day he suddenly dropped some of the strict rules he had made.
Seeing no more letters from penfriends arriving for me, he at least did not try
to wangle the new postman to take away my letters. The new postman was again
delivering letters home as before. The practice of doling out groceries from
the locked kitchen cupboard also ebbed. It was not always possible for him to
come from Notun Bazar in time for every meal to be cooked. The cupboard now
remained open. Ma, as before, was once again submerged in the sea of
domesticity. When Jori’s Ma left, Ma had brought Malleka from the slums behind
Nanibari. Malleka left even before the month got over. After looking for two
days here and there, and not finding anyone, Ma caught hold of Halima, a street
beggar from the neighbourhood. Halima, along with her mother, was eventually
installed in the house. Out on some errand, Halima encountered some glassbottlepaperwala. That ‘wala’ had
said he would marry her, and her happiness knew no bounds. Ma gave Halima a
colourful sari and a new lungi for the paperwala son-in-law. The married Halima
left the house very proudly. Halima’s Ma remained alone in our house, coughing
away, the whole day long. It became difficult for her to do all the housework
singlehanded. She frequently had fever. The day clots of blood appeared with
her cough Ma personally took her to the hospital and got her admitted. Before
two weeks were over, Halima came back to Aubokash. What happened? “My
husband did not give me any food.”
Halima went back
to scouring utensils, washing clothes and mopping the floor. Every so often she
would say, “He troubled me so much I could not even sleep at night.” We were
eager to know what kind of troubling she meant.
“He would cry out ‘glass-bottle-paper’
in his sleep. Since he spent the whole day calling out ‘glass-bottle-paper’, in
his sleep, too, he thought the night was day.”
This Halima,
within a few days, accepted another marriage proposal from some other ‘wala’
she met on the streets and left Aubokash.
We got used to the
constant comings and goings of these drifting poor. No one ever discussed who
was coming or going, why he was going or where to. If there were some maids, Ma
got some respite otherwise she had a tough time. The whole problem was Ma’s.
Whether there was help or not, we never suffered any discomforts. We remained
unaffected. Ma’s eagerness to find help was always more than ours. Once a man,
wearing a hitched up lungi and a torn vest had come into our grounds. I suspected
him to be a dacoit at the very first sight. If he wasn’t a dacoit then why was
he carrying a da or chopper in his hand?
“What do you
want?” I shouted standing at the window.
“Can I do any work
for you?”
“What work?”
“Cleaning and
cutting with my da.”
I ran to give Ma
the news, “A dacoit has come. Says he does work with his da. You know what that means! He kills people with his da.”
Ma was grinding
some spices. She said, “Tell him to wait.”
I didn’t turn that
way at all after that. Ma left her grinding and opened the door to go into the
grounds. Quite happily she brought the man inside the house, and got him to
clean the jungle behind the tinshed. She then not only gave him a plateful of
rice with daal to eat, but also a piece of fish. Ma had no fears at all.
Inspite of so many robberies in the house, Ma still did not think anyone was a
thief. Ma heard about dacoities but still never thought anyone was a dacoit.
When the man was wolfing down the meal, Ma said, “What Mia, don’t you have any daughters? Say around 12-13 years of age?”
Ma was afraid of employing any young girls. That is why when she asked for a
girl, she never wanted to cross the age group of 12 or 13. If she was to
consider an older woman, then she should not be less than 40.
The man said, “Apa, eldersister, I have only one son,
no daughter.”
“How old is your
son?”
The man could not
give the age. Placing his left hand on his waist, he showed “He is as tall as
my waist.”
“Put him to work.
What do you say? He can at least run errands.”
The man was so
taken with Ma’s behaviour that he brought his son, Nazrul, over the very next
day. Nazrul would stay and be given meals. His father too could come and see
his son, whenever he was working with his da in the neighbourhood.
Whenever the man came, Ma gave him food to eat. The man would take a look at
his son and leave in a happy frame of mind. Nazrul stayed for as long as two
years in this house. After which he ran away one day. When two months had
passed, Nazrul was persuaded to return to us by his father. Once he had
finished all his chores at night, he would come inside the room and act like
the Raja in a Jatra, an open air opera. He acted alone. We were his audience,
his listeners. Once in a while he would hold our hands and make us stand before
him to act as his Rani. So what if she had no dialogues. “Kire Nazrul,
what will you become when you grow up? Will you take part in Jatras?” Nazrul’s
eyes would be shining as he answered, ‘Yes.’ Initially Nazrul did not know how
to cook. He couldn’t even wash the clothes. Later he learnt everything. When he
grew as tall as his father’s chest, he was taken to work with the da, by his Baba. The day he left, Ma
collected whatever money she had tied in her sari aanchal, and any change kept
under her mattress, amounting to about 12 taka, and gave it to Nazrul’s father.
When she had no help in the house, Ma went to the slum behind Nanibari. If she
found no one there, she went to the banks of the
After the harvest,
when family members visited from Nandail, they would always bring pittha, rice cakes, with
them, mera pittha, Dada pounced on it whenever he saw it. This mera
pittha one could slice and fry, and eat with jaggery. Sometimes,
they bought the horned catfish or Magur, swimming in big vessels of water. Ma was
happy whenever anyone brought something. After cooking and while serving the
fish, she would say, “The fish were very fresh; must be from the pond.” If
anyone brought chilli pitthas, Dada alone ate half of them, sitting on
the chair in the inside verandah swinging his feet. Baba’s elder sister was
quite well-off. In the Kashirampur
****
After staying in
Chhotda had fixed
three lights on top of Ma’s dressing table. Under the bright lights Geeta
looked fair in the mirror. When she stood all dressed up, she was the splitting
image of the Durga idol decorating the Golpukur Par idol-making shop of Sudhir
Das. The only difference was that one was ten cubits or a forearm tall and the
other two. Whenever Geeta got the chance, she told us stories of
In this house
there was no lack of love for Geeta. At Id, Dada bought Geeta a silk sari, for
Ma there was a cotton one. Ma preferred brown or red coloured saris, but Dada
bought white saris with borders for her. According to Dada, Ma looked like a
mother, only in white saris. Whatever sari was bought for Ma, she always gave
it to Yasmin and me, to wear first. Once we had worn them, not just worn but
really used them to our heart’s content, did Ma wear them. Ma was deprived of
many things, but she was not aware of them. After wearing even the white sari,
if after two days someone came crying from the village with a tale of woe, she
would give it to her. Ma heard many new stories about Razia Begum from Geeta.
Geeta’s lame aunt was a great friend of Razia Begum. This aunt called Henna was
the same one who at one time used to tutor Yasmin and me. Razia Begum had
become the Matron of an orphanage in Notun Bazar. Geeta’s Henna Masi too worked
in the same orphanage. The more Ma heard about Razia Begum, the more she got
mad at her. This mad Ma would sit with a face full of bitterness when Baba
entered the house. If Baba vented his anger, she did too. One day, Baba took
out his whip from under the mattress, beat this angry Ma till she was soaked in
blood, and left her fallen in the courtyard. Like a beheaded chicken, Ma tossed
about tormentedly, crying out for mercy. Blood spouted from all over her body
and the crows on the trees started cawing noisily and rousing themselves flew
away to another area. The sight was inhuman, so we did not want to see it, and
instead Yasmin and I sat with our door closed. None of us had the strength or
the courage to snatch the whip from Baba’s hands. We remained turned to stone.
Five minutes after Baba left the house, Chhotda returned. Seeing Ma fallen in
the courtyard and groaning, he ran out of the house immediately. Straight to Arogya
Bitaan. Picking up the wooden three-cornered name plate with Doctor written
on it from the table, he fell on Baba screaming “Why did you beat my mother? I
will kill you today.” All the people in Notun Bazar gathered there on hearing
his screams. Some people caught Chhotda and held him back. Very little happened
there. Only Baba’s forehead had swollen up slightly on one side. Nothing more.
Chhotda had hoped for blood, but even though his wish was not fulfilled, he had
to quieten down.
At home,
extricating herself from the mud and slush in the courtyard, in an amazingly
quiet voice, Ma said, “Let’s go Afroza. Take me where I need to go.” Wearing a
burkha over her blood-stained sari, Ma left with Geeta. She actually went to
the courts, signed the Talaq papers and returned home. Caressing Yasmin and my
heads she said, “Stay well. People do lose their mothers don’t they? Think I
have died. Your father is there, and your brothers. They will take care of you.
Work hard at your studies.” With these words she put whatever little belongings
she had into a little packet and left for Nanibari. Before Ma left, Baba had
become quite friendly with Geeta. Baba would call Geeta aside and get all the
household news from her. This was Baba’s eternal habit. He always had one spy
appointed in the hope of getting all the secret news at home. Normally the
servants acted as good spies for Baba. This time of course the spy was of a
much higher status than of a servant. She was possessed of great intelligence
as well.
That Ma was not
there was something I did not feel the day she left. I had even suffered from a
kind of secret delight in the notion that with Ma gone, I would have even more
freedom to make noise at home. After a few days, not just in my bones, I felt
her absence right down to my very bone marrow. I realised that there was no one
to scrub my body and give me a bath, no one to spoon-feed me, no one to tie my
hair. If the clothes got dirty, no one cared. Whether I ate or not, no one
bothered to find out. In the evening there was no one to recite a string of
limericks. Ma would know I was hungry before I knew it myself. She would always
be anxious to feed me. Now, whether I was hungry or not, it made no difference
to anyone. After Ma left, Baba had sent for his younger brother Motin’s wife
from Nandail, to look after the household. She was grossly fat and had a
jet-black complexion. Motin had married her when he was working for BDR in
Rajshahi. When he had visited us with his wife, we had suppressed grins on
seeing her. “She looks just like a maidservant!” No one went near this ‘maid’,
but Ma happily exchanged her joys and sorrows with Motin’s wife, as though she
were a very old friend of Ma’s. Seeing us stifle our giggles Ma had said, “She
worked in a Mess. So what? She’s a very simple person.” Whether ‘simple people’
were maidservants or fakirs on the streets, Ma liked them. Motin’s wife cooked
and fed us all. But who could possibly replace Ma! Who else would be anxious
and worried about us as Ma! Serving us with greens like Kalmi Shaak she
would recite, “Kalmi creeper, Kalmi creeper, when the waters dry up, where
will you be? I’ll remain, I will. Beneath the soil. Just let it rain, I’ll pop
up you’ll see.” There was no end to Ma’s limericks. She was able to easily
recite any limerick she may have read when she was a child. She knew so many
that sometimes I used to think I should write them all down, just in case she
ever forgot them! Ma must have forgotten her limericks by now; after all, she
didn’t have to feed anyone anymore while reciting them. If she was in a happy
mood she could repeat the dialogues of films like Deedar, Shobar
Uporey, Harano Sur, Sagarika, Baiju Bawra, Deep
Jele Jai, by heart. Breaking the still silence of the night, she would sing
in a golden voice, “The moon is still awake in the sky, but I have come to know
you are close by…!” Now day and night, the still silence of the night reigned
in the house.
Yasmin came back
from school and shouted, “Where’s my lunch?” Motin’s wife said, “There’s none.”
“No lunch, what do you mean? It has never happened that I have returned home
from school and got no food.” That was true, it had really never happened.
Lunch had always been served by Ma as soon as we returned from school. Yasmin
shouted the house down. Coming to the conclusion that Motin’s wife was not
being able to manage, Baba handed over the complete responsibility to Geeta.
The altercation that Baba had had with Chhotda was wiped out automatically. It
was as though a two, three or four cornered wooden object had never hit Baba’s
forehead. The orders Geeta gave were carried out by Motin’s wife and Amena
obediently. The days carried on in this fashion. The days may have gone on as
usual, but Yasmin and I could not feel the same. Geeta ran around with us on
the terrace, started a dance school in the house, took us to see films, but
somehow something seemed to be missing. As soon as he returned, Baba would call
Geeta to his room. We guessed he asked her all the details about the household
and his children. He would have also been checking to see whether anyone was
causing any problems.
Geeta would
undoubtedly assure Baba that she was running everything flawlessly, that
everything was well arranged and in good order. Even though it was banned, I
told Yasmin one evening, “Let’s go to Nanibari and see Ma.” Yasmin jumped at
the suggestion. Disregarding our fears, when we reached Nanibari in a rickshaw,
Ma came running. She hugged us and wept aloud.
“Why are your
faces all drawn? Haven’t you eaten?”
We nodded our
heads, “We’ve eaten.”
Ma made us sit
close to her and asked us all the minute details of what we had eaten, who
cooked, who cared for our clothes and who made our beds. She personally fed us
fish and rice and wiped our mouths with her sari aanchal. She carefully combed
and plaited our unoiled and knotted tresses. Taking us aside she asked us
whether Baba said anything about her. I shook my head. Baba had said nothing. I
hid the fact that Baba constantly told us, “There is no irritating woman in the
house, now you must eat your own food, study by yourselves, understand things
on your own.” Ma said she was fine, Nana had bought her a sari, she had no lack
of food here, and everyone was very fond of her. Ma repeatedly told us that in
these last few days, both Yasmin and I had lost a lot of weight. Ma’s streaming
tears wet her cheeks and soaked her chest.
“Do you feel sad
without me? Do you cry ‘Ma, Ma’ for me?”
Yasmin and I
exchanged glances. If we said, “We don’t,” Ma would be hurt. So we didn’t. Ma
held our silent selves to her breast and said, “No, don’t cry, if you feel like
crying chat with Geeta, or play ‘Name, place, flower, fruit’. Don’t cry any
more.”
We nodded our
heads. “Okay.”
Ma probed us with
questions.
“How’s the
cooking?”
“Not good.”
“Why not? Motin’s
wife is not a bad cook.”
“She puts too much
chilli”
“Tell her not to
put so much.”
“I found a hair in
my greens.”
“Tell her to wash
the Shaak well.”
“Okay.”
“Ma, won’t you
ever go back again?” I asked trying to hide the pain in my voice.
Nani was poking
her teeth with a toothpick. After spitting out, she said, “Why should she go?
Grow up yourselves. Then stay with your mother. Idun will not go to that house
ever again.”
Ma said, “Noman
has money. If he takes a separate house, then I can stay.”
After staring for
a long time at the courtyard disconsolately, Ma spoke again, “You’ll see Ma; he
will bring that Razia Begum home this time.”
“Does your father
say anything? Does he say anything about bringing Razia Begum home or anything
to that effect?”
I shook my head,
“No.”
“Does your father
eat at home?”
“He does.”
“Does he like the
food?”
“I don’t know.”
“Doesn’t he say
anything?”
“No.”
Ma sat
ashen-faced. Her eyes had dark shadows under them, her cheeks were stained with
tears. She just sat like that. When we left, she stood next to the pond at the
back like a faded rose, whose petals would disintegrate as soon as it was
touched.
Since Geeta was
running the household, it was expected that she would see to it that the maids
and servants did not shirk their jobs, that the scouring of the utensils,
washing of clothes, mopping of floors etc. was continuously done by her orders,
whether the fish was to be cooked with potol,
a kitchen vegetable, or shaak, or the daal was to be thin or
thick, how many measures of rice was to be cooked etc., would be decided by
her. While Geeta was playing boss and was in Baba’s good books, one day her
younger brother, named Shishir Mitra, pet name Tullu, came to meet his sister.
After that he came quite frequently. Geeta would call him into her room, give
him things to eat and chat with him in whispers. Yasmin and I kept Tullu’s
visits a secret. Geeta had now become a Mussalman after marriage, so it was an
unwritten law in our house that no contact with any Hindu household could be
maintained by her. When Geeta took Chhotda with her to visit her parental home,
it too was kept secret.
Dada visited
Nanibari to meet Ma, partook of Nani’s fabulous cooking, and returned home with
his lips reddened with betel juice from the paan he had taken from her
betel-leaf case. Chhotda, too, took his wife to visit his friends, dropped in
at his in-law’s place in Peonpara and met Ma at Nanibari on the way back. To
both, I said “Why don’t you bring Ma back?”
None of them made
any reply. Neither Dada, nor Chhotda. They were quite happy. Aubokash
without Ma did not appear to be unbearable to them as it was to us.
Dada had bought a
motorcycle, a red coloured 100 CC Honda. He had bought it but didn’t know how
to ride it. Kept in the verandah room, the Honda was cleaned by him twice a
day. All the time he was at home, he would sit on his Honda, start the engine
making weird noises and would go a couple of feet forward and backward within
the room. He would admire himself constantly in the Honda’s driving mirror.
This was the first time any engine-propelled vehicle had come home. Once, Baba
had had the sudden desire to buy Zulfikar Akanda’s old car. Akanda Lodge was
adjacent to M A Kahhar’s house. Baba had even given an advance of 50,000 taka.
At that time we all had begun mentally driving that white Volkswagon. However,
having found some fault in the engine, Baba did not finally buy the car. He did
not even get back the advance; it seems one couldn’t. On the purchase of the
Honda, Baba began to supervise the arrangements for it as well. The verandah
door was to be kept shut at all times, so that no one could steal the
motorcycle. At night he personally began to lock the door from inside. This red
Honda bought with so much enthusiasm, which had yet to enter the roads, was
picked up by Chhotda, who asked me to ride pillion. Chhotda, too had never
ridden a motorcycle ever before. He had learnt to drive Baba’s hospital jeep in
Ishwarganj. That was all he knew. The Honda stalled 30 times within a half-mile
distance. People on the roads stopped 30 times to watch us. A girl had got onto
a Honda; that was what they were staring at. In this town, if a woman sat on a
Honda, it became a topic of jest or curiosity. Yet in this town, Nitu rode her
own bike. Nitu, a student of Vidyamoyee school, took her sister Mitu to school
everyday, riding pillion on her bike. She was the wonder of the town. Sometimes
I wished I could be Nitu, and ride my bike in the streets of the town, without
caring for anyone. When Yasmin talked of Nitu and Mitu, I listened to her
fascinated.
Dada finally
learnt to ride the Honda, and began to use the bike for office work in the town
and in the cities outside the town as well. One day he gave me a ride on the
Honda saying, “Come, I’ll show you the mountains.” Unexpected pleasure broke
the windows, rushed into my world and flooded it. As soon as we reached the
shores of the
“Then?”
“Then what?”
“What happened
next? Where did he go?”
“He hasn’t reached
anywhere as yet. He is still walking …”
I was keen to know
whether Allauddin had reached some river bank or some banyan tree. But I never
got to know, as Dada that night would not tell us anything more than
Allauddin’s walking. As soon as I woke up the next day, I asked Dada, “What
happened after that? Where did Allauddin go?” Dada said, “He’s still walking.”
Still walking?”
“Yes, still
walking?”
“Where will he
go?”
“That you will
learn later. Let him go first.”
After a week had
passed, Dada still said, “He’s still on his way.” When he would reach, where he
would reach, what would happen after that, Dada told us nothing. He wouldn’t
even start another new story. Obviously, he was still telling us one. Even
after a month, Dada said Allauddin was still going. Yasmin and I were deeply
worried. “What do you think? What will happen to Allauddin finally?” Yasmin was
of the belief that Allauddin would die of hunger enroute. What Dada thought, he
never disclosed. Dada’s Allauddin never reached his destination. We, too, never
heard any more stories from Dada. Right now, I wished our journey, too, would never
end. After Tarakanda Phulpur, we crossed some un-tarred, tarred and broken
roads till we came to the
I laughed and
said, “I was reading a few pages of Dale Carnegie in the morning. May be that’s
the reason.”
Dada roared with
laughter. We floated again in the air.
At one time, I
asked Dada, “Achcha Dada, you seem to treat everyone so well, talk so
pleasantly to all, whether it is to that Nishibabu, that hat on head,
stethoscope hanging around the neck quack doctor who cycles along the muddy
paths, the chemist Najmul or with that doctor who has spent his life time in
that hospital in a forest bereft of any human habitation – have you learnt Dale
Carnegie by heart?”
Dada laughed and
replied, “Dale Carnegie actually came to meet me. After observing my life, he
went back and wrote his instructive treatise.”
The shacks by the
wayside sold tea in tiny cups. To quench his thirst for tea, whenever Dada
would stop at the shacks, he would say, “Don’t drink tea, tea wears away your
insides. Haven’t you seen the stains that remain, in empty tea cups? However
much you try, those stains just never go. Your heart will waste away just like
that if you drink tea. Like the tea cup your heart too is getting ruined. It is
becoming hideous. One day it will turn into a sieve.”
Ma mixed ginger in
black tea, and that tasted far better than the tea served in village bazaars,
full of milk and stale-smelling. Yet I happily drank this tea served in the
shacks. Of course I drank it only because I was away from home. The outside
attracted me. The village fields full of yellow mustard flowers and the village
markets full of various shacks selling wares, were very enjoyable to look at.
My fears of dying in a boat capsize disappeared as I watched the stunningly
beautiful colours of the sky, while crossing the
Lying in my bed at
night, and looking at the beams, I told Yasmin, “Suppose I am a mountain, and
half my body is
Baba got to know
that we had gone to Nanibari. Baba called me and said, “Your legs have grown
too long. Next time I hear you left the house, I will break your shins.” Baba’s
threats did not work. I kept visiting Nanibari. I told Ma. “Ma, come home.”
Nani said “Your saying means nothing. Send Noman or Kamaal. Send your father.
If your father comes to take her, she might go.” Drawn-faced and dried-lipped
Ma said, “Why will their father come? Even seeing his daughters’ suffering does
not make him say anything. If he brings Razia Begum home, no one else but these
two girls will bear the brunt!”
On the way to and
fro from Nanibari I saw a printing press in the name of Aziz Printers. Halting
the rickshaw, I got down and asked them the unit cost of printing a
dummy-sized, 23” x 18” format. After which I took money from Dada, bought
paper, and gave it to the printers. I then sat in the press myself to
proof-read the second issue of Shenjuti. Muhammed Aziz was the name of
the owner of the press. Dada knew him, and went once in a while personally to
check Shenjuti’s progress. One day, after paying up the rest of the
printing cost, Dada brought Shenjuti home. This time Shenjuti was
on white paper. Taking a copy in his hand, Dada said, “Na, the printing
is not good. From next time onwards get it printed at Jaman. Jaman is the best
printing press. Paata was printed at Jaman only.” When Dada remembered
his one time journal Paata, his eyes shone with happiness. The literary
magazine called Paata that Dada and his friends published was really
very beautiful. Paata’s stationery was printed on lovely transparent
paper. Their letters, application forms for membership, even receipts for
membership fees all carried a design in its transparency. Dada had even now
preserved the Paata stationery as memorabilia. Once in a while he would
pull it out, dust it and caressing it with his hands would say, “You’ll see, we
will publish Paata again one day.” Of the three who published Paata,
one was Sheila’s brother. Since Dada fell in love with Sheila, her brother
Chikan Farhad had stopped seeing Dada. The other, Mehboob, had gone mad and was
now chained up in a mental hospital. Dada could publish, why one, even ten
magazines if he so wanted, but he could never again use the name ‘Paata’. Paata
was not Dada’s property alone. Dada was only the joint editor; the actual
editor was Farhad. Dada used to say, “What did Farhad do? I was the one who did
all the work!” He may have got satisfaction by saying that, but he never got
the right to name another magazine Paata. Dada wanted to publish a
magazine called Paata once more. When Farhad heard this he informed Dada
that he would file a case against him.
When I was
immersed in Shenjuti a horrifying incident occurred at home. Yasmin had
grown a small pair of wings on her back. Growing the wings was not horrifying,
what occurred because of the wings, was horrifying. Yasmin’s wanted to fly not
in order to cross the Bangladesh-India border, but only to secretly cross the
boundaries delineated around her existence. A good-looking neighbourhood lad
called Badal, of the same age as Yasmin, used to stand on the road when Yasmin
went to school. One day he plucked up courage to come forward and talk to her.
To avoid being spotted talking on the road, Badal asked Yasmin to meet him the
next day in the Botanical Gardens. Yasmin was so keen to break out of the
restrictions imposed on her that as soon as school was over, she got on a
rickshaw and went straight to the gardens. Badal had gone there with an uncle
of his. The uncle, Badal and Yasmin went around the garden, admiring the plants,
appreciating the variety of flowers blooming all around, watching the river,
unaware that a neighbourhood boy had seen them and had run to inform Baba. Baba
went without wasting a moment to the gardens and brought them back. Catching
Badal by his hair, Baba brought him home, tied his hands and feet with a strong
rope, and whipped him the whole afternoon in the verandah room. Badal’s wails
had the whole neighbourhood trembling, but Baba did not care. He pushed the
half-dead Badal out from the house and straight into the hands of the police.
He filed a case of girl kidnapping against Badal that very day. The police tied
a rope around Badal’s waist and look him away. When his son returned from jail,
Badal’s father, Samiran Dutta, left the neighbourhood. Not just Badal, Baba had
whipped Yasmin too, behind close doors. Not an inch of her body was spared from
black and blue bruises. A raging fever started, and clumps of hair began to
fall from her head. After this incident, very often Yasmin would come home from
school, and sit around disconsolately. Her classmates had begun to say, “It
seems you were running away with some boy?” Mymensingh appeared to be a very
vast town. But when people picked up juicy pieces of gossip like, “Rajab Ali’s
younger daughter had run away with a boy,” and laughed about it and it came to
my ears. I realized how small the town was really and how narrow the peoples’
minds were. If Baba had not made such a huge issue out of the incident, Yasmin
would have come home from the garden. If she had been asked, “Why are you late
from school?” she might have answered, “I had gone to Rinku’s house.” Rinku was
her friend, so visiting Rinku after school was not such a great offence. That
day Yasmin’s curiosity about Badal was not as much as her interest in seeing
the gardens. Once she had seen the gardens, her desire would have been
satisfied, and she would have kept her joy at having secretly broken her bonds
to herself. No one would have looked with hatred at Yasmin accusing her of
having “run away with a boy.” She would not have thought herself such a great
sinner, and not have tried to hide herself desperately from the eyes of others.
Geeta had given
Tullu something in a sack. A very tiny piece of news. But it reached Baba’s
ears. Baba was in his room stamping his feet. A whisper could be heard. “What
is she giving him?”
“Don’t know, may
be rice,” said Amena.
“How many days has
Tullu come?”
“Many days.”
“What does he do
when he comes?”
“Sits and chats.”
“With whom?”
“With his sister.”
When Baba thought
deeply about something, he would take off his spectacles with one jerk. He
would sit with his head bent. In moments his eyes would turn red. He would pace
up and down the verandah. His hands at the back. Sometimes at his waist. Once
in a while he would pull back his head full of black curly hair. He would sit
on a chair, then move it noisily and get up. He would then sit down again.
Whenever we saw Baba like this, the only thing all of us at home could do was
to wait, because we knew very soon an explosion would take place. This time,
however, the explosion did not occur. In a quiet voice he called Dada into his
room and told him, “Go and get your mother back.”
When we went to
fetch mother back, Ma did not look shocked, as though she was expecting this to
happen. On Ma’s wan face, a smile appeared. Ma could never hide her joys. Her
happiness shone like dust grains from her eyes, lips and cheeks.
***
Baba looked
askance at Ma’s presence in Aubokash. He did not say a word. But Ma
never forgot to arrange Baba’s meals on the table. The way Baba wanted the
household to be run, she now ran it even more efficiently. The floors in the
house shone, the courtyard sparkled. Baba’s room was bright and arranged in an
orderly way. The clothes-stand had washed clothes, neatly folded. The sheets on
the bed were clean. Before Baba came home, his bed was made, with the mosquito
net hung in readiness. Our hair was tied up, with ribbons in flower-knots at
the ends. We got our food before we felt hungry, and water as soon as we asked.
We got coconut water, without asking. Wood-apple sherbet, half-ripe guavas,
ripe mangoes, blackberry mix, pomegranate pips were put into our hands and
brought to our mouths. Ma’s presence gave us all endless comfort.
Chapter Nine
Learning Medicine
That year, no
medical college entrance exam was held. Admissions were done on merit basis,
according to the results of the SSC and intermediate exams. Anyone having more
than 1200 marks in both exams was eligible. I had more than 1200 marks in both
my exams. However, since I had less than 1300-1400 marks, I did not get
Mymensingh, my first choice. Instead I was being sent to Sylhet Medical. In a
second, Baba went into action. I was made to sign several application forms. He
told Dada to get ready. Dada took me along, and we boarded a late night train.
The train stopped at Akhaira station in the morning. We had to change trains
there for Sylhet. At the station I got lost amidst the crowd of Paaniwalas,
Beediwalas, Badamwalas, Jhalmuriwalas, Bananawalas, Biscuitwalas. Dada pulled
me out and made me sit in a waiting room meant for women. I sat surrounded by
women, some in burkha, and some without, a few ta-ta, aa-aa, howling kids,
apart from fæces, urine and vomit. In their midst, sat I, a gentleman’s daughter,
wearing ironed clothes. The train which left Akhaira station for Sylhet had
people boarding it in a continuous stream. They pushed against each other in
the rush. Lungi-clad people, pyjama, pant clad, people with naked feet, or,
with shoes, hatted and hatless … with suitcases, trunks and sacks together in
the crowd. Because I was a woman, I was given a seat. As my brother, Dada too
got a place next to me so that my body did not come into contact with any other
man’s. People with tickets for third class sitting in this second class
compartment, did not try to get seats. They rested their bottoms on the floor,
some with seats before them, others facing the hot ‘loo’ wind coming through
the open doors. In the corner a group of cowering women huddled in a heap,
sporting pins on their noses, and bolts on their lips. With their tickets in
their pockets, the second class male travelers were talking loudly. Even though
I was listening intently, I could not decipher a word of what they were saying.
“O Dada, what language
are they speaking?”
“The Sylhet
dialect is beyond any non-Sylhet to decipher,” said Dada. After which he
casually haggled over the price, before he bought a packet of peanuts which he
proceeded to eat with a pinch of spicy powder and a lot of concentration.
Despite the heat, the crowd and the cacophony, I was delighted that I was going
to a new town. Dada pointed through the window at a field some distance away
saying, “Can you see that field. On the other side of this field is
The minute I
stepped into a
“Were you scared
at night?” Dada asked.
“Yes.”
“Arrey dhoor!
What is there to be scared of?”
In the morning
after taking admission in the
When we came back
from Sylhet, Baba bought white Tetron cloth and ordered two aprons to be
stitched for me. I would have to wear aprons to college. To the college in my
own town, my father’s college, not the college which took two days to reach,
but the one just after the rail-crossing at Ganginar Par, past my old
residential school after the Chorpara turn, that college. If the rickshaw-wala
was young it would take 15 minutes, if old 25. The Sylhet chapter was closed,
it was now Mymensingh. According to orders I wore the apron to college, under
it I wore my dress and pyjamas, no need to trouble to wear the odhna, no
one bothered to know whether it was there under the apron or not. This
circumstance gave me great joy. There were no restrictions of the odhna.
Anyone, boy or girl, whatever clothes they wore, had to wear the white apron
over it. The apron had collars like a coat, pockets, and a belt at the waist –
I felt thrilled when I wore it. At college all the faces were unknown. Mostly
they were from
On
the second day the whole class was divided into four groups. The head, the
chest, the limbs and the abdomen. I was given the abdomen, or may be the
abdomen got me. Bas, now cut up the corpses and learn all about the
abdomen, whatever was in the lower belly, place it on a tray. Choose an empty
corner, the Cunningham book was available, one would read, one would listen,
another understand, one would question, one had to support and another raise
objections. This group study may have suited others, but it certainly did not
suit me. The hostellers had chosen their permanent companions for study, I had
no one – permanent or temporary. I was alone. I came alone from home by
rickshaw, after class I went home alone, and studied by myself. Baba had bought
me some huge books, which had big coloured illustrations in them. When I turned
the pages to look, Yasmin stared wide-eyed at them. When I studied, sixty
percent did not enter my head, another fifteen percent entered my head but came
out promptly, and the other 25 percent did not come anywhere close to me. Gray’s
Anatomy Book pleased Ma the most. Ma knew the names of all these books
earlier itself. When Baba was studying she used to arrange these books on the
table, and hand them over when he asked. In Baba’s time, the books were not so
big in length and breadth. In my time they had begun to resemble heavy rocks
and the trunks of trees. When I was bent over my books, whether I was studying
or not, Ma would silently leave lemon sherbet, or fried puffed rice, muri,
or even ginger tea on my table. At home I was getting an abundance of love and
care. Before I left for college, Ma would comb my hair, iron my clothes and
apron and place my sandals close to my feet. But as soon as I reached college,
my state became pitiful. I could not answer a question, nor do the dissection.
The girls from
I got over many
things, but not my childishness. Apu was going home to Netrakona by train.
Since train journeys attracted me like a magnet, I tried to get some of my
casual girl friends to join me on a trip to Netrakona with Apu. Apu promised he
would return in the evening. Leaving the road on the left that went towards
home, we went right, to the station from college. The coal-driven train started
on its journey emitting black smoke and a jhikir-jhikir sound. I was
very happy while the train was moving. Whenever it stopped, I felt sad, and put
my neck out of the window to look at the engine and pray earnestly for jhikir-jhikir.
After reaching Netrakona, we ate at Apu’s house, and then toured the town’s
grounds, finally reaching the station to catch the train back to Mymensingh.
There were trains coming in every minute, but they were all going towards
Mohanganj, not towards Mymensingh. Dusk descended and the darkness from the sky
fell on my chest like a stone. I lost the courage to imagine the scene that
would take place at home. Seeing the hostellers completely unconcerned, I
wished I had their luck. I wished I, too, could lead a life free of home and
angry red-eyes. The train finally came. It hardly moved at any speed,
ultimately reaching Mymensingh at
I spent the whole
journey trying to make up excuses to give at home, but none of them sounded
plausible enough. Throughout the way the moisture in my mouth, throat and
stomach gradually sank towards my lower belly. Since I was the only one with a
problem, the others came forward to find a solution. Apu would escort me home,
saying he had taken me and some others to visit Netrakona so ‘the fault was
his!’ This solution did not sound good to me. Finally, I took all of the girls
with me, saying they too were with me. I had not gone alone for fun with a man,
but had gone on a kind of picnic with a whole group of girls. This senseless
train had got us all late, thankfully Apu was with us – Ma understood. That
time I got away. Luckily, Baba had not returned home. Even if he had, may be he
wouldn’t have exploded, because that night he had got news of his mother’s
death. Baba’s Ma, my Dadi. Dadi visited us once in a while at Aubokash
when she accompanied Borodada. Dadi was dark, but beautiful. She had very sharp
features. Ma believed that this Dadi was not Baba’s own mother. Baba and his
elder sister were children of this Dadi’s elder sister. I had asked Borodada,
Dadi and Borophupi about this secret several times, but had never got an answer.
Even if she wasn’t his own mother, Baba was very fond of her. He sent her
saris, medicines for her ailments and when she was bed-ridden he went
personally to Madarinagar to see her. Baba decided to go to his village home
for Dadi’s obsequies, to be performed on the fortieth day after her demise.
With dancing eyes he asked Yasmin and me, “Ki, want to go to the
countryside?” At this hint of an invitation we leapt with joy. Yasmin and I had
never been to the village home. Dada and Chhotda had gone during the war.
Carrying Dada’s camera in my hands, we left with Baba for the village early in
the morning. After the strenuous travel by boat, bus, rickshaw, and in the end
walking, we ultimately reached the house. Somehow, we never felt the strain at
all. What could be greater fun than to be able to go out of doors! Seeing any
new place, village or town, was something I liked. My joy at visiting Nandail’s
Madarinagar was no less than my joy at visiting
In college the
Students League, Students Union, Jashod National Socialistic Students League,
Students Group etc., political parties, were bringing artistes from
I laughed and
said, “That is not an error. I have done this purposely.”
“What are you
saying? Are you a man?”
“Why should I be a
man?”
“Don’t you believe
in genders?”
“Yes, I do.”
There is something
called masculine gender and feminine gender, you know that?”
“I do. But I do
not like this Lady Editor, Lady Publisher etc. etc. Both men and women can be
editors. Some words have incorporated some unjustified gender distinctions
which I do not want to use. I want to call who writes poetry a poet, not a Lady
Poet or Poetess.”
Dada threw away Shenjuti
saying, “People will call you crazy.”
****
As soon as I got
to know my classmates, I barely exchanged two words with them, before I
proposed that we set up a literary society, called Shatabdi Chakra Centenary
Circle. I even told the girls whom I knew only casually. The bookworms were not
keen to join, but those who were not bitten by the book bug at all, jumped up
enthusiastically. Bas, collect donations, just jumping will get no work
done. I proposed that a small committee be formed, which could get down to
proper work. Since Amrita had got the second prize, I was very keen that
from Centenary a poetry journal like Shenjuti be published. As soon as
an idea arose in my mind, I plunged into action. Of course all my plunging was
silently done. Whoever could write in pure Bangla I would find them and say,
“Write a poem.” “I don’t know how to, Baba!” they would say. “Arrey,
you can. Life is a poem! You are living life, so why can’t you write about it!”
After strictly editing the poems that came in, I published a small poetry
journal. I went myself to Leefa Printers at
“Me?”
“Yes. You.”
Hiding my face in
shame, I said, “Are you mad! I have no experience of theatre at all. This is my
first ever.”
I didn’t think one
could learn theatre direction by watching a few plays on television, or making
Chhotda take me to see some at the Mymensingh theatre hall or reading some in
books. But when the responsibility really fell on me to direct the play,
Chhotda told Partho to come as well. Partho took up the task with great
enthusiasm. Almost every night, rehearsals were held in the broken old
Mymensingh theatre hall. It was a story about a poor family in the village.
Geeta was cast as the heroine. Of course this was not Geeta’s first role as
heroine on stage. Earlier with various dance groups she had performed as Nakshi
Kanthar Meye, Chandalika and Chitrangada. The new
singing star Sohan who had joined Mymensingh theatre had been cast in the role
of the hero. A little boy was found to play the part of Mangala. There was
tremendous enthusiasm in each one of them; they were bubbling with earnestness
and inspiration, and if required, they were even prepared to rehearse any time,
night or day. After rehearsals at night, Partho sometimes went back to the
hostel or spent the night at Aubokash. The day Aborto’s first
show opened at the townhall, I was stunned to see the sets. The person, who had
been given the task of creating the sets, had done an eye-catching job. An
actual mud shanty, with actual trees planted in real earth and authentic
fishing nets adorned the stage. The show was on for three nights. People bought
tickets and came to see the play, and surprisingly the 300 capacity hall
actually filled up in a matter of minutes. The whole huge affair happened as
though in the twinkling of an eye. The theatre group of Mymensingh was quite
well-known, and their best and most successful play was Aborto. On the
posters printed for Aborto were the names of its two directors, Ishita
Hossain Partho and Taslima Nasreen.
The play could
have been staged for a long time in this way, but Geeta got a call from
The whack on the
back brought on all the trouble that it could possibly bring. Chhotda laughed
uproariously and said, “Kire, it seems you are wearing a brassiere!”
At the top of his
voice, Chhotda informed the whole household, “Nasreen is wearing a brassiere.”
Within fifteen
minutes of my wearing it, everyone at home came to know what I was wearing. I
pushed myself against the table as my head bent lower and lower over my books.
The sorrow of having my secret revealed caused the pages in my books to get
soaked. Ma came and said while caressing my head, “Why didn’t you tell me you
wanted to wear a brassiere? I could have bought one in your size for you.”
My face, head and
ears flushed with embarrassment. Once normalcy returned after the brassiere
incident, Ma told me that she had worn one for the first time, two years after
her wedding. Baba had become so incensed that he had thrown it away and angrily
stated, “You wear fancy garments that wicked women wear! Is there no end to
your desires?” Wearing a brassiere was being fanciful and fashionable, many
obviously thought so. Women in the villages spent their entire lives totally
ignorant of what was called a brassiere. Baba was a village boy; he was not
used to seeing any extra accessories under one’s clothes.
There was one
thing in college that attracted me like the forbidden fruit of heaven mentioned
in the Quran. That was the college canteen. I was very keen to sit and talk
while drinking tea, like all the other boys. Even though I wanted to, I myself
was very often a stumbling block in the fulfillment of my wish. An editor of
the Neighbourhood, also a writer of wonderful poetry, Haroon Rashid, whose
poetry I was a great admirer of, was waiting at the canteen for me. He had come
from
“What’s up, don’t
you have a class?”
“I do.”
“Go to class, then.”
“Dhoot, I’m
not feeling like it. I won’t attend class.”
“What will you
do?”
“Let’s go have
tea.”
“But I have
class.”
“Hai Sir’s class,
isn’t it? You don’t have to attend that one.”
“What are you
saying?”
“Arrey,
come on now.”
As it is I was
always ready to dance, and here was the beater of the drum offering his
services. We went and sat in the canteen. In the canteen there would be
supplies of tea and shingara, a savoury snack made with flour and a
filling of potatoes. Habibullah’s friends would come. Beginning from anatomy
the adda would end up with politics.
We walked around the college premises proudly and confidently. Whether I was
between classes, or bunking some unimportant class, wherever I went, there was
Habibullah. He even began to come home in the evenings. If Baba came home,
Habibullah would stand up and greet him “Salaamaleikum, Sir.” Baba would go
into the inner rooms with a serious face. Inside he questioned Ma and got the
reply that the boy was my friend. Being a Professor of the College this was one
place Baba got stuck. He could hardly shoo away any college student.
****
The sports season
had begun in college. I had given my name for Carrom and Chess, and happily
began to play. I lost in Carrom, not that there was any reason to win, considering
the last time I had played was way back in Nanibari! In chess, I beat a keen
chess player, a champion of last year, and progressed steadily. Ultimately, a
game I should have won, I gave up out of sheer impatience, and became the
Runners-up. I found even the gallery classes unbearable. I didn’t understand 80
percent of what the professors were saying or wanting to say. The practice of
exiting the class was quite common here, something I had never seen before in
school or college. One left the class after giving proxy or through the back
door because the class was not to their liking. I too began to get out. Till
then girls sat in the front rows with their bottoms glued to their seats. They
gulped down every word their professors uttered. It seems only naughty boys
left class. So I fell into that category, only not a boy, but a girl! The
freedom of leaving class was also something I began to enjoy. In
“To college.”
“What college do
you have at this time?”
“I have class.”
“Your college
commenced at eight in the morning.”
“Yes, it did. But
so what! The class at eight I didn’t attend.”
“What will you do
going to college now?”
“I’ll be attending
the
“You can’t go
wherever you want, at anytime you choose.”
“Your experience
is only till school, you won’t understand all this.” I really liked the system.
Go to class when you want, if you don’t, give proxy and come out. The word
proxy was used much more in college. One may not attend classes, but without a
certain percentage of attendance, one couldn’t take the exams. Friends gave false
attendance. In every class, when the names were being called out, all you had
to do was say, “Yes, Sir.” It didn’t matter at all who was saying it. Whether
Toffajoler was answering for Mojammel, or vice versa, who was there to actually
find out! By bending one’s head and saying, ‘Yes, Sir’, one present friend in a
way saved another absent one. This present when absent, would be saved by the
earlier absent, who would now save the present absent.
I was busy with
the fourth issue of Shenjuti. Letters, poems, literary magazines, books
etc. came in from Kolkata. Nirmal Basak had sent the ‘Toy of Time,’ Abhijit
Ghose’s ‘Lonely Man’ appeared before us. Their poetry journal Sainiker Diary,
‘Indrani’ we received regularly. Poems had been sent by Mohini Mohan Gangopadhyay,
Kshitish Santra, Chitrabhanu Sarkar, Shanti Ray, Biplab Bhattacharya, Birendra
Kumar Deb and Pranab Mukhopadhyaya. From various parts of
After class I
mostly went back to Jaman Printers rather than home. Jaman Printers were
located next to a clear lake opposite the
As soon as Shenjuti
had been distributed in all directions, I again became restless. How could one
not do anything! I called the members of the Shatabdi Chakra, and proposed that
we organise a function, a welcome to the newcomers. A fresh batch of students
were joining college, we would welcome them. What would we do in the function?
We would have everything – dance, song, poetry, theatre. Work was divided
amongst the members, some were to decorate the stage, others to rent a mike,
get invitation cards printed and distributed. Everyone got down to work, with a
lot of enthusiasm. Anupam Mahmood Tipu, who advertised in the personal columns,
wrote for the cine–magazines, had a sweet smile, excellent handwriting and was
a good artist as well, took charge of the stage decoration. I caught hold of a
classmate of mine from Muminunissa, Ujwala Saha, who kept in touch with
singing, to render the opening song. The rehearsals for the function began,
some were acting in a play, or reciting poetry, elocuting, or singing. The
President of the Chhatra Sansad (Students Union) called me and said that no
groups could welcome the newcomers before them. It was not very difficult to
frighten a small group like ours! After exchanging a few argumentative statements,
I retreated and allowed the Chhatra Sansad to go ahead. The second freshers
welcome was the responsibility of Shatabdi. I got the invitations for the
function printed. Haroon Ahmed, Professor of Anatomy was asked to chair the
function. He was more than ready to do so. It seems he too wrote poetry, and
was keen to read out one of his poems at the function. I had heard that
Nirmalendu Goon now stayed in our town. His wife, Neera Lahiri, was a year
senior to me, and they had rented a house close to college. After hunting
everywhere in Shewratola we found Goon’s house. The rooms were flooded with
rainwater. With his feet up on a chair, he was sitting on the verandah with a
small transistor pressed to his ears, listening to the cricket commentary. The
room was full of water. After handing him the invitation card, and requesting
him to read his poetry at the Shatabdi function, we came away. Whilst
Nirmalendu Goon was there, there was no need to import any poet from
Geeta wrote from
Ma informed Baba,
“Kamaal has got a job.”
“How could he have
got a job? He is illiterate,” said Baba.
“Education is not
in his fate. He got married very young. Now he wants to run a household. You
tried your utmost, but he just couldn’t concentrate on higher studies.”
“What kind of a
job is it, may I know?” Baba was curious.
“Crew for Biman.
It seems it’s a very good job, he will be able to go abroad as well.”
“Oh my sad fate,”
Baba said with a deep sigh, “I tried to put one son through medical college, he
didn’t qualify. He went to do his masters at the University, but returned home
without taking his exams. Another son got a star in his SSC, but left studies
and now has taken up the job of feeding people. People in the plane will shit,
urinate and vomit and my son will clean it all up. Was this the job for which I
hired five tutors to teach him? Was this the job he secured a star in his SSC
for? Good, people will ask – Dr. Rajab Ali, what do your two sons do – I will
have to say, one son roams around, the other flies around.”
Just when I was on
the friendliest terms with Chhotda, he was leaving. Chandana, too, had left
just when she alone was the one and only unparalleled being in my world. I
remained alone where I was; everyone else kept coming and going. Chhotda
promised to come often to Mymensingh, and take me to visit
*****
Like Habibullah,
another person blocked my path one day, but not with the intention of friendship;
the purpose was different. Within the college grounds, in a Shyamganj accent he
informed me that he was Shafiqul Islam’s brother, and that, like his brother,
he too wrote poetry. He was standing for election to the new Chhatra Sansad,
and wanted me to do so as well.
“Me?”
“Yes. You.”
“I am not in
politics.”
“There will be no
question of politics. You will be standing for the post of literary member,
with the responsibilities of editing the college magazine, organising functions
and such things. You are qualified to do so.”
“But you have to
canvass for votes! I can’t do all that.”
“You won’t have to
ask for votes. You will win anyway. I can tell you with conviction, that our
whole panel will get elected.”
“I won’t have to
canvass, sure?”
“No, not at all.”
“Okay then.”
From the compound
I took a rickshaw with the intention of going home. Following me all the way in
flashes, was Helim’s smile spreading from ear to ear, white teeth in a black
face.
The next day
Habibullah caught me in a vice, face dreadfully dark. “What’s up, I never knew
you were a BNP activist!”
“I, a BNP worker?
Who said?”
“Everyone is
saying so.”
“Who is everyone?”
“Don’t you know
who everyone is? Aren’t you standing for elections from the BNP? Yes or no?”
“So that’s it!
Yes, I am, but I am representing no party.”
“Is there any
party worse than BNP? Students pick government parties so that they can reap
advantages from it.”
“What advantages?”
“Passing their
exams, what else?” Habibullah took off his apron, hung it around his neck and
said, “Go, and withdraw your name today itself. If you must stand, stand from
the Jashod.”
Habibullah himself
was a member of Jashod, Chhatra League. His very close friend Tahmid, also
Jashod, a good be-spectacled boy, came running. It seems he had told Habibullah
that even though I belonged to no party, if I stood from Jashod, why literary
member, I could stand for literary editor. They were willing to bend the rules
for me. So, instead of making me a member as junior students were normally
made, they were ready to be generous enough to make me the editor. Tahmid
showed me a list of Jashod members. He said, “These are all students who have
secured academic positions. And Anees – Rafique of BNP have spent 4-5 years in
the same class.” If one was a member of Jashod at that time, it meant you were
superior. Even in the Chhatra League I found a whole crowd of failures. Good
students were either Jashod Chhatra League or Union members, or were not
members of any party at all.
I searched out
Helim that very day and told him, “Please cancel my name, I will not stand for
election.”
“Why, what has
happened?”
“I don’t
understand anything of politics. The boys are saying I am representing the
BNP.”
“Arrey, silly girl, the kids of Jashod
are turning your head. You are not a member of BNP. But you are standing from
BNP, because this time they are going to win. You are standing in the interest
of the college, not the party. Can’t you understand this simple fact? Now if
you contest from the Chhatra League or Jashod, there is no question of your
winning.”
I kept quiet. I
couldn’t raise my voice. I understood very clearly that if I were to throw back
a big “No”, Helim would be very disappointed, and I felt very uncomfortable at
the thought of distressing anyone. I looked at myself from Helim’s point of
view.
“Also, all the
leaflets have been printed. Now it will be impossible to cancel anything. It
will become a scandal.”
I remained silent.
Rafique Chaudhury and Aneesur Rahman, two prominent leaders of the Chhatradal
came home and very sweetly made me understand that my contesting the elections
did not mean entering politics; it meant promoting the college literary
activities.
The season for
fresh elections began. The college walls were plastered with posters. There
were blazing speeches on the dais, leaflets scattered all over the benches in
classrooms, at short intervals various contestants from different parties were
to be seen meeting people in classes, corridors, in the canteen, laughing and
speaking, asking for votes. I felt I should vote for every contestant, from
every party. The president of the Chhatradal Aneesur Rahman offered me a cup of
tea, and after giving me a huge smile, said, “Come along, lets go out on
election publicity.”
“Impossible.”
Rafique Chaudhury
said, “You are a party girl, you can’t afford to be so shy!”
I was a party
girl! Others, too, said the same thing. This reputation got attached to me. On
the day of the elections, I went to college, and voted for all those I thought
were deserving for the various posts from the Chhatra Union, Chhatra League and
Jashod, and returned home. The next day I got the news that the Chhatra Dal,
meaning Anees-Rafique group’s entire panel, had won. Last year the Chhatra
League had won, this time Chhatra Dal. Now what was to be done? We had to go to
I had been feeling
dull. The thought of going to
After returning to
Mymensingh from
“He’s an Army man!
So he is physically very strong,” said Ma.
Ma’s disinterested
face remained fixed before my eyes, as did her unconcerned words. I thought, he
certainly had more strength. It was this extra strength he had exercised in
order to come to power. Secretly the dissatisfaction with Zia had been growing
in the Biman Bahini. Guessing that at any moment a coup could take place,
thousands of Biman Bahini people had been killed without trial. He had
rehabilitated many enemies of peace who had been hiding in holes. He had made a
traitor like Shah Aziz the Prime Minister. Religious politics had been banned
in this country. Now, that ban had been lifted. The snakes were now coming out
of their holes waiting to bite as they had done in 1971, siding with the
Rudra came to
Mymensingh to meet me and said, “I don’t understand you at all, it seems you
contested the elections from the BNP? Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
“I didn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Do I have to tell
you everything?”
“Don’t you have
to?”
“No.”
“Okay, do as you
please. You have lost all respect and honour!”
Hardly had all the
noise of the elections subsided, when classes resumed in full tempo. I had
ascended from the lower abdomen to the chest. On one side I had to cut up dead
bodies. On the other I had to study everything about the heart soaking in
formalin on a tray. After dissecting the dead, when I returned home and sat
down to a meal, my hands still carried the smell. Even if I used up a whole bar
of soap to wash my hands, the smell did not go. I had gradually learnt to live
with the smell. One day, when I had almost finished my meal, I spotted a piece
of dead flesh at the corner of my hand. I had forgotten to wash my hands before
eating. The day I carried a heart home in my pocket, everyone at home looked at
it with noses and mouths covered, but wide-eyed. I happily placed the heart on
the table, and opening the Cunningham book, began to study. I even showed them
all which was the atrium, the ventricle, from where the blood came in, from the
top to the bottom, then from there it went upwards and to all parts of the
body. Ma’s eyes shone with great delight.
“Well, now my Ma
has become a doctor, what do I have to worry about anymore, my treatment will
now be done by my own daughter,” Ma said.
Dada asked, “Is
this heart a man’s heart or a woman’s?”
“I don’t know.”
“It looks small.
It must be a woman’s.”
“Who told you
women’s hearts were small?”
“Won’t it be a
little different?”
“No, it won’t be
different.”
Yasmin standing at
a safe distance from the heart said, “Bubu, is this what is called the soul?”
“May be it is
known as the soul. But this is the heart, not the soul. The work of the heart
is to pump blood and supply it to the whole body.”
“Then which is the
soul?”
“The soul is the
mind. Suppose I like someone, my nervous system will get the news first. The
head is the abode of all the nerves, not the chest. The throbbing sound that
can be heard in the heart is because the nerves in the brain are disturbed.”
Yasmin looked with
unbelieving eyes at the organ, the heart.
With Habibullah I
shed all inhibitions and spent hours talking about any subject. By developing
an easy and free relationship, I was happy that I had been able to prove that
boys and girls could be friends, and not only through letters. Habibullah’s
unrestricted comings and goings at Aubokash had gradually become a
common sight. Whenever Ma thought of relieving herself of worries, by hinting
at this relationship developing into marriage, I would break her empty dream by
saying, “Habibullah is my friend, just a friend, nothing more. Our friendship
is like the one between Chandana and me, do you understand!” I don’t think my
reply made Ma very happy. Habibullah was good-looking, very polite and
well-behaved, both of us were about to qualify as doctors, there could not be a
more ideal match. Even if Ma didn’t say so in as many words to me, she
definitely muttered them to all others at home. If even a hint of any of these
words reached my ears, I scolded her and told her to shut up. I was sure our relationship
was pure friendship. So was Habibullah. Traveling with him on the same rickshaw
did not cause me any flutters. It was like traveling with Dada, Yasmin or even
Chandana. Habibullah knew that a relationship was developing between me and
Rudra. At every opportunity, I would recite Rudra’s poetry to him. But one day
Habibullah stunned me by coming home and starting to address me as ‘tumi’. It seems he did not like the more
casual ‘tui’! Any amount of asking
why he didn’t like it, did not elicit any reply, only a bashful laugh. I was
not able to interpret the laugh at all. The laugh not only made me uneasy, it
also frightened me. I got up from before him, and lay down in the darkened
bedroom, hugging my sorrow to myself. Habibullah continued to sit on the sofa
in the drawing room, and writing a long letter he handed it to Yasmin. Yasmin
switched on the lights, and left the letter for me to read. Written in English,
the essence of the letter was that our wonderful friendship could disappear at
any time, but if we could give it a permanent status, then there was no
question of it getting lost. He had thought over it himself, had even
questioned himself several times, and the only answer he had got was that he
loved me. Couldn’t I take this relationship beyond just friendship? I read the
letter and recoiled with the pain of a broken dream. Insult and shame began to
tear me to pieces. Pulling myself away from that sorrow, I followed my growing
anger step by step, finally walking into the drawing room. Tearing the letter
into shreds, I threw the pieces at Habibullah’s face, and screamed, “Leave this
house immediately. Let me never see your face ever again.”
Habibullah, a
polite, gentle, handsome, budding doctor, a diamond amongst jewels, stood for a
long time, before leaving. Later he tried to tell me many things in college,
but I never gave him an opportunity. He even knocked at my door several times
but I did not open it.
Abu Hassan
Shahriyar, who had made quite a name for himself as a limerick writer, was my
classmate at
“You are Dr. Rajab
Ali’s daughter, aren’t you?”
No words emerged
from my throat. I nodded my head.
Looking at my
voiceless throat and eyes lowered in fear and shame, Moffaqurul Islam making
his own tone sound as harsh as possible, said, “Is your brother’s name Noman?”
I nodded my head.
“Is your other
brother’s name Kamaal?”
I again nodded my
head.
“Is Kamaal’s
wife’s name Geeta?”
Again the head.
“Your younger
sister’s name is Yasmin?”
The head.
Moffaqurul also
nodded his head. It meant he had tested the truth of the letter he was holding
in his hand. Moffaqurul Islam had no idea that I had already read the letter. A
crazy man called Abdur Rahman Chisti had sent me a copy of this letter himself.
This man used to send me copious letters. He had been a pen friend for a few
days. In those copious sheafs of his letter, there used to be everything
beginning from fairy tales to difficult essays on the world’s trade policies.
Most of it I never got down to reading. When suddenly the same man offered his
love one day, I stopped writing to him. After that came this threat. If I did
not respond, he would harm me in this manner. He would directly write to the
Principal of Mymensingh Medical College that everyone’s character in my family
was stinking. My father had slept with Geeta, my sister slept around here and
there. I of course was another one. I had slept with Chisti, why only Chisti, I
had slept with all his friends as well. My two brothers, too, were in the same
boat. They pounced on a girl as soon as they saw one. Etcetra etcetra. Only
stories of sleeping around. Moffaqurul Islam, I guessed, had believed every
word of the letter.
Heaving a deep
sigh, I said, “This is a baseless letter. I know about it. A man named Chisti
has written it. I did not agree to his proposal, so he is taking his revenge.”
Ridicule was writ
large on the face of the respected Principal. A crooked smile played on his
lips.
“You think you are
very smart, don’t you?” he asked.
I did not answer.
“Do you think I
understand nothing?”
I still did not
answer.
“I will not keep
an undesirable girl like you in this college. I will give you a transfer
certificate very soon.”
I now got
thoroughly shaken up. The Principal’s room, the Principal and the letter all
started swaying before me. My simple honesty had not been accepted by the
Principal. What he had accepted was a mischievious rumour mongering letter, a
letter which did not bear the name of the writer, and on which there was no
signature. The writer of the letter was a person the Principal did not know.
But this unknown person’s words were considered the truth by the Principal, not
the words of the girl he knew. Coming out of the Principal’s room I noticed I
could not speak to anyone, I could not hide the pain in my tearful eyes.
Without attending the rest of the classes, I went straight home. I lay down on
my bed with my face to the wall. When Yasmin came I told her the whole
incident. Moffaqurul Islam’s daughter Sharmeen, studied in Yasmin’s class at
Although I went to
college, I could not concentrate in class. If while walking down the corridor I
encountered Moffaqurul Islam, I passed him as though no one was there, and it
was vacant space. Normally, if any Professor came before one, one had to raise one’s
hand in Salaam. I had never liked this rule. I avoided it in any case. Because
I avoided it, my reputation as a discourteous student spread. As I didn’t even
bother about this bad reputation, I was known as a comic, laughable creature.
It seems one had to Salaam if one wanted to pass one’s exams; that was what was
being whispered about. I kept my nose, ears, face and mind far away from these
whisperings. I attended all the important classes, and left college
straightaway. On the way back, , I bought books on politics, society,
literature from the bookshops. In the evening along with Yasmin, I went
visiting here and there. I attended good discussion sessions at the Public
Library. There was always something going on. When there was nowhere to go, I
went to Padmarag Mani’s house and talked about poetry. Or to Natakghar lane
where my old school friend Mehbooba’s house was. Sitting on a cool mat in the
sunny courtyard, we would drink tea and eat muri, while talking about
life’s simple and uncomplicated facts. Otherwise we went to Nanibari, to the
long-left-behind world on the other side of the railway line. We spent time in
that solitary secret world with the small baby sparrows, old torn kites, blue
balloons and the weed-covered pond and bead necklaces and came back. Ma would
say, “The way you two girls just go out by yourselves, what will people say?”
“Let them say what
they please.”
“You all think
yourselves very daring.”
“We are not doing
anything wrong.”
“If your father
comes to know, he will break your legs and make you sit at home.”
Saying “Let him
break them,” we moved away from in front of Ma. I found Ma’s nagging extremely
irritating.
***
Chandana no more
wrote as frequently as before. What she wrote was all about her in-law’s house.
Unlike the way she did earlier, Chandana spoke of dreams no more. She did not
write poetry either. She had changed a lot.
Some casual
friends from school came visiting to chat, to eat. These girls from
Again poetry got
me involved. The intoxication of getting Shenjuti printed began to glow
brightly. Upturning a sack full of skeletal bones over my innumerable literary
magazines, poetry notebooks and Shenjuti manuscripts, Baba declared, “As
far as I can see, you will not be able to qualify as a Doctor even in ten
years.”
Chapter Ten
Viewing the Bride-to-Be
When he started
working, Dada began to slowly change the décor of Aubokash. Removing the
cane sofa-set from the drawing-room, he placed a wooden set with soft
mattresses. He also installed a four-legged television set in the drawing room.
He got a huge bedstead made of segun, teak wood, with a most novel headboard,
displaying a man and woman lying naked under a grape tree. On the two sides of
the headboard were minutely carved drawers. When each piece of furniture
arrived in the house, we would look at it from a distance and up close,
touching and without touching. He brought a dressing table with a mirror as
well; that too was huge, with all kinds of carvings. A lion-legged ten-seater
dining table arrived. So did a gigantic crockery cupboard with a glass front.
Thanks to the arrival of so many heavy pieces of furniture, there was no place
left to walk in the rooms. Dada very proudly informed us that all the furniture
was made of teak wood and designed by him. Whoever came home looked at Dada’s
furniture in amazement. They had never seen such furniture anywhere else.
Drawing the design himself, Dada got another green coloured steel almirah made.
His greatest delight was that such a piece could not be found in any other
house. That was true, there couldn’t.
Dada converted the
room opposite the drawing room into his office. He placed in it a table with
drawers; and arranged all the Fison Company papers and medicine bags on top of
it.
The whole purpose
of getting all this furniture made was that Dada was to get married. A bride
would come, and find a fully furnished home, in fact “a ready household.” He
had bought expensive china ware and arranged it in the cupboard, and the key
remained in his pocket.
Relatives went
around looking at Dada’s decorated room and left saying, “Noman now has
everything. Now all he needs is a wife.”
****
Dada had been
looking for a girl to marry for quite a few years. Girls were shown to him, but
he did not like any. Various families sent proposals, and proposals were sent
to many others. He would take along either a relative or friend to see the
bride-to-be. Every time before leaving he went through elaborate preparations.
He spent an hour bathing, using up a whole bar of soap. After his bath, while
singing a song completely out of tune, he applied Pond’s cream and powder on
his face, and olive oil on his feet and hands. Then apart from all the nooks
and corners of his body, he generously sprayed perfume all over his chest, back
and whatever parts of the body were reachable by his hands. Normally Dada was
very stingy with his perfumes. At home only Dada had a storehouse of perfumes.
Sometimes before going somewhere, if I asked, “Dada will you give me a little
scent?” First he would say, “There isn’t any.” If I grumbled, he would ask
several questions about where I was going and why. If he liked the answer, he
would take out a perfume bottle from the secret hiding place in his room and
say, “This is Earthmatic,” or “This one is Intimate, Made in
“I couldn’t even
see what you poured!”
“Arrey, in
that drop itself, 200 taka was spent.”
When Dada was not
at home, I searched for the bottle of perfume in his secret place – inside his
shoes. I never found it. He had kept it in a new hiding place. Just like a
mother cat picked up its kittens by the scruff of their necks and shifted them
from place to place, Dada, too, kept changing the hideouts of his perfume
bottles. Anyway, he took ages over dressing up. He stood striking various poses
in front of the mirror and looking at his reflection. He asked us, “Ki,
aren’t I looking handsome!” With one voice we said, “Of course.” There was no
doubt that Dada was handsome. He had thick black hair, a sharp nose, big eyes,
and long eyelashes; even in height and breadth he was an extremely good-looking
man. Wearing polished shoes and a suit even in summer, Dada would leave the
house to see a prospective bride with a bright smile on his face, and every
time he would return with a gloomy face. Every time the gold ring in his pocket
remained there itself; it was never given to any one.
“Ki Dada,
how was the girl?” I would ask.
Dada would wrinkle
up his nose and say, “Arrey Dhoor!”
Everytime, he
would make everyone sit in the drawing room of the house while he described the
flaws in the girls he had gone to see.
***
Baba once sent
Dada to see the daughter of one of his acquaintances. Dada went and saw her. On
his return home, Baba sat down with Dada and asked, “Did you like the girl?”
Dada immediately
wrinkled up whatever it was possible to wrinkle up on his face and said, “No.”
“How come? The
girl was educated!”
“Yes, educated.”
“She had passed
her B.A.”
“Yes, she had.”
“Wasn’t she fair
to look at?”
“Yes, she was
fair.”
Wasn’t her hair
long?”
“Yes.”
“The girl wasn’t
short!”
“No, not short.”
“Her father’s an
advocate.”
“Yes.”
“He was the
President of the Bar Council for a long time.”
“Yes.”
“He had two houses
in the town!”
“Yes.”
“Good lineage.”
“Yes.”
“The girl’s uncles
all have good jobs. One is the manager of Sonali Bank.”
“Yes.”
“One of her cousin
brothers stays in
“Yes.”
“Which of her
guardians were there?”
“The girl’s
brother and father were there.”
“The elder brother
or the younger one?”
“The elder.”
“The elder brother
just got married a few days ago, to some very rich man’s daughter. The bride’s
father was a District Judge.”
“Yes.”
“Their house must
be quite nicely done up.”
“Yes. They had
expensive sofas etc. in the drawing room.”
“They do have a
television surely!”
“Yes.”
“What did they
offer you to eat?”
“They served three
kinds of sweet and tea.”
“What was the
girl’s conversation like? Her manners and behaviour?”
“Quite good.”
“Ladylike surely!”
“Yes, ladylike.”
“A docile and
quiet girl?”
“Yes.”
“Then why didn’t
you like her?”
“Everything was
fine, but …”
“But what?”
“Her lips …”
“Lips meaning?”
“Her lower lip was
not flat, it was raised. I hate the sight of girls who have lips that pucker
up.”
“Hmm.”
***
The search began
for a flat-lipped girl for Dada. News of a girl came. She lived in Tangail, but
her sister’s house was in Mymensingh, in our locality itself. The girl was
brought from Tangail to her sister’s place. The date was fixed to view the
bride-to-be. Dada dressed up as usual and took me and Yasmin with him to that
house. The girl’s sister opened the door and made us sit inside. She even
mouthed a few pleasantries, like, “You’ve just joined medical, haven’t you?”
“What’s your
name?”
“Yasmin! My niece
is also called Yasmin.”
“My daughter
studies at
“Nowadays it has
really become very warm, and during these warm nights the electricity too has
been going off!”
“Achcha,
what would you like to have, tea or something cold?”
In the midst of
this inconsequential chatter, the event of consequence took place. With a tray
of tea and biscuits, Dano entered the room. Three pairs of eyes were directed
unblinkingly at her. Dano laughed shyly, and sat down in a chair. Tea was being
drunk, and along with it the meaningless banter continued.
“The
“The chum-chum
made by Porabari has become smaller in size, yet more expensive!”
“Dano is a very
efficient girl. When she visits me, she takes over all the work. Tidying up the
house, cooking, she does everything. She is interested in gardening as well.
She stitches her own clothes, doesn’t give them to a tailor.”
“Do you know Qader
Siddiqui’s house in Tangail? Very close to it is Nath Babu’s house; I go there
once a month.”
As soon as we had
smilingly taken leave from that house, I asked, “Ki, did you like her?”
Two pairs of eyes
were observing Dada’s nose, eyes and lips.
“She had beautiful
eyes,” said Yasmin.
“Her lips were
definitely flat,” I added.
Dada’s nose now
crinkled up, “Too flat.”
People at home
were informed that because Dano’s lips were too flat, Dada had not liked her.
After a few months
the news came that Dano had been married to the famous Tangail Muktijoddha,
freedom fighter, Qader Siddiqui.
On hearing this, I
told Dada, “Ish, look what you missed, you should really have married
her!”
Dada said,
“Luckily, I didn’t. She must have been already in love with Qader Siddiqui.”
*****
In any case, the
news of any beautiful girl’s marriage made Dada depressed. He kept lamenting aha,
aha, as though some wonderful long-tailed bird had just flown out of his
reach in a jiffy. After Dilruba’s wedding, Dada in an almost tearful voice had
said, “The girl was an absolutely true copy of Sheila.”
“What do you mean
by was! She still is Sheila’s true copy.”
“She is married
now! So what if she is still …”
“Hmm.”
“Didn’t she have a
sister? Lata! Lata too was a beauty.”
“She wasn’t, she
still is a beauty.”
“Achcha, can’t we send Lata a proposal?”
“But she is much
younger than you.”
“Actually, that is
true.”
“I have also heard
that someone is in love with Lata.”
“Then forget it!”
Dada had seen
every beautiful girl in Mymensingh by turns. They were either studying in
college, or had passed there IA/BA. Yet he had not liked any of them. This time
Jhunu khala said, “Come, I’ll show you a girl in
“She lives in
Comilla and her father is a College Professor” Jhunu khala brought more news.
“The girl is very
devoted to me, she is constantly calling me,” ‘Jhunu apa, Jhunu apa.’ She
stays in the room next to me, in Rokeya Hall,” Jhunu khala said with a forced
smile.
“Tell me whether
she is pretty,” was Dada’s question.
“Very pretty.”
Dada’s legs swung
from left to right at great speed. “Her lips are flat I hope!”
“Yes, flat.”
“Not too flat
again I trust?”
“No, not too
flat.”
It was decided
that in an icecream shop in
In all the towns
around Mymensingh, Tangail, Jamalpur, Netrakona, everywhere Dada had gone to
see girls. He had come back with a gloomy face. The next was Sylhet! He was
going to Sylhet to see a girl. The proposal had come from a colleague of
Dada’s. I obstinately insisted on going to Sylhet, too. My obstinacy worked.
Dada took me along with him, when he left for Sylhet. Throughout the train
journey he kept saying, “Girls from Sylhet are usually very beautiful.”
I said, “The girl
does appear beautiful in the photograph.”
“Yes, she does
appear to be so. But all flaws cannot be always detected in a photograph.”
***
We spent the night
at the Fisons Company Supervisor, Munir Ahmed’s house on Sylhet’s
Dada was not at
all in the mood to do so then. He kept taking the girl’s photo out of his breast
pocket and putting it under a bright light. He showed me the photograph as
well, saying, “What do you think, just look carefully once more!”
“I have already
seen it so many times!” I said.
“See it again. If
you look again something or the other will be found.”
“Dhoot! Did
we come to Sylhet just to sit in a house! Come on, let’s go out for a little
while atleast!”
“Your patience is
really limited Nasreen,” said Dada in disgust. “We have journeyed so far. My
body is covered with dust. I’ll have to have a bath.”
“What will happen
if you don’t have a bath? Have one when you return.”
“Her nose seems
quite okay, what do you say!” Dada’s eyes were on the photograph.
I sat at the
window and looked at whatever little of the outside was visible. If only I
could go out alone in the city! I could have taken a rickshaw and gone around
seeing everything by myself!
The next day we
went to see the girl. The father of the girl was a Police Officer, and the girl
was a graduate.
“Everything was
good, really fair complexioned girl, but … her front two teeth were a little
raised. Rejecting the girl, Dada took me along to see the Mazaar of Shahjalal.
I was not interested in seeing any Mazaar. I would have preferred to take a
hooded rickshaw and enjoyed going around the city and getting to know its
character and behaviour much more.
Thousands of
people thronged the Mazaar. There were many standing on the shores of the lake
feeding the black fish. Coming up to catch the food in their mouths, the fish
would then dive back into the water! Bah!
Dada said, “Do you know why people feed these fish? If you do, it seems you get
a special passport to Heaven. Hazrat Shahjalal personally persuades Allah and
makes efforts to ensure Behesht, Heaven for the feeders.”
Afterwards Dada
gave me his shoes to hold, saying, “Stand here with my shoes, while I go and
see the inside of the Mazaar. Shahjalal’s tombstone is there.”
“Take me as well.”
“No, women cannot
go there.”
Dada went up alone
to the tomb at the higher level. I stood and stared at it amazed thinking, if
women went there how did it cause problems, and for whom!
While returning to
Mymensingh by train, I told Dada, “So you didn’t like this Sylhet girl either.”
Dada said, “Sylhet
girls are normally very pretty.”
“Then why didn’t
you like her?”
“I did.”
“But you said she
had buck teeth.”
“Arrey, not
the toothy one!”
“Then who did you
like?”
“Munir’s brother’s
wife.”
“What are you
saying?”
“Did you see her
lips? Those were the kind of lips I wanted.”
“Will you marry
her then?” I asked with my eyebrows raised upto my forehead.
“How can I marry
her? She is already married!”
Dada looked
despondently out of the window for a long time and suddenly said, “Did you see
the black beauty spot on top of her lips?”
“On top of whose
lips?”
“Munirbhai’s
wife’s lips.”
“You had come to
see the police officer’s daughter. Talk about her beauty spots. She had one on
her cheek.”
“I didn’t even see
the spot on her cheek. Actually one shouldn’t look too long at women with buck
teeth. The eyes really get strained.”
***
Dada’s preferences
worked even in the matter of names. Once, a proposal was sent to a girl because
Dada had found out that her name was Nilanjana. He was absolutely dying to see
Nilanjana.
“This girl has to
be beautiful.”
“How do you know
that?”
“How can someone
who has such a lovely name be possibly ugly!”
Of course after
seeing Nilanjana, Dada only said “Chhi,
Chhi” the whole day. Dada rejected a beautiful girl as soon as he heard her
name was Majeda, so going to see her was far from possible. His opinion – “I
feel nausea as soon as I hear the name Majeda. Girls wth such names have no
business to be beautiful.”
All of us at home
had almost given up hopes of Dada’s marriage. Only one person had not given up
hope, and that was Dada himself. He seriously believed that very soon he would
marry the most beautiful girl in the country.
This belief of his
allowed him to continue to spend his life happily and enthusiastically. He had
bought a music cassette player. The earlier one, ‘Made in
This attraction to
music dissipated a little when he hired a machine called a VCR from Amrito’s
shop. Amrito had started a new Video shop at Golpukur Par. He was a very
handsome boy. He was almost on the brink of marrying Jyotirmoy Dutta’s
beautiful daughter. A bright green light of success was shining on Amrito’s
business. Very often for a night or two, Dada would hire the VCR and watch all
the Hindi movies available in the market. When initially two or three VCRs had
come to Mymensingh, there had been great excitement. High priced tickets were
sold and movies were shown whole night in darkened stairways and closed houses.
Chhotda had once taken me to one of his friend’s house to see movies on the
VCR. However, it wasn’t my cup of tea. I had returned home before the movie was
over. That was my initiation into VCR-viewing. Later when the hiring of the VCR
and watching movies reached a pinnacle of excitement, Dada actually bought one
of his own. After which he not only sat up whole nights and days watching
movies, he began to swallow them whole. Initially, I too sat before it. I was
amazed. “Who left Dharmendra a horse in the middle of a field? Just a moment
before there wasn’t any! Why did Hema Malini suddenly leap up and start singing
a song? Did anyone sing songs while dancing on the streets?” My remarks buzzed
around like a fly, hovering over the other viewers who remained absorbed.
Unreal action movies were not to my taste at all. But Dada, whatever kind of
movie it was, sat before the screen with his backside glued to the seat.
However, I selectively watched movies which had no violence, no unbelievable
storyline, and no laughable unrealities. Amitabh-Rekha became my favourites.
Even more than them I began to like Shabana Azmi, Smita Patil and Naseerudin
Shah. Showing contempt at my taste, Dada said, “Don’t get those dark moralistic
films anymore. We are looking at slum life everyday, we don’t need to see it on
the screen as well.”
After watching any
director’s, any actor’s, any picture, Dada one day got caught like a Putti
fish, in the net of one movie. The name of the film was Mughal-e-Azam.
He went almost mad in his love for the film. The movie would play non-stop. He
began reciting the dialogues by heart all around the house. He showed the movie
to everyone at home more than once. From Nanibari, Nani, Hashem mama, Parul
mami, infact even Tutu mama and Sharaf mama were called in to see the movie.
Hashem mama was a great fan of old films. Given half a chance he would go
around singing Hindi and Urdu songs of films seen in his youth. Dada had failed
to pull and push Fajli khala into watching the film. Fajli khala did not look
at the television as it would be a gunah, a sin to do so. If Ma got a
film, she forgot about gunah. It was impossible for her to resist the
temptation to see Mughal-e-Azam, so she had temporarily buried Allah and
His orders and directives under her pillow and had come to see the film.
After which she
had read her Ashar or Eshar namaaz followed by raising her hands
in supplication to Allah, imploring that she be forgiven for her gunah.
Ma was sure that Allah was very benevolent, and forgave all devotees who were
sorry for their sins.
Whenever a guest
came to the house, instead of tea and biscuits, Dada would show his hospitality
by screening Mughal-e-Azam.
Lukewarm Life
Even after we had given our hearts to
each other, I had not met Rudra. Our introduction happened through letters, as
did our love; everything was in our letters. Our exchange of hearts had
happened in the course of a play of words. Rudra informed me that his birthday
was on the 29th of Ashwin (mid-Sept – mid-Oct.).
“Tell me what you want on your birthday.
I will give you whatever you want.”
“Will it be possible for you to give me
what I do want?”
“Why shouldn’t it?”
“I know it won’t be.”
“Why don’t you ask and see?”
Rudra informed me that what he would ask
for would be difficult, ‘painful and something hard to accomplish’!
The very next letter carried the
question, “Will you truly be able to give what I want?”
Shrugging my shoulders, I had replied, “Bah, why can’t I? When I have said I
will, I truly will.” Pride, in the shape of a tiny sparrow, seemed to have
flown off my shoulder and settled down on the tip of my nose.
“Suppose I ask for you?”
“What is so great about that?” Amidst
these trifling amorous bickerings I had said, “Okay go along, here I am
personally giving myself.”
I loved Rudra for his words, for his
poems in ‘Upodruto Upokul’
Looking more modern than I was, I sported
a pair of fancy goggles. I was wearing a pyjama-dress with no odhna as usual. Except for the red
college uniform odhna, I didn’t have
any at home, because like Chandana, I had objections to the odhna. Even after I crossed “the age for
wearing odhnas;” I stayed at home
without one, and went out as well. Telling Ma I was going to Nanibari, this
long haired, lustrous girl, with no fat or muscle proceeded towards the small
tin house on the field with a lake, towards Masood’s house. The little heart of
this little girl, from a little house, and a little room, suddenly stopped
beating when a bearded, long-haired, lungi clad youth came and said he was
Rudra. My first sight of my lover was in a lungi! At that time Rudra looked
like someone who could be a brother-in-law of Riazzuddin come from the village.
I lowered my eyes though already hidden behind dark glasses.
“Take off your goggles. I can’t see your
eyes.”
These were the first words from someone
with whom I had exchanged my heart in innumerable written words, sitting before
me for the first time face to face.
Rudra’s deep voice startled me. I took
off my goggles, but looked only at the furniture in Masood’s room.
Silence.
“How come you aren’t saying anything?”
I rubbed my toes against my slippers.
There was nothing to look at in the corner of the nail of my left hand, but I
continued to look fixedly at it, as though if I didn’t look after it at this
very moment, the nail would rot and disintegrate. Even though I was not looking
at Rudra, I clearly knew that he was looking at me, at my hair, eyes, nose,
chin, everything. Into a room full of discomfort, Masood entered with tea and
biscuits. I spent the time taken to drink the tea looking at my cup, at the
faded sofa hand rest, at the dolls in the showcase and at times at Masood, and
finally stood up.
“What’s wrong, why are you so restless?”
asked Rudra, again in that deep tone.
My eyes were directed then at the window.
The leaves on the trees were dozing under the strong rays of the sun. So was
the pond. As soon as the water insects alighted on it, the waters danced to a
mild ripple.
Rudra stood up and came slowly towards
me. Glancing at his body, I realised he was shorter than me by two spans. When
Dada quarreled with his short friend, Jahangir, he would brag frequently,
“Short people are enemies of Khoda!” Rudra was short without a doubt and to add
to it his face was covered with a beard and moustache. I abhorred the sight of
a moustache, and even more so a beard.
I moved away, I don’t know whether from
fear or shame.
Rudra said, “Why do you need to leave
immediately?”
Silence.
“You speak a lot in your letters. Why
aren’t you speaking now?”
Silence.
“Ish,
what a problem this is! Are you dumb or something?”
The dumb girl crossed the fields of
Masood’s house and went away almost brushing against the water insects and the
water in the pond.
Before leaving, to the question at the
door, “You are coming tomorrow, aren’t you?” she replied with only a nod
indicating she would.
I went the next day as well. That day,
too, I did not look up at him. My whole body, from my hair to the nails of my
feet, was enveloped in bashfulness. I kept telling myself, “Speak, girl, speak,
he is your beloved. You know everything about him, you have read and memorised
his complete ‘Upodruto Upokul;’ now
say at least a few words.” I couldn’t.
Rudra left. He wrote from
The shy girl replied with a twelve page
letter. ‘This is what happens to me, you ask me to write, there would be no one
as garrulous as me. Come close, and I would recoil in such a way that you would
think the letter writer must be someone else!’ I, too, sometimes felt that I
the writer and I the living woman, brought up within the boundaries of Nanibari
and Aubokash were two separate
individuals. One spread her wings and flew in the sky, while the other was
chained physically and mentally to this earthly world, in darkness and confined
to a closed room.
Rudra came to Mymensingh twice after
this. He had really got along well with a couple of Masood’s friends. So his
time in this town passed quite pleasantly. However, whenever I met him I
remained in the same state. So many meetings had not calmed the thudding of my
heart. I could chat non-stop with friends and brothers but when my lover came
before me, my hands and feet turned cold. There was a lock on my mouth, whose
keys were lost.
Rudra was coming, but where were we to
meet, where could the two of us sit and talk! Masood’s elder brothers had
voiced their objections, so that house was out. If we walked around the streets
of town, some one known to us would see us, and inform Baba in moments, utter
ruin! Where to go then? We went to my school friends Nadira and Mahbooba’s
house. They gave us tea and biscuits, but whispered that their family members
wanted to know who the man was. Even then, for girls of my age to visit
anyone’s house with a lover was considered indecent, after all, romance itself
was considered in bad taste then! When a girl grew up, her parents found a
groom for her, and made her sit on the wedding stool. The girl had to shut her
mouth and happily accept an unknown, unheard of man as her husband, and go to
live in her in-laws place – it was not that girls did not romance outside this
system, but only secretly, so secretly that even the birds could never get to
know. I had no reservations in letting the birds know, in fact not even in
letting a couple of friends know. I had let Chandana know every detail, and had
told Rudra everything about Chandana. I had earnestly requested both of them to
write to each other as well. They corresponded regularly. Most of my letters to
Rudra were about Chandana. Rudra understood how close to my soul Chandana
remained. Sometimes with hurt pride he would say, “Only Chandana, Chandana,
Chandana. You need only one friend. I don’t think you need me also in your
life!” Not finding a place to meet Rudra one day, I took him to Nanibari. Nani
made tea and served us, and suppressing a smile told Rudra, “If you want this
girl, you will first have to establish yourself, understood!” I lowered my face
in shame. Still, what was possible in Nanibari was out of the question at Aubokash. With Rudra I could think of
going to many houses, even to Nanibari, but never to Aubokash. Therefore, we sat in parks, or in the Botanical Gardens,
sat in the shade of the trees, and talked. The Botanical Gardens were slightly
out of town, near the
After joining
“Yes.”
“Any more classes?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have to attend?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, means what? Can’t you miss them?”
“Yes.”
I sat with Rudra bunking my classes. The
campus emptied out in the afternoon, the canteen closed. Our love talk
continued in the lawns, in the grounds, or sitting on the stairs in college, somewhat
in this way,
“Do you get my letters regularly?”
“Yes.”
“You must write to me daily, understand?”
“Okay.”
“Are you writing poetry?”
“Just a little bit.”
“Try and write in iambic metre.”
“Iambic metre would be in sixes, right?”
“Yes. In the end you can add a couplet.
Six, six and two.”
“I can understand versification with the
number of letters in a line. I find versification with stressed and unstressed
sounds difficult …”
“You will learn it better, the more you
write. Initially, begin with letter number versification.”
“Eight, four and six?”
“You can do that, or even eight-four-two,
six-four-two. Actually the minute you do six-four-two the iambic metre
automatically emerges …”
“The poems in ‘Upodruto Upokul’ are mostly in letter number versification, aren’t
they?”
“That’s true.”
“I keep writing and counting the letters,
I find it really troublesome …”
“What is so troublesome? The poetical
metre is in the sound, keep your ears alert …”
“Sometimes I feel I can’t write this kind
of poetry.”
“Of course you can, just keep writing.
Bring your poetry notebook tomorrow, let me have a look!”
“I haven’t written any good poems, I’ll
show it to you later.”
“Just bring it, will you! Listen to what
I say. Achha, one thing …”
“What?”
“Why don’t you ever address me?”
“In what way?”
“Neither do you call me Rudra, nor do you
say ‘tumi’.
“I do.”
“When do you do so?”
“In my letters.”
“That is in letters. Life is not only in
letters. Why don’t you address me directly?”
Shame spread like a burning flame all
over my face. Every time before meeting Rudra, I would either stand before the
mirror or mentally rehearse saying ‘Rudra tumi,
Rudra tumi.’ I even tried, “Rudra
what will you eat, Rudra will you leave today itself,” and other such
sentences, using ‘tumi’, but as soon
as I came before him, on the actual stage, my rehearsals were to no avail and
my performance fell flat. In spite of heartfelt efforts, I was just unable to
free myself from the chains of my impersonal voice.
“Why do you appear to be so far away? You
don’t let me touch you at all. How many times I have asked you to let me hold
your hand. You don’t let me. What are you so scared of? Am I a tiger or bear or
what?”
I knew Rudra was no tiger or bear. He was
a bright young man of the seventies. The seventies was the decade of war, death
and break-up. The decade of the seventies was a decade of poetry. In the poems
one could smell the corpses, hear the screams and protests. Rudra had evoked
this decade brilliantly in his poetry. When he talked of his life in
Even if my love for Rudra was not evident
in face-to-face encounters, it grew significantly through our letters. It was
his wish that I write to him everyday. He too wrote everyday. In case my letter
did not reach on even one day, Rudra would write in great anxiety, “What has
happened to you, are you forgetting me?” No, I could not forget Rudra. What I
couldn’t make him understand was that to write to him I needed some privacy.
With the house full of people, it was very difficult to do so. Rudra feared
that Baba would very soon force me into marriage. I let him know clearly that,
that was one thing my father would never do. He might murder me and throw me
into the waters of the
“Married?”
“Yes, married.”
I began to laugh. I felt as though I had
just heard some crazy proposal like, ‘Let’s go to Mars, or let’s drown in the
sea!’ I couldn’t help but laugh. Rudra frowned and said, “What is there to
laugh about!”
“I can’t help it.”
“What makes you laugh?”
“It just happens.”
“Aren’t we supposed to get married
sometime?”
“Why is the question of marriage
arising?”
“Why shouldn’t it?”
“Are you mad?”
“Why should I be mad?”
“Only mad people keep talking of
marriage!”
“Don’t talk rubbish.”
“Is this rubbish?”
“Yes, it is.”
Rudra sat depressed. Depression was
crawling towards me as well. I picked at my nails for a long time, and stared
at the pages of my book without any reason, for even longer. There was an
uncomprehending grief in my voice.
“Baba will kill me.”
“Let us both go and meet Baba,” said
Rudra in a serious tone. My loud laugh pierced through the gravity of his
voice.
“How can you laugh?”
I again felt like laughing. Certain
scenes could possibly be conjured up in one’s mind with great difficulty, but
this scene of Rudra and I standing before Baba, saying we wanted to marry and
were seeking his permission or something to that effect – was a scene
impossible for me to even imagine. Distractedly I tore at the grass.
“What are you laughing about, will you
please tell me! Aren’t you ever going to think of getting married?”
“Why get married right now? Let me pass
my medical exams first. Then we’ll see,” was my melancholic answer. The words
were without regret, cool.
“That would be very late,” Rudra’s voice
was steeped in anxiety.
“So what if it’s late?”
Rudra could not stand delays. He wanted
to do things straightaway. He was already dreaming of marrying and setting up
house. Looking up at Rudra, I felt, I didn’t know this man at all. He was
someone very distant. He was like a spoilt, irritating overgrown kid. ‘Take
your exams, pass your M.A., only after that does the question of marriage
arise, what is the big hurry now!’, I informed him by letter. Rudra replied
that taking or not taking the exams was of no consequence to him. He had no
eagerness for such meaningless degrees.
He may have considered them meaningless,
but I knew, my family members would want to see degrees. In fact, I didn’t
believe that even a M.A. qualified boy would be considered suitable for me.
Then to top everything, Rudra was a poet. Poets went hungry. That they were
also very bohemian was Baba’s strong belief. Rudra said he was a poet, and that
was his identity. As he would never seek a job, so there was no justification
for him to pass University exams.
“No, but …”
“But, what?”
I was petrified of Baba. It was
impossible to make Rudra understand of what metal Baba’s heart was made.
Baba was Associate Professor in the
Department of Jurisprudence of
“So what is wrong in that?”
He did not say what was wrong but made
disapproving sounds with his tongue.
When the month was over, I went to give
Hilu an envelope with two hundred taka in it as an honorarium.
He asked, “What is this?”
“Money.”
“Why money?”
There was no reason for Hilu not to
understand the reason for the money. With a crooked smile on his lips, he said,
“Are you paying me for teaching you to play the guitar?”
I kept quiet. Hilu did not take the
money. In spite of hundreds of requests, he didn’t. Hilu was a rich man’s son.
I knew he did not need money. But to study for free made me very uncomfortable.
My embarrassment remained, along with great respect for Hilu who was abandoning
his evening programmes and taking time out to teach me. In the midst of this
sense of respect one day came Baba. Seeing Hilu sitting in the drawing room
teaching me to play the guitar shocked him so much, it was as though he had
seen a ghost. On seeing Baba, Hilu stood up and offered his Salaam. The
response he got was eyes spewing hatred. Going into the inner room, Baba called
me in a voice which could have blasted the house down. My trembling heart and I
went and stood before him.
“Why has Hilu come?”
“He teaches me to play the guitar.”
“I’ll take your arse for guitar learning,
Haramzadi. Throw the fellow out this
minute. A scoundrel has come to my house. How dare he?”
Hilu must have heard Baba’s words. I
could neither breathe in nor out. No, this could not be happening; Baba was not
saying anything; Hilu was not standing flabbergasted in that room. Nothing but
the strains of Raag Malkash were
entering his ears. I tried desperately to convince myself that no untoward
incident was happening in the house, that this was only a nightmare. In a room
full of darkness, I stood rooted to the ground and my head seemed to float away
from me like a gas balloon into the sky, to disappear behind the clouds. My
body, I noticed, became incapable of moving. It was dead like yellow grass
buried under the weight of stones, it felt cold and slimy like the toadstools
which grow on them. Baba insulted Hilu that night and drove him out of the
house. After throwing him out, he moved about violently all over the house.
“Who doesn’t know Hilu? He is a
well-known goonda of the town. Aayee Noman, Noman,” screaming for Dada
to come close, he continued panting, “Did you know Hilu was coming to this
house?”
Dada nodded his head, implying both yes
and no.
Besides this blazing fire Ma came and
stood offering a palmful of water, “Hilu did not come to this house to do
anything like a goonda!”
Baba did not even bother to hear Ma’s
opinion. The fire continued to blaze, while the water from Ma’s palms fell onto
the ground wetting it. The whole night, from my two eyes fixed on the beams
supporting the ceiling, spewed hatred and anger towards Baba. Ma came and sat
beside me on the bed sighing deeply.
“Your father has such arrogance! What
does he have so much self-conceit about, I do not fathom! People will curse
him. If you treat people unjustly, why will people not curse you? They
definitely will.”
My guitar lessons came to an end for the
rest of my life. The instrument lay in one corner of the room. With the passing
of time it gradually became the dwelling place of dust and cobwebs. Many times
I had thought of going to Hilu and begging forgiveness with folded hands, but I
felt hesitant to stand before such a great person with such a small face.
Soon after this incident, Mitu arrived. A
wave of beautifying the house began. The house was decorated from top to
bottom. Mitu was the daughter of Dada’s Company’s top boss. She was to join
That same Munni’s beaming mother’s toes
one day began to grow red. The redness increased and began to spread upwards
from the tips of her toes. When Baba was unable to treat the redness with any
kind of medicine, he one day actually amputated
the big toe. Munni’s toeless mother gradually recovered her health, and
again began to visit her neighbours and friends to gossip in the evenings. After
a few months, the tips of her toes again began to grow red. The redness again
spread. It spread right up her legs. Baba said she had skin cancer, and only if
her legs were wholly amputated could the cancer be checked. No one in her house
agreed to this. Baba went routinely to see Munni’s mother. Ma too went to see
her. She personally heated up water, and soaking Munni’s mother’s feet in the
water, would sigh deeply and sit and show her dreams of getting well again.
Towards the end, Munni’s Ma’s body began to give off a horrible smell, and she
was made to lie under a mosquito net. Bottles of attar were poured, but were
unable to remove the stench. Her own family members did not want to enter her
room. Yet Ma, an outsider, went inside the stinking room, stroked her body, and
wiping her tears with her sari aanchal said, “Allah will make you well, keep
your faith in Allah.” Ma felt sympathy for everyone. Just as Ma could go to the
slums, and stroke the bodies of the dirty slum women, she could also go to rich
men houses and soothe the bodies of their wives. Ma had requested me many
times, “Let’s go and see Munni’s mother, poor woman is suffering so much.” I
would refuse. Ma would go alone. Ma could do so, I couldn’t. Diffidence, fear
and shame would just accost me and penetrate my very bones. Ma had stopped
worrying about what people would think of her soiled clothes, soiled body or
soiled life itself. After visiting Munni’s mother, Ma said, “What if she’s a
rich man’s wife, she is sick, and because her body is stinking, no one goes
close to her. They have kept servants, only they go near.” Ma was of the view
that there was no limit to the woes of women, whether they were poor or rich
men’s wives. Ma was considered a rich man’s wife by those slum dwellers who came
begging. Ma would correct them. “Being a rich man’s wife and being a rich man
are two very different things. My husband may be a rich man, but I am a poor
woman. I have no money of my own.” Ma sometimes said, “If I worked in someone’s
house and even earned five taka, that at least would be my earnings. Does
anyone even give me five taka? The maids in the house have a better fate then
mine.” Whatever Ma might have gained by becoming a rich man’s wife, she had
lost a great deal more. She had been deprived of many opportunities. She had
looked around for sewing jobs, but never got any. Since she was not educated,
no one gave Ma any big jobs. And she was not given any small jobs because she
was a ‘rich man’s wife’. Ma never got any work to do except her household
tasks. Yasmin was about to take her SSC exams. Ma caught Yasmin as well. “Will
you arrange for me to take my SSC exams privately? If you just teach me a
little bit of Maths, I will definitely pass.” Ma examined Yasmin’s books. Very
carefully she turned the pages, some of them she was even able to read without
stumbling. She said, “This is not so very difficult!” Hearing Ma’s desire to
take the SSC exams, evoked not just suppressed laughter amongst all at home,
everyone actually laughed out aloud, including even Amena.
Meanwhile Jhunu khala had married her man
from
Ma was unable to study because she never
got the opportunity to do so. At times I thought, there were others, who given
the opportunity, still wasted their chances. Rudra’s name was on the rolls of
the University, but that was all. Neither did he attend classes, nor did he
take the exams. I told him to at least pass his Masters degree. I told him for
his own sake. He clearly told me that he was not made out for these things. He
hardly cared for academic qualifications. He was going to write poetry all his
life. Poetry was his passion, occupation everything. Rudra spent five hours
coming to Mymensingh from
When Rudra returned to Dhaka that time,
within a few days, seven to be exact, I was about to enter class, when a senior
girl came and told me that Neera Lahiri had sent a message, that I should go to
her house immediately.
Abandoning my class I ran to Goon’s
house.
I found Rudra sitting in Goon’s drawing
room. There were two wooden chairs in the room, and a bedstead. He was on the
bedstead. My heart danced with joy at seeing him. Whenever I saw Rudra that is
what happened to me, my heart danced with joy.
“What happened suddenly?”
“Yes, rather sudden. I didn’t have time
to write and tell you.”
“I see.”
Then there was silence while we sat
facing each other. The blues of silence were filled with the smoke of Rudra’s
Star cigarette.
Rudra took out a paper from his black
shoulder bag and said, “You have to sign on this paper.”
“What paper is this?”
“I’ll tell you later. First sign.”
“Why?”
“Don’t talk so much.”
“What is the paper for?”
I asked, but was very sure that Rudra
needed my signature on some memorandum, or was creating a poetry society, and
wanted me to sign as a member. My eyes filled with conviction, glowed with the
gentle light of dawn. My unwavering lips flew about like a flock of birds.
When I extended my hands to take the
paper, Rudra moved it away. I was faced with a dilemma, a suspicion.
“What paper is this? I am not going to
sign it without reading!”
Rudra’s moss covered eyes remained fixed
on mine.
“It is a marriage document.” Rudra’s
voice was heavy and broken.
My ears began to burn. Shaking off the
burning sensation I forced myself to respond.
“Marriage documents.”
“Yes, marriage papers.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean, why?”
“Marriage papers for what?”
“Don’t you know for what?”
“No.”
“Are you going to sign or not?”
“Amazing! Why should I marry in this
way?”
“That means you will not sign?”
“Let’s see what is written!”
As soon as I took the paper from Rudra,
he roared, “Boudi is coming, hide it.”
“Why should I hide it?”
“She will understand what it is.”
“What will she understand?”
“She will know it is a marriage
document.”
“How?”
“I’m telling you she will!”
“What’s the harm in her knowing?”
“There is harm.”
“What harm, let’s hear!”
Rudra snatched the paper from me. In a
stony voice he said, “Are you going to sign or not, either say yes or no.”
“This is astounding! Why is there this
talk of marriage suddenly?”
“There just is.”
“Who’s brought it up?”
“I have.”
“I never said I would marry!”
“I am saying so.”
“Can you clap with one hand?”
“Will you sign?”
“No.”
Putting the paper back into his bag,
Rudra stood up, saying, “Fine, I’m going.”
Astonishment was clouding my world.
“Where to?”
“
“Right now?”
“Yes.”
“Why, what’s happened?”
“There is no need for me to stay any
longer.”
“No need?”
Rudra’s tone had no regret. “No.”
“Just because I have not signed on the
paper, are all requirements over?”
Without giving an answer, Rudra opened
the doors wide and went out. He was leaving. Leaving. He was walking right over
my heart which was brimming with love for him. He was really and truly going
away. Going away. I was left behind alone. Rudra did not glance back. I was
nothing to him now. He was not returning ever.
A sharp agony lifted me and took me to
the verandah, took me towards his departure, and with two hands stopped him
from leaving.
“Let’s see, let me see the paper!”
“Why?”
“Why else, to sign it!”
Rudra took out the paper.
Standing in the verandah, I scratched out
a signature without looking at it or reading anything. Handing the paper to
Rudra, I glanced sorrowfully at his instantly shining eyes and said, “That this
signature had so much value I never realized before. I have signed. Are you
happy now! I’ll take your leave.”
I crossed the courtyard of Goon’s house
and came on to the road, as fast as I could.
From behind Rudra was calling, “Listen,
wait.”
I did not turn back.
I took a rickshaw straight to college. I
paid a lot of attention in the next classes.
Even then it had not sunk into me that
what I had signed out of self-pride had wrought my marriage. I still did not
call Rudra by his name, or address him as ‘tumi’,
we had still not kissed; our only physical contact was through the fingers of
our hands. I was then barely nineteen years old.
The Oscillating Heart
Two months after Rudra took my signature on
the marriage document, he wrote a letter addressing me as ‘wife’. Reading the
address I broke out in goose bumps. How strange and wonderful was this address!
Was I then someone’s wife? Had that signature really and truly brought about a
marriage! It was an unbelievable event. My own wedding, I had never imagined it
would take place in this way. In fact that it would take place at all was
something I had never had any belief in. I had signed the paper on the 26th
of January, and after being submitted to the lawyer, it had been signed and
sealed by him on the 29th. In an ordinary letter Rudra had informed
me that our wedding day was the 29th. I tried to think of what I was
doing on the 29th . Had I thought of Rudra even once that day? No, I
hadn’t. I didn’t have the time. I was dissecting dead bodies. There had been a
minor exam for which I had to study a lot. After the exam, I had come home and
as usual, watched television and indulged in bickering with my brothers and
sisters. Like every other day, I had read poetry, heard songs, and after
dinner, had gone to sleep. After receiving Rudra’s letter, I told myself again
and again, “Look, you are not unmarried anymore. You are now actually someone’s
wife. When you marry you have to become a
wife. That’s the system. Whether you like it or not, your signature on that
paper brought about your marriage.” It had no effect. I was unable to absorb
the matter either in my understanding or beliefs. I just could not experience
the feeling that I was not the same as before.
That I was now married like Nani, Ma, Fajli khala and Jhunu khala. Even
Chandana was married. After her marriage, Chandana had written, “I am now a
fearless person. Putting my life at stake, I have touched my dreams with my
hands. I know now how to seriously dream.
I have only one life after all. I
have not made a mistake. I can now touch
a blood-red rose by merely extending my hand.” Even if I had wished for the
married Chandana’s passion, it was not aroused in me. It was beyond the limits of my understanding
as to what kind of tremors could be felt by a woman when touched physically by
a man, and what desires were aroused by those tremors thereafter. The men
friends I had in college were only friends. Like Chandana. I hadn’t yet ever
kissed a man. I had not felt any physical desire for anyone as yet. The only
desires I was aware of, were those for water, tea or when it was very warm, for
lemon sherbet.
The second letter written by Rudra addressing
me as ‘wife’ fell into Baba’s hands. The postman had delivered the letter at
home, and as luck would have it straight into Baba’s hands. Since Baba was very
fond of opening and reading others’ letters, he read mine. Someone was
addressing his daughter as his wife was something he read with bare eyes, then
with his spectacles on, and in every other way possible. Baba began pacing up and down throughout the
room. He ransacked my study table in search of more evidence. He took off his glasses, sat down, got up,
all in rapid succession and finally left the house. But he could not
concentrate on his patients, and returned home. This time he called Ma. Whenever there was some anxiety about the
children, then Baba looked for Ma. Or
when guests were expected at home, he would look for Ma. “Where have you gone
Idun? Come here, will you!” Baba would then give an estimate of the number of
people expected, how many people would have to be catered for, in fact even
what items were to be prepared. Ma would listen very attentively to everything.
She listened because at such times at least Ma felt herself to be someone of
invaluable worth. That she was needed in
this household, was the feeling Ma gained on such occasions and a strange joy
seemed to cling to Ma just as did her sweat.
On being called this time, when Ma came rushing to stand before him,
Baba said, “Do you know who calls Nasreen his wife? Who has the courage to call
her his wife?”
“I don’t know. I have no idea about all
this.”
“Has she got involved with some boy?”
“I haven’t seen anything like that. She in
fact chased Habibullah away from the house. No such boy has even come to the
house. I don’t think she has got involved with anyone.”
“If she isn’t involved, then how can any boy
address her as his wife in his letters?”
“I really don’t know.”
“You don’t know anything. What do you do the
whole day at home? If you can’t even keep track of what your daughter is upto,
then what is the use? I raised the height of the boundary wall. I made sure
that no boys could see the girls. Now how come this boy is calling her his
wife?”
“I know she writes letters. She prints a
magazine. She has to write letters here and there, she says.”
“This letter is not for any journal. This is
a different type of letter.”
I returned home from college. On other days
Ma ran to the kitchen to bring food for me. That day she didn’t move at all.
“Ki,
where’s my food?”
“The rice is in the vessel,” said Ma.
Amena too hardly seemed to be moving or
stirring at all. At an impossibly snail’s pace, she brought and served me the
rice, and with it some daal.
“Ki!
What do you mean by giving me only daal
with rice! Isn’t there any meat or fish?”
“You don’t need fish and meat everyday.” Ma’s
tone was rough.
“Can one eat rice without fish or meat?” I
ate two mouthfuls, and pushed the plate away, screaming, “Where’s the water?”
Ma said, “Water is in the tap.”
“Even I know water is in the tap, but someone
has to bring it.”
Who was going to give me water! When I
started grumbling, only then Amena moved majestically like an elephant, filled
a glass from the tap and brought it for me. The house was seething with
suspense. I gauged that something had happened. Ma did not wait too long in
order to let me know what had happened. When I had stretched out on the bed
with a book in my hand, she came with a grave face to my side and asked equally
gravely, “Who is Rudra?”
“Rudra?”
“Yes, Rudra.”
“Why?”
“Why does he call you his wife?”
A glass of cold water upturned on my chest. I
began to sweat under the whirring blades of the fan. The bright lights of the
day turned into a moonless amavasya
night in front of my eyes.
“Why aren’t you saying anything? Who is
Rudra?”
I did not need to tell anyone who Rudra was!
I only needed to know whether my letter had fallen into Ma’s hands alone or
anyone else’s. If it had fallen into Baba’s hands, then my life was over that
very instant. Today I had at least got some daal
and rice, tomorrow I might not get even that. Softening a little, Ma herself
said that the letter had fallen into Baba’s hands. After learning this, I went
about hiding my lifeless body in isolated places. When everyone was asleep I
got up like one deranged, and wrote a letter to Rudra asking him never to
address me as his wife ever again in his letters. I had to always write to
Rudra in this way, when no one was at home, or when everyone was asleep.
Otherwise anyone could lean over to read what I was writing; anyone at all in
this house had the right to read what I was writing. If I tried to hide, the
eagerness to read became almost irresistible.
Everyday before Baba left, Yasmin and I had
to ask for our rickshaw fare to school and college. Baba counted out the money
and gave it to us. The next morning came. I could clearly hear Baba having his
bath, the squeaking of his shoes, him eating his breakfast, in fact even the
sound of him swallowing water. But like everyday I did not have the strength to
hold on to my quaking heart and stand before him with my head bent to ask for
the rickshaw fare. My very existence had become one big burden for me. I wished
I could disappear into thin air at the snap of my fingers. I wished I was
invisible! Watching the serial ‘Invisible Man’ on television, I had very often
deeply experienced the need to disappear once in a while. Yasmin had asked for
her fare from Baba without any anxiety. Inactive, I remained confined to my
room, breathless, dumb, suppressing the pressures of my stomach and lower
abdomen, hoping I would not have to face Baba. Before leaving, he stood in the
inner verandah and shouted so that everyone could hear him telling Ma “Her
studies are over. She does not have to go to college anymore. Everything is
stopped. Stop giving her food. No rice is to be given to her!”
Baba left. I waited till
Rudra had stopped addressing me as his wife.
But I could make out my letters were being hijacked. The letters were being
removed not only by Baba, but by Dada as well. Even by Ma. Finally, I had to
seek Dalia’s help. Dalia belonged to
When no more letters from Rudra came home,
the incident was buried under the assumption that some mad poet under some
misplaced passion had one day addressed me as his wife. Thinking the fellow’s
courage had now obviously failed, everyone calmed down. The other reason the
incident got buried was because no one at home could ever imagine that some one
could honestly call me his wife, or that I could truly have become someone’s
wife. Moreover, I was coming home in time from college. There were no
suspicious delays anywhere. Most of the time, my face was buried in Anatomy and
Physiology books. Seeing this, the three pairs of Baba, Ma and Dada’s frowns
had finally gone. Baba diluted his anger in the tap water, because my exams
were approaching. The exam was called First Professional, in short First Proff.
There were three exams to be taken by a medical student. The promotional exam
from 2nd year to the 3rd was known as First Proff., the
one from 3rd year to 4th was called Second Proff., and
from 4th to 5th year, was called Third Proff. The 5th
year exam was the Finals. After the Finals, one became a Doctor. There was a
one-year training period. Then work. During the training period a stipend was
given, not a bad amount. If one worked, the pay too was not bad, but it was a
transferable job, you were transferred according to the whims of the
Government; here there was no question of individual choice. Of course, if you
had connections you could have your say. Connections, meaning people, a
relative in the Ministry, or some one important in the B.M.A. I was not
confident of passing my First Proff. All these years the home tutors had
spoon-fed me. In the medical college there were no home tutors, there was no
such system. There was no one to spoon-feed me. I had to feed myself everything
required. I was not very used to swallowing voluntarily. So anxiety bit at me
like lice in the head. To top everything the language of the texts was English.
There was no Debnath Pandit to say, “Put her in the Bangla medium, instead of
in the English medium, she cannot cope with the English.” There were no medical
texts in Bangla. There was no way to study except in English. The only saving
grace was that this was not English literature. There was no harm in case you
used wrong grammar or spelling while speaking or writing. But, I had to know
everything from the head to toe of the body, where what was and what their
functions were. In this, there was no forgiveness. While describing all this in
written English or in the spoken words, no one bothered about the grammar. A
thought came to my mind – in
I had to stay awake nights and study, said
Baba, as “the exams were at the tip of my nose.” The tip of my nose which, even
if I stood under the blazing sun, never collected a drop of sweat, my no
nonsense, non-problematic nose, was almost getting flattened with the burden of
the exams. When the exams approached closer, Baba assumed his former image. A
storm of advice was let loose, as he kept saying, “One cannot cope with medical
studies unless one works day and night, all twenty-four hours. Stay up nights
and study; if you feel sleepy, pour mustard oil in your eyes.” The closer the
exams drew, the sleepier I became. Along with my fears my sleep too increased.
Baba would get up very early in the morning, switch off the fan in the room,
and switch on the lights. The heat and the light woke me up. I would have to
leave my bed in an irritable mood. To pour into my eyes at night, Baba bought a
bottle of mustard oil and left it on my table. “What have I to do with this
oil?”
“Whenever you feel sleepy, pour it into your
eyes, sleep will flee in terror!”
Hidden from Baba, I merrily mixed the mustard
oil with ‘muri’, puffed rice and ate
it. By ten I was in the land of dreams, and chatting merrily with the sleep
fairies. Once Baba came in and woke up the entire house with his screams, “Arrey, there are hardly three days left
for her exams, and look at her, she has poured oil contentedly in her nose and
gone to sleep!” Baba possibly thought that instead of pouring the oil in my
eyes, I had by mistake poured it into my nose. Anyway, I did have to pour
mustard oil in my eyes and stay up nights. I had to study Anatomy and
Physiology from the beginning to the end. If I stayed up nights, Baba came and
sat beside me. He kept me company, just in case, fearing ghosts, thieves, and
solitude, I went back under the mosquito net. Ma filled a flask with tea and
kept it on my table. At that time in front of my flattened nose I saw nothing,
except the red eyes of my Professors.
The written exam was over, now for the Viva.
Baba said “We must invite your Haroon Sir once to our house.” Baba’s intentions
were clear – favour. Maybe I would pass my Viva with some influence. Haroon
Ahmed came home with his whole family. Ma cooked the whole day. When educated
people came home, it was not the custom for Ma to come before them. In the
kitchen itself she arranged the food on dishes, and Dada, Yasmin and I carried
them into the drawing room, and placed them on the dining table. Haroon Ahmed
ate and talked, the entire discussion was about poetry. He wrote poetry, and
would be happy if I was able to get his poetry printed. He had in fact brought
piles of poems with him. One glance at them made me gauge that they were after
‘You came into my life’ ending with ‘will lead to some place.’ Haroon Ahmed was
a student of Baba’s. Many of his students had become Professors. Baba was yet
to become a full-Professor, he was still an Associate.
“How do I become one? Busy earning money for
you all, I was never able to take any major exams, after all it wasn’t as if I
was a bad student.” That was true, Baba was a good student. When he started
studying medicine, it had even happened that he did not have the money to buy
his books. Baba then came to an agreement with another student. After
I did not have Baba’s intelligence. In the
Viva, Haroon Ahmed could have asked me difficult questions, but he didn’t
because of our cordial relations. When examiners from other colleges tried to
veer towards difficult questions, Haroon Ahmed would adroitly hint at the
direction in which the correct answer would be or could be expected. Before the
other examiners could touch the bones kept on the table, Haroon Ahmed had
already pushed the femur bone towards me which was an easy one. One had to take
the bone in one’s hand, and name the parts. One had to indicate which muscle
had joined where, which artery was supplying blood to which muscle, from where
were the nerves were coming and how and where were they going, all these kind
of questions had to be answered. I was favoured in my Physiology exam as well.
Not being harassed with answering complicated questions was the way the
daughter of an Associate Professor of this college was favoured. Almost
everyone knew how to answer the questions. Here luck played a big role. Some
were fated to answer complicated questions. Others were lucky to get simple
ones. Difficult or easy questions depended largely on the mindset and moods of
the examiners. When after lunch the examiners, leaning on their chairs, asked
questions over cups of tea, the questions were easy. Anyhow, whether partly
because of my own knowledge or partly through influence, I at least passed my
First Proff..
Chhotda came to Mymensingh with his wife for
holidays. He mostly came on the Id and Puja vacations. There were Pujas all the
year round. Even if he didn’t get leave on every Puja, he would take leave and
come. Geeta came for Id and also for the Puja festivals. In this house the
celebrations were more for the arrival of Chhotda at Aubokash than Id and Puja. Real festivities started at home when
Chhotda arrived. Ma would run to the kitchen, and cook pulao and korma for her
son. She would cook and serve her son and his wife personally, making them sit
before her. Ma would keep a sharp look out on whether they were eating their
fill or not. She would fill Chhotda’s plate with big pieces of meat, so too
Geeta’s. Caressing Chhotda’s head she would say, “I hope you eat properly, son!
You must be working so hard!”
“Oh, no! Ma, what are you saying! I have a
very comfortable job. Very good pay. I’ve just finished my domestic flights,
now I’ll start on my international ones.”
Ma did not understand the difference between
domestic and international. So far up in the sky away from mother earth, how could
life not be tough? If you wanted to eat a particular variety of rice like birui you wouldn’t get it. Not even any
fresh greens or vegetables. Neither could you sleep well, nor walk. If there
was no ground under your feet at all, what kind of a walk would that be?”
“I went to the Arab countries, Ma. I saw the
Kabah Sharif at
That one could go to the Arab countries so
easily was beyond Ma’s comprehension.
“Oof,
it was very hot. Of course, if you had an AC car there would be no problem,”
Chhotda said.
Ma sat and listened to whatever he said about
the Arab countries, completely stunned. That Ma’s ideas about the
Chhotda continued to go around the world, and
sitting around him we, too, got to hear all the stories of his travels.
“The sea is much higher than the city of
“What are you saying? Really? How come the
city doesn’t sink under the water then?”
“Dams have been built. So it doesn’t sink.”
“And
“
“Have you seen the
“Yes, I have.”
“Did you go to the
“Yes.”
“Have you been to
“Yes.”
“Have you seen the
“Yes, I have.”
Chhotda appeared to us as tall as the
“Arrey
no, where’s the time?”
“Nazrul, Russool, Milu, Shafique, have you
met them?”
“Where’s the time!”
“Did you go to Banglar Darpan? Are you going
to meet Manju Bhai and all?”
“I would have gone if I had the time.”
Initially when he came to Mymensingh, his
visits to his friends were endless. He would sit down to adda with them as before. Now it was “no time, no time.” If for any
reason he went close to the Golpukur Par, his old adda friends would see him and call him enthusiastically. They were
still the same; they still indulged in adda,
only Chhotda was missing. Chhotda now sported foreign cigarettes at his lips.
There was a time when he had begged his friends for local Star cigarettes.
“Kire
Kamaal, what is this cigarette called?”
“Cartier.”
“Bah,
bah, Kamaal now smokes filter cigarettes. Give us one, let us also try
these foreign brands,” his friends would say.
The whole of Golpukar Par stared round-eyed
at Chhotda. Chhotda took out cigarettes from a pack and gave them to his
friends. Once he returned home, he washed out the cigarette smell from his
mouth first. He did not smoke in front of Baba and Ma, and he made sure no
proof was evident that he did. Chhotda now wore foreign shoes, new shirts and
pants – all his own. His distance from his bohemian friends was increasing; he
only got closer and closer to Geeta. The beautiful girl Geeta, the dark girl
Geeta, the Geeta who was turning fairer everyday, whose sharp nose was still
pointed, whose thin lips still remained thin, who did not take sugar in her tea
anymore, and carefully removed the fat from meat.
Chhotda brought us a variety of gifts on
Geeta wore fabulous saris. She was covered
with chains of gold ornaments. All her jewellery, Chhotda said was bought from
Ma said, “As long as my son is happy, its
fine.”
After a pause, heaving a deep sigh she said,
“There is something called mother’s pride. If Kamaal had given me the sari with
his own hands, I would have felt happy. But he gives through his wife’s hands.”
Chhotda appeared to be happy. We felt happy
seeing him so. I gave Chhotda and Geeta my bed to sleep on. Late into the night
we played cards noisily on that bed. In the game of Spadetrump, Yasmin and I
were partners and Geeta and Chhotda were together. In the middle of the night
Ma would enter the game and say, “Kamaal Baba,
you did not eat well at night, I’ll bring some meat and rice, eat it up.”
“Are you mad? If you can, give me some tea.”
Ma ran to the kitchen to make the tea, even
so late at night.
I raised my voice, “Ma, a cup for me as
well.”
“For me, too,” said Yasmin.
We sipped our tea, completely immersed in the
enjoyment of playing cards. Ma lying under a torn mosquito net, warding off the
mosquitoes sitting on her body with both hands, would be thinking ‘I must make
paranthas and meat as soon as I wake up tomorrow for breakfast. Kamaal loves
eating parantha and meat.’
***
Just because my exams were over, I kept
harping that I wanted to go to
“When will you return?” she had asked.
“In just a while.” I said so, because if I
didn’t meet Rudra, I would have to return very soon. Meeting him was completely
a matter of chance. I wasn’t sure whether he was in
“A while means how long?”
“Half-an-hour. Maximum one hour.”
“Come back to the office. I will leave early
today.”
Reaching an hour and a half after the
designated time, I found Rudra waiting. Rudra took me around with him. I just
loved roaming around with Rudra in a hooded-rickshaw! I wished time would stand
still. But time did pass. Rudra took me to visit two of his girl friends, and
there chatted with me over tea and biscuits. Instead of an hour, four hours
passed. Geeta’s office had closed, I had to return home. I did not have to face
Geeta, because she remained in her room, lying down, with the door shut. I lay
alone at night. No one called me for dinner, and no one came to talk to me
either. I had stood before Geeta’s closed door twice and called, she had not
opened the door. The next day, too, I had to go out to meet Rudra. When I went
to tell Geeta that I would be going out, she again asked me in a dry tone
“Where are you going?” I said Jhunu khala had called me again. I didn’t like
telling lies, but her guardian-like treatment made my throat dry up, and I was
forced to do so. She asked again, “You just met her yesterday, why again
today!”
“Today my results will be available at the
University Registrar’s building. I will have to go.”
“I can take you there.”
“Jhunu khala knows someone there, who can
arrange for me to see the result.”
“You think I don’t have anyone?”
“She has told me to come so urgently, I will
just have to go. She will be waiting for me.”
“When
will you be back?”
I again replied “I won’t be late. Today I
will be back early.”
Geeta had taken leave that day; she was going
to take me around. So she told me that if I wanted to go, it was okay, but I
had better be back before afternoon. Rudra was waiting for me on the verandah
of the University Library. The minute I reached, he put me in a rickshaw and
took me to his room in his lodgings at Basabo. In the ordinary room there was a
bed. Sitting down I began to look around on my own, at the things in the room,
and at the books. Rudra sat next to me, held me close and kissed me on the
lips. The kiss descended from the lips towards my chest. The weight of his body
made me lie down on the bed, and his lips began to descend below my breast.
Under his body I began to pant. As soon as his hands reached the draw-strings
of my pyjamas, I leapt away. Pushing him away, I jumped off the bed. Fear had
dried up my soul. I said, “I will go now.” My lips felt heavy, I couldn’t
recognise my face in the mirror. My lips were swollen. Rudra continued to lie
on his stomach, saying nothing. He remained like that for a long time. I asked,
hiding my swollen lips, what was wrong, and why he was lying down in this way?
I told him again and again that I was getting late, and that I had to go.
Remaining in that position for some more time, Rudra went into the bathroom.
Spending a lot of time there, he returned saying “I was lying down because my
lower abdomen was paining.”
“Paining? Why?”
Rudra did not reply. My voice was steeped
with concern when I said, “If you don’t eat regularly, you get acidity. You
must eat regularly. You shouldn’t eat too much of chillies. If your stomach is
empty, then the acid secreted gets no food to work on and eats the stomach
instead. This finally causes ulcers. These are called peptic ulcers. If you
take an antacid you will feel better.”
“Enough of your doctoring! Now come along.”
Rudra took me out. He had to go to some
friend’s house.
“Impossible, I have to return to
“Why do you have to go right now?”
“I have to. Boudi was very angry I returned
late yesterday. Today she is taking me out with her.”
An angry Rudra dropped me back at
Rudra wrote, “That you had no option is
your own fault. Why don’t you have an option? Why do you not give any value to
what you want or don’t want? Why do you repeatedly forget that now you are very
close to someone? Why do you forget that now your life is entwined with another
? Why do you forget you are someone’s wife? Kamaal asked you to stay. You also
had permission from home to stay on for much longer. After this, how can you
expect me to believe that you had no other option but to leave? How do you
expect me to believe that you have done no wrong? Are you still a baby? That
your wishes should be given no importance? Today, even in this small matter of
your staying or not staying, you were unable to establish your will! Suppose
ignoring your unwillingness you are given again in marriage, will you then too
write that you are not to blame! Amazing! Why are you unable to express your
desires? Unable to enforce your wishes? You are obviously not particularly
concerned about my anger or happiness. You made it very clear that afternoon.
Even after coming so close to me, you are still, like a fool worried about who
will win or lose in our relationship. When will you gain some maturity? I have
never wanted to establish my rights as a husband forcefully, I still don’t. And
because I don’t, I have always given you opportunities to realise your own
responsibilities. In how many ways I have tried to make you understand, but you
think by accepting your wifely duties, you will be acknowledging defeat. Why
don’t you just look at another ten married couples? I have never wanted you in
that way. I have wanted you as a completely free being. I have wanted to keep
you above social systems and servility to men. However, that does not mean you
should not shoulder your own responsibilities, does it? We have been married
for eight months, but you are still to overcome your diffidence. You still
adopt illogical obstinacies to spoil normal life. I will never be able to
forget our wedding day all my life.
There are some inherent rules of life, some
systems. You can never deny these. I understand your problem. I understand it
very clearly. In fact, probably, no one understands you better. And because I
do, from the beginning I have tried to accept you in a reasonable manner. What
I understand or know well, I have tried to make you understand as well.
Otherwise after 26th January, our relationship would have been
forced to end. Because I understand your sentiments, I do not disrespect them.
But what if those sentiments disrespect me? That
they should not, would have to be your responsibility. I never thought I would have to ever write about such things. I had
always wished you would understand. And once you had, you would never ever do
anything illogical anymore.
If you had only been my lover, not my wife,
then may be your going away would not have hurt me so much. It would then have
only hurt my feelings, but now it hurts my pride.
Why do you deceive yourself so much? Does one
cheat on one’s own wishes?”
I was very upset on reading Rudra’s letter.
So upset that I wrote, “If you dislike me so much, if my illogical actions hurt
your pride to such an extent, then what are you hesitating about? There is no
dearth of likeable girls! Surely they do not live with my kind of crass
sentiments. Or spoil normal life with illogical obstinacies. They surely do not
deny the inherent customs and rules of life. Or, like fools, think of winning
or losing. They will beautifully assume their wifely duties, and much before
eight months of marriage will have lost their diffidence. Choose one of these.
I will never have any objections to matters which concern your happiness. From
my childhood I have not been brought up in very happy circumstances. I have
therefore learnt to accept any kind of sorrow without much stress. For your
happiness, when I hear about the event of your having chosen a new life, I will
not be surprised. I never wish to be an obstacle in the path of your happiness.
If you want freedom from this unbearable life, please take it. I have nothing
to say. I will never blame you. My weaknesses will remain my own. My loneliness
will remain mine. How long is life! Very soon it will end, suddenly one day I
will die. In all this time I have realized that I do not have the power to
satisfy any man. I really do not have the capacity of making a happy married
life. I am a totally unreasonable person. Please forgive me. I never dreamt I
would someday write such a letter to you. But like a fool, I had hoped for
happiness in life, and had seen rosy dreams. Reality has made me understand
that the boundaries of life are not so vast. In fact one almost became
breathless trying to achieve something, and had to lose much more in the
bargain. Yet, ignorant me, I had not wanted to lose but to gain. That is why I
have now lost myself. That is why even before I have completed a year of marriage,
I am writing such a painful letter. Forgive me for my weaknesses. I will never
forget your generosity.’
On receiving my letter, Rudra replied, ‘With
all your weaknesses you will remain with me forever. Over almost three years I
have worked very hard to bring discipline back to my life, and that, you cannot
destroy. My discipline and steadiness is now in you. Enough is enough; you have
done enough – now all this madness will not do. ‘I do not want to be an
obstacle in the path of your happiness’, repeat this phrase to yourself a
hundred times over, you will not say this to me a second time. The entire
responsibility of your life is now mine. You do not have to think anymore of
its welfare. Why do you forget this fact? And please do not hurt me for your
own fancies ever again. I am not very well, and this being unwell is because of
you.” A short letter, but a pure joy surrounded me the whole day. I understood,
very clearly I understood, that I loved Rudra. When Rudra was kissing me in his
Basabo room, he had possibly wanted to do something else. The fear of that
something else shook me to my very roots. I was unable to make Rudra understand
anything of all this.
Happy Wedding
Sheila came to Mymensingh for a visit from
Chattagram, with her daughter Bini. On getting the news of Sheila’s arrival,
Dada became agitated. Sheila had put up at her friend Neelam’s house. Selling
their town house at Kachijhuli, Sheila’s mother, brother and sister, had gone
to their village home in Gaffargaon. On her way to Gaffargaon, Sheila had
stopped at Mymensingh. She was able to meet Neelam and see the town of her
birth. But in doing so she encountered Dada. Sheila had wanted this meeting and
so it happened. It was a stunning face-to-face confrontation. A meeting where,
out of a hundred thoughts accumulated in the heart, not even one got utterance.
It was a meeting where the eyes did not blink, and yet to hide the tears
gathering in them, they glanced left and right in embarrassment. Dada invited
Sheila home. He himself shopped for rahu
fish, koi fish, prawns and cheetal fish. In case Sheila did not
like to eat fish, he also bought goat meat, chicken and even pigeon meat. Ma
spent the whole day cooking all this. Towards dusk, Sheila arrived at Aubokash with Bini. Sheila looked just
the same. She still had her paan-leaf shaped face, the same eyes and the smile
in those eyes. She had only developed some freckles on her cheeks. Sheila
smiled and spoke to everyone. Patting her on the head Ma said, “Are you well, Sheila?
Aha, I am seeing you after so long.
What a pretty little daughter you have!” Sitting down for the meal, Sheila kept
saying, “What was the need for so much!” Serving Sheila with fish and meat, Ma
said “Noman wished to buy all this; you must eat.” After the meal, sending Bini to play in the
verandah, she sat in Dada’s room and told him all about her intolerable life.
Wiping his own tears with the palm of his hand, Dada wiped Sheila’s as well.
After Sheila left, Dada lay on the bed sorrowing, his eyes staring out of the
window. The breeze from outside dried his wet eyes. On Dada’s cheeks there were
no freckle marks, only marks of dried-up tears. After spending many days in
this sad mood, he finally announced that no one was to look for a bride for him.
He had taken the decision not to marry. Everyone was dumbstruck. After a week
he informed the dumbstruck family, that if he got married it would be to
Sheila. He would marry Sheila! People were even more stunned. How could Dada
possibly marry the already married and mother of a child, Sheila! Sheila was
going to leave her husband soon. After which he would marry her and bring her
home. So what if Bini was there, she was Sheila’s daughter after all. Dada
continued to write long letters to Sheila. He left the letters with Neelam.
Neelam put the letters in her own envelopes and sent them by post to
Chattagram. One day, very early in the morning, Neelam came home, Dada had not
slept the whole night, and was ready and dressed even before Neelam arrived.
Both were going to Sheila’s at Chattagram. No one had the courage to restrain
Dada from this path. In a distracted state, Dada left for Chattagram with
Neelam.
After spending a week in Chattagram, Dada
returned. This was a completely new Dada. He no more sat in front of open
windows in a melancholy mood. In fact, his desire to marry anyone but Sheila
increased beyond all measure. He never told anyone at home what exactly
happened in Chattagram. Not only that, he did not utter the name Sheila, and
carried on as though there was no one and nothing in this world called Sheila.
If anyone wanted to know, he would show them photographs of himself taken
sitting on rocks at the Potenga seaport, saying “Chattagram is not a bad place,
quite nice actually.”
Dada’s friends were not only married, they
had children, too. In fact, even Adubhai Farhad, who had to pass Engineering
before marriage could be mentioned, too, had fulfilled the stipulation and was
married. Dada had nothing more to pass. He had been working for years, and his
friends were convinced that if he did not marry now, then he would never be
able to do so for the rest of his life. Dada had seen girls every week, but
there was a problem, the same problem with everyone, he didn’t like anyone. The
new head of Fisons Company, Fazlul Karim was four years younger than Dada. New
to the city, before he had even got acquainted with the customs and traditions
of the new place he had got married. His wife was a classmate of Yasmin. After
seeing Fazlul Karim’s bride, Dada returned and told Yasmin in a rebuking tone,
“You never told me that there was such a beautiful girl in your class!”
“There are girls, but why will girls in my
class marry an old man like you!”
“There is nothing wrong in being a few years
younger.”
Dada unbuttoned his shirt and just sat on the
sofa. He had even lost the capacity required to carry his body to his room and
change into a lungi.
“The girls in Yasmin’s class are fifteen
years younger than you Dada,” I told him.
“Then look for a girl in your class!”
“A medical student?”
“No, I can’t marry a medical student.”
“Why not?”
“The girl will become a doctor in a few
years. She will not be submissive.”
“Why do you want someone submissive?”
“Arrey,
don’t I have to dominate her? It won’t do if my wife doesn’t obey me.”
“O, you of course have to call Doctors,
‘Sir.’ Anyway, medical students don’t marry representatives of medicine
companies, so forget that dream.”
“Medical is in any case out. Beautiful girls
do not study medicine.”
For Dada, a girl was required who would obey
all his commands and restrictions. She should not be an MA, because Dada wasn’t
one. A girl more educated than Dada would be problematic. Dada asked me about
my old friends in school or in
“Wasn’t any one beautiful?”
I said, “Mamata was there, but she is already
married.”
“There was another Mamata in your school, she
stayed in Baghmara. A good student, very beautiful.”
“She too is married.”
“That’s the trouble. Beautiful girls get
married while in school itself. Those who passed IA, BA, and are still
unmarried, you will see, are the world’s ugliest to look at. Either their teeth
are protruding, or their lips. Something or the other is protruding.”
Ma said, “Noman you have seen so many good
girls, and yet you didn’t like any of them, heaven only knows finally what you
are fated to end up with.”
At the mention of fate, Dada’s enthusiasm
returned a little. Changing out of his shirt and pant into a lungi, he sat in
the verandah scratching himself. “If Allah so wills, that I don’t get a
beautiful girl, I will not marry. It is better to stay unmarried than to marry
an ugly girl.”
“I went and saw Seboni. What a pretty girl!
And you didn’t like her. The girl was very religious, namazi, and practiced
purdah. She was aware of customs and manners, and was BA pass.”
“Too religious, namazi, is not very good,
Ma,” Dada replied laughingly.
“It is good he didn’t marry that Seboni. I’m
fed up with Ma’s burkha. There would be no end of trouble with two burkhawalis
in the same house,” I commented sharply.
Ma scolded, “Speak with care, Nasreen.”
Ma’s rebuke did not reach my ears. That was
because I was reflecting on the faces of the girls who studied with me in
Muminunissa, to see which one was beautiful. I murmured, “A beautiful girl
studied in the arts section in Muminunissa college. She was a friend of
Nafisa.”
“Who’s Nafisa?”
“Nafisa studied with me even at Adarsh, and
at Muminunissa.”
“That Nafisa! Oof a fat lump! Your friends
are all of a kind! As it is you made a friend of Chandana Chakma, blunt-nosed
Chakma. When I see your choice … I don’t know what to say.”
Nafisa was known to Dada. She had come to our
house. Her elder brother had studied with Dada in the same college and class at
sometime. Now a solemn man, he worked somewhere in
“Nafisa has joined Medical.”
“Well, who’s the beautiful girl?”
“Her name is Haseena. She studied Arts, at
Muminunissa. I haven’t talked to her much. She was a good friend of Nafisa.”
Dada decided he would see this girl.
I got a photo of Haseena from Nafisa, and
showed it to Dada. Dada said he would go to see this girl. Bas, arrangements were made to see the girl. Dada returned from
seeing her and said, “She’ll do.”
“What do you mean by ‘she’ll do’? Will you
marry her?”
“She’s nothing much to look at, but I can marry
her.”
To hear Dada saying “I can marry” surprised
us, but also filled us with joy. For years we had suffered along with Dada and
his procrastination, if not like the burdened father of the bride, but
definitely like the burdened relatives of the groom. On hearing about Dada’s
choice, Baba asked, “What does the bride’s father do? To what status does the
household belong? What do the brothers do? Without knowing all this how can you
jump into a marriage?”
Haseena stayed at her sister’s house while
she was studying. Her brother-in-law was the
Dada remained adamant, saying, “Let what is
in my fate happen!” He was going to marry only this girl. Ma would tell Baba day
and night. “You better agree. If Noman does not get married now, maybe he never
will in life.” After immense persuasion when Baba’s ‘No’ changed slightly to a
mild acceptance, Dada sat down to fix the wedding date. The wedding was to take
place on the 4th of December. He ran around shopping. He bought
whatever was needed to complete the decorations. For me he bought a yellow
sari, for Yasmin a blue one and for Geeta a green coloured Kataan sari, to wear for the wedding. For the Halud, turmeric paste ceremony, he bought us all yellow saris with
red borders. From the decorations on the winnowing tray made of bamboo strips,
used for the wedding rituals, to the saris, clothes cosmetics for the bride,
not just saris for the bride but for her mother, maternal and paternal
grandmothers etc., everything was bought. Of course, Baba was paying for
everything. All the expenses of the marriage ceremony had to be borne by Baba,
because he was the father of the groom. All the fancy purchases were from
Dada’s pocket. Wanting to make the world’s most beautiful invitation card for
the wedding reception, he got an artist to design a red velvet cloth card, with
not a letter but a poem written on it. The velvet cloth was to be placed in a
long, red, beautifully decorated and carved box. On both ends of the scroll
there were to be silver sticks with bells. The invitation poem also read like a
royal decree read in the courts of Kings and Badshahs. From Dada’s head emerged
many more crafts. He had decorated his room like a King’s palace. He had
already asked the best artist in town to decorate the wedding bedstead. The bed
was to be decorated with thousands of roses and chrysanthemums. A red carpet
was to be laid from the black gate right up to the room. Taking a hefty amount
from Baba, Dada had personally gone to
On the day of the Halud ceremony, we, that is Jhunu khala, Yasmin, Chhotda, Geeta and
I went to the Arjunkhila village in Phulpur, and applied turmeric paste on
Haseena’s body. We decorated the already decorated winnowing tray with a yellow
sari for Haseena, and seven colours to apply on her face. Following the tray
were thirty-two kinds of sweet packets. The next day was Dada’s Halud ceremony. Dada sat on a mat in the
verandah. The relatives applied the paste to his face. Four people had to hold
the corners of the mat and spread it out. As one of the four, just as I was
enthusiastically holding one corner of the mat, Jhunu khala came running and
snatched the corner from my hands saying, “You can’t hold it.”
“Why not?”
“There’s a reason. I’ll tell you later.”
Leaving the mat, I went and sat gloomily in
my room. Why couldn’t I hold the mat, was a question that would not leaving my
mind. Jhunu khala later said, “You are having your menses that’s why.”
“Who said I’m having them? I am not.”
“O, I thought you were.”
“What if I were? Suppose I was having them!”
“The body is not clean and pure during that
period. During a wedding ceremony, one must be very pure and clean before
touching anything. During an auspicious event, inauspicious things are to be
kept far away.”
“O, so that’s it!”
I called Ma and said, “Ma, is it true that if
you have your menses, you can’t touch the Halud
ceremony mat?”
Ma said, “It is best not to touch it with an
impure body.”
“Why? What happens if you do touch it?”
Ma did not answer the question; she was too
busy. Jhunu khala said, “Something evil and unlucky happens.” I had wanted to know
what kind of evil, but had got no reply. The house at the back belonged to
Jeebon During her wedding, I had seen Jeebon’s mother keeping paan and
betelnuts under the mat. I had never understood why. I had watched the entire
wedding ceremony of Jeebon. A mirror had been placed before the groom and he
had been asked what he could see. In the mirror was Jeebon’s beautiful face. No
words emerged from the groom’s mouth. Someone told him to say “Moon face.” It
seems this was the normal ritual. I found all these rituals strange. I had gone
to Dolly Pal’s sister’s wedding. There, around the fire, four banana trees had
been planted. The bride and groom had to go around these seven times. On a fast
the whole day, the tired girl was now going round and round. On Jeebon’s Halud ceremony day people played with
colours. As soon as it started, I had run away and come home. All the running
around and boisterousness affected my nerves. The same thing happened at
Mahbooba’s sister’s Halud ceremony.
There, a friend of the groom tried to put colour on me. I had leapt aside, and
run out of the house. I kept thinking the main purpose of putting colour on
someone was to touch their body. Mahbooba was shocked to see me leaving. I
moved around with circumspection, I was rather scared of running, jumping and
catching activities.
On Dada’s Halud
ceremony, all the girls at home wore yellow saris. Whoever came home, also wore
the same. Nani of course didn’t do so. In her usual white sari, she had applied
Halud to Dada’s face, and blessing
him with her hand on his head, had said, ‘I pray for your happiness.’ To Nani,
happiness was a thing of immense value, to Ma as well. Chhotda was far away,
but he was happy, and hence Ma was able to console her own sorrow at not having
him close to her. The house was filled with Halud;
Halud on the saris, sweets, in the
festivities. Everyone from Nanibari came, everyone applied Halud on Dada’s body. People from Haseena’s house too came and put Halud on his cheeks and forehead. Dada
was looking rather helpless. Haseena’s relatives had a hearty meal of pulao and
meat and left. If they hadn’t been from his in-law’s family, Dada would surely
have cursed the village folk as being very uncouth.
Then began the wedding festivities. In front
of the black gate a beautiful entrance arch had been made with trees, leaves
and flowers. Borrowing Baba’s friend’s car, Baba, we youngsters and Dada’s
friends went to Arjunkhila. Even a brazen person like Dada, covered his face
with a handkerchief and sat with a groom’s crown on his head, a white sherwani
on his body, white pyjamas, and white Nagra, footwear. Sitting outside under a
tent, he said ‘Qubool’, accepting his
bride in front of the Kazi. Haseena, inside the room, said the same to the
Kazi, ‘Qubool’. It was of course not
seemly for girls, when asked whether they agreed to marry such and such man,
son of such and such, for a sum of so many mohurs,
to immediately say ‘Qubool’. They
were supposed to cry and shed a few tears first. When they were tired with
weeping, and had been pushed by their mother and aunts, they had to finally
utter the word. Haseena did not take very much time to say ‘Qubool’. Haseena’s verbal acceptance
signaled the completion of the wedding ceremony. Now it was time to take leave.
Haseena’s mother handed over her daughter to Baba. I was watching all the
rituals in astonishment. I had never before seen these wedding rituals at such
close quarters. In a flower-bedecked car, Dada took his seat with his bride and
on their either side were Yasmin and me. In the car behind, sat the rest of the
groom’s party. Dada had already drawn out the blueprints of everything.
According to the blueprint, we jumped out of the car and entered the house in
order to liven up the function celebrating the entry of the bride and groom
into the house. We had to shower flower petals from the trays on to the bridal
couple. I stood at the edge of the red carpet, tray in hand, showering petals
on the bridal couple. Baba was meanwhile looking for someone to officially
welcome the bride. Ma was standing at the open door to perform the ritual. She
had waited at home the whole day, for this very moment. Next to Ma were
standing the wives of Baba’s friends. Pushing her away from the door with his
elbows, Baba told her, “You move away, far away. Go on, move!” Baba then smiled
meltingly at M.A. Kahhar’s younger brother Abdul Momin’s wife, and said,
“Bhabi, sister-in-law, please come, please welcome my son and his bride.” Ma
remained in the background, the rich Abdul Momin’s heavily ornamented-in-gold
wife, stood at the entrance door and garlanded Dada and his red sari-covered,
bent headed bride Haseena, welcoming them home. Jhunu khala stared in surprise
and said, “Amazing, the mother did not welcome her son and his wife into the
house! They were welcomed by someone else!” Jhunu khala disappeared from sight.
Wearing the kataan sari bought by
Dada, pushed behind the crowd of people at the function to welcome the bridal
couple home, Ma stood murmuring her prayers to bless Dada and Dada’s wife with
a happy married life.
In Dada’s decorated room, the bed was strewn
with red rose petals, and on it was seated the bride in a red Benarsi sari.
Dada paced from one room to another. Dada looked like the Dada of yore, but I
thought he isn’t the old Dada; he is now a married Dada. On Dada’s lips there
was now constantly a trembling, embarrassed smile. He sat swinging his legs on
the sofa at night, when Baba in his usual manner said, “It is late; now go and
sleep.” Dada was going to sleep in his room. Till even last night he had slept
alone. Today there was someone else in his bed, someone whom he did not know,
did not love. I kept wondering what the two would talk about! Two complete
strangers! Purposely I eaves-dropped outside Dada’s door, to hear what was going
on inside! Wondering, if Dada found some fault in his bride that very night, he
would immediately come and sit on the sofa on that night itself. My curiosity
troubled me so much I was unable to sleep till late at night.
In the morning, Dada came out first and
behind him emerged Haseena. Dada looked shy, behind him Haseena laughed
shamelessly. Everyone’s eyes were focused on their faces.
Chhotda asked, his eyes dancing, “Ki Boudi, did you take off your
nose-ring at night?”
Haseena replied in her hoarse voice, “Nothing
happened actually.”
I asked, “Why do you have to take off your
nose-ring?”
Haseena poked me in the back and said, “You
have to take it off on your wedding night.”
“Why do you have to?”
“Don’t you know?”
“No, I don’t!”
“When those things happen, it means you’ve
taken off your nose-ring.”
“What are those things?”
Haseena laughed loudly.
I began to feel very stupid. Haseena very
easily became familiar with everyone. Even though Chhotda was much older, she
had merrily started calling him by his name. Even Geeta. Without any hesitation
she was addressing others as tumi. It
seems, because she was the elder Bou,
bride, so she had to treat everyone younger than Dada as younger to her. I
watched Haseena in astonishment. It didn’t seem to me that the girl I had seen
studying at
Anu’s Ma, the new maid, came to mop the
floors with a bucket of water. I told her “Have you seen the new bride?”
“The bride has no flesh on her bones.”
That was true. Haseena’s body lacked any kind
of fat, just like mine.
“And she did not even have a bath, or change
her clothes in the morning.”
“Why, who has a bath with cold water on a
winter morning!”
“Yes. As soon as you wake up from sleep in
the morning, you should have a bath, wash your clothes, and then enter your
room.”
“Why, can’t we have a bath in the afternoon?
And can’t we choose not to wash our clothes?”
Anu’s Ma shook her head vigorously, and said
with conviction, “No.”
Curiosity was eating me up. I told Haseena,
“It seems you must have a bath, and soak your clothes.”
Haseena said, “You have to if those things
happen.”
“What are those things?”
Haseena again laughed loudly. Once more I did
not get to know what ‘those things’ were.
Although Haseena had studied at
The ‘Bou-bhaat’
ceremony was to take place two days later. Since morning Dada was playing
Bismillah Khan’s shehnai on the cassette recorder. As soon as one side
finished, he immediately came to flip the side, the shehnai played the whole
day. Handsome Dada was wearing an expensive suit and imported shoes, made in
After a month, Haseena came to me with a
personal problem. The problem could not be told to anyone but me. What was the
problem? This doctor-to-be lent her ears.
“I used to get something soon after the
wedding, during sexual intercourse, I don’t get it anymore.”
My ears turned red at the sound of the word
‘intercourse’. Struggling to the best of my ability to bring back my ears to a
nutty brown colour, I said “What did you get?”
“A sense of fulfillment.”
“You got it before, so why don’t you get it
now?”
“That is what I want to know, why don’t I?”
“When there is intercourse, from behind the
male organ, meaning the testes the coiled tube epididimis releases the sperm,
which through the ‘vas difference’
travels over the bladder, and into the seminal vessicle gland behind it. In
this gland it mixes with the seminal fluid and forms semen, the sperm then
passes through the urethra.”
Taking a pen, I drew a picture on white paper
showing the passage of the sperm in order to make Haseena understand. This is
the testes, this is the seminal vessicle, vas
difference, this is the urinary bladder, this the prostrate, then an arrow
mark to point in the direction of the urethra.
Haseena’s hoarse voice heated up, “I
understand all that, but I am talking of fulfillment, why don’t I get it!”
The pen in my hand moved shiftily, once at my
cheek, then chin, once on my hair.
“Is there ejaculation?”
Sitting with her legs hanging from the bed,
swinging them back and forth, she tried to reduce her harsh voice to a whisper,
and couldn’t. Any sound coming out of her mouth was like the beat of a drum. So
that no one could enter the room unexpectedly and hear this secret
conversation, and so that less sound would be heard outside, I bolted the door from
the inside.
“What is ejaculation?”
“Semen secretion.”
“What’s semen?”
“What are you saying? You don’t know what is
semen? The secretion from the male organ is called semen.”
“Yes, that happens.”
“Then I don’t see any difficulty.”
Haseena sighed in disappointment and left the
room. Searching in my medical books, I tried to find an answer to Haseena’s
question. After reading up everything I could find on sexual relations, I
called her the next day to tender free medical advice. Haseena came running to pick
up the advice. Sweeping aside all my shame, as though I was not Dada’s sister,
or Haseena’s sister-in-law, only a doctor, I asked her, “Accha, does your husband get an erection?”
“Yes, he does. Why shouldn’t he!”
“Do you have vaginal secretions?”
“What does that mean?”
“It means does anything flow out of your
vagina?”
“Yes, that happens.”
”Is there premature ejaculation? Meaning does
the semen come out soon after erection?”
“No, no. Nothing like that happens. He takes
a lot of time. In fact, more than earlier. But I don’t get satisfaction.”
“Do you have dysperinia?” Meaning do you have
pain during copulation?”
“No.”
“Do you have vaginismus? This can be due to
too much muscle spasms. Or else hypothyroidism can cause sexual dysfunction.”
“I don’t know about that; everything is the
same as before. It is only in these two last weeks that this problem has
happened.”
“Listen, there is something called a
hypothalamus, it is to be found between the brain and the lower part of the
third ventricle. This hypothalamus is connected to the pituitary gland. Forget
it, I will tell you in short. The gonadotropin releasing hormone comes from the
hypothalamus and stimulates the pituitary gland into secreting the liutinising
hormone and follicle stimulating hormone. The liutinising hormone also
stimulates the ledig cell of the testes, and releases testosterone. On the
other side, the follicle stimulating hormone stimulates the seminiferous
tibiulus cell. This way sperm is developed. In the functioning of all these, if
there is any abnormality, then sexual dysfunction will happen.”
“There is no dysfunction. All functions are
fine.”
“If that is so, where’s the problem?”
“I am getting the right feelings during sex.
But at one point, there is a feeling of fulfillment, that I don’t get.”
“What is the difference?”
“I get pleasure during sex. But at that time
it is something else. Having sex and getting that is not the same.”
“Doesn’t your partner get it either, this
fulfillment you are talking about?”
“Arrey,
of course, he does.”
“If he gets it, why can’t you?”
“His getting it is not the same as my getting
it.”
“Why shouldn’t it be the same? The whole
thing is mutual.”
“I’m telling you, it isn’t the same.”
“This doesn’t make sense, why shouldn’t it be
the same? Erection is happening and your vaginal secretions are normal. That
means the hormonal activities are okay. There is no premature ejaculation. Then
I can’t see any problem.”
“There is a problem. Somewhere there has to
be one. Otherwise why am I not getting that fulfillment?”
It was not possible for me to search again in
my books and find anything new.
Giving up hope, Haseena said, “Take me to a
Gynaecologist.”
I took Haseena to my Gynaecology Professor’s
personal chambers at Chorpara, where he saw patients. She spoke to the doctor, Anwarul
Azim, on her own for a long time. She emerged with the smile of one who had
found the solution to her problem.
I asked, “What did the doctor say?”
Haseena laughed, her toothy smile spread all
across her face. Immersing herself into a pond of secrecy, she said, “You won’t
understand.”
Post Mortem Report
My third year
classes had commenced. The subjects this year were not very tough. Pharmacology
and Jurisprudence. Of course, side by side classes for surgery, medicine and
gynaecology were also being held. Not just classes, but hands-on training by
touching, pressing and fiddling. We had to study the outpatients as well. Eyes,
ears, nose, teeth, sexual organs, skin and all other departments had to be not
just peeped into but investigated thoroughly. Theoretical knowledge alone would
gain us nothing. Practical knowledge was the main thing. The medical college
laboratory was the hospital. The specimens in this laboratory were human, not
dead bodies in the morgue, but living beings. People like you and me. People
lying on beds in a row, if no bed was available lying on the floor, groaning
people, in terrible pain, whimpering, screaming, listless people. People with
saline drips attached to their hands and feet, with oxygen pipes in their mouths,
their heads raised on the beds, people lying lifeless on beds. Going near these
people, we had to ask what kind of pain was it, exactly where did it start
from, when did it start, where and when did it stop, whether this kind of pain
had ever occurred before, was there pain anywhere else, did any family member
have the same problem, whether they had had the problem ever before etc. etc.
After noting down all these details, I had to examine with the naked eye the
area of discomfort, I had to touch the spot. There was a method in touching as
well. I had to press the tips of all my fingers and cross from one side to the
other, to feel the nature of the part of the body in discomfort. Was it like a
round potato, or like a melon in shape? I had to note whether it was moving or
was it as still as heavy stone. While pressing with my hands my one eye had to
be directed towards the stomach, the other at the patient’s eye. I had to note
whether the patient was crinkling his eyes in pain, to find out what had caused
this round potato, or melon to grow, I had to check the entire abdomen, to see
whether every organ in it was in its correct place. Pressed on the right side
was the liver, and on both sides were the two kidneys. After this I had to
place my left hand on top of the stomach and with my right hand tap the hand
all over the area to hear what kind of sounds were emerging. Were the sounds of
water, or did it seem as though the knocking was on wood or stone? Next, I had
to take out my stethoscope and listen to what sounds could be heard in the
stomach. If a “bhurut-bhurut” sound came from the intestines, it meant the
intestines were doing their work. If there was no sound, it meant that
something was blocking the movement. If that was so, then was the sickness called
intestinal obstruction? Was the round potato like lump, the intestines all
coiled up? If not were some germs collected together forming the lump, or were
they worms? One could not just do this much and leave a question mark on the
diagnosis. The patient had to be examined from head to toe. Were all the nerves
okay, were all the organs and systems working; the heart, lungs were they all
functioning properly? Even if a patient came with pain in a finger, you still
had to examine him from head to toe. On the very first day at surgery class in
the outpatients surgical ward, I saw a man lying on the bed with his lungi
open. The outpatient department doctor was to give us a lecture on the diseases
of the lower parts of the body. The name of the disease was Hydrocil. In the
sac below the male sexual organ, water had collected and caused it to bloat up
like a pumpkin. The doctor’s orders were to study the bloated organ. My eyes
kept turning away from the pumpkin. Possibly because my eyes kept turning away,
the doctor chose me to hold the organ in my hands and examine it. His question
was to check its consistency. If I went forward one step, I retracted two. “You
have no option Charlie Ghulam Hossain!” You have to touch the thing. With both
hands I had to press the organ and see whether the sac was soft or appeared to
be hard. After this, I placed my hand on top and tapped it with the other.
Hearing the ‘tupush-tupush’ sounds I said there was water inside. The man was
about thirty or thirty-five, and was moving his body away, from side to side.
That a girl was handling his private organs must have been a very uncomfortable
experience for him. But the man had to let his body be examined. There was no
shame in front of doctors or doctors-to-be. Outpatients in the skin and sexual
disease departments also had to break out of their shame and tell their secret
stories to us if not to anybody else. The doctor in this department was
teaching us how to get the facts out of the reluctant patients. A patient would
come with a rash on his male organ. The doctor would ask, “Ki, do you have intercourse with outside girls?” The patient would
first say ‘No. Never.’ Whatever intercourse he had was with his wife. It there
was no wife, there was no question of intercourse. When clearly told that there
could be no treatment unless the truth was disclosed, the man would take a lot
of time. He would scratch his head, with neither a smile nor cry hanging from
his lips. Taking a deep breath and forgetting his shame, he would finally
confess that he did have intercourse, meaning he was in the habit of
frequenting brothels. The doctor would say, write that ‘there is a history of
exposure.’ Send the blood for a VDRL. Taking the paper in his hand, the man
would leave. Medicines would be prescribed only after the test reports came in.
Sitting in the sexual disease outpatients department, we had to learn to use
the word ‘intercourse’. These patients we examined at a distance. We were not
to touch them. Anything connected to germs was never to be touched. So that
even the patient’s breath did not touch us, we had to stand at a safe distance
from them. If the doctor felt it necessary to touch the patient, then he wore
gloves. Patients with syphilis and gonorrhea were very repulsive to look at,
big-teethed, with sly foxy-looking eyes. Just looking at them one could tell
that their male organs were a depot of syphilis sores. When men with wives at
home came for treatment, the Doctor told them to bring the wife for treatment
as well. They would promise, but most of the patients never returned with their
wives a second time. They promised and swore they would never go to brothels
ever again in their lives. But the same patients returned again with syphilis
sores. Thinking of the unoffending wives back home, I felt great anger towards
these big-teethed men. Once I even told a doctor, “Can’t these men be sent to
jail? Their wives who are without recourse to treatment must be contracting
neuro-syphilis.” Who would listen to me? A doctor’s job was to treat the patient.
Once in a while, female patients too arrived with syphilis sores. The disease
had come through the husband. The wife was infected of course, but on testing
the blood of the baby-in-her arms, it too was found to be VDRL positive. When I
treated these patients, I loudly gave them a piece of advice as well, “Don’t
stay with that scoundrel of a husband of yours anymore. Your husband is ruining
you; give him talaq.” To what extent these women followed my advice I never
came to know, but I couldn’t stop myself from giving the advice all the same.
The person
heading the Jurisprudence Department was Baba. He took our classes. If there
were classes in the morning, Baba very often went with me to college by
rickshaw. When the roll call was taken, like all other students I, too, said
“Yes, sir.” My Professor father was an excellent teacher. The students
considered Baba to be a very pleasant, simple and straightforward professor.
Some of course said he was very strict. During exams, it was said Baba as an
Internal Examiner was very good. He made sure his college students passed. But
as an External Examiner, it seems Baba did not remain Rajab Ali anymore, he
turned into Tyrant Ali. I liked Professor Rajab Ali more than Baba Rajab Ali.
Baba on the very first day in class said, “There is nothing as shameful as
cutting one’s foot on a rotten snail shell, you know! Failing Forensic Medicine
is equivalent to cutting one’s foot on a snail shell. If you have to cut your
foot, cut it on something which saves your pride. Fail in surgery, fail in
medicine, these are difficult subjects, its okay even if you fail. But if you
have even a tiny measure of grey matter in your head, you don’t fail in
forensic medicine.” If I went to Professor Rajab Ali’s room, he would welcome
me with a smile, he would ring his bell to summon the bearer, and order tea for
me. He would ask what classes I had, which Professor taught what. I too had
many questions about medical studies which I asked. Even at this age, Baba had
not satisfied his hobby of reading books. He kept books with him ranging from
anatomy, to medicine and surgery – all kinds of books, and read them whenever
he got the time. There was no topic in medical knowledge that he couldn’t speak
volumes on, whenever asked. Professor Baba was hardworking, attentive,
courteous, pleasant, modest and meek. I was proud of my Professor father. To
see a post-mortem, students had to go to the Surjakanta Hospital Morgue’s
dissection area. There the undertakers dissected the corpses. Standing next to
them, Baba explained what to look for inside and outside the body, how to test
and find the reasons for death. With hankies pressed to our noses, we looked at
the rotting and swollen carcasses. Baba and the undertaker did not require any
kerchiefs. The undertaker reminded me of Khalilullah. Khalilullah was an
undertaker who cut open corpses and ate the hearts. Once this news spread,
mothers began to replace the fear of ghosts with the fear of Khalilullah to
induce their babies to sleep. When the girls in class said, “Rajab Ali Sir is
so good!” I felt thrilled. I felt delighted when I encountered Baba in the
college grounds, and the two of us exchanged pleasantries. The ferocious tiger
at Aubokash, was transformed into a
gentle, unassuming good soul in college. There was always a smile on his face,
and he continued to disseminate knowledge regarding the ‘rotten snail’. What
else but knowledge! It was a murderous business. What kind of weapons did one
have, how sharp was each one, which da gave what kind of blow, which
bullet caused which wound, which was suicide, which murder, which accident, and
so on. Once, Baba was showing us the postmortem of a twenty-five year old
woman’s body. It had to be decided whether it was a case of suicide or murder.
The undertaker roughly cut open the chest of the 10-15 day old corpse. Baba
leant over that nauseatingly smelly corpse, turned it around on all sides,
tested it and said that it was murder. How was it murder? Very simple. There
was a wound on the head, Baba showed us the scar. No one could deal a blow with
a da at the back of one’s own head;
therefore, this was by no means a suicide. Another girl too, it seems, hung
herself by a rope from a mango tree and committed suicide. Baba noted the nail
scratch marks on the legs and arms, stomach and chest, and said the girl had
been hanged. We had to write all those details in our report on circumstantial
evidence. Gradually my enthusiasm for the rotten snail grew. Baba did not
encourage this eagerness of mine at all. “Study that which will be beneficial
to you, study surgery, medicine or gynaecology.” My thoughts remained with the
two women. Who struck that blow on the head of that twenty-five year old woman?
Who could have hung that innocent village belle? Once in a while, when I entered
Baba’s room, on the door of which was written Head of the Department, I found
young girls sitting inside. Baba would take them one by one behind the curtain
and examine them. Once they left, I would ask why the girls had come, for what
tests, and Baba would reply ‘rape case’. Baba was now much more at ease with me
than before. He now very normally discussed the human body and sexual details
with me in medical terms, of course, under the cover of the English language. I
invariably wanted to know who had raped these girls, but he never gave an
answer. This was because these were “matters related to a law suit, not to
medicine.”
***
Baba very often
appeared as a witness in the law courts. Frequently, strange people came
searching for him at home. “Who are these people?” I would ask. Ma would say,
“Your father appears as witness. So they come about the post-mortem details.”
My eagerness
increased by leaps and bounds. Why should people come to Baba about
post-mortems? I was keen to know what they talked to Baba about, in low tones,
sitting in the verandah room. I noticed various things being delivered at home
by strange people. One afternoon, when Baba was not at home, a lungi-clad man
with a moustache, came and said, “Is Doctor saheb at home?”
“No.”
“Achcha, do keep these four fish from my
pond.” Saying which the strange man handed me four big Rahu fish and left.
Delighted, I
carried the four tiger-sized fish and ran to the kitchen, “Ma, take these, a
man came and gave these fish.”
“Who gave them,
do you know him?”
“No.”
“Why did you
keep them?”
“Bah, he gave them to me.”
“You’ll keep
anything if they are given to you?”
“Why, what’s
wrong? Once in a while Baba’s patients do come and give things.”
“Don’t keep
fish and things anymore. Even if you are begged to do so.”
Ma’s face was
serious. Moving two arms length away from the fish, she said, “It is wrong to
eat such fish.”
“Wrong? Why?”
“These people
come to beseech your father to change his post-mortem report.”
The inside of
my head began to whirl with all kinds of thoughts. “Which party comes? The
guilty or the innocent?”
“I don’t know
that.”
Was Ma hiding
something? Ma was not the kind of person who could keep anything to herself. If
the innocent come and give something out of happiness, there’s no harm in that.
The shoddily
dressed Ma moved sluggishly towards the taps, and said in insinuating tones,
“Both parties come.”
“Does Baba give
dishonest reports?”
“How will I
know that? Do I go to court and see?”
The fish was
finally cooked. Ma did not even touch it. Baba sat down to eat. Taking big
pieces of fish on his plate he asked, “Where did you get the fish?”
Ma said, “A man
came and gave them.”
On hearing
this, Baba coughed and cleared his already clear throat, saying. “The fish
would have been tastier if you had cooked it without the coriander leaves.”
I was still
thinking, did the ‘suicide party’ bribe Baba to omit ‘murder’ and write
‘suicide’ instead? Did Baba take lots of money in bribes? I couldn’t believe,
somehow, that Baba would be so dishonest.
However, the
day Sharaf mama saw the torn sari worn by Ma, he said, “You live just like a
fakir’s wife, Borobu. Yet, on the other hand Dulhabhai, our brother-in-law is earning lots of money. I saw a man
giving him bundles of taka. He does post-mortems after all! He must have
mountains of money by now. Yet, he doesn’t buy you a single sari!”
I said, “You
cannot write untruthful post-mortem reports, Sharaf mama; don’t accuse my
father without cause.”
Disseminating a
wooden laugh, Sharaf mama said, “Doctors pay bribes to get this job. To do
post-mortems means to become a millionaire. People’s life and death hangs at
the tip of a doctor’s pen.”
“Who gives the
money?”
“Both parties
give money. The party that has made the case and the party that is accused in
the case. Dulhabhai has almost bought
over the whole of Nandail.”
A hatred for
Baba began to take birth in me. The man who recited the pronouncements of a
hundred and eight learned men, and was willing to do anything to establish his
children in life, was this man now going to court bribed by both the defense
and the prosecution parties!
I asked Dada,
“Do you know anything?”
Dada replied
stating, “Don’t listen to all this rubbish. Baba does not take bribes.”
“How do you
know he doesn’t take bribes? That day there was a man who delivered fish, that
fish was a bribe.”
“Which fish?
The Rahu fish? Aah, it was very tasty. Actually, the fish would have been even
better roasted.”
Whether or not
Baba took bribes remained a mystery to me. Baba was someone so close to me,
someone with whom I had spent my life in this house, and yet it was this Baba
who appeared to me the most distant. Actually, I never got to know anything
about Baba. Thinking I knew or had got to know, I sometimes made mistakes. When
Baba would draw someone close, when he would push them away, not just me, no
one in the house knew, not even Ma. Ma sometimes wore her sari in pleats,
reddened her lips with betel juice and went before Baba with a sweet smile.
Baba would scold and tell her to move away. It had often happened that Ma would
wash and fold Baba’s clothes on the stand, clean and mop the room the whole
day, open all the closed windows and doors so that fresh air and light could
enter, move Baba’s bed from the corner to near the window, and spread a clean
sheet on it. She would then await Baba’s return, hoping Baba would come, see
and like her arrangements. Baba would come home. On seeing the state of the
room, he would scream and say, “Who has spoilt my room?” He would pull the bed
back to its original place and snap shut all the open windows. He would pull
the sheet off the bed with a yank.
“The way I keep
my room, let it always remain that way.”
Ma would sigh
deeply at his reaction. There was nothing Ma could do which was to Baba’s
liking.
At other times,
Ma in a bad mood would be cursing someone or the other. Baba would call her in
a soft tone “Idun, come here, will you? Come and listen to me.” Idun then was
not in a mood to listen to anyone. Baba would then in an even gentler tone
call, “Idun, Idun.”
Baba would
suddenly return home and find me studying and Yasmin playing in the dust.
Yasmin would be tense and I happily sure, that Baba would come and pat me on
the head. But Baba snarled at me instead, “Just staring like a donkey at your
books won’t do, make sure you understand what you’re studying.” To Yasmin he
said, “Want to eat lychees, Ma? I’ll send some lychees immediately for you.”
This
mystery-shrouded Baba remained distant. I never got to know him or understand
him. Baba’s marriage matter also remained a secret. Ma said, people had told
her Baba had married Razia Begum. But Baba had never brought Razia Begum home
or said that she was his wife. Also, he had never spent a night anywhere but at
home, when he was in Mymensingh. How was I to make out anything!
I had told Ma,
“Ma, you say Baba has married Razia Begum, but Baba never stays at Razia
Begum’s house.”
“He stays in
this house at night, because if your Baba does not stay, the house is robbed.
Every time there has been a robbery in this house, your Baba was not there.
Your father comes home at night to chase away robbers.”
“Then who
chases away thieves at Razia Begum’s house?”
Ma laughed and
said, “Any thief who sees that woman will get scared anyway!”
The more I saw
of Baba’s mystery, the more I wanted to remove the cover from his dark secrets,
which were as dark as his own room. Ma’s every nuance was so familiar and
well-known. Her smallest sorrows, her joys, the smile on her lips, irritations,
and the reasons for them, were so clear that Ma was like a previously read
book, an already written notebook. Ma did not arouse my curiosity, Baba did.
Ma’s love could be had without asking, to get Baba’s one had to put in arduous
effort. And even after doing so, one could not be sure of getting it. It was
like gambling with life. Ma’s overwhelming love went unnoticed, whereas Baba’s
two moments of calling in a soft tone could make one happy for the whole day.
Ma said, “Girls
are a little more attached to their fathers.”
I asked, “Then
do boys feel more attached to their mothers?”
Nowadays, Ma
had no reply to this question.
If Chhotda came
visiting this house with his wife, he either went and lay down in his room with
her, or went out with her. Ma very much wanted to sit with Chhotda and chat,
but Chhotda had no time. After his marriage Dada had no time either.
The subjects
that Baba had asked me to study seriously were taught even at night, in the
hospital. Every evening he took me there and brought me back as well. His
patients were kept waiting in his chambers, but he dropped everything in order
to do this duty. I could detect Baba’s love for me even amidst the mystery
surrounding him. He told me that I was fulfilling his dreams, I alone was
upholding his position and respect. I was the only one making him proud of
being a father. Hearing this, the lump of hatred that had formed in me because
of the bribery suspicion over Baba, slipped out of my heart and fell on to the
dust on the roads. I kept feeling sorry for Baba. I felt sorry because one day
I would have to inform him that without telling anyone, I had married a bearded
fellow, who was shorter than me, a man who had not even qualified an ordinary
MA, a man whose profession was to write poetry, a profession by which the man
did not earn even two hundred taka in a month. I was obviously going to throw
Baba’s reputation, respect and pride into a garbage pile! The more attentive or
dedicated I was to my studies, the roots of Baba’s dreams got that much more
water and fodder, giving rise to a sapling that grew rapidly into a tree. The
more the tree grew, the more I feared I would one day have to uproot this tree
with my own hands and throw it away! Neither Dada nor Chhotda had been able to
make Baba happy. Only I could do so. But what would happen the day I would have
to strike a blow from behind on the head of this happiness! The day I would
have to strangle the neck of this contentment, and hang it up! How was I going
to do this task! I felt angry with myself. The more Baba loved me, the less I
loved myself! If Liver Cirrhosis was being taught in medicine, Baba would speak
about it so wonderfully that sitting in the rickshaw all the way, I learnt much
more by listening to him, than I ever could learn from books or by listening to
the long lectures of my Professors. I began to throw away into the deep
darkness all Baba’s faults, so that no one could see them. I did not call Baba
as ‘Baba’, did not address him as tumi
or apni. Yet I felt that Baba was the
closest to me. This disease of not addressing people was rather unique to me. I
did not address anyone like Nana, Nani, Boro mama, Fajli khala, Runu khala,
Jhunu khala, Hashem mama, Faqrul mama, nobody. I spoke to everyone, but in
abstraction. Very often when one spoke in the abstract, then many things could
not be expressed candidly; it was not possible. I tried desperately to free
myself from this abstraction, but couldn’t. When I grew up, I would think for a
long time why I spoke in the abstract, what was my reason! When I was small,
did they scold me, or slap me, or take me aside and pull my ears, that out of
pride I did not address them in any way? Not having done so for years, had it
now become a habit not to address them at all! Even after wanting to address
them when I grew up, I was unable to do so! When I addressed Ma, Dada, Chhotda,
I addressed them as tumi. Baba had
always been a distant person for me, I had never addressed him. Yet being a
girl who grew up at Nanibari, I addressed Sharaf mama, Felu Mama and Chhutku as
tumi.. The rest who were close, how
come I had never addressed them? Was it because even though they were close,
they appeared distant to me?
As the subjects
Baba had asked me to concentrate on had another year or so to go, I
concentrated on Rudra. Rudra was a forbidden event in my life, a deep, secret,
a private joy. My attraction to Rudra was so strong that as soon as I took a
letter of his in my hands, pleasure rang like bells in my heart, and that whole
day I stayed happy. Rudra’s second book Phire
Chai Swarnagram (I want my Swarnagram back) was published by Muhammed Nurul
Huda’s Drabir Prakashini. Other books too had been published by Drabir. Rudra’s
relations were now very good with Muhammed Nurul Huda. And because of this, he
had left the hall and rented a room in Nurul Huda’s house at Basabo. Earlier he
was at Siddheshwari in a friend’s house; he left that and put up at Fazlul Haq
Hall. From the hall now to this room. Why did he leave the Siddheshwari house?
He had to, because of Kazi Rozi. Kazi Rozi was poet Sikander Abu Jaffer’s wife.
She, it seems troubled Rudra a lot. Maybe that middle-aged Kazi Rozi was keen
on a brilliant young man like Rudra, but why should he have to leave the house?
I was unable to understand the problem.
This book of
Rudra’s was smaller in size than his earlier one. On the cover of the book was
a hand, and below the hand the roots of a tree. Inside the poems were in newsprint.
The book looked poverty stricken, but the poems within would have awoken those
asleep. The copyright was in my name. I was thrilled to see it. Actually there
was no meaning in this copyright matter. In this country any writer could put
the name of a beloved person in the place of copyright. But that did not mean
that the publisher would go and pay the royalties of that book to the person
named in the copyright. Anyway, it gave me great joy. I read Rudra’s poems
aloud at home I wished I could go on stage and recite his poems, so that a
hundred people could hear them. A hundred people could learn the language of
protest. Very often, I was invited to recite at poetry functions in Mymensingh.
I went once in a while and read poems. Rudra had never heard me reading poetry.
I had heard him though, at a function in Mymensingh on the 21st of
February. Rudra recited wonderfully. Many times, after reciting at various
functions, Rudra would say, “I recited the best.” I was happy to hear this.
After the book was published, he was going around reading the manuscript. Just
the way villagers read ancient manuscripts in a sing-song tune, he had written
‘Poems of the Road’, so that they could be read in the same way. Rudra wrote
poems about poor, deprived, oppressed, and persecuted people, poems against the
government, against extortionists. The poems were for the labour class. I was
inspired by Rudra’s perception.
Remember you are walking, alone …
The indices on your hands are like roots, know that they, are actually fingers.
There is music in your bones, know that those are really your marrows.
The impious glow on your skin appears sleek and coppery.
You are walking… remember you have been walking for the past two thousand
years.
Your father was murdered by an Aryan.
Your brother was killed by a Mughal.
An Englishman looted you.
You are walking, alone, you have been walking for the past two thousand years.
To the south of you there is a procession of the dead, to your north the signs
of death.
Behind you there is defeat and disgrace. And before you…?
You are walking, no, not alone, you are part of history
Remember that from a copper inscription your fleet of ships have set sail,
Remember the looms in every home, and the sounds of them working
Accompanying you as you sail downstream to the land of the Mahua,,buttertree.
Remember the concert of narrative songs, remember that beautiful dark woman
At your breast, her eyes lowered, with trembling lips …
You are walking, you have been walking for the past two thousand years …
I read the book
from cover to cover, not just once or twice but repeatedly. Yasmin’s singing
voice was good, and so was her ability to recite. Along with me Yasmin too
recited the poem ‘Harero Gharkhani’,
House of Bones.
‘It is still possible to trust a prostitute.
In the arteries of the politicians runs the sin of opportunism
It is still possible to trust a prostitute
In the blood and nerves of the intelligentsia lies conscious wrong doings.
It is still possible to trust a prostitute.
The young men of this nation are harbouring a poisonous snake in their blood,
Their lives are laid open, upturned on the fields like turtles.
There are no words – no one speaks, there are no
words – no one moves,
There are no words – no one flinches, there are no words – no one
smoulders …
No one speaks, no one moves, no one flinches, no one smoulders.
As though blind, their eyes are shut, as though crippled, their hands are tied,
Loveless, hearts without hatred, a frightening debt
Carried on their shoulders – just gasping out, only empty words reproduced by
rote
They grope in water, groan excessively in sorrow, but do not burn. They shed
blood, lose everything – but won’t they tear the web of conspiracy? Their
hearts burst, their wounds smart – but won’t they tear the web of conspiracy?
In swarms in the forests and jungles come
Gangs of gorillas, their weapons shining in their hands. Their hands dazzle
With anger and revenge. They will take payment in blood, and power
With authority. In the tempestuous fray – even if their lives are lost,
no harm will be done. The resounding thunder arising, will gain for them great
strength and ability.
The day will come, the day will come, the day of equality.
Within me too
was born the dream of achieving equality one day. Rudra had dedicated his first
book to Sheikh Mujibur Rehman, Colonel Taher and Siraj Sikdar. In his poem ‘Harero Gharkhani’ he had written ‘thousand Sirajs die, a thousand Mujibs die,
a thousand Tahers die, only sycophants
stay alive, boot-licking dogs, wood worms live, as live snakes.’ In fact
Mujib, Taher and Sikdar did not belong to one party. Mujib was against Sikdar
who belonged to the party wanting to seize power. He was killed it is said,
through Mujib’s conspiracy. However, one thing became clear – Rudra was against
any kind of death. Lives were being lost as it is, because of storms, flood,
hunger, famine, malnutrition, oppression, wounds, how many more! “Let unadulterated love return to the blood
of the nation, let stern honesty return to the blood of the nation.”
I had not
printed Shenjuti in a long time. It
had not been possible due to the pressures of studies and exams. I again made
efforts to print it. Again adrenaline flowed in the blood. Rudra was writing a
series of poems called Maps of People.
Taking some of these and some of my own, with just both our poems Shenjuti was published. There was no
trace of the old Shenjutis. All the
little magazines, Lord knows, where they had got buried. There were no bits of
news this time, because I had traveled far away from that world. Who was
printing a little magazine where, in which neighbouring area, whose writings
were being published, what was discussed at which poetry function, all this I
now had no idea of. From the Little Magazine movement, medical studies had
pushed me out by the scruff of my neck. After long two years Shenjuti appeared in the spring of the
Bangla year 1388. It did not come out in the shape of a book, but like it used
to, in the long accounts register format. The one reason, Shenjuti was printed this way was that I did not have so much money
at my disposal. This time Dada was not spending any money. The question did not
arise. Having read Rudra’s secret love letters to me, he just could not stand
the name Rudra any more. Of this, he had given proof as well. One day entering
my room, he took my red diary, the one he himself had given me to write poetry
in, and all other poetry notebooks and threw them into the courtyard, to be
muddied by rain. When I tried to protest he had slapped me so hard that my
cheeks remained red for two days. So I had to use my own money. This money had
come from the scholarship I got at medical college because of my good results
in the Intermediate Examination. I did not have to pay any college fees, and
got extra money over and above even that. Whenever I got money, I never told
Baba what I would do with it. The scholarship I had got for my Intermediate
year, I had had to hand over to Baba like an obedient child. This time I wasn’t
going to do it. Now that I had some brains, I told everyone at home about the
scholarship money, except Baba. The minute I got the money, I put Shenjuti into the press. I gave it to
Chhotda’s friend’s press on
Neither the deer in the forest, nor the tiger,
so late at night, alone walks the Chowkidar.
“Hoi, who goes, who goes?” The cold winds of the district return bearing no
reply.
“Who goes?” Who else! The darkness of the tenth lunar night walks alone …
All alone the chowkidar chases himself in the bends of dwelling areas.
He asks himself, who goes? What is your name?
Where do you stay?
Ki, whom will you guard, how much of life will you be able to hold on to
The petty house burglars and those robbers who operate even in the light of
day?
Or those thieves who live in our beings, within the darkness of our physical
selves?
In the shadows of the night, will you find him,
chowkidar will you find this thief
The thief who guards and who in the name of security commits terrible thievery.
By stealing people’s grey matter, flesh, blood, bones, desires of the heart,
Will you get him, who robs the full-moon nights from your life?
The one who steals your illusions of sunny days,
The health of your child, milk and rice, steals the vermilion from your married
sister,
Will you find the thief who removes the human body from your physical self?
Then what are you guarding and why then should you chase the night throughout
the night?
On this dark earth only a few stars twinkle in
the distant constellation,
The crickets chirp, the night breeze carries the smell of rotting, soaking
jute.
Foxes dig up new tombstones and expose half-rotten corpses.
Hoi, who goes, who goes … in the darkness of the earth, only the chowkidar
walks!
Life was
passing in this way — some of it with Rudra, some of it at the hospital, with
my books, patients, and some of it in the bustle at Aubokash and in melancholy. At this time a piece of news shocked me
– President Zia-ur-Rahman had been killed in the Circuit House at Chattagram.
The Commanding Officer of the Chattagram Armed Forces, Major-General Manzoor
had assassinated him. It was a completely fruitless enterprise. Manzoor was
unable to do anything more than just kill Zia. That was because it was not
After this it
didn’t take long for the head of the secret service to expose himself. Another
peaceful coup. Martial law was enforced in the country. Following in the
footsteps of Zia, Ershad’s journey began. One army followed in the footsteps of
the other. Major General Manzoor and his friends were executed by hanging. The
way Zia had formed the National Party, and through a referendum had converted
his unlawful takeover of power into a lawful one, Ershad too did the same.
Ershad too, in the same way formed his own party and entering into politics,
converted his illegal entry into a legal one. The country seemed to be moving
on the back of a queer camel! Even if there was no social equality, did that
mean that the country was not fated to have even a simple people’s democracy? I
felt sorry for my country; my anxieties increased. The political leaders who
switched parties were attracted to whichever party came to power. I could not
think of them as anything but characterless. A belief deepened within me
everyday that it was the weakness of our political leaders that gave the armed
forces the courage to take over the country at gun point.
Thoughts of
politics, poetry and every other thought had to be pushed aside, because I had
to prepare for my exams. As I was a candidate, Baba could not be an examiner
for this paper. He went to another college as examiner. In this college, the
new professor from
A Bride on Paper
Rudra’s letters came regularly at Dalia
Jehan’s address sometimes from Mongla, sometimes from Mithekhali and sometimes
even from
“I cannot make you understand how
unbearable every moment is for me, without you. Without you my days become so
wild and unrestrained, and you just don’t seem to want to understand that. I
know there are a lot of problems. At this moment if I want you close, thousands
of problems will arise. But later too these problems will not give us any rest.
Therefore, if these problems have to be faced some day, then it is necessary to
bring them to the surface and face them straight away. Problems cannot be
solved by playing hide-and-seek. That is why I had wanted to meet Dada. I
wanted to inform him that we have got married but you did not listen. Throwing
my days and nights into unbridled disorder, you are living very happily. This
indifferent happiness of yours strikes me with envy.
Dreams do not gather like clouds in the
sky and come down as rain everyday. Without you days pass, as do nights.
Without your touch this desolate field remains barren… I haven’t seen you for
so long! I haven’t caressed your closed eyes for so long! Your eyes are very
misty, very cloudy and so distant. When will I be able to breach that mist and
touch you! When will I understand the meaning of the cloudiness! I become tired
just waiting. There seems to be no end to the waiting. There is no loving
touch, and days are lifeless! There is no loving touch, nights are cold and
tiring! In this cold darkness when will you come with the heat of the sun?
Today I do not feel good; the whole day my heart swelled with the pain of
loneliness and silence. I cannot explain this suffering in any language. Heavy
as the cloud laden skies, my sufferings are so very cool and silent! Today I do
not feel good. Today my pain is cold and frosty.”
I tried to experience Rudra’s suffering.
But it was not possible for me to fulfill his wishes. Rudra, with his authority
as husband, demanded that I tell people at home that I was married. If I
couldn’t do that myself, I should get someone else to say it. That even this
was not possible, I told him repeatedly. There was no way I could get someone else
to announce that I had got married to a homeless, penniless poet. Rudra was
under the impression that once we told people at home, Baba would get us
married with great pomp and splendour, after which I would go away with Rudra
and set up my own household. Or, Rudra would live in our house and enjoy the
privileges of a son-in-law. If I was thrown out of my house, then I would stay
in the hostel and continue my studies. During holidays, I would go to Rudra in
Rudra came to Mymensingh to meet me. He
did not come on the set day. After waiting endlessly for him in the Press Club
canteen, I returned home disappointed. He could not always make it on the days
promised. However, somehow he always managed to come if not on the said day
then definitely on a day close to that date. Only tea and shingaras were available in the college canteen. Actually because
the canteen was exclusively for college students, initially people looked
askance at Rudra’s presence there, and now they looked with eyes wide open.
Rudra’s friendship with Assad and Anwar was also not viewed favourably. Apart
from Assad and Anwar being known as the bad students of the medical college,
they were also considered as goondas,
rowdies, and anything that went wrong in college was attributed to them. There
were rumours that they drank liquor as well. Seeing Rudra in the college
canteen one day, Assad came to talk. It seems both had studied in the same college,
same class. Bas, that was it. They
got together. The students avoided this terrible two as much as possible. If
they were seen approaching, the students, specially the girls, promptly changed
their paths. However, after the terrible two saw me with Rudra, they began to
pay me a lot of regard. They would come forward on seeing me saying, “Ki, Nasreen, how are you?” I too had to
smile and answer that I was well. Gradually I began to feel that these two held
no terror for me, even if they did for others. Even without Rudra I had sat and
drunk tea with them in the canteen. Maybe Assad’s wrist would be bandaged, or
Anwar’s forehead would be scarred, but I never felt they were bad people. In
fact I felt they were much more sincere and honest than a lot of others. Once
in a while they flexed their muscles and asked, “Let us know if anyone bothers
you, we are ready to break their noses.” Rudra’s sitting and chatting with
Assad and Anwar made the eyes of other students grow even bigger. Eating shingaras with tea in the afternoon did
not really fill our lunch-hungry stomachs. We had to leave at sometime. On the
way to and fro from college I had discovered the Press Club canteen on
“‘You are a busy person. I do not have
the courage to ask you to write everyday.’ By saying this you are actually
asking to free yourself from the compulsion to write everyday! That will not
happen. However busy I may be, I will always have time to write to you. If you
were with me, the time I should give you at night would be more than it takes
to write a letter. However, since you are not close, I can write to you
everyday, and I will. What is late night for you? Is
Rudra kept telling me that the private
room impossible to find in Mymensingh could be found in
Finally the night came. In the drawing
room, Rudra introduced me as his wife to Huda and his wife Shahana. Huda’s
younger daughter stared in amazement at this ‘wife’ which was me. Although it
was not very late, Rudra said it was time to retire. Rudra took me to his room.
Taking off his shirt and pants, and wearing only a lungi, he switched off the
light. He then took me sitting stone-like on a chair, and lay me down on the
bed. I kept telling myself, “You have got married, when you marry, silly girl,
you have to sleep with your husband. You have to! Every girl does it. Shed your
inhibitions. “I tried desperately to overcome my modesty. Light from the lamp
post outside was streaming through the window, I tired to think of it as
moonlight. I loved Rudra, he was my husband. I was going to spend my first
night with my husband. Tonight let me not feel any kind of numbness. Even
though I kept telling myself throughout the day not to feel numb, I was still
unable to call Rudra by name or as tumi
even once in the whole day. Turning my back towards Rudra, I lay in a heap in
one corner, with my legs and hands all curled up. Rudra pulled that curled up
me close to him. Not me, only my body remained lifelessly in Rudra’s embrace.
My two hands remained stiffly crossed over my chest; I was unable to remove
them. Those two hands were pushed away by Rudra with all his physical strength.
I did not want to tremble, but even if I wanted to stop this inner trembling, I
was unable to stem the tremors spreading throughout my body. Rudra kissed me
deeply on my lips. I could feel my lips swelling up, becoming heavy. I didn’t
want to, but I could feel my two hands trying to push Rudra away. With one
hand, Rudra unbuttoned my blouse, and with the other, he held strongly my
pushing hands. Rudra sank his face into the unbuttoned blouse. His wet tongue
licked my two breasts, chewing and sucking them. In my disheveled sari, I
continued to suffer in Rudra’s embrace. Rudra was moving my legs apart with his
own two legs. The more my one leg tried to come close to the other, the more
Rudra used his entire strength against their coming together. Keep your legs in
the way your husband is telling you to keep them, girl, you must, that’s the
system, Rudra knows what he is doing; this is what husbands do, this is what
you have to do, I kept telling myself. I also tried to render powerless with
all my being, the instinctive resistance gathering strength within me, so that
I could keep lying numb. That is what I did. Forcibly closing my eyes, and
covering them with my hands, I pretended as though I was not there, that this
was not my body, as though I was sleeping at home in my room. Whatever was
happening here, this obscene incident that was taking place, did not involve me
at all, nothing was happening to my body or life, this was someone else, this
was someone else, this was someone else’s body, I was thinking. After this,
Rudra climbed up on top of my entire body. Now not just my eyes were closed; my
breath too almost stopped. The two legs of my numb body wanted to join
together. Rudra separated my two legs with his own and with something
additional, created pressure at my crotch. In my breathless state, I tried to
think of the pressure as a natural one created by my husband, but involuntarily
an agonized scream pierced through my thoughts and came out of my throat. Rudra
pressed my mouth shut with his two hands. He pressed my mouth, but the downward
pressure at the other end continued. I was groaning in terrible pain. Upward
pressure, downward pressure, my ability to take any kind of pressure,
disappeared completely. Rudra’s iron body, in spite of loving my body so much,
in spite of giving so many proofs, was unable to enter it. Through the night,
Rudra used every device, every normally tried methodology to enter, but every
time my inability to make him understand my agony, lead to my screams of “Mago” and “Babago” waking the night. Every time Rudra had to press shut my
mouth to stop the screams. But the screams had penetrated even the pressure.
When the frightening night was over, this stricken and fatigued person changed
her sari for a salwar-kameez and said, “I am going.” I wanted to take my
lowered face, lowered eyes, my defeated useless body far away. The night’s
diffidence, shame, fear and distaste gripped me even in the morning. At the
same time, there was guilt. Rudra appeared to be Rudra, not my husband. On the
way to
Returning that morning to
“Jhunu khala does not stay in the Hall
anymore,” said Chhotda. After her marriage, the husband and wife had rented a
room in one of the University’s houses. This Chhotda knew.
“She was there yesterday.”
“She hasn’t given up her room yet, or
what?”
“No.”
“Hmm. Didn’t you go to meet your friend?
Did you meet her?”
“Hmm.”
“What’s her name?”
“Nadira.”
“Nadira? Isn’t she that
“Yes.”
“Didn’t you say one day that she had
taken admission in Jehangirnagar?”
“Yesterday, she had come to meet Asma at
Rokeya Hall. She stayed the night.”
“Which one is Asma? Isn’t she
Hashimuddin’s daughter?”
“Yes.”
“Does she study at
“Yes.”
“Weren’t you supposed to pick up your
certificate?”
“Yes. I will.”
To give my shaking voice a rest I went to
my room without going into details and lay down thinking of the night which had
been like a nightmare. The last night. Rudra said I was being dramatic. Was
that a drama! Hurt pride made we weep silently. My whole body was paining, as
though I had just returned from a tiger’s den. My crotch was in agony whenever
I had to walk. I wasn’t even able to urinate without pain. My breasts felt like
two mounds of stone. The red kiss-marks were throbbing, and tender to the
touch. Ever since I signed the marriage papers, Rudra had been talking of
spending one night together. He did not bite any less even before I signed the
papers. He had always jumped on me to kiss me and touch my breasts, but I had
managed to escape and save myself. Masood’s house had disallowed us,
anticipating a tussle. Because of this ban he showed a lot of anger and offense
with me. Why a night was so invaluable to Rudra was something I had not
understood. I had told him often that all the nights of our life were yet to
come, let’s wait for them. The pain of waiting did result in a kind of
happiness as well. No, Rudra would not wait. There was no joy in waiting, he
said. The more I said let’s love each other, the more Rudra would say let’s go
to bed. Rudra behaved as hungrily as a beggar. He wanted it today. Just now. He
had to have it right now or he couldn’t take it anymore. When he came to
Mymensingh, he went mad wanting a private room. Knowing it was not possible for
me to procure one he still took offense at why I hadn’t found one. Not just
offense, he even showed his anger. He had to spend at least one night with me.
One night had been spent, ultimately, a nightmarish night. I had never thought
of my life in this way. I felt hurt, angry. I had wanted to throw Rudra away.
But I had found my hands did not move to do so, as though I was handicapped. I
had been forced to admit defeat only to this paper, to my signature, because
signing on that paper had meant marriage! But I did love Rudra! I thought. My
thoughts did not leave me in peace for a second.
I also thought of the lie I had told
Chhotda. Chhotda may have thought that after meeting Jhunu khala, since I was
meeting my old school friend after so long, our talk must have extended far
into the night, and that perforce, I had spent the rest of the night in Jhunu
khala’s old room, sleeping. What Chhotda had thought who knows, but he did not
let me out of sight and did not allow me to meet any friends on my own. He took
me personally to the Registrar’s Building and procured the certificate. And
after two days he escorted me back to Mymensingh.
Rudra had said later that I did not have
complete trust in him. I still had doubts in my mind. I was really hurt on
hearing this. I told him it was because I trusted him, because I completely
trusted him that I loved him. The most important thing required in love was
trust. If there was even a thread of doubt in this trust, one could like, but
not love. Rudra had written, “Am I such an unfortunate person, that I have to
appropriate everything by force? I have to pay for everything I take? What
little can be taken by force I have, what little to take is proper, I have. But
what I am entitled to, what I alone should get, even if I never get it, I will
never take it by force, I will not earn it. I
never question trust and love. What I meant by complete trust was something
else, there is no reason for you not to understand that.”
Almost a year and a half after this
episode, Rudra wrote, “Beloved wife, do you know what has happened this time?
Seeing you wearing a sari for the first time, I felt I was seeing you for the
very first time today. As though you were someone else, a completely different
person, a new human being. In the past long years I have liked different things
about you, but this time is different. An entirely unknown kind of joy. I felt
that our love was born only this time. As though all these days were only a
rehearsal. Today we were performing on stage.”
In a year and a half, Rudra had visited
Mymensingh at two or three month intervals. Because I did not address him, in
anger he had written letters without addressing me for quite a few months. Our
time had passed in the Press Club canteen. When we had to leave the canteen, we
had searched for places here and there, where we could talk. As usual finding a
place had proved beyond me. At Rudra’s request I went to meet him wearing a
sari. I didn’t know how to wear a sari very well. Taking help from Yasmin I
wore one of Ma’s saris and left the house saying I was going for a friend’s
birthday. That day Rudra took advantage of some seclusion, and used the
opportunity to kiss me twice or thrice, and touch my breasts. Back home, he had
written that letter.
“You are laughing to yourself, aren’t
you?
Actually, I really felt that finally our
love affair had begun. As though all these days we had merely touched each
other; today we could feel the heat of each other’s bodies. We could understand
the beats of our hearts. Today it feels as though on no occasion earlier had we
felt so satisfied. You are slowly becoming informal, and easier to read. I seem
now to be able to recognize a strange world. All these days, I have been
waiting for you to lose your inhibitions. You will now become more informal and
natural. You will now grow more liberated. No one will have such a beautiful
home of love as we will … you just watch. Now, love me a little please Laxmi,
my good girl. No, no, don’t turn your face away. Look, look at my eyes. What is
there to be so shy about? I am someone you have known for so long. These eyes,
these brows, this forehead, this face and body you have touched so many
times. So, why are you feeling shy? Kiss
me. Come on – kiss me.
Little by little I will control myself.
If, in this way you give me a little love, you will see I will become just what
your heart desires. Or you will become mine. In reality, love must mean making
two hearts one. I feel like standing on the roads and shouting out to everyone,
‘Listen you all, I have found the one I love; we have been able to become one.’
Stay good, my beloved. Stay well, my life. Love, love, love, Your Rudra.”
CHAPTER XVI
Changes
Aubokash had
completely changed. Yasmin had passed her SSC and had secured a first class,
‘distinction’ in Chemistry. Thanks to the ‘distinction’, Yasmin was treated
better at home than I was. Baba dreamt of making her a doctor. Baba had not
objected to her joining Anandamohan either. Yasmin seemed to have suddenly
grown up. She was no more the little child she had been. When we two sisters
went out together, those who didn’t know Yasmin, assumed she was my elder
sister. This was because she looked bigger than me. At whatever age I started
wearing an odhna, though only
outside, Yasmin had to start wearing one much earlier. As the shape of her
chest changed and became awkward, she had like me, begun to walk with a hunch.
After all, this was the price one paid for not wearing an odhna. Boxing her on her hunched back, Ma said “Stand straight. Go
and wear your odhna, at least you can
walk straight. Why are you ashamed to wear an odhna now that you are grown up?” Even though she looked older than
me, when the question arose regarding who was the prettier of the two of us,
the scales were tipped on my side. Yasmin privately suffered because of her
poor looks and physically overdeveloped body. Yet if our eyes were compared,
she would be a deer and I an elephant. Next to her thick black hair, mine was
extremely fine. But Yasmin never stopped grumbling about her small nose, her
small chin and her full lips. Within her a jealousy was born secretly. I did
not feel any jealousy; instead I wanted to keep her away from all the
temptations, mistakes and untruths of the world. I definitely didn’t want
Yasmin to cause Baba the kind of sorrow that I was going to be responsible for.
An imaginary butterfly alighted on my eyes and said Yasmin would study in
medical college, and become a greater doctor than I would be. She would marry
some handsome doctor boy like Habibullah. Maybe this would reduce Baba-Ma’s unhappiness
to some extent. Yasmin’s jealousy pained and distressed me a lot. I noticed she
was moving away from me. That Yasmin who had remained stuck to me, now attached
herself to Dada’s wife. She went to college and the rest of the time she swam
along with Dada’s wife in a spate of humour and mirth. If I tried to find out
about her studies, she looked at me as though I was her worst enemy. Chhotda
was not in Aubokash anymore. I did
not need to hide from Baba for going to cultural functions with him or get Ma
to reluctantly give her permission. Chhotda too had changed from being a
spoilt, uneducated, prematurely married boy who would roam around aimlessly to
some one different. He was no longer the bohemian. He was now given the big piri, a low stool, to sit on. He no
longer kept up with what was happening in town and where, whether a play, dance
or song was being performed. Dada was there, but as good as non-existent. Of
all the people at home, Dada had changed the most. He did not bother himself
with literature or culture anymore. When the topic of Shenjuti came up, he never again offered, “Go, I will get it
printed.” He did not bother about anyone else in the household. He had no more
interest in listening to songs, taking photographs, buying clothes and shoes
for himself, or even applying expensive perfumes. He was now busy buying saris
and jewellery for his wife. Very often he bought a sari and came home, showed
us the sari, we admired it, saying it was very nice, and would suit his wife
very well. Dada was also busy attending invitations for meals at the homes of
his in-laws. Now guests at home were mostly Haseena’s sister, brother-in-law,
brother, sister-in-law etc. He liked more to discuss the merits or otherwise of
the various relatives. Who was nice, who not so, who spoke too much, who
little, who was beautiful to look at, who wasn’t, who had the most wealth, who
was poverty stricken. Haseena’s figure was like a bamboo pole. Ma would cook
tasty dishes everyday and feed her. Almost every evening Haseena went out with
Dada. The rest of the time she spent the afternoon sitting in the verandah, raw
Halud, turmeric, paste applied to her face. She took long baths, ate five or
six times a day, and slept. But still she was a novelty at home, and our
enthusiasm did not wane, especially not Yasmin’s. Yasmin clung to Haseena,
slept next to her a hand cupping Haseena’s breasts like a nursing baby. Seeing
this I moved away in shame and standing at a distance told Haseena, “Don’t you
have any shame?” She replied, “Once you are married, are you left with
any?" Ma too was married, but she never left her breasts uncovered. Geeta
too never did. Geeta, of course, had very small breasts, and had to stuff her
brassieres with cotton wool. Since Haseena neither knew how to wear saris
properly, or dress up nicely before going out, Yasmin made her wear her sari,
something she had learnt to do, having often watched Geeta. She made up
Haseena’s face; this too she had learnt from Geeta. Initially, I called Haseena
by her name. She, however, was not pleased at this and ordered me to call her
Boudi. Yasmin happily called her Boudi. She went with her Boudi and visited
Boudi’s sister’s house, or brother’s house. When Boudi went to buy saris,
Yasmin went with her to help her choose. If she had to buy shoes, Yasmin would
tell Dada to buy the most expensive shoes in the market for her. It was not
possible for me to call a college mate of mine Boudi. After Haseena objected to
being called by her name, what happened to me was that I stopped calling her
even Haseena. “Hey listen, Ayee
Dada’s wife, listen to me,” was the way I made do. Dada disliked the name
“Haseena” a lot. He dropped the Haseena from Haseena Mumtaz, and taking the Mum
from Mumtaz, made Mum into Mumu, and began calling Haseena, Mumu. Dada now
never thought of buying anything for Ma, or for Yasmin and me. When Id came, he
bought the most expensive saris in the market for Haseena. After repeated
requests to buy Ma a sari, he would, possibly just out of a sheer feeling of obligation , the
night before Id, buy her a cheap cotton sari. Ma could detect in this gift, the
lack of love he had for her earlier. We, too, could feel it. That he was not
giving anything to Yasmin and me even out of the sheer propriety of things was
also something we never questioned or complained about. This was because we
thought that this was the system. Now that Dada had a wife, he would give her
everything. Seeing his wife happy, made us happy. If she smiled, Dada smiled,
too. We didn’t pick Dada’s pockets any more. After Chhotda left, Yasmin and I
had, for a long time, taken up the task on our own steam. But now there was a
wife guarding his room. Haseena didn’t like it if Dada spent even two paise on
anyone else at home. Dada’s money, Dada’s belongings were considered by Haseena
as her own. While removing the glassware bought by Dada from our collection,
she remarked, “I have to remove mine and keep mine separate. These shouldn’t
get used!” Anu’s mother went to keep the water bottles, in the fridge bought by
Dada, as she had always done. Haseena now stopped her and said, “If you have to
touch my fridge, you must first ask for my permission.” Then, wiping the fridge
with her own hands, she added, “Actually a fridge should be handled by a single
person. If so many people handle this fridge, then my fridge will stop working
in a few days.” Hearing Haseena using the word ‘my’ made me feel as though
there were two groups of people in the house. In one group were Baba, Ma, me
and Yasmin, and in the other, Dada and Haseena. Riazzuddin’s son, Joynal,
stayed in the tin shed, and studied in the town school. Whenever Haseena saw
Joynal she would say, “Ayee boy, get
me a glass of water” or “Ayee boy,
run and get me a rickshaw.” Joynal brought water for her. Ran to call her a rickshaw.
Haseena would be wearing a sari, and Joynal may have been close by. “Ayee boy, just polish my shoes, will
you?” Joynal, sitting at her feet, would wipe Haseena’s shoes with a soft
cloth. Ma said one day, “Don’t order Joynal around like this, Bouma. Joynal is
not a servant of the house. He is Noman’s own first cousin, his Chacha’s son.”
Haseena, in her grating voice, said, “If I don’t tell him, whom do I ask? The
one maid there is, is always in the kitchen. She is never available.”
“Anu’s mother works the whole day.”
“What work does she do the whole day that she has no time to do anything for me?”
“Ask Anu’s Ma for whatever you want. Has she ever said she won’t do what you ask her to do?”
After this, Haseena got a maid from Arjunkhila, called Phulera. She was to wipe her shoes, draw her bath water, keep her towel and soap in the bathroom before she entered, and if Haseena was lying down she was to pick lice from her hair. Even though it was one house and everyone’s food was cooked on one stove, gradually two households began to emerge. We all began to notice that Haseena’s voice was not only coarse, it was also very loud. In this house only Baba’s voice had the authority to rise to this level.
Not being
able to tolerate Haseena’s sitting idle any longer Baba got her admitted to the
Life was changing. At one time I used to eat my meals sitting on a piri next to the stove. Later on, there was a mat on the bedroom floor, then an ordinary table in the dining room. Gradually the table became bigger, more sleek, and the chair backs rose higher than peoples’ heads. The cane sofas were replaced by wooden ones. The hurricane lights changed to electric lights, the hand fans to electric ones, the tin plates to bone china ones. I used to grind coal into powder and brush my teeth, picking up the coal powder on my fingers, then with the twigs of the neem tree, softening the edges of the twigs by crushing them with my teeth, then came toothpaste, Colgate from the Tibbot company. Now instead of old sari pieces or soft rags, I was using cotton pads bought from the market during my menstrual periods. During the Id-ul-Azha, a whole cow was sacrificed. All this meat was boiled with salt and halud and kept in big vessels. Whenever the meat needed to be cooked, the boiled meat pieces were sautéed in oil and spices, and a lot of it was put in the sun to be preserved as dried and seasoned meat. The meat pieces were pierced in the center and strung up on lines in the sun. Just before dusk, just like dried clothes were collected from lines, the sun dried meat too was collected. The next morning they were put in the sun again. With the arrival of the fridge, this ritual was abandoned. Now the meat was not boiled with salt and turmeric and kept, nor was dried meat prepared that much, the meat now went into the freezer compartment of the refrigerator. Various devices had come into the house. Earlier the radio was the only thing we could rely on, now there was the television, first black and white, then colour. Earlier there was only the audio player, now there was both audio and visual. One did not have to go outside the home to see theatre or cinema; one could sit at home and watch. Even songs and dances were available at the press of a button. To watch any major cricket or football match one did not have to run to the play grounds, that too was available at the press of a button. Even to take a photograph, it was not necessary to go to a studio. By purchasing a camera, one could take as many photographs, in as many poses, as one wanted. Life had changed a lot. There were many things which were not the same as before. As I moved on I did not look back too much, as though the life I had left behind was a forgettable one. Only one thing remained the same as before. Rice was cooked at home thrice a day, it still was. Collecting the leaves and twigs falling in the courtyard the earthen chullah had to be lit. The fire would repeatedly get extinguished. Every time it did, you had to blow air into it, and with every puff, smoke would make your eyes water, your hair float and Ma would totally disappear in the cloud of smoke. Once the fire was lit the smoke would float away, and once it had cleared, Ma could be seen again, black grime on her cheeks, hands and forehead. Seeing this begrimed horrible Ma did not surprise anyone at home. Ma was this way in any case, that’s how everyone had seen her all along. Next to the chullah, this soot covered Ma would cook. Before anyone could feel hungry she would serve a plate to each one. That was why she was Ma. Life was changing, but Ma’s earthen chullah did not. Since my birth, I had watched Ma sitting next to the chullah, enkindling the dried leaves and blowing into the stove to light the fire. There was no change in this.
Chhotda
informed us of Geeta’s date of delivery, and asked that Ma should reach
“Then who will look after the baby?” Chhotda asked.
In an indifferent manner, Geeta said, “How do I know! He’s your baby, you should know!”
Chhotda sat with a gloomy face in the room. If Geeta went off to work, then who would the baby stay with?
“Keep a maid. Let her look after the baby”, Geeta’s voice was detached.
Chhotda sat by Geeta’s head and stroked her hair and sang Geeta, Geeta, Geeta, O, Geeta the whole afternoon. Then he put his mouth close to her ears and whispered. For a long time he tried to turn her face and kiss her. In the evening Geeta wore a sari, and went out with Chhotda. They came back with a sari for Ma. Putting the sari in Ma’s hands, she said, “You have worked a lot for your son, take this sari.”
Chhotda said, “Geeta has chosen the sari. It is the best Tangail sari.”
Ma took the sari in her hands and said, “Yes, it is a very nice sari,” and kept it on the bed. Moving away the straggly hair on her forehead, Ma said, “Baba Kamaal, can you put me into the bus tomorrow?”
“Where will you go?”
“Mymensingh.”
“If you go to Mymensingh, who will the baby stay with? Geeta will be going to office from tomorrow.”
Drooping with exhaustion, Ma said in a broken voice, “I have stayed for a long time. Let me go now.”
“Then take the baby with you, Ma. Take him to Mymensingh.”
Ma was shocked to hear the proposal. How could this be done? For how long was this going to be! Neither Chhotda nor Geeta specified the time period. Geeta was clear – she was going to work, come what may, she was not going to give up her work for the baby. Now, if Ma stayed in this house and looked after the baby, fine, otherwise let her take him to Mymensingh and do so.
The next day Ma returned to Mymensingh with the baby in her arms. A smile appeared on Geeta’s gloomy face.
When Ma
returned to Aubokash with the baby,
no one noticed her tired face after all the sleepless nights. Everyone only
noticed the lovely baby adorned with a black dot to ward off the evil eye. Such
a small baby had never lived in Aubokash.
Yasmin and I jumped to take the baby in our laps. One could not easily touch
the baby. One had to bathe and wear clean clothes, only then could one carry
the baby. This baby was not fated to be brought up in the dust and slush like
us. Everything he used, even the toys which he had in advance of his age, were
bought from abroad. Chhotda puffing up his chest, nose and whatever else he
could, added, “I get the Johnson’s baby lotion and powder from
The baby was given Baba’s room, Baba’s bed. Baba placed another cot for himself in the corner of the room. The windows of the room were opened. Even if Baba’s body didn’t require it, the baby required light and air. Baba’s room was washed, cleaned and shining. On a table Ma arranged all paraphernalia required to feed the baby. A juicer to squeeze oranges, a mixer to liquidate greens, vegetables, fish and meat, a tin of imported milk powder, along with other cereals from abroad, an imported feeder, bowl and spoon. The baby’s clothes and toys were put into the cupboard. The baby required to be fed chicken soup everyday. Baba bought twelve chicks and sent them across. For his first grandson, Baba became the fabled ‘Benevolent Harish Chandra.’
Dada’s
beloved Mumu looked at all the imported baby things with wide eyes. Ma was not
enthusiastic about imported things. Ma had no idea how far one had to go to
reach abroad. Foreign countries maybe some major places, which were way across
seven seas and thirteen rivers. But Ma kept aside the imported silk clothes,
made the baby wear local cotton ones. In a warm country, was there anything as
comfortable as cotton! Removing all the Ceralac, Feralac and all other
varieties of imported powdered foods, Ma herself cooked fresh tomatoes,
carrots, greens into a soft mass and fed the child. Throwing away the packets
of fruit juices, she squeezed juice out of fresh fruits bought in the market,
for the baby. Ma believed that powdered milk caused stomach upsets in babies.
She personally went to the other bank of the
“The pet name is Suhrid, and the proper name Alimul Reza.”
“What? Alimul Reza?” Yasmin and I looked at each other’s faces. My lips, nose and eyebrows became distorted.
“What is this Alimul Reza? What kind of a name is this? Does anyone have Arabic names nowadays?”
Baba in a hard voice said, “They do.”
I had hoped for a lovely Bengali name. I had wanted to name him Hriday, Hriday Samudra, Heart of the Sea. My wishes had no value especially in such an important field as name keeping. Ma said, “He got this Alimul Reza name from some Peer.”
“Which Peer?”
“Razia Begum’s Peer. He got the tabeez for your head also from her.”
After about two months, Chhotda and Geeta came to
see Suhrid. Leaving a whole pile of imported things, and taking various snaps
carrying the baby in different poses, they left for
“Let’s play cards,” said Chhotda pulling me with one hand and Geeta with the other, towards the bedroom.
While we were playing cards in this room, Ma was putting Suhrid to sleep in the other, singing lullabies. He was unable to sleep, and was restless, with the onset of a fever. Ma was putting cold compresses on him. Hearing about the fever, Yasmin and I ran out abandoning the game. A message was sent to Baba. He came and checked Suhrid’s fever. He went back speedily to the Pharmacy to get the medicines. I told Geeta and Chhotda, “Suhrid’s body is burning with fever.” Wrinkling her forehead, Geeta asked, “How did he get this fever? Did you feed him something stale?”
“Stale? Are you mad? Ma washes the feeding bottles seven times in boiling water.”
Raising her eyes to her forehead, Geeta asked in a tone which implied that she was hearing for the first time that anything could be washed seven times, “She washes them seven times?” Ma actually did so. She was so scared the baby would get a stomach upset or fever. Suhrid very easily fell sick.
“Go, why don’t you go to Suhrid for a while? Go, and see him,” I told Geeta. Having no alternative, Geeta left the cards and went to sit by Suhrid. But within two minutes, she lay down, and went to sleep. Finally she had to come to another bed and sleep. Ma stayed awake the whole night with the feverish Suhrid.
After Suhrid had spent three months at Aubokash, Haseena had to go to the hospital. She was to have a baby. Dada’s friends were doctors and Baba’s friends were professors, so it was very convenient. After the delivery, Dada fed all the doctors not just sweets, but Biryani in the hospital cabin, for the mouse-like little boy. I took my classmates and went and ate the Biryani. The mouse was brought back to Aubokash. Haseena made arrangements for her own baby to be cared for in exactly the same away as Suhrid was taken care of. A maid was brought from Arjunkhila to look after the baby. The new maid carried the baby around, and washed the nappies and clothes of the new baby. There were now four maids in the house. Nargis and Jharna were there for Suhrid and the new baby Shubho. To do the work for the elders, the cooking, the washing, the cleaning of the house there was Anu’s Ma and Sufi. Another called Phulera, brought from Arjunkhila, was there to attend to Haseena’s personal chores. One day Baba sat down to count the maids. After finishing his count he said, “One man has to provide meals for so many people! Get rid of them.”
“Who is your father asking to get rid of? Is it Jharna?” Haseena asked insinuatingly.
Dada said, “He did not mean Jharna.”
“Before Jharna came, no head count was done!”
“Baba does a head count quite often.”
“Did he count after Nargis joined?”
“That’s a point! He didn’t.”
“Try to understand the ways of this world a little.”
“You think I don’t understand?”
“No, you certainly don’t. If you did, you could have said something. Suhrid, it appears is their only grandson. What percentage of what is done for Suhrid is done for Shubho? Have you ever bothered to calculate?”
Dada kept quiet. Maybe he was trying to gauge the ways of this world.
The rough voice was rising in pitch. “Go, the baby’s powder is required, go get it.”
“What are you saying Mumu? I just got powder yesterday!”
“It’s rubbish. It makes the face become rough. Get Johnson’s.”
“The Johnson’s baby powder available in the market is a duplicate. They stuff the containers with flour. The Tibbot powder is good.”
“This is really surprising! Am I going to use local stuff for Shubho now? Are you absolutely mad? Don’t you see what care is being given to another child before your very eyes? Are any local products being used in that room?”
“If I went abroad like Kamaal, maybe I too could have got foreign goods like him. The other day I bought Poison scent, Made in France, but the dirty fellows, had filled the bottle with Noorani Attar. Do you know what these hawkers who buy empty bottles do? They take the bottles, and sell them at Jinjirae. You know, everything available at Jinjirae is imitation.”
Giving Haseena a half-used container of Johnson’s Baby powder, Ma said, “My four children have grown up on local talcum powders, people in the locality seeing their skins have asked what do I apply that they have such beautiful complexions.”
Haseena did not take the talc. There was no container that was full. Ma promised to ask Chhotda the next time he came, to get foreign talc for Shubho. On the day of the powder incident, Yasmin returned from college and finding Jharna near by said, “Get me a glass of water, will you Jharna?”
Jharna walked around here and there, but did not get the water.
“Kire, aren’t you getting some water?”
“I am employed for the baby’s work. Mami has asked
me not to do any other work. You have Nargis, tell her.”
For the elders, instead of two maids there was now only one. This had not happened because of Baba’s making a noise about reducing the staff. Anu’s Ma had left on her own. This kind of disappearance was not a very uncommon event. If one disappeared, another appeared. Now Nargis, after finishing the baby’s work, had to do the elders’ work as well. From dawn to dusk Nargis was mopping the floors. She was only thirteen years of age. Her lips and skin were dry as wood, a horrid stink emanated from her body. Leaving the mopping, ‘horrid stink’ ran to the tap, filled a glass of water and gave it to Yasmin. ‘Horrid stink’ returned to the room.
“Kire, Nargis, don’t you have a bath?”
“I do.”
Any questions about food or bathing made her bend her head in shame.
“Kire, have you eaten, Nargis?”
“I’ll just finish mopping the rooms and go to eat.”
“It is almost dusk, haven’t you had your lunch as yet?”
“Aren’t you hungry?” I asked.
“No, I’m not. I have eaten!”
‘When did you eat?”
“I had breakfast in the morning.”
“Do you every day have your lunch in the evening?”
“No, no. What are you saying, Apa? I washed the clothes. That’s why I’ve got a little late today.”
My eyes filled with sympathy, my mind became distressed.
My anger only served to increase the heat which was making Ma sweat, who was sitting next to the stove, boiling the milk.
“Don’t you even give Nargis time to bathe and eat?”
Ma exploded, saying, “Are you keeping track of when she eats and has a bath! She is such a slow girl; she takes ten minutes to wash one bottle. She herself said she would eat after mopping the floors.”
That evening
Nargis never managed to eat her meal. By the time she did it was
“Kire what’s wrong with you, do you have measles?”
“No, nothing is wrong!”
“What are all these marks on your face?”
“Nothing,” said Nargis, laughing and covering her face with her hands.
Removing her hands, I examined the marks on her face. There were a few hundred eruptions on the face, making it look hideous. There were boils on her arms and legs as well.
“You have measles.”
“No, why should I get measles? What are you saying, Apa? Just a couple of mosquito bites.”
“Mosquitoes have bitten you in this way?”
Ma had come to give Suhrid’s soiled sheets to Nargis. She had to go and wash them at the taps. Sufi would now roll out the rotis.
“Can’t you give Nargis a mosquito net, Ma? Her face is in a terrible shape!”
“She has a net. Why doesn’t she use it?” said Ma in an unconcerned voice.
“I do hang up the net. The mosquitoes enter through the one or two holes in it. Nothing much,” Nargis kept her cheeks hidden, her two hands piled with clothes.
“I have told her to mend the torn net, but she’s the laziest of the lazy,” said Ma.
That night when Nargis had laid out a torn kantha on which to lie down, it was very late. I pulled her up and said, “Go and hang the net and sleep.” Sleepy-eyed, she went to the kitchen and got the net from a shelf. Nargis started putting up the torn net, one loop on a chair, another on a bolt. I counted and found ninety-eight holes in the net. There was no difference between using such a net and not using one at all.
There were more new pimples on Nargis’ face. The next day I again took up the question of the net.
Ma was feeding Suhrid milk, while he was lying on her legs. Going close, I told her while fondling Suhrid’s cheeks, “Ma, are there no other nets except that torn one? Have you seen Nargis’ face?”
“Wouldn’t I have given another net if there had been one? Does your father buy anything? I manage by mending all the torn mosquito nets. If I were to say the maid needs a net, he would turn around and say awful things to me. He has bought a new mosquito net for Suhrid’s bed. Otherwise I would have had to make do with a torn one.”
“Then tell him I need a new net for my bed. Then I will use the new one, and give the old one to the maids. Even Sufi is being bitten by mosquitoes.”
“You don’t know your father! He will never buy anything. He sends all his money away. Even yesterday Riazzuddin came and took money.”
Suhrid suddenly burped, and vomited.
Ma’s temper flared. “This boy can’t stomach anything, whatever I feed him he vomits it out.”
Ma threw the bottle away. Nargis brought some soup and said softly, “Khala, will you give him soup now?”
“Throw it away. What is the point of feeding him? He throws up everything.”
I knew that whatever Ma might say, she would again enthusiastically start feeding either soup or milk to the baby. Again he would throw up, and again she would feed him. In Ma’s extreme care the boy was growing nice and roly-poly.
Chhotda brought Geeta to see ‘roly-poly’ one day. After roaming all over town the whole day and visiting Peonpara, he returned home in the evening and happily said, “We will have to leave tomorrow. I have a flight day after.”
“As soon as you come, you say you are leaving,” said Ma. “You didn’t even take Suhrid in your lap once.”
“He doesn’t come to me, how can I pet him?”
Suhrid did not like going to anyone except Ma, Baba, Yasmin and me. He turned his face away, even when his own parents visited. Even if Chhotda didn’t mind this, Geeta did.
“My own son and he doesn’t even look at me!”
Ma laughed and said, “He sees us before his eyes all the time, that’s why. You must come more frequently. Then he will recognise you.”
In the morning, Ma ran to the kitchen to make breakfast for Chhotda – goat meat and paranthas fried in ghee. Whenever Chhotda and all visited, fancy food was cooked. The Chhotda whom Baba had wanted to disinherit, was now lovingly made to sit next to him and fondly called, “My Baba, my son.” The Chhotda who used to steal Dada’s clothes and wear them, now wore clothes which made Dada’s eyes shine. He would say, “Bah! That’s a lovely shirt! Get me a shirt like this, will you!” The Chhotda who used to beg one or two takas from me, now said “Kire, what news of your Shenjuti!”
“What news can there be! No money to print it.”
“Give me
your manuscript. I will get it printed from
Chhotda took
the manuscript of Shenjuti and went
to
Chhotda upheld the pride of my trust in him. He got Shenjuti printed and brought it back. Of course it took all of three months for it to reach me. Chhotda said, “I’ve omitted that bearded fellow’s poetry.”
Seeing Shenjuti minus Rudra’s poems made me
very unhappy. My first job was to send ten copies to Rudra’s address. On
receipt, he asked for twenty-five more copies. After the twenty-five, he asked
for more. Shenjuti was distributed in
Mymensingh. Giving it for sale in the magazine shop on
Nana was coming over almost every afternoon. Sitting on a chair in the verandah, he stared at the sun in the courtyard. He continued to stare till Ma came and called him to sit on a stool either in the sun in the verandah or courtyard. She then proceeded to scrub and bathe his fair body. Ma was exhausted with looking after the household and Suhrid. In spite of that, whenever Nana came she would make him sit in the sun and scrub and bathe him, dress him in a washed lungi of Baba’s and make him lie down. Nana would go to sleep like a baby. When he woke up, Ma would bring rice for him to eat, followed by payesh, rice pudding in milk. While Nana was partaking of his payesh, Baba would return. Embarrassed, Ma would say, “Bajaan hardly ever comes home, and even when he does, he does not eat anything, I have finally persuaded him to take some payesh.”
In a cold voice Baba would say, “You are feeding payesh to your father who has diabetes.”
“Nothing will happen if he eats a little. Bajaan loves sweets.”
I would be immersed in my details. When I rose up from them and went to dispose of the sherbet Ma gave me in the toilet, I would find Ma sitting holding on to the door.
“Ki? Have you passed blood due to piles?”
“Yes.”
With her bloodless body Ma would rise to begin sterilizing Suhrid’s feeding bottles in boiling water. Filling the bottle with milk, Ma would feed him, while telling him the story of a handsome prince. Once he finished the milk, she would put him to sleep singing a lullaby about a prince exiled to a forest. At night, when Baba returned she would say, “Isn’t there any treatment for piles? Whatever blood I have in my body, is almost all gone!”
Baba would not reply. Once he would peep into my room to check whether I was studying the veins and arteries or not, or was I either writing poetry or love letters!
In a plaintive voice Ma would keep saying, “I should be drinking some milk. At least one banana a day. One egg. If I pass so much blood, there will be nothing left in me. Should I ask Bhagi’s mother to deliver a quarter kilo of milk for me?”
Baba never replied to any of this.
Suhrid had learnt to crawl. He had learnt to play with all the variety of toys surrounding him. At every stage of Suhrid’s progress, Yasmin and I were overjoyed. We snatched him from each other’s arms, to take him out, to rock him around. We took Suhrid in our laps and sat in the swing on the verandah to swing with him.
Dada sat in the verandah and sang with full-throated ease, ‘A house of bones is joined together by a covering of skin.’ He had learnt this song from a beggar singing on the streets of Tangail.
Haseena came out of her room and barked, “Singing won’t do! Go get chicken for Shubho.”
Dada stopped singing and asked, “Isn’t there any chicken?”
“No, there isn’t. There is no chicken for Shubho.”
Nothing will happen, Mumu, if he doesn’t eat chicken for one day.”
Haseena’s voice rose, the harshness of her tone like a ravens’, “Nothing will happen, meaning? There is another baby in the house, don’t you see with what care he is being brought up! Why is there so much neglect regarding your child! Is there only one grandson? Isn’t Shubho a grandson?”
“Why do you say there is no chicken? There they are walking about in the courtyard.”
Haseena’s eyes spewed sparks of fire. “There are no baby-chicks.”
“See there, Mumu, there is the cage; there are the baby-chicks. Tell them to slaughter one.”
“Those are for Suhrid, you know that very well. Baba hasn’t bought any chicken for your son, has he?”
Hearing the noise, Ma came and poked her nose. ”Bouma, what is this you are saying? Your father-in-law always buys chicken for both the babies. Isn’t soup always made of two chickens? One for Suhrid, and one for Shubho. Your father-in-law buys milk, eggs and everything else for both the babies. Shubho and Suhrid are both his grandsons.”
“Both are grandsons; that even I know. But everyone’s attention is focused only on one grandson. Who turns to look at Shubho?” Haseena harshly retorted.
“What do you mean by ‘turns to look’? You are talking such nonsense. Suhrid’s parents are not here. That is why he has to be looked after. Shubho has his parents with him.”
Haseena went to her room and changed her sari. “I am going to Parveen Apa’s house. Ma, look after Shubho, will you?” Saying which, she strutted out without glancing back once. Ma was then left holding Suhrid in one arm and Shubho in the other.
Dada sang the rest of the song.
Haseena very
often visited her so-called cousin, who was actually her own sister, Parveen.
She went to Kusum’s house as well. Kusum had left her own husband, the Railway
School Headmaster, and had married a married man called Karim, who also had
children. Karim looked a lot like a watermelon, all round. So did Kusum. This
round watermelon visited this house very often after Dada’s wedding, and said,
“Do come, you all can visit the Botanical Gardens.” Karim was in a way in
charge of looking after the Botanical Gardens of the
When Haseena returned, Ma handed over Shubho to his mother. Then dressing Suhrid up, Ma took him to Nanibari. She had not been there in a long time. My room was alongside the verandah. Since even whispers in the verandah were audible to me, I could clearly hear Yasmin walking on the verandah and saying, “Kire, Shubho’s soiled potty is lying in the verandah since morning, why doesn’t someone remove it!”
Haseena, who was sitting with her feet up in a chair on the verandah, said, “Why don’t you remove it?”
“What did you say?”
“I said, why don’t you remove it? Since you can see that it is lying around.”
“Why should I remove it?”
“Don’t you remove Suhrid’s pot?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Then why can’t you remove Shubho’s pot?”
“Why should I remove Shubho’s pot?”
“Why, can’t you remove Shubho’s pot?”
“No, I can’t.”
“You think you can say you can’t? You will have to.”
“I won’t.”
“You will.”
“Why will I have to? Doesn’t Shubho have a maid? What is Jharna doing?”
“Suhrid too has Nargis. Yet you all still remove Suhrid’s pot. You all are Suhrid’s servants.”
“Yes, servants. We are Suhrid’s servants, good for us.”
“You will be Shubho’s servants as well.”
“Why should we?”
“You will have to.”
“Just because you say so?”
“Yes, just because I say so.”
“What did you say?”
“Exactly what I said.”
“Say it again.”
“If you can eat Suhrid’s potty, you have to eat Shubho’s as well.”
Yasmin now kicked Shubho’s potty into the courtyard. Haseena flew at her and pulling Yasmin’s hair said, “Go pick up the pot.” Yasmin too giving a yank to Haseena’s hair, said, “You pick it up.”
Hearing the noise, I left my veins and arteries and came and stood at the door. Seeing the mutual hair pulling, I insinuated between them and tried to free Yasmin. The three of us struggled with each other. From somewhere, in the middle of all this, a suited-booted Dada flew in and descended over Yasmin and me. Holding Yasmin’s hair strongly by the fist, he pulled her all the way to the courtyard and threw her down in the center where the soiled pot was lying upturned. Haseena ran towards the flattened Yasmin, and scratching her face and chest, she began to thrash her on her back. Yasmin, lying face down on the macadam, was keener to throw Haseena on the pot than free herself. Haseena pushed her face into the pot with both hands. Moving away her face, Yasmin caught hold of Haseena’s leg with her claws, wanting to pull her down, but in vain. Dada now kicked Yasmin on her shoulders, continuously kicked her shoulders, back, buttocks and thighs. Yasmin’s hands jerked off Haseena’s legs. Haseena held the pot over Yasmin’s face, who had wound herself into a coil in face of the kicking. Her face was smeared with Shubho’s excrement. I stood open-mouthed with shock at this cruel incident. I couldn’t believe this was our own Dada! In the meanwhile, from Arogya Bitaan, Baba had sent ten chickens separately for Shubho with Salaam. Standing on the verandah, Salaam too looked at this inhuman scene absolutely thunderstruck. He saw. But it became impossible for me to keep standing open-mouthed and watch. I ran to free Yasmin, I couldn’t. I too had boxes raining down on my back, and had my hair severely pulled. Dada and Haseena were then kicking Yasmin hard all over her body. Yasmin did not cry. Her jaw-bone became stronger by the minute. Helpless, I continued to sit next to Yasmin. Both our bodies were rolling in the dust.
After this incident, I stopped talking to Dada and Haseena.
When Ma returned and heard everything, she paced from one room to the other; she paced uselessly, muttering, “Her body is filled with jealousy. She can’t stand Suhrid. One day she will poison and kill the boy.”
Baba heard about the incident and did not react.
On observing Baba’s silence, Ma screamed and said, “After hearing how your son and his wife beat your daughters almost to death, you still aren’t doing anything about it! Yasmin can’t even move her body; her bones are all broken with the beating! I will give Suhrid back to Kamaal. He is their enemy. The boy is being brought up in this house. That is what they just can’t stand. You stay with your son and his wife. I will go away someplace. Khuda, what a son I gave birth to! He not only beats his own sisters, he does so along with his wife.”
Faced with Baba’s silence, Ma screamed, “Nasreen, Yasmin, look for boys, get married and leave this house quickly. Your father, too, will encourage his son to beat you into cripples.”
No one answered Ma’s statements.
Seven days later, Dada informed this stuffy house that he had been transferred to Bongura. Baba called Dada, made him sit next to him and asked, “Why Bongura?”
“How do I know? The company has transferred me”, Dada replied unhappily.
“Is Bongura a place to go? What is there in Bongura?”
“A formidable fortress is there.”
“What will you do with a formidable fortress?”
“They get very good curd in Bongura.”
“Are you going there out of greed for that curd?”
“I am going because I have been transferred.”
“Where will you stay so far away, leaving your own home? What will you eat?”
Dada rose and went away, Baba continued to sit. Ma hurried him up, “Rice has been served; have your food.”
That night, Baba had no wish to eat. Holding on to his hair with his two hands, he kept sitting.
The person who was the happiest at Dada’s transfer was Haseena. She counted the crockery and the cutlery, and packed them in boxes. Sitting in front of the black gate in a chair, swinging her feet, Haseena made an inventory of all Dada’s furniture and packed them into trunks. Even the television.
****
After Dada and all left, the rooms suddenly looked bare. In one corner lay the old, faded, cane sofa and a few peeling chairs. There were some square marks on the wall and a few hooks.
I noticed, quite often, that Ma sat alone in the verandah, towards dusk. I couldn’t understand whether the sound of Ma’s deep sighs floated into the room along with the breeze. The evening lamps lit every room. Ma continued to sit alone in the dark, the tasbih, rosary, hanging from her hands, moving. Leaving my room, shaking off my stiffness, I paced up and down the courtyard uselessly, one evening.
“Ma, why are you sitting outside? Come in.”
Heaving a loud sigh, Ma said, “Noman left the house in anger! If the son of the house doesn’t stay at home, who wants to stay then?”
“Why do you keep saying Noman, Noman? Aren’t we there? Or is it that we are no one to you!”
“Girls, you see, leave home when they get married.”
In a bitter tone I said, “It is your sons who have gone to other homes. It is your daughters who have remained.”
“Daughters are here today, gone tomorrow,” said Ma.
“Your sons aren’t here even today. There’s no question of tomorrow.”
Ma became silent.
Leaning with my two hands and swinging back and forth on the clothes line in the verandah, staring towards the darkness of the courtyard, I said, “You keep saying sons, sons. But both yours have moved away.”
“Yes, they’ve all gone. Now their wives are dearest to them. Father, mother, brothers and sisters are of no consequence”, said Ma in a faint voice.
I went
inside. I sat with peaceful silence surrounding me. Yasmin just slept all day.
She was attending Anandamohan everyday. But at home she was not interested in
her books at all. Baba had asked Debnath Pandit to come home and teach Yasmin,
but he had refused. He had refused because the number of students had increased
to such an extent that it was difficult for him to take time out for a single
student. He could only teach in ‘groups’. Yasmin joined these ‘groups’ at
Debnath Pandit’s house. On her return, she would throw her books away saying,
“I don’t understand a word of what he teaches!” At home she never sat down with
her books. Startling the stillness of the house, I screamed, “Yasmin, sit down
to study.” Yasmin turned over and slept. I yelled again, “Get up, sit down to
study.” Yasmin shouted me down. She was aware of what she had to do, she knew
better and no one needed to give her any advice. She kept me at a distance. A
white cat was now my companion. One cat. A cat was a better option. A hundred
times better than a human being. I sat hugging the cat close. In this house,
cats entered either through the gap in the drain or by jumping over the wall.
They lay in wait for an opportunity to enter the kitchen and put their mouths
into the vessels. Whenever one came, Ma shooed it away. It seems all cats were
“thieving cats.” They went away when shooed, but came back again. This white
cat, when it came, had been shooed away as well. It had been taken to the drain
on the other side of the black gate and thrown over. The cat had cleaned itself
and returned to the house again. Finally the cat had been left in the confusion
of the perishable raw foods at Notun Bazar. The next day I found the cat
sunning herself in the courtyard. This time Baba ordered that it should be tied
up in a sack and thrown on the other side of the river. That was also done.
Salaam put the cat into a sack, tied the open end tightly with a rope, hired a
boat and went and threw it on the other bank of the
***
Ma was still outside in the dark; the Tasbih in her hands did not move.
CHAPTER XVII
The Bridal Bed of Flowers
I had seen lakes and rivers, but had
never yet seen the sea. After Dada returned with his bride from their honeymoon
at the sea-side beach resort of Coxbazar, I had asked, “Dada dear, what does
the sea look like?” Dada had said only one thing that you had to see it to
believe it. “What the sea is like, can never be described in words, one has to
stand before the sea to appreciate it.” Dada was more enthusiastic about the
aeroplane than the sea. He had flown in a plane for the first time. So far,
whenever Chhotda had told us stories about planes, Dada’s eyes had been full of
desire. That hunger in his eyes had finally been quenched. None of mine was
quenched however. I was keener about the sea rather than the plane.
Without having seen the sea, just on the
basis of the photographs of Dada and Haseena taken at the sea-side, I wrote
three poems about the sea. When my heart was full of this unseen sea, “Let’s go
and visit the sea, pack your clothes” was the cry that arose. In the fourth
year this wonderful event took place. A whole class of students with the
Professors of Community Medicine went far away, far in the sense anywhere
between the north of the country and its southern most tip. At the tip was a
mass of silvery water, in which you could drown or float. Of course it was said
that we were being taken to observe a humid climate, but actually it was to
give us a change of atmosphere. Like patients needed a change of air to
recuperate, doctors-to-be too needed a change of scene. They got a small break
from the hospital and its air, filled night and day with the smell of pus.
We were to go from Mymensingh to
Next day on the train, sometimes joining
in the fun and games, and sometimes sitting gloomy eyed at the window, I
reached Chattagram. From Chattagram, we drove through a forest along a winding
path which had rows of rubber plantations. By the time we crossed these and
reached Chattagram, my excitement was at its peak. The bus was moving towards a
sound, a tremendous sound, different, earth-shaking, water-rippling sound. I
tried to make out where exactly the sound was coming from. My eyes just
wouldn’t leave the windows of the bus. Far away something white was rising and
falling. Safinaz, with whom from a casual friendship, I had now graduated to a
close one, hung out of the window and said “Is that the sea?” Being a girl who
had never been to the sea-side, I wanted to get off the bus and run to see if
this really was the sea or not, but who would allow me to do that? First we had
to go to the motel, only after that could we go to see the sea. At the motel,
instead of two, four people were put into one room. After keeping my suitcase
in the room assigned, the first thing I did was to run towards that sound. No
bath, no food, no rest. I had to visit the sea first, before I did anything
else. Safinaz was a methodical girl, a girl who ‘ate at meal times, studied at
study-time, slept at sleep time.’ But she had to accompany me in my excitement.
I did not walk towards that loud roar, I ran. When I reached it, surprise and
enchantment rendered me inert, numb and stupefied. I could not utter a single
word. Something so vast, so wondrously beautiful, so amazingly delightful to
the heart, I had never seen in my life. I had grown up next to the small pond
at Nanibari. The three cornered lake in town was twice the size of the pond at
Nanibari. I had had to wait for a few years to see it. I had seen the
‘Touching
its lips to the salty water, I saw that the full moon in the sky had fallen
over. My body danced in joy, the raw autumnal scents brought on the tempests.
The sea, putting to sleep the princess on her magic bedstead, with a golden
wand at its head, called come, come, yet again come!’
From the sea, we were brought back to
Chattagram. Arrangements were made for the girls to stay in the Chattagram Medical
College Girls Hostel, and for the boys in the Boys Hostel. Along with Halida,
Safinaz, Shipra and a few other friends, I wandered around under a green
hillock, along the meandering blue waters of the
The night before we were to leave
Chattagram for
“Who will you go with?” he asked.
“Who was I going with?
The simple answer to this would have
been to point out the bearded gentleman and say “with him.” The next question
that would arise would then be “Who is he, what is he?” That answer could
possibly be, “He is Rudra, a poet.” The next question to be expected, and a
very natural one because the professor was a simpleton would be “Who is he to
you?”
Seeing my unhappy face, Shaukat and
Madira came to my rescue. Both had had a love marriage, they knew the joy of
breaking away from the party. Shaukat whispered in my ear, “First tell me if
you are married or not. Sir will have to be told you are going with your
husband, otherwise he will not let you go.”
No, this fact could not be disclosed. If
this Sir went and informed my Baba Sir, it would be disastrous. Shaukat,
laughing at the sight of my undecided stance, said, “Tell Sir that it is a
secret and is not to be disclosed to anyone!”
“Suppose he does?”
“Arrey,
you come back to
Shaukat cleared the way for me to go to
****
The launch was plying over the
“Why? This one is fine.”
I was wearing a white sari. Although not
used to wearing them, all the girls had worn saris for the sea-side excursion.
At this chance to wear saris I too had been quite delighted.
“Do as I say.”
“Why, am I looking bad in this sari?”
“Yes. Change it. Hurry up. The ghat is approaching.”
“Is it really necessary to change the
sari?”
“Yes, very necessary.”
Rudra obviously did not have ideas only
about poetry, he thought about saris as well. He would not accept me wearing a
cotton sari. I had to wear a kataan
silk.
“I don’t feel like wearing a kataan.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t.”
“How surprising!”
“None of them are ironed.”
“Doesn’t matter, wear one anyway.”
I had to wear a kataan. It couldn’t be green or blue in colour. I had to wear red.
All my saris were wet and crumpled with sea-water. I had to wear one of these
perforce. Reaching the ghat in the afternoon, I saw a deserted port. A few
empty sampans were tied to the docks. The place looked like a village, and yet
was really not one. Misgivings arose in my heart. After crossing endless rows
of slums, Rudra stopped the rickshaw in front of a double-storeyed house and
said “Now, like a good girl, please cover your head with the end of your sari, ghomta!”
I started with shock at Rudra’s words.
“Ghomta
on my head? Why?”
“Arrey,
put it on.”
“I never do these things.”
“I know you don’t, but do it now.”
“Why?”
“Can’t you understand, you are the
daughter-in-law of this house?”
My whole body shook on hearing this. I
got all mixed up with feelings of great joy, shame and fear, and was not really
sure what to do. Rudra said, “You will have to touch people’s feet and salaam.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I have never done it.”
“You will have to.”
“I will not be able to do it.
Impossible.”
“Why can’t you understand? It will look
bad if you don’t salaam.”
“Why should it look bad?”
“It would.”
“Why? What does it mean, to touch
people’s feet?”
“You must do so of elders. Why don’t you
realize? You are after all the ‘Bou’
of the house.”
“Let it look bad. I can’t do all this.”
“Ish,
what a pain you are!”
“Won’t it do if I say salaam verbally,
without touching their feet?”
“No, it won’t do.”
My joy had evaporated, and my whole body
was consumed with discomfort. I just could not touch people’s feet. When I wore
new clothes at Id, Ma would tell me, “Go and salaam your Baba.”
I would stand stiffly at the door. As Ma
pushed me, my stiffness would turn into heavy stone. “At the time of Id one
should salaam one’s elders.” I understood the “should salaam” part, but not why
one had to do it. I treat you as an elder, respect and love you, but why do I
have to show it by touching your feet! Is there no other way to demonstrate
this! I stared in surprise at Rudra. This man who did not believe in religion
and scoffed at rituals and ceremonies was actually supporting this
feet-touching business! In this far away deserted port, it was as if Rudra had
caught me by the scruff of my neck and pushed me towards his parents’ feet.
Here I had no relatives, no friends, no one I knew except for Rudra. Yet this
Rudra appeared a stranger to me. My head was covered with my aanchal, and my
back was being poked by Rudra. One poke, two pokes, after the third, I bent
towards his mother’s feet. I wasn’t even sure how exactly this salaam thing was
done. It was a puzzle to me whether after touching the feet one had to take
one’s hands to one’s chest, or forehead, or lips. In my uncertainty, my hands
remained in their place after touching the feet. Rudra had a whole crowd of
brothers and sisters. Each one came to be introduced. I felt even more isolated
in the crowd, as though I was some unnatural creature who had come amidst a
crowd of humans. Bithi, Rudra’s younger sister said, “Ki Dada, is your wife dumb, why doesn’t she speak!” I didn’t know
what to say. I didn’t know what would be appropriate. I remained withdrawn.
Rudra’s father was shorter than Rudra.
If he stood next to me he would have come barely up to my shoulders. A bearded
man, he entered the house wearing a cap, pyjama and panjabi. I asked Rudra in a whisper, “He is a doctor, isn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“Then how come this dress!”
“He is religious.”
“He believes in religion as a doctor!”
I stared in surprise. Sitting on a stool
in the verandah he performed the ritualistic ablutions with water from a
pitcher. Rudra’s Ma held out a towel for him to wipe his wet hands and face.
The Jainamaz was spread out in the
room, for him to offer his namaz. Only after he had completed his prayers,
would Rudra take me to meet him. My heart fluttered. I began to think this
“Baba” category was something to be feared. After pacing up and down
restlessly, Rudra finally entered the room with me. His father was now
reclining on a chair after his namaz, and telling the beads of a tasbih. I was
twisting the aanchal of my sari around my fingers.
“Abba, this is my wife,” Rudra said and
told me, “Go, Salaam Abba.” Overcoming my embarrassment, I bent over. Stroking
his beard with his fingers, he said, “Sit down.”
“Are your Baba and Ma in good health?”
I couldn’t understand why he wanted to
know about the health of my parents, whom he did not know at all. In a moment
their faces floated in front of me. If they knew where their daughter,
supposedly on a hygiene tour, was at this moment, their well being would
evaporate in seconds!
“In which year are you studying?”
“Fourth year.”
“Oh. You don’t have too long to become a
doctor. Your home is in Mymensingh, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Mymensingh.”
“Is it North of Dhaka or South?”
“North.”
“You will stay in Mongla for sometime,
won’t you?”
Rudra said, “She will.”
“So Shahidullah, will you be taking her
to Mithekhali?”
“Let’s see.”
“Go and visit Mithekhali. Have you
eaten?”
“No.”
“Go and eat and rest; you have had a
long journey.”
Rudra took me upstairs. The place had
been freshly white-washed. The first floor was being constructed; it was yet to
be completed. Rudra said this new construction “was rubbish.” One day these
rooms upstairs would crumble and fall down, because the foundation of the house
was not deep enough. Hearing this, like the bricks, wood and iron along with
limestone and sand I, too, crumbled and collapsed. One room upstairs had been
tidied for Rudra and me. Rudra stayed in this room whenever he came to Mongla.
In the room was a medium sized cot, a table, next to which were two chairs.
There were white walls around, with only one window. Through it nothing was
visible but the rear portion of a double-storeyed house and a few Golpata
trees, whose leaves were used for thatching.
In the evening Rudra went out on his
own. When I wanted to accompany him, he said it was not seemly for the
housewives of this port to come out in this way. Then was I not going to see
this
“Rainwater?”
“At Mithekhali that is what we drink. We
place big pitchers in the courtyard, the rainwater collects in them, and that’s
what we drink.”
“Can you drink that water?”
“Why not?”
Bitthi unexpectedly moved away from the
topic of drinking water and asked “Achcha
Boudi, haven’t you brought any jewellery? You are the daughter-in-law of the
house, what will people say! Tomorrow evening there will be people coming home,
it is Seemu’s birthday. I will give you some jewellery, just wear it.”
The evening got over, and night fell. I
looked at the clock repeatedly, restlessly. “Your Dada hasn’t returned as yet,”
I asked.
“He’ll come. Don’t worry so much. He’s a
man. They have friends outside, they have to meet them.”
“Does that mean he has to be so late?”
“He’ll come, he’ll come. His wife is at
home. However late it gets he will return home.” Bithi laughed, her laugh was
like a shower of pearls.
Rudra returned very late at night. While
he changed from his shirt and pant to a lungi, my heart trembled on looking
askance at the bed. Lawfully we would be sharing this bed. Finally the day had
arrived when we would sleep together. For ages now, Rudra had been dying to
spend one night with me. Tonight his wish would be fulfilled. As though we were
a couple used to married life for years, Rudra casually said, “Let’s go to
sleep”, and covering the bed with the mosquito net he lay down.
“Come on,” he said.
“Coming.”
I am coming, let the shaking of my heart
steady a little, I will come. I am dying of thirst. I will drink a glass of
water and come. Don’t get impatient. I am coming. Do I have any other option
but to come?
“What’s wrong, why are you still
sitting? Will you spend the whole night over there?”
I had to go to bed, but my body moved
towards the wall. Rudra pulled my body which was stuck to the wall towards his
chest. He held me with both his arms, very strongly, so that I couldn’t run away.
Where could I possibly go, anyway! I had nowhere to go. I had been preparing
myself to come to Rudra. Hundreds of times I had told myself ‘Rudra is your
husband. Do not waste this opportunity to spend the night with him. You are a
young woman of twenty-two, not a little girl anymore. If everyone else can
sleep with their husbands, why can’t you!” Secretly, I too wanted to taste the
forbidden fruit. Rudra wanted to possess me fully. I had already given him my
heart and soul ages ago, only my body recoiled like a snail. Hadn’t the time
come for me to break out of all my modesty and fear! If I did not uncoil my
body tonight, if I didn’t break the chains and free my physical self, if I
deprived the man I loved today, it would actually be depriving myself. Rudra
had not demanded anything wrongfully. Surrendering oneself to one’s husband was
not a crime. Someday you would have to surrender what little you had kept back,
so why not tonight!
Rudra kissed me. He kissed my mouth
deeply. Freeing myself from his kiss, I said, “The light is on.” That meant the
light had to be switched off. Switch off the light, darken the room and then do
whatever you want to do, I will not prevent you. Rudra switched off the light,
darkened the room and moistened my shut eyes, dry lips and the fold of my chin.
Opening the buttons of my blouse he buried his face inside. He didn’t just wet
the nipples he bit them with his teeth.
He gripped my breasts in his hands and squeezed so hard, it felt as
though he would melt them into water, like the muddy waters of the
Rudra got off my body. On one side was
the wall, on the other side Rudra. I did not have the strength to move even an
inch in any direction. I remained still. Gradually opening my eyes, I felt as
though I was out of the operation theatre, in the post-operative room. I was
coming back to consciousness. On regaining my senses I realized that this was
no post-operative room, I was lying on the muddy waters of the
The next day when Rudra left me alone
and went out, I again felt very lonely. I couldn’t quite make out what my
duties were. Was I to massage my father-in-law’s feet, pick lice off my
mother-in-law, offer water when thirsty, proffer the gamchcha, towel, when going for a bath, and the Jainamaz at the time of prayers! Was I
supposed to cover my head with a ghomta
and go and cook in the kitchen, just because I was the Bou of this house! Was I to sit on the kitchen stool and chop the
onions and garlic! I walked like a duck into the kitchen. The kitchen had a
roof of ‘golpata’ leaves, a clay floor and a clay oven. Smoke emanated from the
fire in the oven, as though it was the smoke from Aladdin’s lamp. I wished a
genie would emerge immediately from the smoke and tell me what I should do.
Should I cook rice and vegetables, or teach Rudra’s siblings. What exactly
would please the inmates of this house, what would make them say I was a
Lakshmi, a very good bou. I moved
towards the smoke hoping to see the genie. The minute I poked my head into the
kitchen, Bithi said “Why are you entering here? You will not be able to stand
the smoke.”
“Let me see what you all are doing.”
Instead of waiting for the genie to appear, I said, “Can I do something?”
Bithi laughed, all Rudra’s brothers and
sisters also laughed. I felt very uncomfortable. I had no idea where I should
stand, where I should sit, whom to talk to and if I did, what to say. I felt
very isolated. I wished night would fall soon, then at least I knew what I had
to do. I had to lie down, and I had to sleep.
Bithi told me while I stood at the
kitchen door, “Go and have a bath! There will be no water left later on.”
Feeling reassured about what I had to do now, I entered the bathroom and found
that there was a door, but the door had no bolts. Hesitantly I came out. Seeing
this Bithi laughingly told me, “Go and have a bath without any fears, no one
will enter.” I had a bath, but not without my fears.
Firmly pulling my constantly slipping
aanchal over my head, I went fearlessly before my ailing mother-in-law. In a
weak voice, she told one of her nine children, one of the seven present at
home, “Give your Boudi place to sit.” Making sure I was removed from before her
eyes, she closed her own. I was asked to sit in a room next to my
mother-in-law’s room. I sat on the edge of the bed. So that no one could make
remarks like the Bou doesn’t speak,
the Bou is very haughty, I talked to
whoever I could find close to me, the little brothers and sisters. I asked them
their names, which schools they went to, which classes they attended. Having
got their answers, I sat quiet. I could find no other questions to ask them,
nor could they find any for me. The siblings were amazingly quiet; there was no
yelling or screaming in the house. If there had been so many brothers and
sisters at Aubokash, it would have
turned into a fish market. A warm breeze blew into the rooms from the river.
You could hear the sounds. I felt lonely. In the evening Bithi gave me gold
ornaments to wear. If I didn’t wear gold ornaments, the family honour would be
lost. So to preserve that, I wore the heavy ornaments and sat down, looking
ugly to myself. So much jewellery on my ears, neck and hands did not suit me at
all. I couldn’t get used to it somehow. Baba had bought me long dangling
earrings at the inauguration feast of the Matri Jewellers showroom; they were
lost. I was unable to keep rings in my ears for too long whether gold or
silver, my ears itched. If I wore anything on my fingers, they itched. I would
take them off, leave them here and there, and of course it didn’t take long for
them to disappear. Ma regretted this, “She has no care for gold jewellery. She
doesn’t even know where she takes them off and leaves them.” Once the guests
had left, I took off Bithi’s jewellery. I felt like an inanimate object, as
though I was a puppet. I was being made to wear saris, jewellery, and was not
saying anything. If I was told to stand up I did, if told to sit, I did so, and
yes, when asked to sleep I did that too.
***
That
night too, Rudra came home and cajoled me by saying, “Good girl, dear Lakshmi,
unwind a little, don’t keep yourself so stiff, soften your body a little,” and
entered the path he had opened up. In that dark room, made darker by my shut
eyes, when I was openly bearing the agony Rudra inflicted on my body, bearing
the pain – suddenly like lightning a sharp pleasure spread through my body from
head to toe. With the shock of that bolt of lightning I dug the ten nails of my
hands into Rudra’s back. I gasped for breath. Panting, I asked “What happened!”
Rudra
did not tell me what happened. Murmuring endearments like Shona, dear Manik,
precious jewel, Lakshmi bou he
collapsed on top of me. That night, not once, but several times he brought me
to orgasm. With this pleasure the nerves of agony gradually grew inert and
inactive. I continued to moan, but this time with pleasure. I was now
experiencing the pinnacle of pleasure.
At
one point while I was still moaning, I noticed that Rudra was no longer beside
me. He had not been there by my side for quite a while.
“Where
are you?”
In
the darkness a single point of red fire glowed. The fire was moving.
“Aren’t
you going to sleep?”
“I’m
coming.”
The
red glow went out, the cigarette smoking was over, yet Rudra did not return to
bed. My unruly, obsessive body wanted him intimately close, I kept one of my
hands on his pillow, wanting to hold him in my arms when he returned, and sleep
for the rest of the night, imbibing the scents of his body. I called again,
“Where have you gone!”
There
was a smell of Dettol in the room.
“What’s
wrong, what is this Dettol smell!”
“I
am applying Dettol,” came Rudra’s voice out of the darkness.
“Why,
what happened?”
“I
have an itch.”
“Do
you have to apply Dettol for that?”
“I
am applying an ointment as well.”
“What
ointment?”
“I
don’t know.”
“Switch
on the light, will you? Let me see where you are itching, and what ointment you
are applying.”
Rudra
switched on the light and saying, “Coming”, took the ointment and went off to
the toilet. Under the lights I tidied my dishevelled sari, and sat waiting.
When Rudra came, I examined his hands and legs and; there were no signs of
scabies.
“Where
are you itching?”
Without
replying Rudra switched the light off, and lay down. Lying next to him, I
placed a hand on his chest and said, “I can’t find any scabies.”
“There
is.”
“Where?”
“It
is in that area.”
“That
area, which area?”
“On
the penis.”
“Where?”
“On
the penis.”
“Why
are you applying Dettol?”
“It
will help.”
“Has
any Doctor told you so?”
“No.”
“Who
gave you the ointment? Some Doctor?”
“No.
I bought it myself.”
“Will
this ointment work?”
“I
don’t know.”
“Then
why are you applying it? Parmethrin ointment has to be applied for scabies. Is
it itching a lot?”
“Yes,
it is. Even a boil has appeared.”
“Small?”
“Not
so small.”
“It
shouldn’t be big. Why should it grow big?”
“Quite
big.”
In
my enthusiasm as a doctor, I sat up, switched on the lights and said, “Let me
see what kind it is!”
Rudra
kept lowering his lungi. The hair on his body grew gradually denser as they
moved downwards, till they reached the cold sexual organ. At the base of the
genitals was a red flower. No one had laid out my bridal chamber, on this my
first night, with flowers. No roses, no marigolds, no hibiscus or jasmine. This
flower on Rudra’s manhood had bedecked my first bridal bed of flowers. Yet, I
had seen many penises like this one. This sore on the penis was a very familiar
one. At the hospital, in the sexual diseases out-patients ward, the male
patients lowered their lungis and showed sores exactly like this one. These
sores were identified by the Doctor’s dealing with sexual diseases as Syphilis
sores, and were the sores we had seen many times from a safe distance. Although
Rudra’s sore looked like a Syphilis sore, one sore could surely resemble
another one! There must be many harmless sores, which looked like other ugly
sores. There must be, my heart said, there was.
“When
did this appear?”
“Just
ten or twelve days ago.”
“Does
it bleed?”
“No.”
Whatever
other disease Rudra may have contracted, there was no reason for him to be
afflicted by Syphilis! I thought of all the other diseases it could be. Was
this Eczema or Soriosis? Or maybe it was Penile Papiullus! Or Reitars syndrome!
Or even Pemfigas!
“Do
you have any pain?”
Rudra
shook his head. “No.”
This
denial destroyed the possibility of all the other diseases. The Syphilis sore
also caused no pain.
“Doesn’t
it pain even a little?”
Rudra
was thinking. Think Rudra, think some more, if you just think a little more you
will surely realise that it did pain.
But
Rudra again shook his head. “No.”
“Achcha, have you slept on any stranger’s
dirty bed? Or used anyone’s towel?”
He
again shook his head. “No.”
A
writer called Razia Begum had spent three months at a tea-garden in Sylhet in
order to write a novel about the tea-garden workers. Was it possible that Rudra
had visited a brothel for writing poetry or a novel, and had used something
there, like a towel? Had touched something in a toilet, and from these places the
Syphilis virus, Triponema Pelidam, had travelled to his hands. Although I knew
Syphilis did not spread like that I still asked, just in case it had! By chance
if the virus had entered through some gap or hole!
“Have
you been to prostitutes for some reason? For the purposes of your writings or
something?”
“Why,
no I haven’t!”
“Never?”
“No.”
I
was looking for other reasons, reasons for sores that looked like this.
Searching. Searching. This was Rudra’s first intercourse with someone, just
like mine. That is how it was supposed to be. That was what love was all about.
One saved oneself, for the person one loved. All the deep secrets, physical
pleasures were reserved. I stared at Rudra’s sore. Then how come this sore!
This sore did not look like any other! Even if it was Harpes Simplex or genital
warts, these too were sexually transmitted diseases! Suppose this was Syphilis,
from where did it enter into Rudra’s body if he had never been to a brothel! I
was absorbed in deep thought. I touched the sore, and examined it from the left
and right side. I looked at the form and shape of the sore. I looked at its
colour.
It
looked exactly like a Syphilis sore. My eyes confirmed it, but my mind
couldn’t. But there was no reason to contract Syphilis. Then, how could it be
that! A crease appeared between my eyebrows.
“Achcha, have you had any relationship
with a girl?”
“What
nonsense are you talking?”
Rudra
pulled up his lungi. His sore got covered.
“Go
to sleep, will you. It is very late.”
It
may have been late, but my sleep had vanished. I was anxious to know the cause
of this sore. Without any intercourse why should such a sore have appeared!
“Have
you shown it your father?”
“No.”
“You
have it for over two weeks. Why haven’t you shown it to a Doctor?
“I
haven’t.”
“If
you apply ointments without a test, the sore will not heal.”
Rudra
kept scratching his beard. He did this when he was very worried about
something.
I
abruptly said, “Do you know these sores appear if you have relations with
prostitutes? You couldn’t possibly have gone to a prostitute!” I asked.
“No.”
Rudra’s voice was icy.
“You
really haven’t been? This is the first time you have ever had intercourse isn’t
it with me?”
Rudra’s
face suddenly changed. His two black brows joined together. As though somewhere
inside his body there was some agony. He looked at my eyes for a long time.
Even though I tried, I was unable to read the language of his eyes.
For
a long time the two of us sat silently. Suddenly Rudra said, “Actually you
know, I have been to the area.”
“Area
meaning?”
The
red-light areas.”
“You
have? Why?”
“For
the same reason other people go.”
“What
reason?”
Rudra
said nothing. Was my head throbbing? Did a tightness suddenly hurtle into my chest,making it
difficult for me to breathe? My subsequent words were spoken much more slowly
than before. The voice was breaking, trembling.
“Have
you slept with a prostitute?”
He
did not say anything. His eyes had turned stony.
“Speak,
why aren’t you saying something? Speak.”
My
eyes were full of anxiety. Say ‘No’, say ‘No’ Rudra. Please say ‘No’. In the
hope of hearing the one word ‘No’, I sat waiting, like one bewitched.
“Yes,”
said Rudra.
“Ki, you had sexual relations?”
I
couldn’t recognize my own voice, as though it wasn’t mine at all, but someone
else’s. As though a button had been pressed on a machine, and the machine was
speaking.
“Yes.”
The
light was on in the room, yet darkness was deepening before my eyes. I was
unable to breathe. For a long time I couldn’t breathe at all. Was this a
sexually-diseased patient before me, or was it Rudra! My lover, my husband! I
couldn’t believe this was Rudra. I couldn’t believe he was someone I had loved
for years.
“When
did you go?”
“Just
two weeks ago.”
“Have
you been just once?”
“Yes.”
“You
have never been before?”
“No.”
“But
your sore is two weeks old!”
“Yes.”
“The
sore couldn’t have appeared the very day you had intercourse. It takes sometime
to form. Try and recall if you have been more than once.”
Staring
at my eyes without blinking for a long time, he said slowly, “I have.”
I
couldn’t believe my ears. I didn’t want to believe that I was not the first
woman in Rudra’s life! For a long time I sat benumbed.
“You
never told me about all this.”
“No,
I didn’t.”
“Why
not?”
Rudra
heaved a deep sigh. Staring at the white wall, looking at what only he knew, he
did not reply.
“The
red light area, right? Where is that?”
“At
Banishanta.”
“Where
is Banishanta?”
“In
this port only.”
“Why
do you go? Don’t you love me?”
“I
do love you.”
“If
you do, how did you touch anyone else? You lied to me all these days. You told
me you had not touched anyone but me ever. Do you know, I can’t believe any of
this?”
***
I
found it painful to believe that Rudra had slept with another woman … the way
he had slept with me. That he had kissed someone else in the same way as he had
kissed my face and breasts. It was painful to believe that Rudra had entered
anyone else as deeply as he had me. I felt as though my boat had sunk in
mid-ocean. I too was sinking, as far as the eye could see there was no one,
nothing at all. I was alone, I was drowning. My sky had fallen apart, my world
had disintegrated and scattered to bits. The bits were now rolling into the
bottom of the sea. In the boundless, billowy sea there was not even a dry piece
of straw. I was drowning. It was as if I was not myself, I was someone else. I
felt sorry for that someone else. The pain circulated in my nervous system and
finally descended to my chest. It was as though all the rocks in the world were
pressing down on my chest. I did not have the ability to utter a single word.
Losing all my senses I wept copiously, through the night. The pillow, sari and
bed sheets got soaked with my tears. I clung to Rudra’s hands and feet and
cried, “Please tell me you are not speaking the truth. Tell me, you have not
been to anyone else. You have not slept with anyone else. Please.”
Rudra’s
silence was like that of a stone. With a pale face he watched me crying through
the night.
He
watched me crying in the morning, afternoon and evening. He watched me crying
the whole day going without any food or bath. He himself ate and bathed. He
spent the day like any other day. I wanted to sleep. To forget everything and
sleep. But sleep would not come. When I asked for sleeping tablets, Rudra
fetched two strips of Sidaxin from his father’s chambers. He had searched and
found two strips, and those two strips he had given me. From the twenty tablets
in the two strips, I was to take only one. I was to take one, so that I could
take a tablet daily and sleep for the next twenty days. But hidden from Rudra,
I swallowed all the twenty tablets at one go, that very day, that very evening,
“I will go far away, but not let you
forget me” was not the tune playing within me. I really wanted to go far
away, wanted Rudra to forget me, never to remember that anyone by my name had
been part of his life. I didn’t feel as though I could have borne my own
existence any longer, or that my life had any value left any more. I didn’t
think I could live a minute more with these intolerable pains and unbearable
insults. Just when I was rushing towards this longed-for death, someone grabbed
me from behind and stopped me. When I was brought back from that path, I found
a hard pipe in my nose and beside me was standing Rudra’s Doctor father. The
poison was taken out of my body, but from my mind not a drop of poison came
out, my heart was dying. Before my eyes my heart moaned in its death-throes. I
spent the whole night sleeplessly with my dead heart lying next to me.
When
the first rays of dawn appeared, I said, “I will go immediately.”
Rudra
got ready. Not once did he say, “Stay a day or two more.” Everyone at home was
shocked. “What has happened, why are you leaving so abruptly?” They asked.
Rudra
told them, “She has to go.” Why I had to go, he never told them. They asked me
to have breakfast, I refused.
Standing
on the decks, the pungent smell of urine and the strong smell of fish scales
inside the launch, along with the intermittent ‘bho’ sound of the engines
letting off steam, made my insides churn. After staying up the whole night
crying, when I went up at dawn to get a breath of fresh air, I flooded the
decks of the launch with vomit. Rudra was sitting amongst a crowd of people
with his head thrown back in sleep, his mouth wide open. This man did not look like
anyone I knew. I did not feel that he was related to me in any way.
The
long launch ride and the equally long train journey was covered in silence. Not
a word was spoken. Even knowing everything, I kept telling my heart, “It is
actually another disease. A different sore.”
So
many kinds of sores could appear in the sexual organs. Did I know everything?
There was still a long time for me to qualify as a doctor. Why didn’t I test
the sore once! It may happen that this was some new viral disease. It may even
be that Rudra was joking with me by telling me he had gone to a brothel, that
too, many times. He would surely one day surprise me by saying that all these
were lies that he had told me. He had been testing me. It was a test of how
much I trusted him. He had spent the night, the kind of night he had repeatedly
wanted to spend with me.
Alighting
at
“I
had.”
“Who
is she?”
“Do
you really need to know?”
“Come
on, let’s hear.”
“Nellie.”
“The
poems were written while you were at Lalbagh.”
“My
mama’s house is at Lalbagh. I was there. Nellie is my mami’s sister. She used
to stay in that house.”
“If
she is your mami’s sister, she would be your khala.”
“Yes,
khala.”
“You
were romancing your khala?”
Rudra
nodded in agreement. That the khala was much older than him, Rudra
acknowledged.
“Did
you only romance her? Or was there something more as well?”
“Something
more.”
“You
mean you slept with your khala?”
“Yes.”
“When
you lived in that house you were in school. You mean you slept with her as a
schoolboy?”
Yes,
Rudra had completed all his life’s experiences while studying in school itself.
He had learnt copulation in his childhood.
“That
means the Yellow House, Fifty Lal Bagh, the dedication in the
name of the Bakul flower, Sorrow, all those poems in Upodruto Upokool were written about
Nellie?”
“Yes.”
I
laughed and said, “Do you know, I fell in love with you after reading the poems
in that book? Now it makes me laugh to think of it. Well then, where is your
lover Nellie now?”
“She
got married to a schoolmaster. There was a talaq. Now she is in Lalbagh.
“Don’t
you go to her? Don’t you spend nights with her? With your khala?”
“Don’t
talk rubbish.”
“This
is rubbish, is it?”
“Of
course it is rubbish.”
Rudra’s
eyes were bloodshot, with greenish flecks in them. Once when I had asked him
what these were, he had said that it was moss that had accumulated. Rudra
stared at me for a long time with those mossy eyes, and said, “She did propose,
I did not agree.”
“Why?
You have no obstacles in the path of this relationship! Why shouldn’t you
agree?”
“I
don’t have any emotional relationship with her, that relationship I have with
you.”
“Bah, you have a good policy. You only
sleep with those you have an emotional relationship with, meaning those you
love.” Laughing, I said, “Then what do you do with the prostitutes? Do you love
them and then go to sleep with them?”
Rudra
got up without replying. He brought water in two cups. “Let’s eat. The food is
going cold,” he urged.
“Why
didn’t you marry your khala? Of course, you still can.” My voice was calm.
“Why
are you raking up the past?”
“Past!
All this was there only in your past. At present you are the purest of men,
isn’t that so?”
Rudra
did not make any reply. I watched him as I ate. Everything was so familiar –
his eating, his washing his hands, wiping his mouth, so well-known his manner
of lighting his cigarette, smoking!
Rudra
changed the topic by reading poetry. On the 14th of February, a
police truck had run over a student procession on government orders.
Innumerable people had been crushed under the wheels of the truck. The protests
against tyranny were increasing, and the police were aiming their guns at the
hearts of innocent people on government orders.
‘I do not
want to loathe you anymore
I want to spit
on the faces of the
olive-green forces –
Who have
caused a bloodbath in the Children’s Academy, Neelkhet,
Who have sent bullet-ridden bodies to the University
Who have
slaughtered people by crushing them under their boots,
Today I want
the blood of those olive-green forces …’
Rudra
was reading one poem after another in a deep voice, and clear pronunciation.
‘Once upon a time, the way we killed
gigantic animals in the forests,
And brought back peace to jungle life,
Today let’s eradicate these gigantic, ugly wild savages
And recreate a world of equality,
Recreate a world of wealth
and happiness. Create a world
of industry and tranquility.’
Lying
on the floor and listening to the poetry, I began to forget the incident that
took place in the
“Why
should you go? To protect me from trouble on the way? Because after all, you
wish only the best for me, don’t you? Nobody should assault my body, no man
should raise his eyes and look at me? These are the reasons, aren’t they?”
Rudra didn’t say anything.
“Okay, come along. Not for my sake. For your sake, come to Mymensingh.
I will arrange for your treatment there.”
It
took two hours for the bus to reach Mymensingh from the Mahakhali bus stand.
During the entire bus journey, the only sound I could hear emerging from myself
were long, deep sighs. Sitting next to me, Rudra silently slept. In sleep
Rudra’s mouth remained open. How was this man able to sleep? I could not figure
out from where he got his capacity to feel so carefree. Alighting at
Mymensingh, Rudra went somewhere, to some hotel. I returned to Aubokash. Ma came running to hug me
close to her heart saying, “Ahare,
how long my girl has been away from home!” Yasmin came shouting, “Bubu’s come,
Bubu’s come,” to meet me. From Yasmin’s arms, Suhrid leapt into mine. I tried
to hide the tears in my eyes, and couldn’t. I wished I could cry loudly. Cry,
wail if possible without restraint. I wanted to roll on the floor and cry. Baba
said, “Ma, how did you like the sea?
I haven’t yet seen the sea, and my daughter has already done so.” Ma ran to the
kitchen, to quickly make me something good to eat. Sufi laughed and said, “Ish, after how long you have returned!
How did you like being so far away from your parents! Mami has every day been
saying, ‘Lord knows, what my girl must be doing!’ ” Giving Suhrid back to
Yasmin, I ran to the toilet, I just had to urinate immediately. Sitting in the
bathroom I poured water on my face, so that my tears would flow out along with
the water. I poured pitcher after pitcher of water, the water in the bucket
finished, but not my tears. With great will power I could stop myself from screaming,
but I couldn’t stop my tears. It would have been better, if as soon as I
entered the house Baba had cursed me, given me two tight slaps on my cheeks and
said, “The Hygiene Tour group returned this morning to Mymensingh, how did you
get delayed Haramzadi?” If Ma had
said, “Instead of going to the sea as you told us, tell us where you actually
went! You didn’t go and spend the time with that fellow who wrote letters
addressing you as ‘Bou’, did you?” If
Yasmin had not come close, if my coming home or not had made no difference to
her, if Suhrid had turned his face away and not wanted to come to me, I would
have felt better. I did not want anyone’s love any more. Let everyone loathe
me. Loathe me terribly.
The
next day, without attending any classes in college, I picked up Rudra from the
canteen, and walked along the
Rudra’s test report came to hand. ‘VDRL Positive’.
Looking at the paper, the last thin ray of hope that I had nurtured,
was trampled over by a pair of strong feet. There was nothing left but despair.
That was all I was left with for life.
The
blood test was done in the Medical College compound. The square man kept
looking at me on his way to and from the hospital. Was he telling all the
doctors that there was a bearded man with me always, who had Syphilis! In that
compound itself in the evening I took the Pathology report into the chambers of
the sexual diseases specialist. Rudra was behind me. The specialist frowned at
the paper, at Rudra, and looking frequently at me wrote out the treatment on a
paper, asking me, “Is this patient known to you?”
“Yes, Sir.” My voice was calm.
“Oh!”
The
specialist would never have thought this patient could be related to me. Even
if he let his imagination run riot, there was no way he would have pictured
that the man could be my lover, or husband. That is why, instead of asking if
the patient was related to me or not, he had wanted to know if the patient was
known to me or not. Of course, he was known. Rudra was someone I had known for
ages. Without giving him an opportunity for more conversation, we left his
chambers. Coming out, I breathed in the scent of fresh air deeply and said in a
calm voice, “Now? It’s all done. Go and get yourself Penicillin injections in
Dhaka. Go to any pharmacy and tell them; the compounder will push it for you.”
“What
about you?”
“What
about me?”
“Yes,
you.”
“You,
what?”
“What
will you do?”
“What
else will I do, I will study, become a doctor and treat patients.”
“This
relationship?”
“Which
relationship? With whom?”
“With
me.”
I
began to laugh. “Hasn’t my relationship ended with you as yet, Rudra?”
After
remaining silent for a long time, Rudra said in a broken voice, “Can’t you
forgive me?”
“Forgive?
Of course I have forgiven you. Without caring for my own reputation, I brought
you to this city which has known me from birth, and arranged for your
treatment. I could have abandoned you in that
“Yes,
you could have.”
Rudra’s
eyes were greyish as always.
“What
is left in my life, tell me? After having loved you for so many years, I
married you and this was my first union. After long years of waiting the day
finally arrived. This was a time of great happiness for me, great joy. Isn’t
that so? Freeing myself of all my fears and shame, I gave myself entirely to
you, the complete me that you had always asked for. You had wanted me fully.
You did get me finally, didn’t you! All your desires were fulfilled, weren’t
they! At my wedding I did not wear a red Benarasi sari, or any jewellery, no
music played at my wedding, no guests came; only you and I celebrated. I gifted
you my full love and trust, you gifted me a disease. From you, this is my only
wedding gift. What do you say?”
“You
too have to take injections. Come on let’s go to
“You
don’t have to worry about me anymore. You have worried enough. Now worry about
something else. Worry about your own life. If you can, stay away from diseases
and other harms.”
“You
are leaving me?”
My
tone was detached. “Yes, I am leaving you. Don’t think I am abandoning you
because you have Syphilis. It is sheer bad luck that you have contracted this
disease. Even if you go to brothels and stay with prostitutes, this disease may
not have infected you. It doesn’t happen to everyone. I am leaving you because
you have cheated and deceived me.”
Rudra’s
eyes were bright with unshed tears.
“What
would you have done in my place, Rudra?”
“You
are really leaving me and going?”
“Really.”
“You
won’t give me even one opportunity to improve?”
I
smiled sadly. I was someone who was utterly ruined, empty, one who had lost
everything. Who was I to give opportunities? Was I human? I felt ashamed of
myself. I loathed myself. Rudra kept standing on the
CHAPTER XVIII
The Darkness of Remorse
Seeing my photographs taken at the sea,
Ma said that it seemed as though I was a mermaid. Sometimes I was being washed
up in the white waves, sometimes I was drowning, my wet body shining in the
rays of the sun I was walking barefoot towards the sunset, very often with a
whole group of girls. Ma said, “None of the others look as beautiful as you.
Only you look as though you have emerged from the sea.” If Ma knew what had
happened in my life, that my body was no longer as pure as a mermaid’s, she
would surely not have called me by this name.
If only Ma knew that I had not returned after taking the sea air alone,
but had disappeared into thin air as well for a few days. In that air there had
been the heat of fire. I laughed dryly.
To whom was I to tell this story of self-defeat! There was no one on
whose shoulders I could weep. I sat all by myself on the terrace, resting my
head in the lap of silence. This mermaid had to hide her tears. Shaukat teased,
“Ki, has your hymen been ruptured?”
I smiled cheerlessly.
“Ki,
mermaid, aren’t you going to write a poem on the sea!” Yasmin kept asking.
No, my mind was no more on poetry, it
was on my body. I had not written poetry for ages. There was no inspiration. In
my mind I put the mermaid to sleep on a magic bed. I understood mentally that
there was no sleep in her eyes and covered in a blanket of anxieties, she
remained awake, all alone. The mermaid received a letter, “I have taken it
immediately on arrival. It did not hurt so much. The wound still remains
unchanged. I have brought my life under much more regulation than you would
ever believe. However the pain of repentance is very acute … Do not worry. We
have not lost anything. My dearest jewel, the dark sun of erotic folly will
never touch me again. I am keeping well. I will stay well. I will remain good
like your dream. The scent of your body lingers all over the room … I play with
that scent. The sunshine in your heart keeps my life shining. I will rise like
the morning sun, the rising sun.”
In my letters I used to address Rudra as
‘Sunshine.’ And Rudra called me ‘Dawn’. All that unbridled love now seemed so
meaningless. Rudra wanted to emerge as the rising sun. He now wanted to become
‘my’ Rudra. But why now? Why wasn’t he mine from the very beginning! Why had he
constantly told me he was mine! Why had he cheated on me! Why had he lied to
me! How could I now believe that he would rise as the morning sun! Why was he
writing letters to me? I was not going to involve him in my life any more. I
had shaken off the name of the cheat, Rudra, from my heart. Let the grey skies shower rain ceaselessly, let the waterfalls
cascade and flood the banks, exile is better. A few rays of sunshine suddenly
bring happiness to the threshold of the room, secretly destroying the dreams
awash in the bridal chamber, termites nibble and eat the beautiful sanctity of
the human body, drink the heart’s blood, and consume the nutty intelligence.
The limitless future is burnt to cinders in that sunshine. The flames of the
fire dance on the burnt body. Even if my courtyard is full of crumbling earth
and broken bits of straw, and a terrible storm brings down darkness in this
world, exile is still preferable, even a dismal sunless morning. The pure sun
retreats leaving the world in darkness, the fresh beauty leaves behind
disrepute, the sly jackal grabs and eats its prey and leaves, the debauched
gambler leaves, as does the inhuman, drunk vulture. Please leave in the same
way, sunshine of my life, leave the deep black darkness of the night and go
into exile, go my golden wings of the sun, fly away to another abode. There is
not a drop of moonlight, but that’s alright. Pure darkness! Let me drown in the
moonless Amavasya, yet this ‘dawn’ will not search for her ‘sunshine’. Yet the
‘sun’ continues to search for this ‘dawn’. Whatever else he may have lost, he
does not want to lose his ‘dawn’.’
Not just letters, Rudra sent poems along
with his letters. In the poems were thoughts of that night, the night of our
first union, the night I had stayed awake.
‘On
a heap of destruction sits a myna,
Next to it is a lightning-struck tree in its death throes,
The grey sky looks on with empty eyes.
My sad one, your dreamless eyes remain awake.
The
arrows in your eyes fall into the river that has flooded its banks,
Close by your heart lies awake a solitary stone.
Some festivities create a noise all around …
My melancholic one, you lie awake, a defeated bird.
Finding
the perfect opportunity, a snake entered the iron bridal bed,
The poisonous sting caused a cold darkness to descend on the blue body,
In the river water floats a black raft of pain.
My unhappy one, you remain awake on a river of sand.
The
universe has gone to sleep at the end of the day, wrapped in the blanket of
night,
Sleep rests its chin on the delicate eyes of charming women,
The light of fireflies has burned out listening to the dreams of the world …
You are awake, only you are awake my sorrowful one.’
Had Rudra really experienced my pain? If
he had anything called a heart, then why had he touched other women? Because I
had a heart, I could never imagine any other man but Rudra. Everyday, I had
seen the handsome, intelligent jewels of boys in college. I had never even
looked back at them.
Not just Habibullah, many more studs as
precious as diamonds had sent me love letters, but I had unhesitatingly thrown
them away. Why couldn’t Rudra have done the same! I too had a body, but this
body had never desired anyone. This body had slowly, but surely prepared itself
each day for Rudra. This ripe body had been putrefied by Rudra’s dishonourably
promiscuous character.
‘I
can hear the sounds of breakage, as though there is no other sound.
Inside my head logs seem to go on crashing forever
The sound of sawing awakens me,
The blood in my veins and arteries feels the felling of trees all night.
Why
are so many trees being felled, why are there so many sounds of breakage?
Is there no other sound on earth, in the world, in the entire universe?
Where is the disintegration taking place? Where? Or is it deep
Within my own self the secret breaking of trust!
From
a sorrowful distance, I call dawn, dawn …
Then does dawn break my dawn on this earth!
Does this town disintegrate, this beloved solitary town of mine?
Then does hope break, the ultimate dream of desire?
The
signs of damage in a flood are wiped out by manmade silt deposits
When does a house remember the grief of a scorching fire?
After the night of danger ended, I built a house again
Will I then all my life, still have to hear this breaking sound?’
Yes, you will have to hear the sounds of
breakage all your life. I will never return to this ruined life of yours. I
sighed deeply on reading the poem. The poem made me weep, but no, poetry and
life were not the same. If to become a poet, one had to sleep with a prostitute
from Banishanta and contract a disease, then I could love the poetry of that
poet, but I could not join my life to his. You have hoodwinked me enough, how
much more Rudra! Taking advantage of my stupidity, do you now want to draw me
close and ruin what little I have left un-spoilt! How much more will you deceive me, do you think I don’t understand your
trickery! Hiding the hell within you,
how you make excuses like a good little boy! The sting of a poisonous snake lay
behind the taste of your kiss, as soon as I unmasked you. I saw the reality of
your hideous similarity. How much more treachery is there? Is this cruel game
of destroying so merciless! The moon, deprived of its fullness, invites the
inauspicious Amavasya, the moonless night, calling out come, come… Mistaking
fireflies for moonlight, I had enjoyed the festivities of the pure darkness of
night, that was my fault, this was how I got enmeshed in a web of sin. Now I
want to be free, want to tear away the ties with my teeth, now I want to live,
I desperately want to breathe pure air. How much more will you trick me, do you
think I do not understand your cunning? Your lips offer a scented smile hiding
the mess in your life. Your past is full of disgrace; your body is full of
filth, a hateful life. Thinking it was like ambrosia, I touched the poisonous
fire. Was this my love, the beautifully arranged and decorated treasure trove
to which I had devoted myself? This is my house, a false home built with
neither clay nor wood. I want to save myself from sure death, I want
unblemished freedom, I want beautiful dreams, and the scent of my heart should
be pure white. ‘But I cannot get this beautiful freedom. I cannot get a
pure, unblemished life.’ Rudra was writing ‘The
Darkness of Remorse’ while being treated for his sickness. But his
penitence did not save me from the disease. I was alone with all my agonies.
Suddenly one day I noticed sores appearing in my private parts. So I had been
infected! I had nursed a tiny hope, that maybe I hadn’t been. Only hope dwells
eternally. In this familiar town it was not possible for me to get myself
tested, or to go to any chemist shop and ask for penicillin injections. It was
not possible for me to inject myself. Not possible to ask anyone else to push
the needle. Seeing the high dose of the penicillin, everyone would get to know
for which disease such a high dose was being given. While Rudra was gradually
regaining his health and his scars were healing, my sores were increasing
slowly, and I was falling sick. I hid this disease in the deep cave of my body.
Nobody should see it, nobody should know about it. A fear clung to me all the
time, wherever I went, whatever I did, this fear did not leave me. In the
nurses’ room in the hospital, there were heaps of penicillin. I was writing
innumerable prescriptions for the various illnesses of the uncountable patients
admitted in the hospital. I was prescribing the names of different kinds of
penicillin and the relations of the patients were bringing the medicines. I was
telling the nurses to administer injections to the patients, in front of my
eyes the nurses were pushing in the needles. But I was unable to take even one
injection for myself. I was unable, to ask any doctor or nurse to give me an
injection, to give me a high dose of penicillin. If instead I had got cancer, or
any other incurable disease, I would have been more relieved, at least I would
have been able to name the illness I was suffering from, I would not have been
ashamed to seek treatment. Who would I tell now what disease I was suffering
from? The thin blade of diffidence was slicing me into pieces. Fear and shame
had tied me up with strong ropes. My boundaries were now reduced, and finally
limited to a spot. But how long could I hide this illness! Even though I knew
that the Canestan ointment would not help, I still purchased it. As I could not
buy the correct medicine for my problem, I bought another. This medicine
reduced the fungal infection it could not destroy such a deadly bacteria like
Triponema Palledum. Even then, I hid the tube in my clothes and entered the
bathroom everyday, as though I was going for a bath or to the toilet. No one
noticed anything, except Ma. I had hidden the ointment under the lower most
mattress on my bed. No one put their hands under this mattress. Even then, Ma
said, “What’s wrong with you, why do you constantly go to the bathroom?”
“Nothing is wrong!” I said, hiding my
pale face.
“Are you sick or something?”
“What are you saying? Why should I be
sick?”
“I think there is something wrong with
you.”
I could not look her in the eye. I let
my palpitating heart remain concealed within me.
The exams were ahead. The students were
studying day and night. I went to college, attended classes. My eyes were on
the professors and their lectures, but my mind was elsewhere, my mind was on my
body. At home I sat with my books before me, but my mind moved away from the
letters in my books towards my body. Something terrible was about to happen to
my body. Treatment was required immediately. But how was I to get that
treatment? Where could I get it? Rudra was sitting in Mongla writing poetry. I
could not even go to
Once Rudra returned from Mongla, I
boarded the bus to
****
The penicillin that was supposed to cure
me was making me worse. In the place of one boil, another five had erupted. The
boils were no more boils, their mouths had burst open, and pus was now traveling
down my pyjamas from the open sores. The pus thickened, from white it turned
black. The smelly pus began to stick. From white it turned to nutty brown. From
nutty to deep brown, from deep brown to reddish, and from red to a blackish
colour. From blackish to black. From black to black as tar. I moved my body
away from other people. I bought attar
and kept applying it to my body so that no one would get the smell. I kept
bright lights on in my room the whole night apparently to study for my exams.
The exams were around the corner. Not just on the table, my books and copies
were scattered in such a way all over my bed that with me and the books there
was no place for Yasmin to lie down. I didn’t want her to find place. I didn’t
want this virus from my body to travel through my pyjamas, to the bedsheets and
pillow-slips, and touch Yasmin. I had a bath not just once, but twice,
sometimes even thrice a day. I said I felt warm. So hot in fact that I couldn’t
stay without bathing repeatedly. The real reason for bathing was to wash my
pyjamas. My pyjamas would get wet with the smelly secretions. Finally I had to
use cotton wool. Even that had to be done secretly. This was because even if I
did not keep track of my periods, Ma did. Every month I suffered lower abdominal
cramps and landed up rolling with pain in bed. So to have my periods minus the
usual accompanying cramps would raise many questions. Yasmin and I were used to
throwing our blood-soaked cloth and cotton wool pads in a closed verandah,
behind the bathroom. Baba would clean that verandah once in a while. He picked
up our bloody pads with his own hands. If any cotton wool minus the blood was
found in this verandah, then Ma would become suspicious. This thought made me
recoil. If I dropped the cotton wool in the toilet, then even several pitchers
of water would not be able to wash it away. It would get stuck midway, and all
the dirty excreta would rise up like a fountain. From my head, surgery,
medicine, gynaecology had all disappeared. In it there now was only one
disease, and how to save myself from it. A disease was emerging out of my head
and spreading in my body, hidden from the public eye.
Everyday I was treating diseases in the
hospital, yet I had a disease myself. I could go to no known doctor with this
disease. The disease was no longer in its first stage; it had already reached
the second. The penicillin injection I had taken had no effect. In the third
stage, this illness would incapacitate the nervous system. To be infected with
neuro-syphilis meant death. I waited for death to come. At night I slept with
death beside me. I woke with death in the morning. I went to college and a
little bit of death accompanied me. I returned from college, so did death. In
the evening I sat on the verandah alone, with my face towards the courtyard. A
little of death sat beside me. In this condition one day I bought penicillin
tablets which could be taken orally. I knew even these would not work, but I
still bought them. Maybe if I took a higher dose, I would get some relief,
however minor. I hid the medicine under the mattress, so that no one would see.
There was a time when if I had fever, I used to secretly throw my medicines
away. I was so scared of taking them and swallowing tablets. Now I secretly
took medicines. Now instead of twelve I had to take seventy-two. But even then
there was no effect. I looked for sleeping tablets in the medicine chest Dada
had left behind, and swallowed them. At least while sleeping one could set
death aside.
But one had to wake up sometime. I had
to face Ma, too. Even if no one else at home noticed, Ma definitely took note
of the fact that I was not my former self. I was lying down with my eyes on the
beams, when Ma came and stopped near the door, “What are you thinking of?”
“No, I am not thinking! I’m just lying
down.”
“Why are you hiding from me?”
I told myself silently, what option do I
have Ma, but to hide?
“Something has happened to you.
Something really bad has happened to you. Something really awful.”
I turned on my side so that I didn’t
have to see Ma’s face. Or so that Ma couldn’t see mine.
Rudra had gone to Mongla again. He was
keeping accounts there of the grains of rice. He counted money. Wrote poetry.
And intermittently worried about me. I wrote back an answer to his anxiety.
Aubokash
16.8.83
Sunshine,
I am returning home with your tiny
letter in my hand, written on the 11th. ‘You do not like anything,
you do not get peace thinking of me’ reading all this makes me laugh. Please
don’t make such statements, a second time over at least not to me. Believe me,
whatever else I can stand, such affectation only makes me burn inside. How many
more fires will you light? I have been on fire ever since and am now reduced to
ashes. Don’t you realise that even a little? Don’t you understand that at all?
You used to complain that I didn’t talk. But now I
talk endlessly, laugh a lot, in fact lately I have been laughing so much that
tears come out of my eyes. There is a sea hiding within my eyes, I have brought
salty sea water with me. This disease that is constantly eating into me, is a
disease which afflicts ruined women who sell themselves cheaply in the bazar. I
thought I was good, I thought I was as beautiful and pure as a flower, that I
had never committed even the smallest sin. Maybe that’s why I am being
punished, for my inordinate pride. A flower too, when a worm eats up its
petals, loses its beauty. After living with mankind’s dislike and negligence,
one day unnoticed by everyone, it just drops dead. No one even feels sad about
it.
I had too many dreams. No one could have seen so
many. The dreams were built on too much trust and love. In front of my eyes I
can see the abode of my desires burning down. Reduced to ashes. Now I am an
ordinary person, with no dreams. There are no expectations in my heart, no
hopes, no desires. I only have the body of a human being. Everything is empty
inside, a vacuum. I feel myself to be quite light. I have no one, nothing, no
worries about the future. Because I want to forget where I am, what I am doing,
I take a Dyzipan. I feel I am floating in the sky, the night sky. There is no
moon, no moonlight, only a deep dark sky.
Trampling over
my parents high expectations of me, crumbling to bits all the ideas my
relatives had had of me, disregarding those who criticised me, I came to you.
What you gave me in return was the greatest thing I have ever got in my life. I
will always treasure this gift of yours.
There is no
deliverance from this. That is why I am neither getting better, nor will I get
better. I am full of big sores all over. Their constant discharge rapidly
changes its character. The black waste-like discharge leaves the body steeped
in a terrible odour. A very complicated, a very big disaster is taking place.
That is very clear.
Now I have
begun to suffer from an inferiority complex. Suddenly I have become very quiet.
I do not speak to anyone. Everyone is studying hard. The exams are approaching.
I am unable to study anything. I do not feel like touching my books.
There is only
that sky. The still night sky. I have no one, nothing, no sorrow, no happiness.
I want to forget. I want oblivion. I want to live without any memories. You
have no idea of my trauma. You cannot understand. Sometimes I am surprised. Am
I human?
Humans at
least have pride, anger, desire for revenge. A human being feels hatred,
contempt, distrust. Can one be left only with a sea of salty waters?
I want to go
away somewhere far. Where there is no one, nothing, no sorrow, no happiness.
Where I can forget everything and live, where my pains don’t torment me so
much. You have no idea what fire you have ignited in me. I know what is about
to happen to my body. You will not understand all this at all. These are
terrible things. These don’t happen to good people; they happen only to fallen women
who sell themselves for a few takas in the bazar.
Dawn.
Aubokash
20.8.83
Sunshine,
I had a great
desire to address you as ‘Sunshine’. Actually this name does not suit you. You
are a man of darkness. You invite a black curse on a brightly lit life. You
paint nightmares over beautiful dreams. You are like the fire in an inferno;
you burn one to ashes. You do not know how to love; you only know how to cheat.
It is a sin to trust you, a sin to love you. This sin has entered my body. I am
burning to death, constantly suffering in agony and pain. I am being destroyed,
you know that at least. How much more destruction is required for death? How
much more? You were the treasure found after a lot of dedication. After a
lifetime of worship I was given a ruined man. Don’t you feel like laughing at
my fate, Sunshine? You must surely be laughing aloud in your mind.
You know,
Sunshine, when you are close to me, it is amazing how I actually want to forget
everything. I have no other shelter, nowhere to go, no place on which I can
turn around and stand … maybe that is why I want to forget … I want to think of
the dreams I had pictured, I want to deny your depraved past. Actually it
doesn’t work that way; it would be playacting with myself. The hurt suppressed
in my breast spreads out like fire. You do not know how to love, that is why
you do not understand what agony this is, how scorching it is.
This whole
evening I have cried my heart out. Even now pain chokes my throat. I can’t take
this. I can’t take this any more. I only see nightmares now, nightmares of
being completely ruined. No more dreams of creation, I only see nightmares of
destruction and breakage. People drown their sorrows in liquor, I need gallons
of it. I need tranquilisers to sleep, I need sedatives. Later maybe just a
little higher dose will do, to kill me.
I have not an
iota of attachment to life, no love; I want to turn to stone, but can’t. In my
eyes, lies a whole sea of salty water.
That night
when you gradually brought your excitement to a tumultuous high-tide, my body
was numb. In these situations, the normal stimulation that sexual organs
undergo did not affect mine. All I could feel was the throbbing ache in my
head. Severe pain. Intense pain.
Why didn’t you
sleep? Because I bothered you? Because you didn’t sleep, did you try all
morning to do so!
Don’t you feel
repentant, Sunshine? Not even a little contrition? Don’t you want to die? Can’t
you take poison and die? Please die, so that I can save myself. Please die, so
that I can get some peace.
Dawn
***
Neither the
injections worked, nor the tablets. There was no other medication mentioned in
the books. I couldn’t go to a doctor even though the medicines were not
working. Let the illness remain; let it worsen as it ultimately would. Such
tough studies were not possible at home, saying which, I packed my clothes and
books and moved into a hostel. I was displaying the courage required to flout
the strictures made by all at home. It was my wish to go. It was not that group
study helped me; not really. I got into Safinaz’s room, which she shared with
three other room mates. In the place for four, there were now five. No one had
any objections. They knew I was a lively person. They knew I could laugh, have
fun. I said wonderful things. My melancholy was as beautiful as my passion.
They knew everything, but no one knew that I was secretly nursing a disease as
well. Living in the world of a medical college, a hospital, where diseases,
medicines and treatment abounded, it was my fate to nurse a disease secretly.
The secretions from the sores would gradually dry up, slowly changing their
hideous appearance, and would swell up yet again with pus without notice. The
disease was playing the game of hide-and-seek with me. So was Rudra. He said
he’d return to
‘I do not know
when I handed you a cup of poison
Which you
accepted as water for your thirst.
When I
delivered death, wrapped in an envelope of life.
I do not know
when I gave you the forbidden fruit mistaking it for grapes.
Night falls,
in the dwelling of the body descends the darkness of death,
In this night there is no moonlight, not even
fireflies.
Only darkness, the deep darkness of disintegration
Only the
shadow of death, hovers in two dreamy eyes.
I don’t know how I mistook the bloody oleander in
my memory for a rose
When I handed over the responsibility for my
hemlock-life
When I pulled
you into my worm-eaten barren past .
Today only the cheerless light of lamentation adorns the evening lamp.
Darkness does
not die in this diseased,
disintegrating dark world of ours.
Yet with the
hope in one’s heart of finding the sun, one takes to the road amidst the
desolate fields.
The deep
desire for life spins its web in the pure heart …
The night sky
still brings with it the dawn of the sun.’
Hostel life was different. There was a time for
study, a time for talk, and time for sleep. There was no way Safinaz would
break any of these regulations. I created chaos as soon as I arrived. My life
was one of indiscipline. Watching so many girls at close quarters, so many
girls collectively in their personal domestic lives, was such a new experience
for me, that I would often leave my books, and chat at sleep time, laugh loudly
at study time, and of course chat again at adda
time. I had seen these girls in aprons all these years at the college or
hospital. Now instead of my studies, I was more interested in watching them
without their aprons. Out of aprons, these girls looked like ordinary girls;
they laughed, cried, threw tantrums, ate, slept, sang songs, danced and read
‘outbook’ kind of things like all girls. They, too, fell in love and had dreams
of their own. I wanted a Rudra-less life now. A life which would allow me to
forget my past! I did not want to be alone. The minute I was alone, a disease
left my body and traveled to my brain. I dreamt of suicide. However, even in
the hostel, one had to be alone sometimes. When this happened, this disease
crawled over my nerves like a caterpillar. Again the nightmare called Rudra
returned. Again the tears rolled down on the words in my letters, wiping them
out.
Hostel
15. 9. ’83
Sunshine,
Since morning I have been in the hostel, chatting.
After eating, everyone has now gone to sleep for a while. I am writing because
I can’t sleep. It seems you are going to write everything to me about yourself,
in great detail. Why? At the end of everything, after having completely
destroyed my life, why do you now need to explain yourself? Couldn’t you have
done so earlier? Why did you take a cover of words? I did not know then the
meaning of the words ruined, darkness, wild, disorganised. Why
didn’t you explain them to me clearly? Why did you play with me for so long
hiding behind an array of words?
What else is left for me to know! What else do I
need to know? What else do you want me to know? Tell me, after all this time,
is there any need for me to know? In how many different ways do you want me to
know about your dissolute life? Believe me, I want to die. As long as I’m
chatting with the girls, I am cheerful, I am well. At home I am alone, my pain
increases. If I had one room to myself in this hostel, I would never go back
home.
Have you expressed doubts about whether you are really
an unforgivable darkness or not? How surprising! Don’t you have any shame?
Don’t you feel even a little ashamed? Are you a human being or an animal? How
come you don’t want to die? If you are not an unforgivable darkness, then what
are you? What else do you want to be? Tell the most benevolent persons in this
world, tell them of your deeds, who will forgive you? Bring one person to me…
bring even one person in this whole country before me, who will say you deserve
to be forgiven, who will say you are not a dissolute darkness. Can you?
I know you are an aesthete. That you write good
poetry is also well known to me. So what? What do you mean by saying I should
judge you differently? How do you think I should observe you? Yes, if you were
no one to me, if you had remained only an artist, then maybe I would have seen
you differently. You could have had affairs with a hundred and eight women,
gone to brothels, had Syphilis, got drunk, taken ganja, drugs… it would not
have bothered me in the least. I would not have been concerned about your
personal life at all. You are an artist. Whatever you create, whatever you
write, I would have only thought about them. But you are my husband. Whether
you are artistic or not, you are my husband. If you think of other women or
write poetry about them, it breaks my heart. You take drugs, you drink, I cry
in sorrow. How much more? You have had love affairs with thousands of women
before marriage; there is no harm in that. But you have spent nights with women
as if they are your wives and you have enjoyed other women’s bodies. Believe
me, this cannot be tolerated. My heart breaks when I hear you saying your
ecstatic love for a girl made you madly want to marry her. You have married me
yet you drink and frequent brothels, things that I had never even imagined.
Girls cannot accept such things, no girl can tolerate this, believe me. If you
get excited, that’s fine, there is nothing unusual about that, you can
masturbate. But why should you go to a prostitute? Why should you insult me so
greatly?
After deceiving me and bringing me along so far,
you have now revealed your true character. This is an insult to my womanhood.
No woman will stand for this. No wife can tolerate this. You have very often
lied to me even on being caught red-handed. Telling lies is something I detest
extremely. Yet you did so easily, you can conceal your true self beautifully!
What any other woman would have done at such a time I do not know. Here the
question of tolerance does not arise. But one thing is definite – no one would
stay with a fraud, in the name of a husband, for even a moment. Either they
would have poisoned you to death, or killed themselves. Or, they would have got
out and regained their original status by some other method. Yet, why I can’t
free myself even now is something I find surprising. What do I lack? Without
you my life will not change by even a jot. Then? Maybe I am actually a coward.
I am worried about what others will say. Yet ironically denying both these
things I loved you. I did not look at your appearance, only your art, I did not
look at your wealth. I only saw your art. I made you completely my own.
Now in our deeply passionate moments when we
reminiscence, you dig out from the past your rotten, putrefied, dissolute life,
and I can’t bear it. What a wonderful disease you have infected me with! It has
developed strong roots and dwells within me. What else do you want to give me?
Hasn’t my life already ended? Where is my future? My dreams are all over, my
desires dead.
You have written,
‘I will write everything, everything.’
What will you write? What will you let me know?
What will I gain by learning about your life? Your life has no single minded
devotion for me, there is no desire for my well-being, no love. You can, after
all, never again become that beautiful person of my dreams!
What will learning about you do for me? What will I
get back? You have never loved me. Only I have stubbornly and obstinately loved
you. You have not been able to love me and turn human. Do you want to give me
respect as your wife only by writing poetry? Do you want to gratify my
womanhood only through your poetry? Could any woman want it in this way?
You don’t understand, because you have never been a
woman, a wife. These things destroy, burn to cinders the mind and heart. I did
not get your love. I did not ensure your well-being for my sake. Then how can
trust remain? Do you want to build a home on distrust and deception?
That is why I tell you, you are wonderful as a
friend. But no woman will tolerate you as a husband. They can’t. Search all
over the world and find me one woman who will tell you – you are an artist, and
so should be judged differently.
If you are so keen to seek the generosity of
others, then how come you didn’t show some generosity yourself? Why didn’t you
marry some heroic woman raped in the war? Why didn’t you marry and rescue a
prostitute? Why didn’t you marry a homeless unfortunate woman abandoned by her
husband, and help society and the country? Show me, marry a dark, ugly
spinster, marry an orphaned beggar girl and show me! Nothing affects me
anymore. Nothing at all about you has any effect on me anymore. But, before you
expect me to be liberal and open hearted, why don’t you show me a little of
your own benevolence?
Dawn.
***
I will not return, Rudra, I told myself mentally. I
will never return. I have bound myself to dwell in silence. Do not, please,
remind me anymore of your dissolute past. Leave me alone. However, Rudra would
not leave me alone. His poetry kept coming and depressing me.
‘Silence is
the name of some melancholy stone ….
Life for her
will never I know return to its pristine
glory.
Never will it
become a heavenly flower, never will there be another dawn,
I know life
will always remain suspended at the conjunction of day and night …
She will
remain always a virgin in flesh and blood.
No more will
she join the procession of disgraced and distressed humanity,
She will never
more take upon herself the wounds, blood and filth of afflicted persons,
I know she will never again go into youthful retreat.
No more will
her hand touch her chin trembling with hurtful anger,
That hand will
never again touch her sorrowing hair.
Her two moist
eyes will no more open with the scent of a breath,
The memory of
stars will live only in the dark interiors of her veins.
She will no
more, I know, be fascinated by the river water
Her raft will
float no more, no more will float even her courageous dreams,
This
fascinating dream-raft will never float on water …
Whose name is
silence? In whose name does she burn in exile?’
When Rudra returned from Mongla, I left for
The doctor
asked, “Where’s the sore?”
Rudra turned
to me and said, “Tell him where the sore is.”
“You tell
him.” I said.
Rudra turned
back to the doctor and said, “In her private parts.”
“When did it
appear? What kind of sore is it?” asked the doctor.
Rudra tried to count the days on his fingertips.
Stopping him and without showing any temper I said, “He is my husband, he had
Syphilis, he has infected me. I had taken penicillin. But I am not getting
well.”
“Oh, that’s
the problem.”
The doctor looked stupidly at us for a long time.
That he had seen us earlier in this area, was evident from his eyes. The doctor
prescribed a blood test. After giving blood; back to
VDRL positive.
Again I had to
take the injections. Not just on one day. On three days.
I returned after three days to Mymensingh. To the
hostel. I did not have to answer anyone’s queries regarding where I had been,
and with whom. In a way a free life. I had desired a free life so much. With it
I would actively participate in the literary and cultural world of
Her heart is
on fire, ignited by the flame of her exile.
Engulfing her
life in flames today, dawn is going into exile
Igniting her
body today, dawn is going into exile
Engulfing the
world in darkness, dawn is going into exile …
The secret plunderer has torn out the essence of the flower.
Termites have
taken over the blue starry skies,
The colourful
kite has been torn by a hamlet in the sky,
The useless
string drifts back, as does the heartful of broken dreams.
The killer
time is standing holding the cup of poison …
In these two naked eyes burns the harmful waste,
Time has
placed in these hands limitless filth,
In life’s
blood and flesh, seething darkness
.
A deep
moonless night, she still dared to touch,
In darkness today her lonely city of dreams has burned,
In darkness
has burned her blue sky of trust.
To this
dreamless, burnt homestead, burnt room … who will bring her back?’
Not just poetry. I sat down to reply to Rudra’s
many letters written in quick succession. His sores having healed, Rudra was
now a man desperately dreaming again of home and family. As soon as his sores
healed, he had forgotten that between us now there may not be a disease, but
there was the memory of the disease. Between us remained a burning distrust.
Something I could not forget.
Aubokash
8.10.83
Sunshine,
I came home this afternoon. It is not possible for
me to stay anywhere but at home. I can stay away, at the most, only for a day
or two. Ultimately I couldn’t stay even in the hostel. In reality, the
atmosphere I have been accustomed to all my life, I find difficult to change in
a hurry. Lying on a bed, and studying my texts at a table, did not allow me to
progress in life. There was so much of adda,
so much of fun. But still my life did not seem to move on. I need to spread
myself out or recoil into myself when and how I want to. I have a lot to read
outside of academic texts, a lot to do. I have to write. Inside my head two
lakh ideas and thoughts dance around chaotically, I have to be left alone in
absolute silence.
Leaving all the hassles and troubles and the
hundred and eight odd jobs aside I have to turn melancholic… this has been an
eternal habit of mine. That is why I could never adjust myself to any place
except home. Here I have my own personal tangled, untidy lifestyle. I alone am
its lord and master. On this bed covered untidily with my varied books, paper
and dust, I make place for myself to sleep on the edge, and the night passes in
deep slumber. Yet on other beautifully decorated, neat, tidy beds, I did not
get even a moment of sleep. Uncomfortable, I would toss and turn to get through
the painful nights.
There is no surety of my finding books and copies,
I can never find anything. One would be in the sky the other in the underworld.
One at this end, the other at that. And yet I can study. I can study with great
concentration for a short period of time.
It is not that everyone at home loves me greatly,
is very fond of me, and favourably considers my requirements, my conveniences
and inconveniences. No one does that. I possibly exist as an unaccountable,
un-required person in this house. It is true that if I died now, no one in this
house would drop a tear, and it would not bother anyone. At home I am thought
of as someone who has sinned excessively. Lately I have not allowed myself to
be affected by all this. Now I do not ask for any favours from anyone as I had
done earlier, the beloved daughter of the family. I do not complain about
anything. I am grateful to everyone that I have now got time to myself and that
I now also have the unbridled freedom to explore the world of my rambling
thoughts for a greater length of time. Actually the simple disciplined life of
the hostel gave me claustrophobia. I was like a wild bird in a cage, who wanted
to escape back to the wilds.
I feel exactly the same about your room. Maximum
two days, after that I find everything intolerable. In fact even you, your
behaviour, your conversation, everything.
The way you are able to control yourself after
taking me to the ultimate heights, is something I am unable to do. That is why
in ignorance the ultimate of mistakes was committed by me. Of course by this I
have also gained one thing. That is, I now feel immense disgust for these
things. I can now quite easily control all my other normal desires. This has
proved very beneficial for me. However, apart from the benefits, I have also
incurred loss, the consequences of which I will experience in my very bones, in
a few days. Kindly at least save me from those in whatever way you possibly
can. If I can rely on you even a little I will be at peace.
Bas, I do not
want anything else. There is no point running between
I had told you long ago that in my excitement I did
things rashly for which I have to repent all my life. That is true. If you want
an example I will tell you. I wrote letters to you, I fell in love with you, I
married you, I went to your home, I surrendered myself … sometimes I question
myself, to whom did I surrender? Should I answer this question? From all around
arise loud signs of laughter, ha… ha…
I don’t know the correct answer to this. People say
when the straightforward people turn crooked, there is no escape. I sometimes
feel like turning crooked for once. I feel like messing up, breaking into bits
your beautifully constructed dream once. For once, I feel like burning up your
household. As much as you have broken me, and made me cry, I wish to make you
cry. I want to burn you in this agonizing fire. Why shouldn’t I want to, tell
me? I am a human being, not a God. And because I’m not a God, I will not go to
your room. Beautifully arranged life, tidy and orderly affairs, going home, the
marriage ceremony, social obligations, long stays, resting after meals, work at
the Dhaka press, buying utensils, cooking, eating at home, coming home
routinely, going to sleep with your wife at night … all this I will not allow
to happen. I do not want that a bird of happiness should so easily fall prey
into the hands of a man like you. Why should I hoodwink everyone at home, all
my friends and relatives, for you? Why should I leave my favourite carefree
lifestyle of so many years and go away like a mad woman in love? What have you
given me and what will you give me in exchange for which I can dare to go away
with you? What reason will you give? That one signed marriage document! Exactly
the same kind of document can be obtained for a talaqnama. You must know that. If you say we have had a long
association, I will say it was a mistake. From the beginning the whole thing
was a mistake on my part. It was something done rashly in excitement.
I am a human being, not a God. And so I made a
mistake. But I have the courage also to free myself from that mistake. Let a
little courage remain with me. Forget all your plans and ideas. I have accepted
my adverse circumstances as best as I can. I like being on my own now. There is
great pleasure in saving oneself from all the enmity around. Here I am not
beholden to anyone. No one worries about me, and nor do I worry about any one. Bas, life is passing by beautifully.
You have not been able to become the lover for whom
this beloved would leave home. You have not even gained the stature of a
husband, for whom this obedient wife would keep home devotedly. You have not
even become the kind of human being for whom I would put my life at stake.
In my own room, more than in yours, there may not
be happiness, but there is peace. I still sleep well. Staying away from you, I
can forget my mistakes. In whatever way I live, I will be okay. I can give you
at least this assurance. I do not need to go anywhere. I have come back home. I
have come back to my parents, brothers and sister … but that is not it. I have
come back to myself. And for the rest of my life, I will remain with myself. In
this world no one can love me more than I can love myself. No one is as close
to me as I am to myself.
You will please forget me. Many unfortunate
incidents have taken place, don’t try to create anymore. Kindly forget me and
let me save myself.
I am human. And because I am human I want to live
long.
Dawn.
***
When I was concentrating on living, Rudra came to
Mymensingh. He came, but nothing was as before. Our earlier meetings, our
swaying in the breeze of love, our looking into each others’ eyes without
speaking, without words, nothing of this kind happened. The poem which he wrote
sitting in Masood’s house, he posted to me while returning to
‘Love will make you return, the dew in your eyes at
The deep wound in your heart, the burnt moon will
bring you back.
The gloomy clouds of Ashwin will call for love,
Dreams will make you return, heavenly flower,
flower of the earth.
Your life will
make you return, this life, the forbidden fruit of heaven,
These eyes will make you return, the eyes whetted by fire,
Your hands will make you return, these hands, with
their skilful creations,
Your graceful body will make you return, your pure
body of sterling gold.
The sleepless owl of the night will make you
return,
To the left of your breast lies a black coffin
stuffed with pain,
The frothy foam will make you return,
The longing for the limitless sea,
The eyes fragrantly moist, the blue fly will make
you return.
This poison-ivy will lovingly guide your path,
The dead flowers of the horsinghar will lie strewn
on your path,
A solitary burning ember will always make you
return,
After touching death, repentant darkness will bring
back the dawn.’
Exile was not for me. Triponema Palledum, however
strong it was, did not have the strength to diminish even a little of my love
for Rudra. Possibly in one’s life one can only love once, not several times.
For no one else did so much pain gather in my breast, for no one else did tears
fall so readily from my eyes! It was only my love for Rudra that brought me
back, nothing else. I could only be defeated by my love for him. I wished
desperately to hate Rudra, but I couldn’t. Every word in his poems blew away
that wish into the wind far and wide. Watching the sun set with wet eyes, I
thought of a new day. The day which would dawn tomorrow, wiping out all the
darkness, surely that day would be very different.
CHAPTER XIX
Forbidden Fences
Why were
things forbidden! Just so that one could stay safe, right? My connection to
such matters had now been snapped for life. Why then were orders forbidding me
given? For what reasons was I to obey these orders that my parents passed? I
had nothing to fear from them anymore. Something had happened in my life that
was much greater than those reasons for fear. There was nothing left for me to
remain alert. What benefit was there in imposing those prohibitions! I had
crossed the forbidden fences. Not to eat grass but to take Rudra to Aubokash. Let everyone see the man I
loved. After all, let them know, now what they would ultimately have to know
one day. The day my medical studies would be over I would have to spend the
rest of my life with him. Rudra was taken home not for any introductions to be
made. My classmates constantly visited me at Aubokash. Not just friends, senior class brothers too dropped in to
give advice, and juniors to take advice. Aubokash
was not out of bounds for anyone anymore. Possibly, Baba did grit his teeth
secretly on seeing some of them, but never in their presence. He displayed
disinterest, but had never been able to tell anyone on their face to leave, the
teacher-student relationship creating a formidable barrier. Some of the credit
for this went to me as well. From my first year of Medical itself, I had little
by little made the presence of students in the house a normal practice. Only
for Rudra there was an unwritten ban. I was especially fearful regarding Rudra.
This fear of mine suddenly diminished, that was why my heart did not tremble
while flouting the ban. Yasmin was at home. So was Ma, but none of them got the
time to meet Rudra. He did not even get to drink a cup of tea. He did not get
the chance other boys did, to sit and chat with me over a cup of tea. This was
because Baba arrived. At this hour of
The tar was
melting on the roads. I caught up with Rudra walking in the direction of
Golpukur Par. Rudra was fuming with anger. That I had come to him flouting a
ban, that I had chosen him out of the painful choice between my family and
Rudra, that this choice was such a big step for me to take, was possibly
something he had no idea of. That I had forcefully rejected the one person that
I respected the most, the one person who had helped in shaping my life, that I
had dared to disobey an order from that person, for the first time in my life
that I had ignored his bloodshot eyes, and had dashed his pride with one blow
from its peak to the ground, that I had reduced his honour to dust and
shattered his dreams into pieces, were obviously facts beyond Rudra’s
comprehension, for he said, “Did you take me home to be insulted!” No I had not
done so. I had no idea Baba would come home so suddenly and unexpectedly! You
are the one who wanted to visit Aubokash,
and meet Baba! You did, didn’t you! Of course, you did! Taking a rickshaw from
the melting streets of Golpukur Par, the two of us headed towards the bus
stand. I was not prepared at all to go to
Right at the back of the bus, on the seat next to Rudra’s, a man was discussing politics with the passenger sitting next to him. Gradually, Rudra too entered into this discussion. That the Ershad government would fall, he was sure, all the bus passengers too were sure of this. The discussion moved from politics to the market prices. From the price of rice, daal, oil, salt to the price of fish and meat, and how at this rate of inflation, all the food stuff would soon be out of the reach of the common man. Only after people had expressed their agitation and distress did this discussion end. After this, they started a discussion about the character of man. Honesty and dishonesty. Some time was spent on this too. Since the man sitting next to him agreed almost hundred percent with Rudra’s opinions, he kept looking at him with great delight. Now the kind of questions normally asked while traveling in buses and trains were directed towards Rudra, “Well, brother, where do you stay?”
“My home is
in
“Do you stay in Mymensingh?”
“No. I stay
in
“Oh. Then how is she related to you?”
“She is my wife.”
“Is your in-laws’ home in Mymensingh?”
“Yes.”
“Well, brother, what do you do? I mean what kind of job, service …”
“I write.”
“Meaning?”
“I write.”
“You write?”
“I write poetry.”
“You write poetry?” The man laughed, very amused. By turns his eyes narrowed with curiosity and widened in great astonishment. The alternately small and big eyes were fixed on Rudra’s eyes, on Rudra’s peaceful eyes, on his moss covered eyes.
This time the man maintained eye contact, pronounced each word separately, but made sure both his voice and mind were being expressed loud and clear, and that not a single word escaped through any gap, and said, “I have understood that you write poetry, so does my son, but what is your profession?”
“My profession is writing poetry,” Rudra replied in very calm tones.
The man had possibly heard such a reply for the first time. Without continuing the conversation any further, he looked out of the window for the rest of the journey.
Rudra had told me also ages ago that he was not interested in working anywhere. He wanted to make poetry his profession. Why a poet’s profession was not given importance in this country even today, was beyond his comprehension.
“It isn’t considered as a good profession because you can’t earn money with it. Tell me, how much do you get for one poem? Twenty taka, twenty five taka, at the most fifty taka, that’s it, right? Can you manage board and lodging within this?
“The respect due to poets has to grow.”
“Who will help it grow?”
“The publishers.”
“If they don’t, what will you do?”
“I will agitate. I will not give them my poems.”
“If you don’t, they’ll merely take them from those who charge less or write for free.”
No one would write for free.
I too wrote, but I had never thought of earning money through my writing. I felt ashamed to think of my poems existing in exchange for something. You give me poems, I will give you love. That was fine. But give me money, only then I will write for you, poems were an item of barter! If that was so then I felt poems would be no different from onions and garlic. Money was something that always slipped through my fingers, if I gave away my poetry for money, the same would happen to them; they would slip away.
Even if I was unable to persuade Rudra to become a ‘lover’ in spite of hundreds of pleas, I was able to make him take the MA exam. Initially he was not allowed to take the exam, but finally after major requests and solicitations to the V.C. he was able to do so. Though there was no future in this country even if you qualified as an M.A. I cajoled him saying that as he had entered the University, he now should exit it, as whenever one got into something, one had to also get out of it. Since it was not seemly to get out through a window, it would be better to exit through the main door. He did so undoubtedly, but his dream of taking up poetry as a profession did not wane either.
When the bus stopped at Mahakhali, we took a rickshaw to Muhammedpur. Late in the evening we went out. Standing in the Chitrashashi compound, Rudra looked out for friends to adda with. In the darkness of dusk, while standing in the grounds drinking tea, we met friends. Writer friends, poet friends, journalist friends, actor friends, politician friends, singers, and friends with no occupation. One invariably met someone or the other. Rudra now introduced me as his wife, and I did not object. We were living in the same house, we had flouted Baba’s commands, what need was there for any more diffidence! At the end of our adda, while returning home, we purchased two plates, four tea cups, two glasses, two small pans, rice, daal, oil, eggs, salt, tea-leaves, sugar etc. Rudra laughed and said, “Our first household shopping.” He was sick of eating in restaurants. From now on, meals would be cooked at home, and eaten at home. But who was going to do the cooking! I had never cooked before, but even if I hadn’t I would now have to do it. He wanted to be a family man from now on. No more for him the ‘outside’, the ‘roaming around’, and the “undisciplined life”. I was unable to tell him that I didn’t know how to cook, that the very next morning I would have to return to Mymensingh. I had classes, very important classes and that there were exams, very difficult ones. In order to inaugurate our domestic life, the rice I made remained undercooked, the daal I prepared with spices borrowed from the neighbours was placed on the stove to cook, but turned into something else. Finally I fried eggs to save face. Rudra delighted with even this meal, caressed me at night. Whenever Rudra touched me, my body went numb. All self-control, resistance, will-power, reason – everything got destroyed. I flowed like water into the vessel called Rudra. Was this love or custom and tradition, I questioned myself. Just because gradually people were getting to know of my marriage, whether on paper or in my mind, and because once married you could never reverse it, and because people said one should spend the rest of one’s life with one’s husband, whatever compromises it entailed, like ten other good girls did, was that it! Was that why I was unable to move away from Rudra, in spite of knowing everything? Or was there a very simple, straightforward reason, that I loved him. Did I really follow traditions so much? If I did, I would not have made friends with Habibullah, because friendships between boys and girls were not customary. If I did, then my relationship with Rudra also would not have withstood the test. After all, Rudra was neither a doctor nor an engineer, something the husband of a doctor girl was bound to be, in fact, should be, according to everyone, meaning my relatives, neighbours, people whom I knew and didn’t know. Instead I had ignored that custom and had declared my love for a man like Rudra, who could provide neither food nor shelter. Seeing his sexual pleasure and satisfaction after intercourse, I wondered whether Rudra really loved me. If he did, how could he touch the bodies of other women? I couldn’t do it. When Habibullah stared at me continuously with eyes full of love, I didn’t feel the need to touch him and see. Even if a handsome man like Habibullah were to stand naked before me, I would not feel any desire for him. The body was not very far from the mind. These thoughts were exclusively mine, even if I wished to push them far away, they did not move even an inch.
I returned to Mymensingh. Ma asked, “Where were you?” I did not reply.
Where I went, or didn’t, where I stayed or didn’t, was no business of anybody’s, I declared. I made it very clear.
“Why don’t you get out of the house? Go and stay with the man you spent the night with.”
“When it is time, I will. No one has to tell me to do so.”
Ma was cursing, but she was at least talking to me. Baba did not speak. He deliberately did not cross even my shadow. He did not pay my rickshaw fare for college. Seven days passed by, but Baba did not relent. That I was a person living in the house, Baba pretended not to know or else he had forgotten. After seven days, Ma mumbled to him in the morning, “Is she to give up going to college and sit at home. At least leave the rickshaw fare for her.”
Throwing a look at Ma which could kill, he said angrily, “Tell her to get out of the house. She has no right to live in my house any more.”
Directed at me, Baba continued to shoot one poisonous arrow after another. “Who has told her to stay in my house? Who is that man? Where is he from? What does he do? How dare the girl bring this man home? How dare she walk out of the house with him, in front of my eyes! What is she doing in my house? Should I kick her out of the house or will she go herself?”
Once Baba had left, Ma told me, “Now look what you have done, now face the music. See how you have destroyed your life. Your father will never again pay for your education. Your medical studies are over. Your father had a great dream that at least one of his daughters would become a doctor. It’s all over.”
I sat and heard the lamentations because, “It was all over.”
Sitting next to me at night, Ma said softly, “What is the name of the man with whom you went? Is it Rudra? Have you married him?”
I got up and left without answering. Ma followed me and said, “If you haven’t married him then say so. I will tell your father. He might soften a bit.”
I began to feel claustrophobic in the atmosphere at home. Everyone’s eyes were watching me. Eyes of hatred! Eyes of suspicion, distrust. It was as though I was not the same person, I was crazy, and was sitting at home having lost my mental balance. Purposely I left the house and went out. I went wherever my two eyes took me. I was turning blue with attacks of anxiety and uncertainty. At that time, Ma temporarily found a solution to my problem. Ma personally went to Notun Bazar and caught hold of a green coconut-seller. Not Rashid, someone else. Selling the coconuts on her two trees, she gave me the money to go to college. She gave me the money, but she also asked me to ask forgiveness of Baba for my wrong doings, to promise him never to do anything wrong ever again, and then ask for money to regularly attend college and hospital. No, I didn’t do that. I wrote to Rudra explaining the circumstances at home. I also asked him to send me some money. Rudra sent a money order on receiving my letter. One thousand taka. This money removed every worry surrounding me to distances far away. The money was not spent on transport alone. As soon as it was evening, I took Yasmin and sat in a hooded rickshaw, dropped our mandatory odhnas from over our heads, and roamed all over town. There was a strange joy in this roaming around. We were like two free birds that had just that moment broken free of our restrictions. If we wanted to eat malaikari, we would stop immediately at the Sri Krishna sweet shop, and even ate rasgollas floating on top of curd. Baba had not sent biscuits in a long time. Going to the store, I picked up a pound of biscuits and went home. Ma wanted to go to Peerbari, she didn’t have the rickshaw fare. I generously gave her five taka. When there was nothing but daal and rice at home, I would take Yasmin and go to a restaurant at Ganginar Par and eat meat and rice, sometimes even visit the new Chinese restaurant.
Baba noticed that I was going to college, and yet was not asking him for money. He also noticed that even if he did not arrange for any food at home beyond daal and rice, yet no one was still handing him a list of groceries to be bought. All this caused his pride and arrogance to take a beating. He called Ma and asked her “Who gives that girl money to go to college? Do you?”
“Where do I have the money to give her? Do you give me any money to spend?”
“Then where has she got it from?”
“How do I know?”
“What do you mean you don’t know? Don’t you need to know?”
“How will it help to know? You have stopped giving her money. So she has to arrange for it herself! She must have done so.”
“How did she arrange it? From whom?”
“Why don’t you ask her yourself? Why have you stopped talking to her? Can all problems be solved by not talking?”
“I told her to leave my house, why hasn’t she done so?”
“Where would she go?”
“Let her go to the guy she’s taking money from.”
“You will be happy if she does that, right? Now you don’t have to give any money to Noman and Kamaal. You don’t ever give me anything, anyway. Now you can’t even bear to give the little you were giving the two girls. You want to enjoy all your money yourself, sure, go ahead. If not today, someday the girls will leave this house. So why do you want to shoo them away right now? If you want the house to be vacated, say so, we’ll all leave. Stay by yourself.”
Baba did not make any reply. He looked at the courtyard with vacant eyes. Baba could have called Yasmin and said, “Now you alone are my dream. You must now uphold my honour.” But that possibility was also dim at that moment. Yasmin, the scholarship student, the first class SSC with star-studded marks in chemistry, had secured only a second class in her intermediate. After extinguishing Baba’s lamp of hope, and treating it triflingly, Yasmin had started saying, after her results were declared, “Actually it was Debnath sir who is responsible for my poor results.”
Debnath
Pandit had not come home and tutored Yasmin, as he had done for me. He had
taught her in a group. If you had to tutor a hundred students, there was no
option but to teach in groups. Left on the edge of one such group, Yasmin had
not understood a word of Math. I, of course, felt that the two new members of
the house, Haseena and Suhrid, had excited her so much that she had not
concentrated on her books at all. When I had asked her to sit down and study,
she had scolded and brushed me aside. Baba said she had studied but not
seriously. With a second class, there was no way she could get admission in
At home, affection for Yasmin lessened. Of course, not as far as Ma was concerned. Ma said, “No education is bad. If you studied hard, all education was good.”
Baba turned up his nose on hearing this and said, “What is this illiterate woman talking about!”
Ma turned around and said, “Why, Sulekha did not study medicine. She passed her MA, and is now working as the G.M. of a bank.”
Baba laughed sarcastically. Trying to move away from Baba’s scorn, Ma proceeded towards the kitchen, but he stopped her and said, “Tell me, what does G. M. stand for?”
“A big officer.”
I, too, laughed mockingly.
Ma went away to the kitchen. That room was Ma’s only salvation, she knew that, and so did we. I advised Yasmin to take up Honours in some good branch of life sciences. She sat swaying in her chair, her feet on the table.
“Physics?”
“Impossible.”
“Why impossible?”
“It’s tough.”
“Then chemistry. You got a letter in your SSC.”
“No. Chemistry is also tough.”
“Then Math?”
“The question does not arise.”
“Take Zoology.”
“No.”
“Then do one thing.”
“What?”
“Give up studies.”
Yasmin’s studies were in a way almost over. She didn’t look as though she had any desire to take up books ever again. When she returned, after filling up her form for the improvement exam, Dada had come on a two-day visit from Bongura. He said, “Come along and visit Bongura.” Yasmin excitedly went off to Bongura for a holiday. The pain in Yasmin’s shoulders and knees thanks to Dada and Haseena’s bounty had not yet healed. After that incident in the courtyard, we had stopped talking to both Dada and Haseena. I still didn’t, but Yasmin had begun to talk to them, though only in the abstract. When Dada returned with Yasmin to Mymensingh, Baba called his eldest son, and sat close to him.
“How do you like it in Bongura?”
“Good.”
“How good?”
“The company pays the house rent.”
“What kind of house do you have?”
“Not bad. There are three rooms. Drawing, bed, dining.”
“Do you have a courtyard?”
“No, there is none, why should there be? It is an apartment building, after all.”
“Do you do your own shopping? How are the prices of goods there?”
“Well, the prices are a little high there.”
“Does all your money get spent in household expenses?”
“Well, there are expenses, some of it does go.”
“How much could you be possibly earning as a representative?”
“I am not a representative anymore, I became a supervisor ages ago.”
“What’s the difference?”
“The touring is less.”
“Are you saving any money for the future?”
“A little.”
“You go around spraying perfume all over your body like an aristocrat; you are spending as much money as you wish. How can you save?”
“Where’s the perfume? I don’t buy any, nowadays.”
“Why do you stay away, leaving your own home?”
“I have to work.”
“Leave that job and return to Mymensingh. I am giving Arogya Bitaan to you. Work in the medicine business. If you work hard in your business, you will earn much more money than you are getting in your job.”
After a long four-hour meeting, decision was taken that Dada would leave his job at the Fisons’ company and look after his father’s business. He went back to Bongura. After a month or so, he returned with wife, child, belongings, everything except the job of his choice. After Dada had left for Bongura with his job, Baba had purchased new furniture, a TV, fridge, and other stuff. Dada’s room was not vacant any more for him to land all his own furniture in it. The huge dining table and the locked glass almirah for keeping crockery was kept in Dada’s earlier bedroom. On Baba’s direction, their huge bed, almirah, dressing table, clothes stand etc. were arranged in one of the two tin sheds in the courtyard, and he began to stay there with his wife and son. After their return, I had nothing to say to Dada and Haseena, except to reply ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ to their questions. Only if absolutely necessary, two or three words were exchanged, but only in the abstract. An expert in talking without addressing anyone, this was not too difficult for me. Baba had rented two rooms next to Arogya Bitaan. He had in turn rented out one of them to a businessman selling beddings, and he had converted the other into separate chambers for himself. Dada was in charge of Arogya Bitaan, the pharmacy. In Baba’s hands were the patients to be treated; in Dada’s was the business. To develop the business, Baba generously put a few lakhs into Dada’s hands.
My expenses were met with Rudra’s money. Baba did not even look back to see if I required anything or not. He had no enthusiasm regarding me anymore. I had gone to the dogs, I had torn my way out of all restraints, I had crossed all forbidden fences, I was not myself anymore, I was ruined. He had no more hopes for me. This Baba, I used to think, had dedicated his life to making me a doctor. Yet, because I had walked out in protest, against his insulting Rudra and throwing him out of the house and had not returned home one night he had almost turned me into a forsaken daughter! His castle of dreams for me had disintegrated! How easily it had collapsed! What a fragile dream he had lived with! It was not as if I had told anyone I had any relationship with Rudra, or that I had married him, or that I did not care for them all! If I had told them, I could understand him losing his sense of good and evil and doing what he had done. I was very upset with Baba’s attitude. I felt that in this whole world, the only person close to me was Rudra.
Rudra came
to Mymensingh. We roamed around the whole town in a hooded rickshaw. Let people
see us. If the news reached Baba, let it, what more was I scared of! Rudra
demanded that I spend the night with him at a hotel. In a dingy area of
Mymensingh, he had rented a room in a hotel called Shastaneer, in Chhotobazar.
It was fearful climbing the dark staircase. In a damp small room on the fourth
floor, in which only a single cot fitted, I entered looking for a breath of
fresh air, I did not get it. The air was heavy, laden with the stench of urine
and the smell of mucous and spit. There was no window in the room that I could
open. The bed sheet, pillow cases and even the tiny toilet, appeared to be
crawling with the Syphilis virus, which if touched, would climb up one’s body
like a scorpion. My body revolted. “Tell them to change the sheets on the bed.
To change the pillows. I’m feeling sick. Let’s go to some other better hotel,”
I said. No, Rudra would do no such thing. He pulled me to the bed. He pulled my
clothes off me. He climbed onto me naked. My mind was on the dirty sheets,
dirty pillows. Rudra enjoyed my body which was cringing with fear. He lit a
cigarette after it was over. In the stuffy room the cigarette smell mixed with
all the other existent smells. Nausea rose up from my intestines to my throat.
My head spun. Rudra said, “Let’s go to
“My ward-ending exams are two days away.”
“Forget the ward-ending. Nothing will happen if you do not appear for them.”
That something
would happen, I knew. Knowing this, I still packed two extra dresses in my bag,
and went out to catch the afternoon bus. Ma called from behind, “Where are you
going?” To
As soon as
dawn appeared, I became restless to return to Mymensingh. “What is there to get
so impatient about? Stay on for another two days.” I stayed two more days.
After two days, Rudra’s stay in
“I need some money.”
“Is the money I sent you over?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I didn’t keep accounts.”
“How can you afford to be such a spendthrift?”
My head automatically bent. The way it did when asking Baba for money, exactly in the same way. My eyes were lowered. In front of Baba, too, my eyes remained lowered.
“How much do you need now? How much will suffice?”
I picked at my nails. The nails of my fingers. The nails of my toes.
“Will three hundred do?”
“Yes, it will.”
I took the money though I felt very ashamed to do so. I felt I was an irritation. I could not stand tall. I was spineless. I felt like I was a parasite. My shame would not go. I wished I did not have to take money from anyone. If only I could earn my own keep! I wished I could raise my head lowered in shame even a little!
When I
returned to Mymensingh, Ma said, “Who were you staying with in
“No.”
“Then in whose house?”
I didn’t say anything.
Ma said, “I don’t know which path you are treading! What is in your fate! You don’t believe in Allah Khuda. You do what you wish. The guy who is enticing you into leaving the house, will you be happy with him? Leave him even now. Spare a thought for everyone. Think of your parents, your brothers and sister. There are so many doctor-boys who want to marry you. You don’t give any of them any attention. Who you are going around with now, only you know. Don’t ruin your life. Go and tell your father, you will reform and mend your ways. You will listen to him. Your father will pay for all your expenses. You still have time to talk to him, speak to him.”
Passing Ma by, I took my apron from the clothes stand, and left for the hospital.
****
I couldn’t be a spendthrift from now. I could not now leave money in the bathroom, on windows, tables and beds like I left my gold ornaments. I made a book into an accounts register, and made the entries – two days rickshaw fare – twelve taka, nuts – one taka, tea – three taka, comb – one taka, pen – two taka, paper – five taka … after which I never wrote in it again. The accounts register could also never be found again. Almost every evening, when the heat of the sun would go down, I would leave my study table and tell Yasmin, “Let’s go, let’s spend sometime outside.” Yasmin would leap up at the thought of going out. Ma kept saying, “She has ruined herself, now she will ruin Yasmin.”
Chapter XX
Woman
In the fifth
year, there was only one thing to be done from morning to night, and that was
study. I was unable to escape from that. The whole day was spent at the
hospital and now there were classes at night as well. The Professors taught
during the day, they taught even at night. Not just the Professors, even
seniors who had just qualified as doctors, came to teach. Rajib Ahmed came to
teach in the Medicine Department. Rajib Ahmed had come first this time as well;
he had stood first in the fifth year, from amongst all the medical colleges
affiliated to
I was on duty
in the Gynaecology Department, all night. From eight in the night to eight in
the morning. For this
‘Today women spread out their wares over a wide
space, not their bodies, not their beauty, before them laid out in the dust are
their merchandise, the pumpkin, parwals, gourds, greens, and aubergines from
the fields. Someone in the distance plays a sad, discordant tune on his pipe.
Someone’s wife, someone’s sister, or even someone else’s mother, you know very
well, have doffed their ghomtas from their heads, and have wiped the
traditional lime off the customary paan. Famine has descended on the nation,
the devilish strength in our bodies is treacherous, it has a huge shark like
mouth, it pulls out the roots of the mustard plants. The unlucky scarcity sucks
up the favourite scent of rice, and militant animals grab with two hands the
shades of tranquillity. Snatching sleep from the nights, destroying any dreams
of the future in a flaming house, having lost one’s ancestral land, a
handicapped soul only cries within a burnt body. At the door of this dark life
knocks illuminated hunger. Misshapen, shameless hunger dances madly shaking its
odd hands and legs. These destitute women who work hard physically for a meal,
aim an arrow at the body of hunger. Not dressed in multi-coloured saris with
paint on their faces, but extremely simply, they stand with courage on the
footpaths of the city, these virtuous beauties, selling not their bodies
cheaply, but these proud women are selling milk, bananas and beaten-rice.’
The life of a
woman beckoned me. Women made me think constantly. I perpetually experienced
the sorrows and pains of women. The pain that I had suffered in my life was the
pain of a woman. Was the pain mine alone? I knew it had to be the pain of
thousands of other women.
‘A gentle virgin, her face lowered modestly on her
wedding day, trembles in fear of an unknown happiness, her body blue with
uncertainty of the future. The shehnai stops playing, the night deepens, the
bride’s voice faints, what will the man come and say in this silent, empty
room! The husband in place of God locks the door and looks with slanted eyes at
the desirable, untouched flesh of the young modest girl’s body. He who had
uncovered many times, many such bodies in the prohibited areas, now wrote the
fate of this woman with the ink of his practiced hand. The unknowing innocent
virgin’s dreams and desires shatter, her heart is filled with sorrow, was this
how it happened, was this the way of the world? A ghoulish exultation beats
into dust the body, and kills desire and the bride accepts her greatest marital
gift by contracting a secret disease. Within a year, the woman gives birth to a
physically handicapped child. The poison of the complicated disease announces
its arrival in her body by lighting a fire! The name of the disease is
Syphilis, it comes through the blood and lodges itself within, tearing the soft
purity, and its poisonous talons tear the flesh and bones. The cruelty of the
night eats into the sun of life and extinguishes the dawn. The incurable black
sin consumes the woman untimely, snatching away years of her life. The lifeless
muscles of the legs and arms lie spread out, both deaf and dumb, some demon has
struck her – that is what people are always told.’
I was obsessed
with women. I was obsessed with their distress.
‘The girl had no father, no property, she was very
young. The whole village was full of talk that her mother would give her a
stake in the old house. No one took the girl, I hear even the flute-player was
interested in a dowry, then who would come forth? A senile old man wore the
bridegroom’s attire. He suffered from asthma, four wives slept in his house
freely. The girl looked around in distress searching only for a safe shelter.
Where was the bridal chamber? All her dreams shattered into pieces. Her youth
was wasted, defeated in her battle with fate.’
Ma too was a
woman. For the first time I felt her pains and sorrows.
‘She had tried verbally, she had even resorted to
Tabiz and Kabaj in order to get him to return, but the husband did not come
back. One was not enough for him, how strange was such a character. In great
joy the amorous Nawab danced. Alone in her room the woman’s tears flowed like a
river, she offered money endlessly at the Mazaars, she became a Peer’s disciple
and turned away from the world, within her heart a mountain of pain gathered,
her mind was disturbed. With an imaginary trust, the twisted nerves tried to
display an appearance of happiness. Visiting the Peer, prostrating herself at
the Mazaar, the sad woman searched for her next life, not having been fated to
attain happiness in this one. In order to fill her empty life, she immersed
herself in Khuda and Namaz. Finding her dreams unattainable in this world, the
woman finally closed her two eyes on this distasteful life.’
One day, late
in the evening, I was returning from the hospital with Safinaz on a rickshaw.
As soon as we turned right from Ganginar Par, she said in a hushed voice,
“There goes a prostitute.” “What are you saying?” I protested. “That’s an
ordinary girl.” Safinaz laughed on hearing me. I saw them very often on the
streets, I had never thought of them as fallen women. Poor girls, wearing cheap
saris, they may have painted their face out of some fancy. Such fancies any
girl could have. I did not feel any hatred for these girls, called prostitutes,
on the street. Instead a strange kind of sympathy was born in me.
‘With no one in her family, the girl experiences as
soon as she grows up, how the ferocious hand of scarcity digs into life and
tears it apart. Housewives seeing her young figure do not invite danger by
employing her. With hunger gnawing at her entrails, fate directs woman to the
wrong path. If a woman is able to beg at doors she can still survive, if she
finds stations or courts she can sleep, hidden amidst the crowds. Wicked men
wink and laugh at these women. Enticing them with the promise of food, they
trick them under the cover of darkness. No family, no one anywhere, with only
dreams of food, the woman forgets her shame and joins hands with the pimp.’
Everyday,
women made me think. I didn’t think even one woman was happy. Not even those
who were dancing, singing and wearing wonderful clothes.
****
‘The father has cancer, and is at death’s door. All
near and dear ones have turned their eyes away, and pulled back their helping
hands. There was no working member; the tiny siblings were starving morn and
night. The woman stepped out on her tender feet in search of work. In such a
big capital city, where office buildings touched the sky, the woman was unable
to reap a harvest in the fields of this city in her hour of need. Wherever an
offer was made, her body was asked for in exchange. In this crowded life of
duality, there were no human beings; everyone was fake. The scent of flesh made
the foxes and vultures attack. Hanging on to a straw, the woman saved her life
in the high tide. There was no ground for her to stand on, the river broke its
banks in the tumultuous storm.
Tying a handkerchief around his neck, the city
Romeo makes the woman forget. Under the cover of bushes, the woman passes
sleepless nights, learning to love. Mistaking the flames of destruction for
love, she melts like wax. The innocent virgin takes her lover’s hand and leaves
behind her community. Having no idea of the wicked world, she is shocked! After
having run far away, she discovers an ugly face under the mask of the lover.
With no well-wisher around, she is caught in a clever trap. Blinded by love the
young woman had not learnt to recognise reality. In a dark alley, the boy sold
beautiful bodies at high prices. All the high minded scholars of our society
blame fate. All night the flesh trade goes on, bargains are made. They are our
sisters. In exchange for money, they gratify a little. The bodies of my country
women float in the sewers. The dangerous grip of the night chews away desire
and leaves poison. Who are those who have forcibly poured poison into these
mouths? Are they born to experience the pain of death throughout their lives?’
Many more
faces of women floated before my eyes, many more women continued to make me
cry.
‘The baby in arms cries, her body is covered with
pus and sores, there is no milk in her breasts, the jobless woman asks for
affection at every door. She asks for work, in exchange for a meal at night.
She wants education for her child, and wants the security of health care at
hand. Are not children dying yearly of hunger and disease? Every month husbands
appear, and raise their fangs, like cobras. They pour the poison of children
into the grown bodies and secretly escape. Every woman is keen to taste the
security of a safe haven. Not alone, but in a gang one must break down these
citadels.’
***
I wanted to
write everyday about women’s traumas. However, the complicated study of
medicine took up most of my time. By the time I came home from college after
classes in the evening and rested a little, it was time to go back to the
hospital. It was not possible to remain involved with women everyday. This was
not like studying at a desk, where one could once in a while move one’s eyes
away and look at something else. I had to run to the hospital in the day and at
night. One had to examine patients, and test them in order to study. One could
not become a doctor by only reading books; one had to read one’s patients. Just
as in medicine, Rajib took our extra classes, in the gynae department Hira took
them. Hira had been in this department of female diseases and obstetrics for a
very long time. She had not herself obtained any great degrees, but was number
one in Gynaecology. Many of the professors were not as expert in surgery as she
was. Hira got innumerable patients as well. Many said Hira’s practice was
better than Zobayed Hussain’s. That might have been an exaggeration, but that
Hira earned more than the college assistant professors, associate professors,
registrar and clinical assistants, of this, there was no doubt. In medicine
there was a Prabhakar Purkayastha, whatever else he was, at least he was no
tiger. The sight of Zobayed Hussain made both tigers and goats drink from the
same stream; he was so scary. Just like Enayet Kabir in surgery. These two did
not need to scold or grit their teeth while speaking; their presence was enough
to chill the bones of students. Zobayed Hussain was six feet tall,
bespectacled, he wore loose shirts and pants, a long apron, and spoke in the
***
Into the
obstetrics department’s delivery room flowed a continuous stream of mothers of
different ages. Some for the first child, some for the second, some even for
the seventh child to be born. The mothers screamed in pain and agony. I advised
them to bear down in a particular way. This pressure would cause the water bag
to come down, once the bag was pierced, the baby would begin its journey into
this world. I prayed that this journey was auspicious, and kept my ears and
eyes open, to detect the sound of the heartbeat regarding which there should be
no doubts. I cleared all obstacles in the baby’s journey. However, whenever,
whether the first, second or third arrival of a baby occurred, if it was a
girl-child, the baby’s mother invariably began to wail. Outside the room, when I
informed the waiting relatives of the arrival of a girl, in front of my eyes
the faces were transformed with gloom. How undesirable was the arrival of a
girl-child, was something I witnessed almost everyday. Only after giving birth
to seven sons, someone might want a daughter, but such people could be counted
on one’s fingers. Relatives of the mother crowded outside the delivery room
fervently praying and hoping that it would not be a girl, not a girl, they
wanted a boy, a boy. To stop the young wails of a twenty-one year old woman who
had given birth to a girl-child, I had said, “Being a woman yourself, you do
not desire a girl-child, chchi, what
a shame!”
The woman told
me in a low tone, “I will be given talaq, if that happens, where will I go?”
“Why should
you be given talaq? You have given birth to a beautiful, healthy baby. You
should be happy. Distribute sweets to everyone.”
“I have given
birth to a girl, Apa. I am unlucky.”
The girl was
crying cry her heart out. The walls of the delivery room seemed to echo her
words ‘I am unlucky’, ‘I am unlucky.’ Pressing my hands to my ears, I came out.
For doctors,
to-be-doctors, nurses, baskets of sweets would arrive outside the delivery
room. This would happen always to celebrate the birth of a boy-child. I waited
to see the contentment of a couple after the birth of a girl-child. I never saw
it.
“So what if
it’s a girl. Girls are better than boys. They are the ones who look after their
parents. Educate your daughter, send her to school and college, your daughter
will become a doctor like me. Please do not feel unhappy.” No matter how often
I tried to say all this to prevent the distressed women from crying, they cried
even more. They cried their hearts out in the delivery room. The flower of the
womb had been shed, but innumerable thorns remained embedded within. Only when
a son was born, did the face clear up from the birth pangs and express a
peaceful smile and there was laughter in the delivery room, and outside it.
Everyday I left the delivery room with more agony in my heart than was
experienced at the time of delivery. The ugly face of society was slowly
becoming clear to me as my awareness increased. Who was I, why was I, were
questions which began to rotate in my head like one rotated the beads of the
tasbih. I could not find any difference between an unwanted girl-child, an
unhappy woman bewailing the birth of a girl-child in the delivery room, and
myself.
Just when my
hands were itching to tear up the customs of society, I dealt Lily a strong
blow on her cheek. I slapped her because she had not come to ask me what I
wanted, even after I had called her four times. I then pushed Lily, who was
embarrassed by the slap out of the door saying, “Go and get me tea
immediately.” Silently weeping, Lily, who was a ten year old girl, went towards
her mother who was carrying a pile of dirty vessels from the kitchen to the tap
area, to tell her I wanted tea. Lily’s mother lowered the pile, and put the
water for tea on the stove. Walking slowly, so that the smoking tea did not
spill, Lily came and left the cup on my table. A soiled half-pant was covering
her; she was naked chest upwards, with dust uptill her knees, on her nose was a
two paise worth tin nose-ring. While drinking my tea, I was trying to write a
poem on the birth of a girl-child, and did not want anyone to enter the room
and break my concentration at that time. Ma, however, not only entered, but in
a bitter tone said, “Just because you are becoming a doctor, don’t you think of
people as human beings? You have such a temper!”
“Why, what has
happened?” I asked in irritation.
“You hit this
little girl. Was it right beat her like this? The girl’s cheek is still red.”
“I called her
many times. Why didn’t she come?”
“Maybe she
didn’t hear. May be she was too far away. Just because of that, you’ll beat
her? A poor child, she has no father. Her mother works in people’s houses to
fill her stomach. The kid is sent on errands, she runs and does them. What she
does is already too much. Her mother is working day and night. Do not beat poor
people. Do not make Allah unhappy. Allah will punish you for it. You don’t
believe in religion. You don’t believe in Allah. I don’t know what is in your
fate!”
Ma moved away.
After a couple of minutes she returned, pushing the poems on women towards me,
from amidst the scattered papers on my table. She said, “On one hand you write
poems about girls, on the other, you raise your hand on them! What is the use
of writing all this then?”
My hands were
on the white paper. On it were two lines of poetry with several scratches. My
eyes were on the two lines. My mind elsewhere.
CHAPTER XXI
Another Day at Peerbari
I had another occasion to visit Peerbari. Not with Ma this time, but with three friends. The hostel girls had expressed their desire to organize a Milad, celebrating the birth anniversary of the Holy Prophet. Theirs was a strange desire, considering girls studying medicine hardly had the time to sing “Allahumma Salillulah,” and would find no reason to sing thus. Strange though it was, since the desire was there, the need for a learned Maulvi had arisen. The girls looked everywhere for a Maulvi but in vain. Finally they came to me, I was the local girl, I might know someone. I gave my word I would find a Maulvi, and in my zeal even said that I would find a Lady-Maulvi for them. In the girls’ hostel, a Lady-Maulvi would come and recite the Milad for them. What could be a better proposal? However, since I did not believe in Allah Rasool, Milad and Masjids, I would not participate in it, except to partake of the Milad sweets. To join in that “Allahumma Salillulah Sayednay” was not my cup of tea. Well if that was my stand, so be it. Safinaz, Halida and Parul set off with me. In two rickshaws, the four of us reached Naumahal. I was visiting Peerbari after many years. On this visit as an adult the place gave me the same creeps it did when I was a child. It was as though I was entering not some place on earth, but some world beyond it. In this world everyone stared wide-eyed at us. Ignoring the looks, we entered the inner apartments looking for Fajli khala. I noticed that Fajli khala was not very surprised to see me. It was as though one day I would have had to come anyway. I told Fajli khala, because she was my khala, and also because although everyone else was crazy in this house, she was a little less, that we needed a Lady-Maulvi, this very evening. She would have to recite the Milad in the hostel for the girls. This invitation should have evoked a smile on Fajli khala’s face, because in the whole town, this was the one place, in this Peerbari, where Lady-Maulvis were bred, and there was a demand for them in the market. Many came to request for a Lady-Maulvi and others might also come. Standing before Fajli khala’s unsurprised, displeased face, I hurried her on; we needed someone immediately, we had no time. Any woman would do, Humaira or Sufaira or any one at all. Fajli khala was not surprised even by this proposal of mine, but she did laugh. Maybe she laughed because I had mentioned the names of her two daughters. Fajli khala was as beautiful as ever before. Her laugh, too, was as unadulterated. Even before her smile faded away, Humaira arrived. The layers of fat on Humaira’s stomach seemed about to burst out of the light dress she was wearing. Her head was covered with a big odhna. Humaira’s odhna-covered head nodded when we said we needed a Lady-Maulvi. This Humaira had made sure she married her own excellent lover, a first cousin, even though it entailed bringing him from Medinipur. She achieved this when all the young girls in Peerbari were sacrificing their marriages, family life, children etc. in order to dedicate themselves to the path of Allah, as the Peer had himself announced that there was no point in marriage at the end of one’s life. But this Humaira, being the grand-daughter of the Peer, had been the first to disobey the Peer’s announcement, and had done so just when she had reached a marriageable age. On the other hand, in order to obey the Peer’s orders, a whole group of young women older than Humaira, remained unmarried. Thanks to Humaira, Allah’s instructions changed overnight for all those coming to the Peer, and stood at the point where Allah now wanted everyone at the end of their lives to choose their partners as fast as possible. If the followers married at the end of their lives, Allahtala would be very pleased. Allahtala obviously changed His decrees rather often. The decisions were taken according to the conveniences of the members of the household at Peerbari. Hearing our wish Humaira said, “That’s okay, I’ll arrange for it; you’ll get what you want.” Instructing us to wait, she went into the inner wing of the female quarters. Fajli khala, too, disappeared. Maybe Humaira herself was going to wear a burkha and come with us. But after we had been waiting for almost twenty-five minutes, she did not arrive in a burkha to accompany us, instead, she took us with her to Peer Amirullah himself, and entered his own room. Peer Amirullah was sitting on the bed wearing a loose white garment and a white cap. His henna covered beard shook as he used his head to welcome us into the room. Humaira remained standing at one side. Apart from the Peer there was also the Peer’s daughter, Zohra, and some other unmarried girls in the room. The reason for pushing us into this room was not very clear to me. I guessed that to get a Lady-Maulvi, just Fajli khala and Humaira’s permission was not enough, I had to personally request Peer Amirullah himself. Once we got his permission our job would be done. However, once we entered the room, Peer Amirullah did not want to know why we had come. I had doubts whether he knew at all the purpose of our visit to this house. Speaking completely out of context, if no one else, he shocked me, Safinaz, Halida and Parul, and said, “Well, have you realized that it is not so easy to follow Allah’s path? Those who have been able to give up the material pleasures, for them Allahtala has arranged for the highest honour in the next world.” From the mouths of others in the room, the cries, ‘Aah Aah’ arose. The desire for that highest honour was in that ‘Aah’ word. Worldly studies, temporary families, the web of illusion – only those who could tear themselves out of this net, could expect this kind of honour in their next life. Every detail of this was described, and he did not forget to describe in frightening, horrifying detail Allah’s punishments reserved for those who were sunk in worldly pleasures. The delineation was lengthy; the explanation even more so. Safinaz, Halida and Parul were looking at me with questioning eyes, not being able to understand what was happening. They kept whispering, “Let’s go, let’s go. It’s getting late.” Even I was unable to understand why we were being made to stand here, and being given knowledge about the whole saga of Allah’s punishments and rewards. I tried to indicate to Humaira that we had no time to spare for all this. We had come for a Lady-Maulvi, not to hear a sermon. Humaira did not even notice my hints and gestures. I felt really embarrassed before my friends. I had brought them to this house tempting them with the hope of getting a Lady-Maulvi, but now I could clearly see we were stuck. Peer Amirullah glanced at us once in a while, the rest of the time he looked at the floor, or the ceiling, at the trees in the courtyard or at the unmarried girls and continued singing Allahtala’s praises. It was as though the words were not coming out of a human mouth, but out of the mouth of a robot. Every word in the Quran Hadith had been memorized by Amirullah, internalized and was on his lips at all times, the way an examinee would study the texts in his syllabus before an examination. The words were spewing out of Amirullah’s mouth like sparks of fire touching our bodies. Suddenly it felt as though the man was not Amirullah, but Allahtala himself. As if this room was not a room at all, it was the congregation on Doomsday, where four sinners were being judged by Allahtala. When the endless speech caused the Peer Amirullah to foam at the mouth, Humaira played a cassette. In the cassette, too, could be heard the words of the Quran Hadith in the voice of Amirullah. The same words, the same language, the same tune. I had meanwhile glanced several times at my watch. I had many times asked permission to leave. Humaira had scolded in a subdued tone, “Why are you so impatient when listening to the words of Allah? You must listen with extreme patience to the words of Allahtala. You have come to Allah’s path. Now you must shake off the devil from your mind. It is the devil who turns your mind away from Allah.” This statement clarified what she was thinking. All eyes in the house were directed at us, the eyes knew we had left the ‘worldly life’ and joined the ‘path of Allah’. Even if we hadn’t, since we had entered this house, every effort was being made to brainwash us with holy water into joining this path. The hours were passing, one hour passed, and another. I could see the astonishment, irritation and immense despair on the faces of Safinaz and Halida. I felt creepy. I felt the way I did when at one time I was scared of ghosts. I kept thinking that none of the people in this house were really human. I looked desperately for a way to leave this ghostly house and run. But until the explanation of Amirullah regarding the Quran Hadith on the cassette ended, Humaira would not let me get up. We were tied by invisible chains. I could make out that the day would pass like this, as would the night. When one cassette finished, another one was played. Every exit out of this damp, blind alley of Allahtala had been closed. We were dying of hunger. The evening was passing, as was the time for the Milad in the hostel. We had our backs to the wall for a long time. Our breathing was becoming faster. This time in the middle of the mechanical discourse, I got up suddenly and moved towards the door. The quicker one could escape this ghostly world the better. This was something which I knew well, and so did my two fast feet. Many in the courtyard stared wide-eyed and whispered, “Hamima Apa’s daughter has joined Allah’s path. She does not want to pursue her worldly studies anymore. She will now regularly come here to listen to the Quran Hadith.” I listened to these weird statements. “How sensible girls have become. They are leaving medicine. All those who leave the ways of the world, are never sent away by Huzoor.” Not heeding Humaira’s orders and advice, we ran out of the room. Behind us Humaira screamed, “They came to the path of Allah, yet the devil sits on their shoulders. This was all hoodwinking.” In the courtyard, we encountered Fajli khala. She was amazed, “Why are you going away?” she asked.
“I came to take some lady who could read the Milad to us. Why don’t you tell us whether someone is available or not!”
There was no reply. It was as if Fajli khala was hearing for the first time that the hostel girls desired to have a Milad read by a Lady-Maulvi, or that even if she had heard she hadn’t understood, or that she didn’t think the true reason for entering that house was a Lady-Maulvi. After getting out of the female-quarters, I breathed easy. I realized very acutely my stupidity in having expected to enter the tiger’s den and to take its own milk.
The small rooms that had been made after clearing the jungle were rented by people who had joined Allah’s path to stay in. One of these rooms had been rented by Runu khala. I didn’t initially recognise the woman who was standing, holding on to the door, as Runu khala. She had now given up wearing saris, and was wearing the pyjama-dress worn by the inmates of this house. A huge odhna covered Runu khala’s head and chest. I could not believe this was the same Runu khala who used to wear anklets and sing and dance all over the place, the B.A. pass woman, who had had a love affair and had run away to get married. I couldn’t believe that this woman within Peerbari, standing with an empty, vacant appearance, was the same Runu khala. This Runu khala looked as if she had spent her whole life in the dark alleys of Allah and was someone who did not have a very colourful past. Rashu khalu had worked as an accountant for the Mymensingh Municipal Corporation. Against that sharply pointed pant and pumpshoe wearing Rashu khalu, were charges of financial bungling, and embezzlement of huge funds from the office. Rashu khalu lost his job. After that, he had joined Allah’s path along with his wife and daughter. Now he looked for jobs, but didn’t get any. He now brought his share of money from the Begunbari harvest sales, and stayed in town, joining Allah’s path. He offered namaz five times. He had a big black mark on his forehead. The mark had developed as a result of him beating his head on the floor while offering namaz. Runu khala’s daughter Moli, had had her name changed to Motia in this Peerbari. Changing names was an old ritual in this house. Ma’s name, Idulwara was swept aside and changed to Hamima Rahman. Ma was known as Hamima in this Peerbari. Runu khala’s tiny frock-wearing daughter was now covered from head to toe. Taken away from school, Moli was now placed in the Madrassa in Peerbari to read the Quran. Runu khala had had a son as well. His stomach swelled up like a drum, and one day he died. The incantations and blowings of the Peer did not work nor did any worldly medicines. When Runu Khala pulled me into her tin shed and urged, “Will you eat something? Eat some vermicelli pudding? I’ll make some,” I said no. I felt great sympathy for Runu khala. I looked at Fajli khala’s in-law’s house behind me. The pond in front of the house had been filled up with earth. The lychee tree was also not there anymore. There was no jungle now, no fear of ghosts and spooks, but I felt the house was even more haunted than before. Humaira was now the right-hand person for the Peer. Sufaira had married one of the Peer’s disciples and become a housewife. Mobashera was of course not there. Mobashera’s younger sister, Attia had measles and died unexpectedly one day. Attia was very beautiful to look at. Ma had brought five year old Attia to Aubokash for two days. In those two days Dada had taught her to dance the twist, saying ‘my name is Attia Gilbert.’ All wickedness had been removed from Attia’s head after she was brought back to this house. Attia had many younger sisters. I had only heard their names from Ma though I did not recognize them. In spite of being so closely related, we were unable to meet because of one reason: we were ‘worldly people’, and they were people following the ‘Path of Allah’. I felt great pity for all the inhabitants of this house. In Allah’s path there was a lot of delusion and deceit. We had been deceived into waiting a whole afternoon. We were hoodwinked into hearing the message of Allah-Rasool. We were promised a Lady-Maulvi, but the promise was not kept. This path of Allah was rather full of lies. Not only did we not get a Lady-Maulvi, we had wasted so much time. If we had been told at the outset that we could not get a Lady-Maulvi, we would have returned. Instead we were given the hope and made to wait, only to be brainwashed. I didn’t know about others, but was sure myself that where my head was concerned, it would never again get brainwashed. Safinaz, Halida and Parul could not comprehend what my connection was to this world. I felt ashamed in front of them. They had had no idea about this town’s weird Peerbari and the strange world within it.
I told Ma
about the incident. Ma said, “Why did you go to that house looking for a
Lady-Maulvi to read the Milad? None of them go outside that area. Whatever they
do they do it within their compound area.” That was true. They had no contact
with any Masjid or Madrassa even, beyond the Peerbari area. Even people outside
the Peerbari who believed in Allah Rasool, did not have any contact with them.
Nana was himself a Haji. He had gone all the way to
***
The fact that four doctors-to-be in search of a Lady-Maulvi had failed to have been successfully initiated into following Allah’s path was not news that had been publicly disseminated. But in that ‘area’ at least, people had had the opportunity to say that nowadays even the eyes of doctors and engineers had opened, they had understood that being involved in worldly affairs would not give them any reward in their afterlife. Hence they were now trying to adopt Allah’s path. I did not listen to all this meaningless talk. But the news that I heard at Peerbari which shocked me was that Peer Amirullah had got married. He had married a girl forty years younger than him. One of the unmarried girls.
“Ki Ma, doesn’t he already have a wife? Why did he marry again?” There was a crooked smile on my lips.
Ma hesitated to reply, haltingly she said, “My sister’s mother-in-law has become old, and she can’t look after the father-in-law any more.”
“There is a houseful of people to look after him. Do you have to get married to be cared for?”
The father-in-law now has to be helped to the toilet. At night too he has to be taken out of his room. You do need someone to clean up all this!”
“Why, there is no dearth of maids in that house; they can do all this. The house is also full of his grandchildren. They too can help.”
“Don’t they have their own work?”
“What is all this you are saying! The work of the Peer is their main task. By working for the Peer, they actually work for Allah.”
“At night they all sleep.”
“Does your Huzoor go to the toilet all through the night?”
“Don’t talk nonsense.”
“They both stay in the same room. They sleep on the same bed, don’t they? It is not that his new bride only cleans his excreta.”
Ma was embarrassed. I was sure Ma, too, had not found any justification for the Peer’s marriage so late in life. Even though she hadn’t, taking the Peer’s side was kind of Ma’s duty.
“Don’t speak so sourly about a renowned follower of Allah. It will be a sin,” said Ma.
Sin, sin, sin. I had been hearing this word ‘sin’ for years. At one time the word sin frightened me a lot, later I felt angry over the word, now I felt neither fear nor anger.
“Let it be a sin, if it is a sin that will be good. I will go to dozakh, hell, if I sin. If I go to dozakh, I will be able to meet your favourites Dilip Kumar, Madhubala, your Uttam Kumar and Suchitra Sen. Your Chhabi Biswas and Pahari Sanyal. And you, who will go to behesht, you will get to see all the Muslim fanatics. You will meet the wicked scoundrel Mollahs, four-times married. They are hunting people, creating jealousy, backbiting and killing people. They are committing 108 rapes, troubling their wives, beating them, but because they are chanting Allah, Allah the whole day, they go to behesht. What happiness will you get living with these devils! It’s better to commit sins and put your name down in the list for dozakh. There you will find world famous scientists like Einstein, you will find Nelson Mandela, great singers, actors, and you will enjoy their company. In heaven you will find Baba romancing seventy-two virgins of paradise. And you have got this one Baba, who has never looked back at you all your life. You are unable to stand Baba’s relationship with one Razia Begum, how will you stand Baba’s relationships with seventy-two of them in heaven? What happiness are you seeking in your wish to go to Heaven? For what do you observe Rozas and Namaz?”
Ma looked at me with helpless eyes. Thinking of my future, her two eyes were full of fear.
“Don’t you fear Allah even a little?” Ma asked in a petrified voice.
I laughed aloud. Laughing I said, “What is the good work Allah is doing, that I should fear Him? Women’s status is way below the men’s; this is Allah’s own statement. Just because men earn money, women have to live in subjugation to them. Allah hasn’t said that if today women earn money, men will have to live in subjugation!
“What is all this you are saying, Nasreen? You have lost your faith!” Ma’s eyes were wide.
In front of the bursting eyes, I also burst. In a voice of sarcasm and hatred I continued to speak.
“I do not know, how being a woman yourself, you accept so many insults to women. Men can follow the Quran Hadith, and they are given respect. As a woman how do you accept it? How can you accept that you are of lesser status? Why do you accept that your husband has the right to beat you up, that your brother will get all your father’s property, while you have no right to it. How do you accept that a man just by saying talaq can divorce his wife? Why do you not have the right to say ‘talaq’. How can you accept you will not get the seventy-two nymphs in heaven, only your husband will, just because he’s a man! If you are a witness in court, your sole witness will not do, two women witnesses are required. Yet a single man’s witness is acceptable, two men are not required. Men as a race will live happily in this life and in the next as well. For you, for me, for all women, Allah reserves suffering in this world and the next. This is the justice of your Allah. What makes you prostrate yourself before this Allah?”
Sobbing and sniveling, Ma stopped me. She held me in both arms and said, “Whatever you have said, that’s enough, don’t say anymore. Now go and do your ablutions, and ask Allah to pardon you.”
“Why should I ask pardon? I have not done anything wrong.”
***
Ma was sure I would burn in the fires of dozakh. Ma did not see me anymore when she looked at me; she only saw the blazing inferno in which I was burning. I was drinking rotten pus and blood. I was being bitten all over by snakes and scorpions. The sun had come down to within an arms length from my head. I was being immersed in boiling water. Imagining this heart rending sight, Ma in her fear not only sobbed, she wailed like a two-and-a-half year old baby.
Chapter XXII
Awakening
Just before the exams, Baba himself came and spoke
to me, “Study really hard. There is no way out.”
That there was no way out even I knew. I had taken
a holiday from poetry ages ago. Now disease and patients filled my days, not
just my days, but nights as well. From hospital to home, from home to hospital,
that was how most of the days passed, and the nights passed, without sleep. Ma
would bring hot milk for me. The milk remained untouched and got spoilt. Ma
would say, “Drink the milk, you will understand your books better if you do.” I
would be racking my brains over my books and Ma would come pussy-footed so that
no sound may break my concentration and apply cold oil to my head. She would
whisper, “Your head will remain cool.”
Living with all the disease and illness, I would
think, so much must be happening in the world outside, only I have no news of
it. Once in a while I would push my chair away and get up, and stretch myself
standing in the fresh air in the courtyard. Life in Aubokash carried on the way it always had. There were highs and
lows. Good and bad. Happiness and sorrow. Suhrid had learnt to walk, run and
talk. He had learnt to love all members of the house. Of course, one thing he
had not learnt, even though he was taught, was to think of his parents as his
own. He had not learnt to go to them, or to go to
“What will you do studying Botany?”
“I will become a Botanist,” was Yasmin’s
imaginative reply.
“Yes I suppose you will become a gardener. Ha Ha.”
Even though Yasmin did not actually become a
gardener, she became something very similar. The plants in the house would be
growing well, but seeing their leaves she would say, this plant has this
disease, that plant has that one.
“What are the medicines for these diseases? Will
you feed them antibiotics?”
I was no less than Baba in humiliating Yasmin.
However, it was not clear how humiliated she really felt because the exuberance
she had shown the first few days after joining the Botany classes, had slowly
begun to ebb. Everyday her friends circle increased like water-hyacinths. She
was always visiting her friends. She was very popular in the colony as well.
She had invitations all the year round for Bhaiphota,
the special day for all brothers, weddings, birthdays, all the thirteen
festivals over the twelve months. I was never invited.
“Why don’t they call me?”
“You don’t know how to mix with people, so they
don’t invite,” pat would come the reply.
My boundaries were much more restricted than
Yasmin’s. For Suhrid’s birthday, Chhotda bought a twelve pound cake from
***
Haseena still carried on like she did earlier with
her “Why does Suhrid have this, why doesn’t Shubho have it, why is Suhrid
getting more love and care, why is Shubho getting less …”, constantly
complaining, moaning and groaning. For Id, Baba gave everyone at home money to
buy their own clothes. He gave the same amount to Suhrid and Shubho. Yasmin and
I got the same. Geeta and Haseena got equal amounts. As did Dada and Chhotda.
Lily, Lily’s mother, Nargis and Jharna also got the same sum each. Ma was given
nothing. Chhotda would give Ma, one or two cotton saris a year as she was
looking after his son. Almost like giving wages for labour. I did not celebrate
Id as I used to earlier. In fact, on Id I didn’t even wear new clothes. I
somehow found all the rituals of Id rather meaningless – the cow sacrifice, the
new clothes, the pulao, meat, saffron vermicelli. The only thing I liked was
sitting outside with a bucket full of meat, and distributing it to the hundreds
of beggars who crowded the black gate. Dada was the most enthusiastic about
cutting and dividing the meat sitting in the inner verandah. That was what he
did the whole day long. After keeping the best meat for ourselves, our rich
neighbours, and relatives, the lean, boney leftovers were given to the beggars.
There was nothing which could be called bad for the beggars; Saying
‘Shukurallahmadulillah’, they pounced on whatever they could get.
***
Rozas came and went. Since I did not believe in
them, I never kept the fasts. At sunset, I would partake of the Iftar snacks
and drinks served to break the day’s fast, because I liked them. Of course I
didn’t have the patience to wait for the siren. Very tasty savouries like onion
pakoras, aubergine pakoras and fried gram were arranged on the table. So I
didn’t resist the temptation. I was amazed at Baba. Known as a kafir,
non-believer at Peerbari, someone who did not offer the namaz, and showed no
interest in the Quran Hadith etc. he actually kept roza for the whole month of
Ramadan. I never got to ask Baba why he kept the roza, I believed Baba did so
in order to become one of the community. Since everyone of his age kept the roza,
he did, too. He observed this ritual in order to carry on life free of
questions and problems. Dada, too, kept rozas, although like Baba he too
offered only the namaz for Id. Chhotda went for the Id namaz, but the rest of
the year there was no mention of namaz, or of rozas. Haseena believed in Allah,
in namaz and rozas, but did not keep any fasts, because she had yet to put on
any weight. She was scared that if she kept rozas, then the skin on her bones
might disintegrate in a shower. The Ershad government had started a new system,
whereby all food stalls would remain shut during the daytime for roza. This was
quite crazy, did everyone observe rozas! There were so many coolies, porters
and labourers who if they got no food in the afternoon, would not be able to
work. What would they do if they were hungry? One had to think of the Hindus,
Christians and Buddhists as well! Also about the atheists. The country was not
only for the Muslims. Even the Muslims here did not all observe the rozas. How
could one close down the eating places! I of course kept a chewing gum in my
mouth during the rozas as a mark of protest. I chewed gum the whole day. I went
frequently to the college canteen and drank cups of tea. Since the canteen was
within the college premises, the police did not come and check; a blessing,
indeed. The Jamait-e-Islam party was very happy with Ershad’s new rule, but
some who were secular, voiced their objections. Ershad was however not one to
listen to anyone’s objections. He wanted to stay in power at all costs.
Believing that if he showed humility in the face of the Muslim religious
majority, the majority would applaud him, and he governed the country
accordingly. I had never felt that Ershad was a religious man. Although he put
on a serious face and talked of religion, introduced something called national
religion in the constitution, declared that national religion to be Islam and
destroyed the secular constitution, I felt he was deceiving his countrymen, and
wanted to make fools of them. He only wanted the votes of the illiterate,
unlettered, god-fearing masses; he had no other motive.
***
Baba told me that I could not afford to get
involved in religion and politics. When the exams came close, he shook me awake
at three or four at night to study. I would also scramble out of bed and sit at
my study table. Even at that time of night, Ma made tea for me in a flask, and
came and left it on the table. As soon as the written exams were over, Baba got
busy finding out who were coming from other medical colleges as examiners for
the viva. He found out whether he knew them, whether they were his students, or
whether they were his classmates. His enquiries got him the information that
some of them were at some time his students. To only these people, he went with
a hesitant, embarrassed face and wringing hands, to tell them his daughter was
taking the exam, to please “look after her.” Looking after meant please don’t
willfully give her low marks. Actually no one could make one pass. They
couldn’t because the responsibility of making one pass was not in one person’s
hands. The request to look after was so that one didn’t willfully fail you. It
was not that all the Internal Examiners were happy with me. Because I did not
Salaam and greet them, most of the professors knew me as “disrespectful.”
Whatever the case, the exams carried on for a long time. Baba remained anxious
for this whole length of time. Having feared for ages that I wouldn’t pass,
with a trembling heart, dry throat, feeling constantly thirsty and wanting to
go to the toilet, I finally took my viva voce. The viva voce did not seem like
an exam. It felt as though I was crossing a bridge. As though I was walking on
a slender rope. If I tilted a little I would tumble amidst snakes, scorpions
and a blazing fire. Studying from a good student like Rajib Ahmed’s copious
notes on medical science could help one take a written exam, but my anxiety
about the viva kept taking away the words from my mouth. Whatever little I
knew, too seemed to evaporate like camphor from my brain. That was how I faced
the viva. Inside the ward, the professors sat at a huge table amidst rows of
patients. The professors did not seem like professors, each one appeared like
Ajrael, the angel of death. Whose throat was being cut, it was difficult for
anyone to fathom. The exams were over, but I still didn’t know whether my head
was still on my shoulders or not.
***
I was wild about going to
“Jharna, where’s Shubho?”
“Shubho’s playing.”
‘Why is he playing? It is now time for Shubho to
sleep! Why hasn’t Ma put Shubho to sleep?”
Instead of 1.30 in the afternoon, it was
Haseena’s voice was harsh, “If this is the state of
affairs, I will not be able to go to college. I will have to stay at home and
bring up the baby.”
Haseena did not go to college the next day.
“Ki
Shubho’s mother, won’t you go to college?” Ma asked.
“Nah! I
am not feeling well today,” saying which, Haseena spent the whole day lying
down. In the evening she took Shubho from Ma’s lap sat with him in her room
sporting a sad face.
Those days Baba would return home and call Haseena,
“Bouma, Bouma,” and find out how her classes were progressing, and whether she
was studying well or not.
That evening, with a gloomy face Haseena told Baba,
“I wasn’t able to go to college.”
“What do you mean by you couldn’t go? Why couldn’t
you?” Excitedly, Baba took off his spectacles.
“I have to look after Shubho, that’s why. Jharna
can’t, after all, bathe and feed Shubho as well.”
“Isn’t Shubho’s Dadi there to do all that?”
Haseena heaved a deep sigh, “No, Ma doesn’t get
anytime. Ma has to look after Suhrid.”
“Go and call that hussy.”
“Which hussy? Lily’s mother?”
Baba barked, “Why should you call Lily’s mother?
Don’t you have any brains? Call Noman’s mother.”
Haseena called Ma. There was a lustrous smile on
her lips.
Gritting his teeth, Baba told Ma, “The boy’s mother
goes to college, if you don’t look after him, who will?”
“I do look after him,” said Ma in a quiet voice.
“What can I do if Shubho’s mother does not like the way I bathe and feed him?”
“What do you mean by what can you do?”
“Get someone to care for Shubho. I can’t cope with
two babies anymore.”
“The boy will have to grow up in the care of maids
when his Dadi is there?”
“Send for Kamaal. Let him take Suhrid away. I am
very sick. I get no rest at all, no sleep. I can’t manage so much anymore.”
“Look at the way she speaks,” Baba looked at
Haseena, indicating Ma with slanted eyes and lips.
The glittering smile clung for a long time to
Haseena’s lips, like a newly born scorpion.
***
Suhrid was not sent to Chhotda either. Nor was
another maid hired for Shubho. Ma alone continued to look after both the
grandsons. Haseena would leave buckets full of clothes. Lily’s mother would
take the whole day to wash them. Ma would have to run to the kitchen to cook
for the entire household. Ma was unable to get Lily’s mother to leave Haseena’s
clothes. I got the feeling that Ma was scared of Haseena. Ma possibly did not
fear even Baba as much. Ma’s fears concerned Dada. Suppose Dada again left
home, suppose he was displeased at seeing Haseena’s unhappy face, suppose he
stopped calling her ‘Ma’! Ma’s bleeding body became weaker by the day. Even
with her weak health, Ma carried on with household work from early morning to
the middle of the night. She would plead with Baba, “I don’t have any blood
left in my body. I will have to eat some nutritious food. Will you please get
me some milk, two bananas and two eggs?” Baba looked with anger at Ma’s
gumption. Ma demanded of Dada, because she was caring for Shubho. “Kire Noman, your father doesn’t give me
anything. Will you be able to arrange for some milk and bananas for me? My
health has broken down completely.”
Dada laughed. Sticking his tongue out and pressing
it bashfully between his teeth, he said, “What are you saying Ma? How come your
health has broken down! In fact you are becoming excessively fat. You better
control your diet. Start eating less now.”
“Do you have any medicine for piles in your shop?”
“No. There is no medicine for piles.”
‘There was no medicine’, was the straightforward
reply. Dada was now the head of Baba’s medicine business. The business was
doing extremely well. He had done up the shop marvelously. He supplied
medicines to hospitals and to the big clinics. Baba, too, had extended the area
of his chambers. He had installed an x-ray machine. Purchasing a microscope he
had set up a pathology laboratory. Baba had asked Abdullah, Professor in the Department
of Jurisprudence, to man the laboratory in his spare time. Abdullah came there
in the greed for extra money. If one went to Baba’s chambers for any reason,
one had to push through a huge crowd of patients in order to get in. The crowd
consisted mostly of poor patients from the village. Even if someone came
complaining of pain in the stomach, I found Baba asking him to take a chest
x-ray and get urine and stool tests. An old man who came from Dhobaura was
coughing up blood along with phlegm. Baba took an x-ray and said it was
tuberculosis. I asked the old man, “Since when have you been coughing blood?”
His sunken eyes were drooping with exhaustion. Breathless, gasping he said,
“It’s a year and a half today.”
“Why didn’t you come when the bleeding started?”
“Where do we have the money, sister? I have taken a
loan to come to the city.”
“Isn’t there a doctor in your village?”
“No.”
Even if there were doctors in the village, patients
came to Baba. He had a very high reputation as a good doctor. Even now the old
residents of the town called for Baba whenever they were sick. Baba had no
fixed fee. He took whatever anyone could give. Some gave five takas and left,
others two taka. Baba only made one request to his patients, that before they
left they should buy their medicines from the shop next door called Arogya Bitaan. After getting all their
tests and x-rays done, many patients had no money left for medicines. They went
back. This tuberculosis patient who was about to return, but I held him back
and took him to Arogya Bitaan. I told
Dada, to give him the medicines free of cost. Dada said contemptuously, “Are
you mad?” I took out money from my own pocket. Dada counted it and gave him the
medicine. Nowadays, he loved counting money. Whenever he was free, he would
count his money arranged in the drawer over and over again. From this money
nothing was spent on household expenses. Whatever was spent was to fulfill all
Haseena’s desires – her saris, jewellery, cosmetics, check-ups once in a while.
Yasmin would stop at Arogya Bitaan to
take two taka for the rickshaw fare. Dada would lock his drawer, keep the key
in his pocket and sit glumly holding his cheeks with his two hands. He would
tell Yasmin, “There have been no sales. I haven’t even made my first sale as yet.”
The tuberculosis patient was overwhelmed with
gratitude on getting the medicines. He would now not return immediately to
Dhobaura, and would stay the night at the “back and side” hotel. The hotel
bedding was laid in a long continuous row. The tariff was not much. If you lay
on your back you had to pay eight annas, and if you lay on your side, four
annas. The hotels were swarming with people. Villagers who came to the city to
see doctors, or lawyers, if they had come from very far, did not cross the rivers
back again at the end of the day. They spent the night at the hotels on the
wharf, and took a boat home in the morning.
Ma never got any treatment for piles. Lately, an
idea had taken root in Ma’s mind, that her illness was not an ordinary disease
like piles, but an incurable one. Ma lived with her suspicions. No one had the
time to listen to worthless talk about illnesses. Before my wails of agony
became worthless, too, I took steps to save myself. When I began to suffer the
agony of an anal fissure and the use of the pain relieving ointment Neoparkinol
did not work, and it was not possible for me to show my private parts to any of
the known doctors in the hospital, I went to
I was anaesthetized on the operation table in the
hospital. While I was falling asleep, someone was asking me my name and
address. Even though I wanted to, I was unable to answer. From somewhere a bird
came and placing me on its wings flew away in the sky. I began to float like a
cloud, it felt very nice. I felt happy. When I came back to consciousness, I
found myself on a different bed. Next to me were Chhotda, Geeta and Jhunu
khala. Geeta was stroking my hair. Chhotda and Jhunu khala were asking if it
hurt. I couldn’t make out if there was any pain. Even if there was, these
beloved faces had reduced it considerably. Rudra entered the room suddenly
embarrassing everyone. Chhotda left the room. Who was this Rudra and what
relationship I had with him, I had never told anybody. Everyone, of course,
understood. Even Chhotda who left, understood. I had to stay two days in the
hospital. Geeta brought all my meals for me on both days. She made me sit in
hot water basins. On the day I was to be discharged from hospital, on my one
side stood Chhotda, on the other, Rudra. Chhotda said, “Let’s go home.”
I shook my head, “No.”
“What do you mean?”
I was silent. Chhotda pulled me by the hand. “If
you won’t come home, where will you go?” I slowly loosened the grip of
Chhotda’s hand. I looked calmly, without regret at his pained eyes. Tears
brimmed over from the corners of his eyes, he bit his lips secretly. I left
with Rudra without replying.
After returning to the Muhammedpur house, I sat
silently nursing a fear. Suppose Rudra’s cousin was not aware of our marriage!
Rudra said, “You don’t want to tell anyone about your marriage.” After I was
rendered unconscious, my private parts had obviously not remained private for
any of the doctors. It also meant that they would know that I was not a virgin!
At least let the cousin know that we are married. Otherwise he might think I’d
lost my virginity before marriage, chhi,
chhi. I kept my face lowered in
shame. Rudra loved my blushing bashful face. Turning my face towards himself
with his two hands, he kissed me. He promised that he would inform his cousin
about our marriage the very next day. That night when we were in deep sleep,
dead to the world, Rudra’s friend Minar banged on the door and stormed into our
room. Minar had come to sleep there with his beautiful wife, Kabita, as he had
not been able to find any other place to sleep in the whole town. We gave them
the bedroom, and Rudra and I spread a mat on the floor of the other room for
ourselves. Early in the morning I found Rudra missing from my side. He was
sleeping next to Minar and Kabita on the bed! What had happened? How come!
Rudra’s simple explanation was that he wasn’t getting any sleep on the mat. He
had sensibly slept next to Minar. If Minar had found him next to Kabita, he
would surely not have laughingly left with his wife, after his friend’s doings.
That day, I found our marriage document, while looking for some letter paper in
the drawer. The document said that I had signed it, in front of the Magistrate.
Surprising, but this was a lie! The minute I said this, Rudra snatched the
certificate from my hand and put it back into the drawer. After spending two
days, sitting around, lying down, tidying the room, eating out, gossiping,
attending poetry meets, I began to miss everyone at Aubokash. I missed Ma, Yasmin, Suhrid, and Minu the cat. How were
they! Ma must be talking about me everyday, as would be Baba, Yasmin, and even
Suhrid would be saying, “Why doesn’t Dolphupu come?” I had taught Suhrid to
call me Dolphupu. One day while pushing him to and fro on the swing, he learnt
to say it as I kept repeating, “Swing (dol) me, swing me phupu, swing me, swing
me.” My heart remained at Aubokash,
in my disorderly yet disciplined life. I felt really sorry for Minu. She must
be walking all over the room and verandah searching for me with hunger in her
stomach. She must be feeling very lonely at night! I did not feel at home in
“Would I have objected if you had given me some
warning Rudra?”
“For what sum will the contract be made?” he asked.
“Does the amount have to be mentioned?”
“Yes, it has to be.”
“Can’t one write zero?”
“No.”
“Then what about one taka?”
“Dhoot,
how can it be one taka!”
“Write whatever you like, none of this has any
meaning. Do you think we will ever have a talaq? And even if we do, that I will
demand money from you?” I laughed. Loudly and silently. “What is the need for a
marriage contract Rudra?”
“There is a need.”
“What for?”
All this was meaningless. Could any marriage
contract make two people live together? Could love? I believed in love, not in
a contract. I don’t know to what extent Rudra believed in love, but he
obviously did in a contract, so he made the marriage contract. I returned the
next day to Mymensingh. Learning of my operation, Ma took care of me. She made
me sit in basins of hot water mixed with dettol four times a day. I gave Ma my
old Neoparkinol ointment, the ointment which reduced the pain of an anal
fissure. Ma thought it would stop her bleeding. Ma did not stop passing blood.
She thought, it would surely stop someday. Ma’s wish for a quart of milk, two
bananas and two eggs was never fulfilled. Ma possibly hoped that her daughter
was becoming a doctor and she would earn and would treat her, and buy milk and
bananas for her. This daughter did pass her medical exams. Her internship
commenced. She began to earn money. Whatever else happened with the money she
earned, it never bought her mother’s long time wish for some milk and eggs.
Bhagirathi’s Ma came and delivered milk for the two babies. Sitting on the
verandah and measuring out the milk for the two babies, she would very often
ask, “O Mashi, didn’t you say you’d be taking an extra quart of milk!” Heaving
a long sigh, Ma would say, “No Bhagi’s Ma, I am not fated to drink milk.”
***
Spreading her two legs out on the bed, Ma would
painfully crack her knees, rocking Suhrid to sleep, reciting rhymes. Ma was
staring sadly out of the window. Suhrid had fallen asleep, but Ma did not pick
him up and put him down on the bed. There were dark circles under her eyes,
which were both puffy and swollen. Turning her eyes away from the window she
said, “Noman’s wife calls me by the name of hussy.”
“How do you know?”
“I went to the kitchen and heard her telling Lily’s
Ma, ‘That hussy can’t bear the sight of my son.’”
“Oh!”
“She dares to do so because of your father. He
calls me hussy in front of everyone.”
Again looking towards the window sorrowfully, Ma
said, “I am her mother-in-law, and she has no respect for me at all.”
I looked at Suhrid’s sleeping face. I had seen many
beautiful babies, but none like Suhrid. Asleep, he did not look the extremely
mischievous imp that he was. Everyday he would fall down from the bed, table or
the staircase, trying to run before the wind. He was not bothered in the least.
Shubho always looked before he placed even one foot anywhere. He was a very
careful boy, he never jumped around. On Shubho’s body there were no signs of
any cuts or bruises. If Suhrid grazed his knees today, then tomorrow his elbows
were darkened by blood clots. His whole body was covered with signs of his
antics. Suhrid babbled half-words. Shubho never spoke in baby-talk till the
time he learned to speak correctly. He was always clear and distinct. Shubho never
said no to any food item. Suhrid was always refusing to eat. Ma’s sufferings
increased. The older the boy grew, the more difficult he became to control. He
would run to the terrace. Ma had to chase him, as he just might decide he was
the ‘six million dollar man’ and leap off the roof! If he found the gate open
he would go out onto the streets, and Ma had to run and bring him back. But
Ma’s worries were double than all this work. Chhotda sensed the atmosphere when
he came to Aubokash. Haseena’s
displeasure was palpable. Haseena was convinced that Suhrid was being given
more love than Shubho. Ma had told Chhotda, “If you get anything for Suhrid,
you must get the same for Shubho.” To satisfy Haseena, baby clothes and toys
bought abroad were given to Shubho. In spite of this, Haseena thought that
whatever Shubho may have, Suhrid had much more. Chhotda had brought a tricycle
for Suhrid. The boy rode this cycle at a thunderous speed all over the house,
verandah, field and courtyard. At short intervals, Ma took Suhrid off, and let
Shubho ride the cycle saying, “Shubho is your brother, let him ride.” Ma had
even given Shubho, Suhrid’s perambulator. Shubho was six months younger than
Suhrid. Suhrid had no need for the perambulator when Shubho needed one. Yet
Haseena told Dada, “Buy a new one for Shubho.”
“These things are not available in Mymensingh.”
“So what? Go to
“What are you saying Mumu! I have to go to
“Yes, you must go to
When Suhrid got his cycle, Haseena again caught
hold of Dada to buy a duplicate one for Shubho. After searching the whole town,
when Dada returned home with a tricycle, Haseena threw it away saying “You
picked it up off the streets or what?”
“There is no better cycle in the market. If you
want, you can go and see for yourself.”
Ma said, “It seems Kamaal bought Suhrid’s cycle
from
The problem was solved by Suhrid himself. Attracted
by the new cycle for Shubho, he rode it around, while Shubho rode the one from
Suhrid did not understand the politics of
domesticity. He had a lot of affection for Shubho. He was even willing to give
whatever possessions he had to Shubho. Shubho was adept at slapping, boxing and
scratching Suhrid. Once he had pushed Suhrid from the railing of his cot, and
Suhrid was unconscious for a full twenty-four hours because of a head injury.
Ma had almost gone mad. Ma feared all kinds of disasters. She told Chhotda, “I
can’t take care of Suhrid in this environment. Please take him to
“No, girls do not wear these. These are boys’
clothes.”
I didn’t oppose Baba, and moved away from his
sight. But I didn’t take off the jeans. I continued to wear them. I wore them
the next day as well. My clothes fit Yasmin. She also happily used my clothes.
I did not stop her. Baba snarled at Yasmin too, when he saw her wearing jeans.
“What are you up to? The elder one’s wickedness is rubbing off on the younger.
The day I catch you though, I will beat you till your bones turn to dust.” “Let
your bones be broken”, I told Yasmin, “Don’t take them off.” I said so because
I found no justification for considering jeans to be an improper dress for
girls. Wearing jeans did not mean I would become a boy. The body within
remained untouched after all, if that was what Baba’s orders were all about. I
bought an old harmonium for Yasmin, from Sur Taranga in Chhotobazaar. I
employed a music teacher for her as well. I made one condition; she had to sing
Rabindra Sangeet. I got her admitted to Mymensingh’s music school, situated in
an old house on
“Just like that.”
“No one dresses up just like that. There is always
a reason.”
“Can’t one dress up without any reason?”
“There is always a reason behind it. You want to
attract people with your beauty. Right?”
“I dress up because I like doing so.”
“Then how come you don’t dress up while at home?
Why do you colour your brown lips red only when you need to go out?”
Yasmin did not reply. In a mocking tone I told her,
“Do you think by painting your face you look beautiful? Not at all. It’s best
to stay with what you have naturally. Don’t spoil your real appearance with a
mask of paint. Why do you need to take the help of cosmetics! What do you lack?
You must be suffering from an inferiority complex!”
Yasmin did not agree, she continued to make up her
face. A chilling fear stung my breast.
***
Rudra’s letter came to the hospital postmaster’s
address. “Come to
“How did she get married? When did she? Why did
she?”
“You think she told me anything about all this! She
does what she likes.”
“How did she get so much courage?”
“It is not courage. Finding her simple and
straightforward he must have duped her. Is he eligible to stand before such a
beautiful doctor girl? Nasreen has destroyed her own self.”
Baba while still staring unblinkingly at the beams,
kept saying, “His own father has called him a wayward boy. Just think how bad a
son has to be to be called wayward by his own father. Kamaal has already said
the boy smokes and drinks.”
Taking away Baba’s hands from his head, and rubbing
them on her enflamed breast, Ma’s eyes grew wet. Her tears traveled down her
cheeks towards her chest, and yet were unable to extinguish the fire within. “I
brought up this girl carrying her at my breast. You were busy running behind
women. I have shed tears carrying her in my arms. She would lie on my chest day
and night. My daughter has grown up, she has become a doctor. With what pomp
and show we would have celebrated had she married a carefully chosen eligible
groom. The whole town should have known that she was getting married. And look
how she has got married? Whom has she married, who knows anything about this boy?”
Ma’s tears did not cease. Baba too was unable to
sleep. In the next room I packed my clothes into a bag. I was going to
Without telling Baba or Ma where I was going, why I
was going, to whom I was going, when I was going to return, I left for
So early in the morning, there was hardly any
traffic on the road. One or two rickshaws were moving along sluggishly. Taking
one such sluggish rickshaw I reached the bus-stand. The first bus of the
morning was standing sleepy-eyed. As soon as I stepped through the door of the
bus, the conductor asked, “Don’t you have a man with you?”
“No.”
“One ladies. One ladies,” the conductor shouted. To
whom he shouted who knew? ‘One ladies’ was meant to warn everyone that I had to
be seated in a safe place. The safety of ladies was in the ladies’ seat’. All
the seats next to the driver were called ladies’ seats. If girls traveled by
bus alone, they were to sit there. It was assumed that if a lady didn’t sit
next to another lady, her journey would not be safe. If the ladies’ seats were
full, then any unaccompanied lady who might materialize, was given a
non-ladies’ seat, and the seat next to her was kept vacant by the conductor, so
that a second lady could be made to sit there. That day there were no ladies’
seats vacant. Even after waiting, no second lady seemed to be buying a ticket.
What was to be done now? A middle-aged couple was sitting side-by-side. The
conductor told the husband, “Bhaijan, brother, please sit on another seat; let
me seat this lady with yours.” I said, “No, let it be, do not disturb them.”
The bus conductors knew other ways of solving the problem. If no lady could be
found to sit next to another one, then the solution was to make her sit next to
the oldest man in the bus or the youngest boy, still a child, whose beard and
moustaches were yet to appear. No way was she to be made to sit next to a young
man.
“No ladies’ seat is vacant,” the junior conductor
told his senior. The senior searched for an old, aged man and asked him, “Chacha,
are you alone?”
“Yes.”
“Go sit next to that Chacha,” were the instructions
given to me.
Since I was a woman, the responsibility of choosing
my seat was theirs. By making me sit next to an ‘old chacha’, the conductor
thought he had ensured my safety. Whenever a single man boarded a bus, he chose
his own place to sit. But if a single woman boarded, she had to wait for the
conductor to make arrangements for her. After arranging for a safe seat for me,
both junior and senior conductors were able to relax. Leaning my head against
the bus window, I thought it was not safe to sit next to a strange man, hence
the buses had begun this arrangement. The safest men for women, everyone knew,
were their own menfolk. The most secure place was the house of one’s own
menfolk. One’s husband’s home. If only the conductor knew how unsafe that very
home had been for me!
Back at Aubokash,
I felt safe. All around Aubokash were
high walls, on which were mounted broken glass pieces. On top of that was an
even higher barrier of barbed wire. Secluded from the outside world, at one
time I had felt this house to be like a prison. Now I felt that only here were
pockets of peace hiding. Even if Ma threw me a sharp look, I knew lurking
behind that look was love. No matter how many disasters I caused, that love
would always be showered over me. Ma sent rice to my room with Nargis. With the
rice was my favourite fried aubergine, and goat meat. The food was served with
great care. How did Ma know that this morning my stomach hungered for rice! Was
this what a Ma meant, someone who would understand everything, who did not need
to be told anything! Sitting on the bed, Yasmin was singing one of the new
songs she had picked up. Suhrid was painting a butterfly with water colours,
and saying, “Butterfly, butterfly, where did you get such colourful wings!”
Listening to Yasmin, Suman said, “Yasmin Apa,
I didn’t know before that you could sing so beautifully.” Suman was Hashem
mama’s son, his only son, the rest were all daughters. Yesterday, Hashem mama
had left Suman in this house. A few days back, a fourteen-fifteen year old boy
had been murdered by his peers on the Akua rail tracks. No pistol or gun had
been required to kill the boy, a knife was enough. Suman’s name was included in
the list of the accused. After returning from Muktijuddho, the war of
liberation, Hashem mama had become the President of the Awami League, Akua
Union Branch. After independence, many Muktijoddhas had stolen numerous
privileges on the strength of their names. They had made money by various
means. Many had become ministers, or had got jobs as envoys to foreign
countries. Hashem mama had got nothing. He had not run after all this. For the
sake of survival he had, with great difficulty, bought a small shop in Notun
Bazar, to sell fish and rice. With this, he was living cramped up in one tiny
room with his wife Parul, five daughters and one son. The same room he had been
staying in since he got married. So many children had been born, they had grown
up, but he was in the same room even today. He had no love for money, property,
cars and possessions. Having never been educated, Hashem mama was educating his
children. The girls did well in their exams, only the boy caused problems. The
boy had too many friends in the locality, and was not interested in studies.
When you made friends, you made enemies as well. One such enemy had inserted
Suman’s name into the list of accused. Hashem mama did not consider his son to
be the light of the family. He did not believe that the boy needed to be
brought up on special foodstuffs. He had never thought of getting his daughters
married as soon as they turned fifteen or sixteen. He was not of the opinion
that his son should get more importance than his daughters. Inspite of living
in this society, Hashem mama was very different from most others. I was very
fond of this different Hashem mama. I wanted to ask him about his experiences
as a Muktijoddha. How he had gone to India, how he had undergone training there
in guerrilla warfare, how he had, as a group-commander for the Muktijuddho,
crossed jungles and swam across rivers in order to go from one place to another
risking his life! How he had shot at the Pak army, and how many he had killed
were questions I had never been able to ask him. Hashem mama was trying
desperately to save Suman from danger. Hashem mama had survived so far by
the means of a surprising honesty. He
could not however save his son from this false case. This prison like house would save his son
temporarily, if not from the police, then at least from the local enemies.
Hence he had requested Baba to let Suman stay in this house for a few days.
Baba had agreed. However within two days of my return from
“What has happened to you?”
“I was sleeping. Suman Bhaiyya came and caught hold
of me.”
Leaping up from my bed in a trice, I held Nargis in
my arms to stop her body from shaking. Bringing her into the room, I locked it
from inside. Nargis spent that night on the floor of my room, curled into a
tight ball under her kantha. “I asked
him why he had come here. As soon as I did, he clasped my mouth shut. He told
me not to make any noise. No one will know. No one will realise. I wanted to
scream and call for you all. I freed myself with great difficulty and came here
Apa,” she said.
***
How old would Nargis be? Thirteen. As her father
was poor, she had been sent to work in a house. She worked from dawn till
After finishing his meal, Nargis’ father would pat
his daughter’s head and say, “Listen to everyone Ma, in this house they all care for you so much! You must obey them
all.”
Nargis would hold on to the door and watch her
father leaving, tears flooding her eyes.
If I ever asked her, “Kire Nargis, why are you crying?” Nargis would hurriedly wipe her
tears and laugh and say, “No Apa, I’m
not crying. I was cleaning the cobwebs, and some dirt fell into my eyes.”
All Nargis’s replies were similar. “No, Apa, I’m not crying, I was slicing the
onions, and the zing made my eyes water.”
***
In the morning I told Ma about the incident. Ma
became silent as she heard. Ma was very fond of Hashem mama. She said very
often, “This is one brother of mine, who is really good. He never says anything
bad to anyone. He helps everyone in every way he can. People have so many
enemies. Hashem has none.”
***
Ma had been very happy that by allowing her good
brother’s good son to stay here, she had been able to rid him of some of his
worries, even though only slightly. Ma’s relatives were never invited by Baba
to Aubokash. That Baba had agreed to
allow Suman to stay at Aubokash for a
short while, that he had shown this benevolence for Suman, was only because of
Hashem mama’s own personality. I had sunk Ma’s first boat of joy of being able
to give Suman shelter, in her river of unhappiness. Ma asked Suman whether he
had gone to Nargis’ bed at night. Suman appeared to
fall from the skies. He shouted, “The
girl is telling lies.”
In a calm voice Ma said, “No, she is not telling
lies.”
That very day, Ma called Hashem mama and ordered,
not requested, that he take Suman away form Aubokash.
***
Telling Ma that it was better to put the boy in
jail, Hashem mama took Suman away from Aubokash.
The very next day, I went to Nargis’ home in Kushtopur behind the Hospital, and
gave her mother five hundred takas. I told her that she was to get Bilkees
admitted to a school, and not send her to work as a maid in any house. Small,
pretty, round-faced Bilkees, wearing a nose-ring, was sitting in the dust of
the courtyard, playing a make believe cooking game. Nargis’ mother had decided
to send this six year old child to a businessman’s house in Kushtopur, to work
for her meals.
Chapter XXIII
Doctoring
The duties for the one year of internship had been
divided. One had to do a ‘fixed duty’ in any one subject. In the subject that
one thought was the most important. Most of the girls had taken ‘fixed duty’ in
the gynaecology and maternity department. Even if you did one month in the
medicine or surgery departments, you had to do four months in gynaecology.
Messing with sexual organs had not been my favourite subject as a student, but
choosing this subject as my main subject, I took fixed duty in this department.
In the four months, there was no chance of even four minutes of tom-foolery.
Any hoodwinking would mean hoodwinking oneself. Every year qualified doctors
from foreign medical colleges joined in to take training in medicine. If you
had to work in this country, you had to take training here; that was the
system. The very first day I was introduced to Divalok Singh who had qualified
from
“For what reason should I not?”
“From a simple logical point of view. You have
worked your brain tirelessly in the case of medical science, why don’t you do
the same for religion. You try to understand everything in this world
logically. Have you ever tried to analyze the writings of the Quran Hadith
logically?”
Babul admitted that he never had. He did not want
to. Because he believed that faith was one thing and logic another. He did not
want to mix the two. Babul, I believed, knew that religion was a completely
illogical business. He knew very well that this huge wide world had not been
created in six days. He knew that the sun did not move round the earth. That
this belief was false, that Allah held up the mountains just like nails would
and hence the earth did not lean either to the left or right. That it was
untrue that the first man on earth was Adam, and that the second human Hauwa
was created from Adam as his companion. That it was also untrue that the
forbidden fruit of heaven was eaten by them and that was the reason why Allah
had punished them by exiling them to earth. Babul knew that for crores of
years, crores of planets and constellations were moving around in outer space.
He knew from where the creature called man had come, and was aware of the
theory of evolution. Yet he observed his namaz and roza, and went on
pilgrimage. The reason for that was his greed. And because he was greedy he
wanted both this world and the next. In this world, as a doctor he had
established himself at a high level in society; there was great happiness in
that. And if there was someone called Allah, something called after-life then
by offering the namaz five times a day, and observing one month of rozas, and once
in a year going on pilgrimmage, if one could get heaven, then what was the
harm!
There was no point arguing with boys like Babul.
Babul in fact was not keen either, to enter into any discussions. He wanted to
live with his beliefs.
***
Nowadays, if one questioned Ma on any topic in the
Quran-Hadith, she had no logical answers. When Ma sat before the Quran Sharif
and swayed back and forth reading from it, I sat before her. While reading the
Quran, Ma’s face turned pale, thinking of the fires of dozakh. My sitting and
listening to her reading the Quran, brought back some colour to her face, she
assumed it to be a sign of my good sense. Ma laughed warmly saying, “Ki, will you read the Quran Sharif?”
I laughed and said, “I am reading it. How many
times must one re-read the same book?”
That I was not learning good sense at all, Ma kind
of guessed.
“Achcha
Ma, this cap that the boys wear, why do they do so?”
“They observe Sunnat. This dress was worn by Hazrat
Muhammed Salallah Alayhesalaam, by wearing the same they observe Sunnat.
Keeping a beard too is Sunnat.”
“Why do they want to copy the Nabiji?”
“Bah! Why
shouldn’t they? He was the last prophet. The greatest prophet. Allah’s beloved
Rasool.”
“There is no end to the qualities of Nabiji, is
there?”
“No one has the kind of qualities he had. He was
the greatest amongst the humans.”
Sitting with a pillow on my lap, and leaning with
my two elbows on top of it, I laughed out.
“You say he is Allah’s beloved Rasool, the greatest
Nabi, the greatest human being. Then was it correct of him to marry the six
year old Ayesha?”
“He married many girls to deliver them from
poverty. He provided protection to many a helpless girl.”
“What protection did he provide for the six year
old Ayesha, let me hear? If he had really wanted to protect Ayesha, then at
that age he could have adopted her as a daughter and brought her up instead of
marrying her. If he had wanted to help poor girls, he could have provided them
with monetary assistance. If marriage was so essential, he could have married
them off to his unmarried friends. Was there any need for him to marry them
himself? Were there no other men in the country?”
“Girls liked Him … that’s why they married him …”
“Liked Him? Was he concerned about anyone’s likes?
Did his own daughter-in-law Joynab like him? Or did he go to his son’s place,
saw his wife and turning mad, married her? Just tell me, how can anyone marry
their own daughter-in-law? Suppose Baba were now to tell Dada, give talaq to
Haseena, I want to marry her. How would that be? Dada on Baba’s orders would
give Haseena talaq. And Baba would then marry her. Chhi Chhi Chhi.”
“Nabiji did not have any sons of his own. Zayed was
adopted.”
“Let him be adopted. Just because he was adopted,
does that mean he was not his son? When people adopt children, they bring them
up as their own. Suppose you were to bring up a girl till she grows up, would
you then later be able to say she is not your daughter? Would you be able to
marry the husband of that adopted daughter? Would you be able to, would you? It
was after he married his daughter-in-law that the law changed. Adopted children
were not real offspring. Therefore, deprive them of their inheritance. For
one’s own selfish purposes, can anyone be so heartless?”
“Not selfish interest. Not selfish motives. Don’t
speak unless you understand.”
“Because he had selfish interests he married the
wealthy Khadija. He did business with Khadija’s money. Then he didn’t take
notice of any other girl. The minute Khadija died, he began to marry at regular
intervals. One after another. Why? While Khadija was alive he didn’t have the
courage to do so! What is this but selfishness? In war he captured enemy
property no doubt, but he even enjoyed the enemy womenfolk. Didn’t he keep the
pretty ones for himself, distributing the rest amongst his friends? Even in the
Quran it is written, let Nabi enjoy all these women! Chhi! Can anyone with a conscience do such disgusting things? Does
any healthy man marry fourteen times?”
“Not fourteen, thirteen.”
“What’s the difference? If he had married thirteen
instead of fourteen, that would make him good in your eyes? Baba has married
twice and you call him inhuman since the day you got to know. Why don’t you
curse your Nabiji?”
“Those times were different from the present times.
Then the state of society was different.”
“In what state is society today? Now a man can
marry four times! If Baba brings three more wives into the house, what will you
do? Will you be able to live with three co-wives?”
With a bitter look on her face, Ma closed the Quran
and said, “Nabiji did not keep anyone in the same house.”
“So what if he didn’t, he did visit the others,
didn’t he? He even lusted after the maids of his wives! He enjoyed even them.
He did not spare anyone for his enjoyment!”
“Whatever He did, He did on orders from Allah.”
“Then why does Allah give such awful commands?
Apostle! Prophet! Someone to be revered by all! Allah could have at least given
such a person a better character.”
“Nasreen, you are talking nonsense about Nabiji.
You will not even find a place in dozakh. What will happen to you? What can
possibly be in your fate?”
***
When I talked to Ma like this, she would sit alone
in the verandah, afterwards or would lie down quietly, looking out of the
window. I guessed Ma was thinking of the Divine Messenger, and wondering why
wasn’t Allah’s Apostle an ideal character! Why could he not have been someone
above all controversy! After such conversations, Ma would come near me after a
long time, and reading the Surah over my breast and face would blow air on
them, to exorcise all evil. In a soft tone she would say, “Ask Tauba, pardon,
from Allah. Say you have made a mistake. You have committed a fault. Allah will
pardon you.”
“Allah can pardon only if He exists.”
“If Allah exists! If Allah exists! If He does? What
will you do then? Then what will happen to you, have you ever thought of that?”
When Ma would be very seriously reading the Farz,
Sunnat, Nafal and all other parts of namaz, I would say, “Why you read all
this, I have no idea! What is the use? You will find you are not reborn after
death. All false. There is no dozakh. Nor is there any behesht. Then?”
Ma would say, “Okay, if I see there is nothing,
it’s fine. All my worship will have been wasted. But suppose there is? If
everything is there?”
Ma fearing this ‘if’, offered her namaz and
observed the roza. If there was something called the last Day of Judgement,
then she hoped for good results. I felt, not just Ma, many others too, followed
Allah Rasool, because of this ‘if’. My arguments with Ma did not progress
beyond a point.
I was a little stern with the patients in the
hospital, because to them, after Allah, the next person they trusted was their
doctor. They followed every letter of a doctor’s advice and orders. But to what
purpose! They would still keep roots of a plant over which the Maulana had
blown air, to remove all illness, under their pillows, and believe that if they
got well, it was not because of the doctor’s treatment, but because of the
roots. There was an anaemic patient, for whom I arranged four bags of blood
from Sandhani, and medicines, and revived his failing heart. I told him to sit
up on recovery. In doing so, his pillow moved. Under it was a root.
“What is that?”
“A root on which ‘dua’ prayer has been pronounced.”
“Why do you keep this with you?”
The patient laughed and said, “If you keep this,
then illnesses go away.”
“What do you think? Did you get better because of
the doctor’s medicines or because of those roots?”
The patient again laughed and said, “You tried to
cure me with medicines. But it was Allah who made me better. Can anyone save
another without Allah? The roots had Allah’s writings read on them, and all
evil has been exorcised with a prayer breathed on them.”
After this, whenever a patient came, I first
checked whether there were any tabiz tied on their hands, legs or waist, and
whether there were any roots on them. If there were, I threw them away, before
I started any treatment. I told them, “If you keep any tabiz or kabaz on you,
you will not get any treatment. If you think those will make your illness go,
then you can go home. Go home, put the roots under your pillow, and lie down.
Tie the tabiz and kabaz on your body. Get prayers blown upon yourself from
every Maulvi you can find. I will see how you get well from your illness.”
Each ward had a different date for admission. On
those days patients flowed in continuously. The beds got filled up, even the
floors sometimes. One was kept busy writing each patient’s history, examining
each of them from top to toe, diagnosing the disease, prescribing preliminary
medication for each of them, if the patients were critical, and one was unable
to handle them, one had to send for the senior doctors. There were many other
duties. There were less female patients than male ones in the hospital. No one
brought a woman to the hospital before she was on the road to death. A girl who
had poisoned herself, another, a tiny polyp in whose body had developed cancer
because it had not been treated for ages. Every girl’s body was anaemic, and
undernourished. From them I was keen to know much more than what a doctor would
need to know for treatment. After feeding the entire household well, these
women would live on leftovers. They secretly harboured all kinds of diseases in
their bodies. The reason, women couldn’t afford to fall ill if a household had
to subsist. Even if they revealed their illnesses, the men of the house did not
really pay much attention. The men of the house did not like the idea of their
women going to doctors and being touched by them for examination purposes.
Therefore, women had no option but to suffer their ailments silently. They did
not have the courage to come by themselves to the hospital. When ailing married
girls left their husband’s home to visit their parents, then they came to
hospital from there, brought by their relatives.
It was not me alone who had duty in the wards,
other doctors were also there. Outlining the history of a critically injured
patient, one of my doctor friends had written, ‘She was beaten.’ I cut this
out, and on a new paper wrote out the whole incident after getting the details
from the patient. “She was brutally hit by her husband. The cruel man used an
axe and cane on her body. He wanted to kill her. He even said talaq to her. Her
crime was that her father could not pay the dowry money on time.” To the list
of medicines I added an anti-depressant. My doctor friend reading the history
written by me declared, “Who beat her, with what he beat her, why he beat her
are not details we need to know! Our job is to treat her.” That is true. I knew
all doctors would tell me the same thing. However, writing the details in the
history, gave me a certain satisfaction and I told the girl, “I have recorded
that your husband is responsible for your condition.” By writing about the
pathetic condition of the girl on the hospital papers, I knew I would not be
able to change her life. But what was the harm in putting it down on paper? It
was not as if doctors had absolutely no social responsibilities. Post-operative
patients were given Pathedin to decrease their pain. One felt so good with a
shot of Pathedin that patients would pretend to moan to get another shot even
when their pains had disappeared. To prevent patients from getting addicted to
Pathedin, doctors called the nurses to administer D-W injections. The nurse
would fill the syringe with distilled water and push it into the buttocks of
the patient. The constant moaning and calling for either the nurse or the
doctor gradually would come to an end. In this way doctors saved the patients
from getting addicted to Pathedin. This was surely an act of social
responsibility.
I was a doctor no doubt, and spent nights and days
in the ward treating patients, but I did not still have the authority to treat
all ailments. In the Gynae ward, I had duty not only during the day, but at
night as well. In a week I had to spend between three and four nights in the
hospital. In the course of one night duty itself, two different incidents
resulted in my being served summons. At
“Yes, Sir.”
Behind Zobayed Hussain, twenty-five pairs of eyes
were directed at me. The eyes were as keen as those of spectators sitting on a
shooting platform on a tree in the Sunderbans, waiting to see a deer about to
be eaten by a tiger. Again Zobayed Hussain’s voice roared, “You did a forceps
delivery?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Why did you?”
“The baby’s condition was critical.”
“Why did you remove the retained placenta manually?
“The patient’s condition was serious, so …”
“Suppose there had been an accident?”
“The patient is well. I just went and saw her a
little while ago. The baby too is well.”
“That the patient is well is not an excuse.”
I had to lower my head before fifty-two eyes. That
very morning, Zobayed Hussain hung up a big notice in the labour room, ‘Intern
doctors are not allowed to do anything with forceps delivery and retained placenta.’
That same Zobayed Hussain, the very next day, found
a patient waiting in the labour room for an episiotomy, but there was no
doctor, none at all! Where were the doctors! The minute he found one, he
grabbed him and asked, “Why is a patient lying in the labour room?” When the
doctor looking here and there, and swallowing several times said, “Sir, Taslima
was supposed to do the episiotomy,” he snarled at him saying, “You want to
blame Taslima, right! Listen, she is the only one who dares to take action. A
courageous girl. She is the one who will be a successful doctor not a mouse
like you.”
***
I was busy with my fixed duties when Ma said one
day, “Bajaan’s health is not good.”
“Why, what has happened?”
“He can’t move around. He is speaking nonsense.”
“Why, didn’t he bring a jumper only the other day?”
Nana always brought something, however small,
whenever he came, whether in his pocket or in a packet. Even if it was only a
biscuit, he would put it in his daughter’s hands saying, “Ma, you eat it.” He had given us a whole pile of second hand
jumpers, with which we would be able to weather quite a few winters. Why should
Nana now be ill! Only two weeks ago, when I had visited Nanibari, he was
absolutely fit. Eating. While serving him fish curry Nani had been saying, “The
shop is not doing so well now.” Whoever else may have a liking for Nana’s
‘Benevolent Hatimtai’ character, Nani certainly did not.
“There is no need for it to do well, whatever we
have is good enough. Hey, give me a little salt!” said Nana, sitting on a mat,
and mixing his rice and curry. Nani pushed the salt jar towards Nana and said,
“How can you manage without any income! What will the children eat?”
“Do the children ever go hungry?”
“The cooks at your shop have started big shops of
their own and are taking home thousands of taka. You have earned nothing in
business.”
“If they are stealing, should I do the same?”
“I am not telling you to steal. Only to pay more
attention to the business.”
Nani knew very well that Nana had very little
interest in the business. Just the other day she made a sudden entry into the
shop and found three mad vagabonds from the streets wolfing down food, their
feet on top of the chairs. Nana was sitting next to the mad men and serving
them big pieces of meat. Nani said, “There are no signs of any customers, and
you are feeding these madmen in the shop?” Nana scowled and said, “It is my
shop, I will feed any one I please. What is it to you? Go, go home.”
Hardly had he had a bite or two, when Nani went to
the tap. Right behind her he followed, carrying his full plate, and upturned it
in the courtyard.
“What’s wrong, why did you throw away the rice?”
yelled Nani from the taps.
“There are the dogs and the cats, they’ll eat it
up!”
This was nothing new for Nani. She very often saw
Nana throwing pieces of bread out of the window.
“What’s wrong, why are you throwing out the bread?”
Nana would say, “There are ants and other such,
they’ll eat it up.”
“The children don’t get bread, and you give it away
to the ants!”
“Khairunnissa, they also wait in hope,” Nana would
smile sweetly and say.
He even threw the sugar drops kept in his pocket
into the pond when he passed by it.
“Why?”
“The fish will eat them. They too expect
something.”
Even at Aubokash
this would happen. Ma after serving him the rice, and a big piece of Rahu fish, would go to get daal in a bowl. On her return she would
find no fish on the plate, only dry white rice. The Rahu fish would be under the table, being eaten by the cat.
“Ki
Bajaan, why is the cat eating the fish?”
Nana would laugh and say, “Let’s see your daal. Let’s see how you have cooked it.”
“I am giving you the daal, but why have you thrown away the fish?”
“Arrey,
why should I throw it? You think cats don’t have likes and dislikes! You think
they like eating only bones! They too expect to eat some fish!”
Returning from the taps, while wiping her mouth
with a towel, Nani would say, “He has nothing to do with human beings, he
spends his time with dogs and cats. He has ruined the shop by feeding the
madmen from the streets. I have no chance of peace in this life at least.”
By that time, Nana would be under the embroidered
quilt. In bed. Sleeping. After lunch he took a long nap. After which he got up
and went again to the shop. The minute he reached the entrance of Notun Bazar,
all the madmen and beggars of the area would begin to follow Nana. Distributing
money, bread and sugar drops he would walk up to the shop, by which time there
would be nothing left in the pocket. Then he would put his hand in the cashbox,
and give a fistful to mad Dabir. Dabir was a great favourite of Nana. Thanks to
this mad Dabir, Nana had once returned home bare-chested.
“What happened, where is your panjabi?”
“That Dabir did not have anything to wear. He was
standing half-naked on the road.”
“Does that mean you had to take off your own and
give it to him?”
“If I didn’t, how would he survive in this cold?”
“And how can you stay bare chested in this cold?”
“Arrey,
where’s the cold! I have walked and come. When you walk your whole body stays
warm, Khairunnisa.”
Nani did not argue further. She didn’t because she
knew there was no point. She had known Nana for four decades. In this narrow
tin shed she had started her married life so many years ago. Her children were
born, they got married, her grandchildren were born, great-grandchildren, but
the tin shed remained unchanged. Not one thing had changed. In front of their
eyes, overnight, even the servants of this house had become wealthy, and had
actually built proper houses in their slums. Nani of course did not have any
great greed for a house. If they could just somehow get enough food and
clothing to survive, she thought that would be sufficient. Nani’s worries were
with Tutu mama and Sharaf mama. These two had left their studies and had joined
Peerbari. Even though they did not have the means to support a family, they had
both got married in a trice. Now they came on and off to Nani for help.
Finally, fed up with having both sons begging from her, Nani had herself gone
to Amirullah, father-in-law of her daughter and requested, “Please do
something. Tutu and Sharaf came to the path of Allah, after leaving their
worldly life and studies. Now they have no chances of getting a job. If they
have no money, what will they eat! You had better make some arrangement for
them.”
Amirullah laughed, exposing his paan stained brown
teeth and said, “The lord master who arranges every thing is Allahtalah. I am
only his humble servant. Have faith in Allah. He will make everything alright.”
“I have faith in Allah, sir. But both my sons have
got into trouble by getting married. Will you please help them both to get
jobs? If you want, you can easily do so.”
Amirullah said, “The lord master of jobs and things
is also the same one. The Lord of sustenance is also Allah. He will provide the
jobs.”
Nani offered her namaz, observed rozas, but was a
thoroughly worldly, practical person. She knew that by sitting on the Jainamaz,
holding up one’s hands in supplication to Allah and even tearfully imploring
Him would not get anyone a job. There was possibly a better chance of getting
something if one cried in front of Amirullah instead. The steel industry of Abu
Bakr was now under Amirullah’s charge. Only followers of the Peer were being
given jobs there, the faithful could even be absolutely illiterate. Things
worked with necessary endeavour. After laying all problems at Allah’s door for
a solution for a long time, Amirullah finally got the dogged Nani to leave by
saying, “Okay, tell them also to join work in the Akbaria Industry factory. But
on one condition, they have to observe all religious Sunnat, have to grow a
beard, leave their worldly clothes and wear pyjama/panjabi, and a cap on their heads.”
Nani returned from Peerbari and said, “They can not
get even a clerical job in an office with only an I.A. certificate. If by
changing their dress, and growing a beard they can work in a factory and earn
money, then let them do that.”
Tutu and Sharaf mama happily changed their dress
and started working in the factory. Chhotku had left the Peerbari dress code
ages ago. After leaving the Madarasa, he had studied for sometime at the
When Chhotku’s wife came home, Nana fell sick. He
could not figure out anything. He forgot the road to Notun Bazar. He would get
lost. He began to wet his bed. He could not control his urine or stools. He
would pass both in bed. He would pick up his stools with his own hands and
throw them out of the window. Nani would press her sari aanchal to her nose and
say, “Why does he throw that? Is he distributing that also to the cats and
dogs?” Baba went one day to see Nana, and prescribed some medicines. They did
not work. What was wrong with Nana? Baba said, “Diabetes.” He had never had
medicines for diabetes. He only knew that he was not to eat sweets. He of
course had never followed that ban. I had just become a doctor. Pinching Nana’s
skin and lifting it up, I detected dehydration. There was no water in his body.
With great pomp and show I arranged for him to be given saline. He had stared
blankly, and recoiling at the pain of the syringe had said, “Ish, what pain I am being given!” Nana
died on the night of the very day he was given saline.
If anyone asked Baba the cause of Nana’s death, he
said, “respiratory failure.” Hearing this I feared that the dosage of saline
had been excessive, and had filled his lungs with water, so he had not been
able to breathe.
“Was it wrong to have given him the saline?”
Baba nodded his head, “Yes, it was a mistake,” he
said. Yet he showed no anger at my mistake, no sorrow at Nana’s death, nor did
he seem to have any regrets at never having given Nana medication for diabetes.
There was not even a tiny sigh of ‘Ah’
uttered by him. “Would Nana have survived if the saline hadn’t been
administered?” I had asked and with an impossibly disinterested air he had
replied, “No.” I still thought Nana had died because of my mistake. A fear made
my body motionless, and would not loosen its grip on my mind. I kept thinking
of myself as a murderer. So far no patient in the hospital had come to any harm
because of me, and was I now the reason for my own Nana’s death! My simple
Nana, my good Nana, my non-interfering Nana, a Nana whose heart was vast in
dimensions. There was no pardon for this offence, no pardon at all. I spent the
whole day sitting sadly silent, the whole night I faced the darkness, confused.
I could not forgive myself. I was so angry with myself that I did not feel like
going to Nanibari – and seeing Nani’s and all the Mama and Khala’s bitter,
wailing, and weeping faces. Rolling on the floor Ma had wailed, “Bajaan, my
Bajaan where has he gone?” Ma was possibly the one who cried the most at Nana’s
passing away, and the one who did not have a single tear in her eyes, was Fajli
khala. Fajli khala knew, “Allah’s possession had been taken back by Allah
himself, there was no point in crying over it. If you had to cry then cry
before Allah, and beg Allah, ask Allah for forgiveness.” For what was one to
beg, for what offence to ask forgiveness … I never really understood. Had Fajli
khala sinned so much in her life that she had to beg forgiveness everyday from
Allah!
‘Nana should not have been given saline’ – I was
not able to confess this to Ma when I saw her swollen eyes. I told Yasmin
secretly. I told myself repeatedly, I screamed silently. I saw Ma’s afternoons,
burning in the heat, lonely and gloomy. No one came anymore with a peaceful,
affectionate smile on his face, to cool those afternoons for her.
For a long time after that, I did not go to
Nanibari. Ma had implored me to go, but I had used some work or the other as an
excuse to avoid going. Sometimes in the evening I longed to go to Nanibari, I
hanged that desire by a rope from the beams. But Ma said “Your Nani has asked
you to come, she’s been repeatedly saying that Nasreen took so much trouble for
her Nana, she came running from the hospital so often, gave him saline. Come,
come let’s go and console Nani a little”, and finally cajoled and took me to
that house one afternoon. However, Nanibari was not at all like I had imagined
it would be – quiet, everyone crying, sitting around sorrowfully. Nani was
cooking Hilsa fish. The kids in the
house were making a shindig. Games were being played in the courtyard. The
Mamas were in their rooms with their new wives. From the rooms, sounds of
laughter floated out. In this house there had been a person, who was not there
now, but no one was crying because of his absence, no one was thinking of
Nana’s not being there any more. I gauged that with Nana’s death some kind of
release had taken place. The mentally unbalanced, unworldly man was no more.
The stupid man who gave away all he had to others was not there any more.
Nani served us rice, with a piece of Hilsa fish placed at the corners of our
plates. “Bajaan loved Hilsa fish,”
said Ma, and wept copiously, her tears falling in drops on the rice. Nani was
eating. There was not a tear in her eyes. She did not have the time to cry over
thoughts of someone who was part of the past now. The fish bones stuck in my
throat. With a bone stuck in my throat I went and upturned my plate of rice
before the hungry dog in the courtyard, and washed my hands.
***
I saw many more deaths in the hospital. I kept asking
myself what was the meaning of this life. Death restlessly danced all around
me. Death continually played its loud song in my ears. What was the meaning of
this life, I questioned myself. Repeatedly. So many attachments, so much love,
so many dreams in this life, and yet any moment this life could be over. So
what was the use of living! Fifteen billion years ago something happened and
something got thrown into space. From that something billions of stars and
constellations were born. In that galaxy of stars, coiled up like a snail in a
collection, four hundred million years ago a planet called earth was born. On
this earth, at one time, life was created. From one cell to many cells, slowly
with many evolutions man was created. This living creature called man, too,
like the dinosaurs that had become extinct six hundred eighty lakh years ago,
would possibly one day also completely disappear. Maybe even before that. Or
would not disappear, but evolve into something else. But earth would remain
like the earth. The sun and stars, like suns and stars. One day, this sun of
ours might lose its heat and become like a black ball. One day these planets
and stars which were constantly becoming larger … might shrink in outer space.
Maybe not. May be they would keep spreading out forever. In the game plan of
this vast universe, was man only a minor event? In this huge solar system, this
tiny creature called man and his world possibly had no role to play. In this
endless stellar system, I could not see my insignificant existence anywhere for
even an instant. Fajli khala said that she had seen Nana’s spirit wafting away.
It seems his soul had flown away into the sky, to Allah. These souls would
remain collected with Allah, who would then convert all these spirits into human
beings. Then would be the Day of Judgement. Allah would take the seat of Judge
and decide everyone’s fate. On every man’s shoulders sat two angels, Munkar and
Nakir, who kept the score of good and bad deeds. On the basis of that score,
Allah would send some under the blessed fountains of behesht, and others to the
half-fires of dozakh. Life was such an easy sum of numbers for them. Two and
two made four. Fajli khala believed she would meet Nana again. Since Nana had
chanted the name of Allah, and sat up nights on his Jainamaz reciting, “There
is no one to be worshipped but Allah, la
illaha illalah”, it was certain that he would go to behesht. Since Fajli
khala was also definitely going to behesht, so they were bound to meet.
Therefore, Fajli khala did not feel sad at any one’s death. She knew the
meaning of life. Ma, too, knew it. Life was Allah’s way of testing man. Allah
gave life to man and sent him on earth, watched him with an eagle eye to see
what he was doing or not doing after death. He would reward everyone according
to their deeds. Those who believed in this simple formula lived with some kind
of surety and satisfaction. I was the one who had all the restlessness and
awkwardness. My belief was the opposite. Death meant the end of everything, not
getting the fruits of anything, no re-birth, nothing, a big emptiness. Life had
no meaning, no value. This belief gave me a frightening despondency, made me
look at life unfavourably. If I asked Baba what was the meaning of life, he
would say life meant struggle. To struggle in life and finally stand on one’s
own feet was the fulfilment of life. He was able to divide life easily into
childhood, adolescence, youth and old age. If there was any laxity in the
pursuit of education and in one’s work then one would face the consequences in
this life itself. In freedom and comfort he found the success of life. Life
became meaningful with success. But if life were to end one day, whether you
were successful or not, how would it matter! The definition of success and failure
too was different for different people. A philosopher had said, life has no
meaning, but we had to give life meaning. I didn’t think we could do anything
really to give life a valuable meaning. Wasn’t this fooling oneself? One was
creating meaning so that one could think of life as meaningful and important.
Those who could write, had to write well, those who played, they had to play
well to give life meaning. Actually were we giving meaning or experiencing
pleasure? A temporary happiness for oneself. My mind told me man did not have
the ability to give meaning to this meaningless life. The maximum that man
could do would be to enjoy this short life to its fullest. Instead of worrying
about where they came from and where they would go. But was there any benefit
in drinking of life to the full? If I didn’t, what would happen? If I was alive
today how did it matter, if I died, would that matter either! A deep melancholy
pervaded my being.
Chapter XXIV
Domestic Life
I had to undergo internship at the hospital for
exactly a year, neither a day less nor a day more. Once the year was over, I
would return permanently to
Breaking one’s arm was not like feeling feverish or
having a persistent cough; it was quite a big event. After such an accident one
could unhesitatingly bunk one’s training, even the tiger Zobayed Hussain had
acknowledged that, so who was I not to? For two days Ma fed me with her own
hands, gave me a bath and dressed me. Pushing Ma aside one day I left for
Rudra fed me with his hands, as my right hand was
useless. He took me to the bathroom, undressed me, and gave me a bath. While
giving me a bath, the touch of my body aroused him. Drying my hair and body
with a soft towel, he brought me back to the room and laid me down on the bed.
The top half of my body may have become useless, but not the lower half. In the
storm that Rudra roused that night, our cot broke and I fell down from it along
with the bed clothes. My unbroken hand just about remained in one piece. The
next storm was on the floor. So that this strong floor didn’t collapse and fall
on the ground floor, we bought a sturdy bed, which would not crack up in
‘storms’. I was used to sleeping on big beds. I couldn’t sleep well unless I
could spread my limbs. Then there was the matter of bolsters. I now slept after
the ‘storms’ using my pillow as a bolster. After buying the bed, mattresses and
pillows, we had no money left. As usual when the money got over, Rudra left for
Mongla. This time he was going to take me with him. I did not stop him. I
desired Rudra’s company. If required I would cross seven seas and thirteen
rivers to be with him, and this after all was my in-laws’ home.
***
Since my arm was broken, I was thankfully spared
having to wear a red kataan. I wore a
long loose garment, something easy to wear and take off. From
Life came back to my body when arrangements were
made for us to leave the port. Even though we were not going to
“Where will you go?”
“To see the village.”
“There’s nothing to see in the village.”
“Why isn’t there anything to see?”
“There’s nothing, only fields.”
“I’ll see the fields then.”
“What will you do seeing fields? Is there any point
in looking at fields of paddy?”
“Let’s both of us walk on the village paths. Didn’t
you write so many times in your letters that you wished you could show me these
green paddy fields which stretched till the sky? Show me the amazing beauty of
the village!”
“There’s no need to go out without reason. Sit at
home and chat with Kaku. Bithi and the others are there; spend your time with
them.”
I had wanted to spend time with Rudra. I had
imagined that afternoons would pass talking to him, the evenings would pass,
and I wouldn’t even notice. The black curtain of the night would hide our faces
but we would never know that we were not able to see each other. We would talk
about small things in life, spend hours talking about life’s small incidents,
or even about nothing at all, or about whatever came to mind, about the bird
that just came and sat atop the betelnut tree, or about the boy who just ran
and dived into the pond. Yet, even if I wanted it, I noticed Rudra’s lack of
interest. He preferred to lie by himself on the bedstead. He did not want me to
ruffle the hair on his chest with my fingers, while telling him all that I
wished for in life, and all that I didn’t. He did not want us to recite poems
from memory, to whatever extent we could recall, while lying together, his head
near my knees and my head near his. He wanted me to spend the whole day with
the women of the house, and come to his bed only to sleep. Even with the best
of efforts I was unable to match the Rudra in
If I went to chat with Kaku, she opened her almirah
and took out saris for me, and opened her jewellery case and made me wear heavy
sets of ornaments. She only wanted that I should do whatever a wife could do to
make her husband happy. I should continue doing everything with great
dedication and there should be no shortcomings in the performance of my duties.
In the
“No, I don’t need anything. I have come just like
that,” said this bride standing before her, head covered with her sari-ghomta, as embarrassed as her
disconcerted mother-in-law.
I could clearly make out that if anyone came and
just sat in her room, she felt uneasy. I didn’t want to embarrass her further
by saying that I had long wanted to come and talk to her.
In the evening Rudra would go out alone. There was
no end to his work. “Why are you going? Don’t go, please, stay,” I would say.
All my “meaningless requests” were thrown into the pond like little pebbles,
and he would go to Mongla port, and come back late at night, his body reeking
of spirits.
“Why is there this smell?”
“I just drank a little liquor.”
“Why did you drink?”
“I wanted to, that’s why.”
“How many
more times do I have to tell you not to drink? Will you never listen to
anything I say?”
Kaku was in the room, on another bed. Rudra was not
bothered, however late it was at night, he had to have sex.
“Rudra, do you only understand the body? Don’t you
understand the mind and heart?”
No, Rudra did not understand the mind. He believed
that, “the body controlled the flight of the mind. If the bodies met the mind
was revealed.”
Rudra had to have sex. He had to have it every
night, in whatever way, whatever the circumstances, he had to have it. When the
village was flooded by the full moon, and my heart was illuminated with its
light, I took Rudra to the terrace to see the full moon. Lying on a mat under
the sparkling moon, my heart danced in the light. With one of his hands in mine
I trembled, soaking in the cold moonlight. Let’s bathe the whole night like this
in the light of the moon, the whole night. My heart was floating in the light.
Rudra did not want to float in the light; he wanted to sink into my body. On
that terrace two fingers away from the danger of ‘someone arriving’, he enjoyed
my body. Slept deeply. The moon and I stayed awake by ourselves, all night, all
alone.
***
To sit in your room, and have food served there may
be a great luxury, but I was hesitant to become part of all the comforts and
luxuries of this household. This may not be my father-in-law’s house it still
was my mother-in-law’s. Trying to make myself useful in the kitchen of this
house, I found I was a superfluous person. There was no dearth of people to
take orders in this house. This was normal in a Zamindar’s household. I was not
easily able to comprehend some of the big things of this house. When Rudra
discussed land, property, crops, wealth and possessions etc. with Bithi, I
didn’t understand most of it. Rudra had explained things later to me. This
Zamindari existed within a very complicated situation. From whatever was earned
from the land at Mithekhali, he took his mother’s share. For many years now he
had been doing so. After keeping some of it for his personal expenses, he left
the rest for the household expenses at the port. But now, Rudra did not believe
anymore in taking their share of paddy from the sale. From a long time, he had
been telling his mother to ask Mejo mama to arrange for the division of the
land. From his mother’s share, he wanted to sell a portion and start a printing
press in
I stared at the pond from my window on the second
floor. I felt the pond was as lonely as I was. As though it, too, had not
bathed in ages. Weeds had gathered over it. All the water for cooking, washing,
ablutions, and bathing came from this pond. The water was also used for
drinking. During the rains, the system was to collect the rain water in huge
earthen barrels. These casks lay in the courtyard always. Water from these
barrels was drunk the whole year round. When that water finished, then the pond
water was used. One day while drinking the water I found many tiny creatures
swimming around in the glass. The others were happily drinking this infested
water. When I shouted for them to stop, Bithi said, “These creatures are
harmless, they can be eaten.” Bithi told me about their source of water, and
how they collected drinking water. I listened completely appalled. Seeing me
everyone laughed. They obviously thought I was some strange bird. I spent days
without water. The two cups of tea I had in a day, had to fulfill the absence
of water in my body. Rudra had brought many bottles of Fanta and Coca-cola for
me from
***
Many things went wrong for Rudra. He had said a
nine-to-five job would not suit him, but once we reached
I felt sorry for Rudra. I told him, you write
poems, I will run the home. You don’t have to worry about earning money. The
very first thing I bought with my own money was a book case. Taking the books
from Rudra’s old bamboo shelves, I arranged them neatly in the almirah. I
stopped at the steel shop on the way to and from Chhotda’s Nayapaltan house,
and bought a clothes cupboard, and had it delivered at the house on
For as long as he stayed in Mongla or Mithekhali, I
tried to concentrate on my medical internship. Even if I couldn’t, I at least
maintained my attendance. The minute Rudra returned to
**
Rudra said we needed a bigger house. He had decided
that he would now bring even his younger brother Abdullah to
A printing press. A printing press. Rudra imagined
everything, where it would be located, how it would be. The joy of having him
close to me everyday made me tremble with excitement. He would never again have
to go far away to procure money for the monthly expenses. No more would the
pain of loneliness tear him to pieces. My dream tree was covered with blooms.
***
But, when he returned from Mongla, the news was
that he was unable to get the money for a press from the sale. He was to get
this from the sale of his mother’s share of the property, to be separated from
Mejo mama’s share. So the question of permanently staying in
‘We will light up the moonless earth’s shores,
With the beautiful flame of the heart, ignited by
the joining of our lives.’
***
I was not going to wear a white sari and marry in
the clothes of a widow. I wanted a red Benarasi with gold jewellery. Rudra was
angry to see this spendthrift girl’s ‘senseless list’. But my argument was that
if I have to dress as a bride, then I would do so like any other Bengali bride.
I bought Rudra whatever clothes he would wear for the ceremony. My enthusiasm
was more than Rudra’s. I asked a Chinese restaurant in town to be prepared for
the night of 29th January. I would call everyone, relatives and
friends. Let everyone see that I was well, I was happy. After all “Staying well
and happy” was judged by people according to the clothes and jewellery you
wore. After spending Id in
***
I attended invitations with Rudra at Jhunu khala’s
and Chhotda’s houses. When Ma came to
***
Somehow Rudra managed to spend the whole of
February in
***
The Alawal Literary Prize was being given to
Muhammed Nurul Huda. Some young poets were invited. Rudra was one of them. He
went to Faridpur with me. In a group, we went to the village and saw the house
of poet Jashimuddin, and also saw the famous Dalim, pomegranate tree mentioned
in his, ‘Here is your Dadi’s grave under the Dalim tree, for thirty years I
have kept it fresh with the tears from my two eyes!’ Rudra’s company, and
life’s pace and rhythm kept me submerged in great joy. My life could have been
the same as any other ordinary Bengali bride. My life could have been spent in
keeping track of oil, daals and salt.
By flouting social superstitions and restrictions we had both come thus far.
Then why was I still dreaming of being a part of society! I swept away the
regret that lurked in my mind, at not having been able to set up home
exclusively with Rudra. Rudra now wanted his home to be completely different
from others, removed from the world, removed from people. But by selfishly
creating a cage for ourselves we would not be setting up house in reality. We
would live in the free world outside, we would fight for a beautiful, healthy
world where there would be no inequality, in this way we would spend our
marital life with trust and love. We would be each other’s fellow-traveller or
fellow-fighter. We would live in a world where there would not be even a hint
of selfishness. Rudra’s siblings would leave the stale, mouldy,
opportunity-less atmosphere at
I had met Chandana in
When the February festival was over, Rudra asked
me, “What is your contribution to this house?” My face turned purple with
shame. Why wasn’t I spending money to run the house, like Rudra was! The reason
was very simple. I did not have any money to spend. I was waiting for a
Government job. As soon as I got it, because I believed in the equality of the
sexes, I would prove that I did not want to be economically dependent, and
would also contribute my share in the household expenses. But why wasn’t I
trying to earn some money till I got that Government job? Instead of that I was
making my body into a fat lump of flesh! Rudra said this, even though there was
not even an ounce of fat on my body. In fact, inspired by Geeta, the long hair
cascading down my back was now cut till the shoulders, further exposing my bony
structure. Thanks to Rudra’s enthusiasm, an arrangement was made for me to see
patients in a doctor’s chamber inside his friend Salim’s pharmacy in
Siddheswari, at the corner of Shantinagar, B.N. Medical Hall.
‘Dr. Taslima Nasreen,
MBBS, B.H.S. Upper
Consultation –
Salim hung up a signboard with these words written
on it. In the evening, Prajesh Kumar Ray also sat in these chambers. He, too,
had passed out of
Chapter XXV
Distances
The incident took place towards the end of 1986.
Saying he would return after a month and a half, Rudra left for Mongla to
oversee his prawn business. Since I had nothing to do in
Taking a rickshaw from the Raja Bazar corner, I
went towards Mahakhali Bus Stand.
“Am I not allowed to visit alone? Do I always have
to bring my husband along?”
“Ki, have
you had a fight or what?”
“Nah! Why
should there be a fight!”
“That’s what seems to be the matter. Is your
husband in
“Nah.”
Geeta had a crooked smile on her lips. There was
one on Tullu’s lips as well. Geeta’s younger brother, Tullu stayed in this
house. A black, fat, caterpillar mustachioed boy. Chhotda had given him a job
in Bangladesh Biman, and brought him to stay in his house in
The evening passed. I had eaten, slept and, after
stretching myself, I was now again sitting on the sofa with Paroma on my lap.
Nargis was dipping a cloth into a bucket of water and mopping the floor. She
had yet to have a bath or eat her food. She would eat only when Geeta asked her
to.
“Kire
Nargis, how are you?”
“Apa,
when did you return from Mymensingh?” Nargis asked in a low voice.
“I came today itself.”
“When will you return?”
“I don’t know. Do you want to go to Mymensingh?”
“Yes.”
Nargis had stood up in her agitation. As soon as
Geeta entered the room, she bent over her mop.
“What’s happening?” Geeta’s enquiring eye was
focused on Nargis.
“She hasn’t eaten as yet! She needs to eat some
food!” I mumbled. Geeta screamed, “Once she finishes all her work, she will
eat.”
In a soft tone, I said, “Doesn’t she have any
decent clothes? Who knows for how many days she has not had a bath!”
The minute Geeta heard my words she kicked the bent
body saying, “Why haven’t you mopped the bathroom?” She had wiped the bathroom
floor. Tullu had gone and wet it again. Nargis didn’t say this, I did. Thanks
to my interference, she caught Nargis’ hair in her fist and lifted her up,
throwing her on the dining room floor, where she kicked her viciously on her
face and chest. Emerging from his room indolently, Tullu said, “Go on, kick her
some more, the hussy’s very wicked.” I ran to rescue Nargis from under Geeta’s
kicks.
Geeta snatched Paroma from my lap and screamed at
Nargis, “You stay in my house, eat my food, and tell others what you think of
me? Does anyone have the authority to judge me?”
I said, “She did not say anything about you to me.
I only said so.”
Barely had I uttered the words, when Geeta pulled
Nargis to the window and pushed her against the grill. Gripping her hair, she
repeatedly banged her head against it. I looked away, my jaw hardened. I wished
I could take Nargis with me and leave this house, this very moment, but I
couldn’t. I wanted to push Geeta away, but I couldn’t. This house was not mine,
it was Geeta’s. Nargis would have to follow her commands and directions.
Looking at the dreadful sight, I could not bear to spend another moment in that
house. I left with all my powerlessness and weakness.
Traveling on the bus to Mymensingh I saw three
trucks upturned on the edge of the road. Two buses had fallen into a ditch.
Next to the two buses, people were standing around ten or twelve dead bodies. I
felt as though my bus too would fall into the quarry. Maybe I too would die
like this and lie on the side of the road. No one would know my name, or where
my home was. This unidentified woman would be buried in some public graveyard.
No relatives or friends knew I was travelling to Mymensingh from
***
Aubokash remained the
same as before. Ma was making Suhrid into her most beloved person. After learning
that her bleeding ailment had no treatment, she did not even complain about it
anymore. After passing her M.Ed., on Baba’s orders, Haseena had applied to all
the good schools in town for the post of a teacher. A third divisioner in her
SSC and Intermediate, even a B.Ed., and M.Ed. degree did not secure Haseena a
good job. But Baba continued to search for new schools. He did so to earn her
love. Yasmin was not interested in Botany. Her interest was in humanity. Her
time in college was spent with a variety of friends. More than the attention
Dada paid to his medicine business at Arogya
Bitaan, he paid to writing thirty-two page long letters once a week to
Sheila. Love letters. Back home he called Haseena, Mumu, and made her come
close to him. In order to make her permanently angry face smile, he regularly
bought gold ornaments and expensive saris for her. It was an impossible task to
bring a smile to Haseena’s face.
My name is Haseena, but my Hasee, smile is not cheap, sat before Dada everyday with sacks of
complaints. After Dada came home one afternoon, she told him that she had asked
Ma to cook the chicken with potatoes, but she had cooked it with the kitchen
vegetable potol. If she could not eat
what she pleased, she was not keen to live in her husband’s household anymore.
As soon as he heard this, Dada ran through the house, and standing in the
center of the courtyard, called for Lily’s mother in everyone’s hearing and
said, “If the chicken is not cooked with potatoes for dinner, I will beat you
till I throw you down dead.”
Hearing him, Ma came out of her room and screamed,
“Why are you telling this to Lily’s Ma? Tell me. I cooked the chicken with potol. If I have committed a crime by
doing so, punish me. Beat me to death. That is all that’s left for you to do.”
Without replying to Ma’s statement, Dada slapped Lily’s Ma on her face and
shouted at the top of his voice, “You will do exactly what Mumu tells you to
do. If you mess things up, you will die.” Lily’s mother sobbed and said, “You
are angry with each other and are taking it out on me. I will not work in this
house anymore.” Grabbing Lily’s Ma by her shoulders, Dada pushed her towards
the wood-apple tree, and said, “Go, leave this house immediately.” Stopping
Lily’s mother, Ma said, “Wait for Suhrid’s grandfather to come. You will tell
him everything before you leave.” For Dada’s benefit, Ma lowered her voice and
said, “I am a mother, even if I am illiterate, and haven’t passed my I.A.,
B.A., I am still your mother. You do not give me the respect due to a mother in
the least!” Dada had barely reached the verandah of the room in the tin-shed,
when from within Haseena said, “Can’t you ask how she expects any respect!
After romancing her own brother-in-law, now she expects her son to respect
her!” Dada supported Haseena’s accusation, “It was necessary to tell the
truth.” When Baba returned, Ma gave him all the details of the incident. She
even said, “Haseena thinks she married my son on her own initiative.” Baba
called for Dada, and for Haseena. In a low voice he spoke to them both. Ma
waited in the other room, hoping Baba would finally lay down the rule that in
this house his daughter-in-law would speak with respect to her mother-in-law.
If the daughter insulted her mother-in-law today, tomorrow it would be the turn
of the father-in-law. But after the discussions and consultations the decision
that finally emerged was that the house would now run under Haseena’s
authority. After ages, a glimmer of a smile played on Haseena’s ever frowning
face.
The day the responsibility of the household went
into Haseena’s hands, Chhotda came to Mymensingh. Seeing the change of hands at
home, he told Ma, “This is correct, Ma. Why should you take so much trouble
anymore? Let Boudi manage everything.” But why was Chhotda alone? “Have you
left your wife at her parent’s house?” No, Chhotda had not brought his wife at
all. He had come alone. He had come to see Suhrid. If that was his main reason
for coming would he have spent two minutes with Suhrid, and said, “Kire, want to go out” and taken me out
of the house? Where do you want to go? Come, Come. I will take you to a new
place. The desire to go to a new place flew like a kite in my mind. Chhotda was
becoming more handsome by the day. There was no fat on his body. He was tall and
slim. He looked as though he was growing younger. Chhotda looked so much like a
young boy that when he took me in the evening to an army officer’s house in the
cantonment, the officer’s young and pretty wife actually asked, “Ki Kamaal, is she your elder sister?”
Happily pacing up and down in their house, Chhotda said, “What are you saying?
She is eight years younger than me.” Chhotda spoke to Nina in the same tone and
style he used with Geeta. Lifting Nina’s chin with his hand, he said, “Bah, you are looking lovely!” I couldn’t
believe my eyes, or ears, nothing. I couldn’t believe that the man in front of
me had ever gained fame as a hen-pecked husband. “Will you have tea or
something?” asked Nina. Chhotda piped up, “No, no, I won’t have anything. I came
to see you, beautiful. My heart feels enormous satisfaction at having seen you.
Now I will leave.” The smile on Chhotda’s lips was exactly the same one when he
romanced Geeta. Nina rose up, saying “No, No. What are you saying, you have
brought your sister with you; you must eat something.” As she went towards the
kitchen, Chhotda pulled her back by her hands. She almost clung on to his
chest. “Where are you going? I won’t eat anything. Your husband might come
back, let me go, today, I’ll come another time.” Saying so, Chhotda lightly
caressed the beauty’s cheeks and came out. I asked Chhotda, “Who is this
woman?”
“She is the younger sister of the singer Piloo
Mumtaz.”
“So how did you meet her?”
“I met her on the flights. She goes abroad very
often.”
“Oh!”
“She is a very nice woman. She has given me some
customers. I sell business stuff to them.”
The crew of Biman called the foreign goods they
brought back to sell, business stuff! Saying these were things for their
personal use, they got them through customs, and then sold them to others at a
profit. A chosen clientele bought this ‘stuff’. “Why do you do this?” I had
asked Chhotda. “Arrey, business is
the main thing. That’s where the money is. How much pay do I get, after all!”
Chhotda pursed up his lips.
“Listen, don’t ever tell Geeta about this woman.”
“Why, what will happen if I tell her?”
“There’s no way out. Geeta has never been able to
stand my talking to any other woman. If she gets to know, it will be
disastrous.”
Chhotda left that very day for
Baba remained as domineering as ever before. After
Borodada died, Baba went to the village intending to equally divide all the
land he had bought in Borodada’s name amongst his siblings and himself. On
reaching there, he was attacked by his well-to-do brother Riazuddin and his
equally well-to-do son Shirazuddin. He was also threatened with death the next
time he ventured to enter the village. In this way they were able to get rid of
this trouble maker from town, and were successful in sending him back.
Returning home, more than from physical illness, Baba suffered mental agony for
the next seven days. He wailed, “What have I done all this for, all my life, hai, hai.”
Ma sat next to him, stroking his head and saying, “You did everything for their
benefit, what is the point of regretting it now!” Baba recovered physically, his
mental agony also abated. His obsession with land swiftly gripped him once
more. Next to Nanibari was Koritala. In front of it was a huge open field,
where in our childhood we played gollachhut,
dung-guli, chor-chor, cricket and all kinds of other games. There was also the
pond around which we used to sit and dip our feet, where the slum girls also
used to bathe and wash their clothes. At the edge of the field was a row of
houses like a fence. Baba bought the whole area, filled up the pond, broke down
the houses and after clearing the field , built twenty-five houses and rented
them out. He had raised a wall around the whole Rajab Ali Colony. Thanks to
this wall, the way out of Nanibari was blocked. Nani complained about this.
“What is this Noman’s father, you have closed our path!” Baba made no excuses
to Nani. He was not satisfied with just buying the land at Akua. The house
bordering the wall of Aubokash was
owned by Prafulla Bhattacharya. After he died, one day his wife, too, passed
away without warning. They had one daughter who lived in
Baba scolded Ma and stopped her, “If a
daughter-in-law educates herself and earns a name for herself, who will
benefit? If she becomes a school or college teacher who will gain? Will people
say that Haseena Mumtaz teaches in so-and-so college or school? They will say
Dr. Rajab Ali’s daughter-in-law is a teacher. My daughter-in-law has joined my
family, my daughter will join another.” Ma’s voice cried fie on Baba, “Family,
family, family. What have you ever got from your family? The love and care your
daughter feels for you, will you get the same from your daughter-in-law? You
are so worried about your name, if people were to know you give nothing to your
wife, what will happen to your name and fame?
Baba did not wait to hear Ma’s ranting and raving.
He went to see his patients in the chamber. He had many patients. Since he had
his separate chambers, a few permanent women-patients would be examined by him
behind closed doors on a regular basis. Ma had one day made Baba’s favourite
dessert, carrot halwa, and taken it to the Chambers, so that Baba could eat
while examining patients. She had knocked on the closed door for quite
sometime. Knock after knock. The door was locked from inside. Finally when Baba
irritated by the persistent knocking, angrily opened the door, the fly of his
trousers was still unbuttoned. Spitting out in disgust, Ma had come out. Baba
was not affected in the least by Ma’s disgusted spitting. If he didn’t send the
groceries, then everyone at home would have to fast, if he threw us out of the
house, everyone would have to live on the streets. No one could deny his power
and authority. Ma said very often, “If I could have passed my SSC, I could have
taken up a job. I could have left this house ages ago, if I had been working!”
Ma was sure that any job she could have got, would have given her the freedom
to ignore Baba and not bother about him.
Normally fever did not cause Ma to collapse. She
carried on with her domestic chores even if she had temperature. But one day,
fever crippled her to such an extent that she lost the strength to get out of
bed. I told Dada to send Amoxycillin manufactured by a good company for her.
Now for anyone’s small ailments at home, I took up the treatment. Daily
postponing giving the medicine, Dada finally came three days later with ten
capsules for Ma to have. Ma had been having the medicine, routinely every eight
hours. Even after seven days, Ma’s fever did not go. She looked sorrowfully out
of the window in her feverish state. Placing my hand on her forehead, I found
that it was burning. Taking the hand I had placed on her forehead into her own,
Ma said, “Sit close to me, Ma. Let me
tell you a secret.” Ma had never asked me in such a soft tone to sit beside
her, and hear a secret. Ma had only one secret, and that was Razia Begum’s real
relationship with Baba, and to make new discoveries about it and to let me
know. Within me, not an iota of curiosity to find out secrets was ever born. My
disinterested gaze roamed over Ma’s face, pillow sheets, windows and coloured
glass. Ma very slowly said, “Thanks to your father’s torture, I one day thought
of leaving this house. I really and truly thought of doing so. But where could
I go, to whom could I go! It was not always possible to say I am going, and
actually leave. Like I once in a while got angry and threatened to go to the
jungle, but was that truly possible! No, it wasn’t!” Ma stopped, staring out of
the window towards the other side, where the sky was packed with clouds, and
small blue sorrows, she said, “In my childhood I used to have a tutor. He would
come home and teach me Arabic. The tutor liked me a lot. Some years ago, I
tried to find out where he was, and in what state. I heard he had got married,
but his wife had died. That September I wrote a letter to him, one day. I asked
him directly if he was agreeable to marrying me. He came to meet me very
eagerly. I met him in the park. He knew that I was married to a doctor. A
doctor who was highly reputed. Owned a big house. The first thing he asked me
was, how much land do you own? Land? I was shocked. Why was he asking about
landed property? I told him the truth. I told him I owned no land, nor did I
possess any money. Hearing this, he showed no more interest.”
“That means if you owned property, he would have
married you!”
“Yes.”
I sneered and said, “You actually wanted to marry
that munshi fellow?”
“I couldn’t bear to suffer your father’s crookery
any more. In anger I had called that man. I wanted to show your father, that I
too could leave. But I couldn’t.”
“Had you thought of what would happen to us if you
left?”
“It is because I worry about you that I think of
going away and can never actually do it. You all have grown up, but still I
have never been able to go away. You all will set up your own homes, have
children. Your Ma goes off with some other fellow; this would give you all a bad
name. A father can live with seven women, but will not get a bad name.”
I stared at Ma’s gloomy face. Heaving a deep sigh,
Ma said, “It is a sin to commit suicide, so till today I have not done so. If
it had not been a sin, I would have done so ages ago!”
Looking away from Ma’s gloomy face, my eyes fell on
the local soiled amoxycillin strip that I was playing with, to the name of the
medicine, to its date of manufacture and expiry. The expiry date was three
years seven months old. Did Dada purposely give Ma this expired medicine? I
couldn’t believe that he could have done this on purpose. I didn’t tell Ma that
these medicines had lost their medicinal properties ages ago, that her fever
would not go with these. I didn’t tell Ma, but I went and told Dada. “This
medicine was expired!” I thought he would say he had not noticed the expiry
date, and that he would send fresh medicine immediately. But seeing the callous
expression on his face, and hearing his equally callous statement that ‘nothing
happens if the date of expiry has gone past, the medicine remains okay,’ made
me stand dumbly before him. A strong breeze came and struck me. The painful
blue sorrows in the sky fell in showers, wetting me. I thought, let me dry
myself and take away the useless medicines from Ma’s pillow and throw them away
secretly. Just as secretly I planned to replace the old medicine with new ones
I would purchase. Ma would recover from her illness, and would never know that
her eldest son had wanted to cheat her. I had never had the time to think of
Ma’s life. In spite of being a good student, she had been forced into marriage
when she was barely ten or eleven years old. Her husband was perpetually having
affairs with other women right after the wedding itself. Pinning her hopes on her
four children, Ma had continued under the drudgery of running a household. Both
her sons had got married and forsaken her. She had brought up her grandson
single-handedly, in exchange for which she got two saris in the whole year. If
a maid were hired to look after a baby, even she was given a sari. Ma was not
treated any differently. Ma had actually got used to living in want. Ma did not
require any sari or jewellery. She did not need any oil or soap. She was not
even looking for eggs, milk or bananas. All Ma needed a little was love and
care. Like the legendary Chatak bird waiting for water, Ma waited in vain for
that love. Rapidly growing in Ma’s tears
was a lotus. A day would surely come, when Baba would stop getting involved
with other girls and women. On that day Baba would hopefully become more
stable. Maybe once he’d crossed the sixties and seventies, when he reached the
eighties and nineties, he would ultimately turn towards Ma. ‘But Ma’, I told
myself, ‘once life is over, what is the use of finally having your beloved
return for your ownself? Would such a return be for love! That would be a
return only after everything was lost, everything was over, and it would be a
return only because a dried up bark was left with which nothing else was
possible.’
I told Ma the story of Geeta’s indescribable
cruelty towards Nargis. She did not express any opinion on hearing about it.
Ma’s silence made me gradually move away from her, and go to another room. Ma
said after me, “Did Kamaal come alone that day? Or did he leave Geeta at her
parent’s place and come to see Suhrid?”
“I don’t know,” was my answer.
“He should not have left Nargis alone at home and
come.”
The statement made me pause. ‘Why shouldn’t he
have?’ I asked. Ma said, “Tullu is not a good boy. I was there, wasn’t I with
Suhrid for a few days at Kamaal’s place? Tullu went at night and grabbed
Nargis. I told Geeta many times to let Nargis come back with me. But she
wouldn’t.”
Hearing what Ma had to say, I left the house and
took a rickshaw to Kushtopur, to Nargis’ house. There I told her mother to go
to
“Our Rizwan?”
“Yes, our Rizwan.”
“What do you mean he is dead?”
“He used to take pathedin. He was taking a muscle
relaxant to get a greater high. He had rented a room in the Chorpara Hotel. The
owner of the Hotel broke his door down in the morning and found him in this
state. The syringe and an empty vial were lying there. He never realized that
without artificial respiration, muscular paralysis would set in and the lungs
would not function. Arrey, if your
diaphragm does not move, the lungs cannot function!”
Death could come so easily. Here one was alive,
without any thoughts of death, then suddenly death said, come along. Without
wasting any time I went home. Some died in happiness, some in sadness. Those
who died in happiness were fortunate. They had not suffered any of the agonies
of life. Rizwan would possibly never have suffered any agonies. He had become a
doctor, and was moreover a man. There was nobody who could have cheated him.
There was no one even to oppress him. Rizwan’s father was very wealthy. The
father would definitely have spent money unhesitatingly for his son’s
happiness. Back home, I again thought of how I could obtain money. Ma had no
money. The question of asking Baba for it did not arise. If he could he would
have thrown me out of the house by now. Dada had changed; he would at the most,
spit into my extended hand. Promising Yasmin that I would buy her a new
Harmonium with my first pay, I took her Harmonium to the Sur Taranga shop at
Chhoto Bazar, from where I had bought it. “I bought it for five hundred taka,
how much will you give, if I sell it?” I asked at the shop. The old man in Sur
Taranga, with his short dhoti and round-framed glasses, said he could give
hundred and fifty. After bargaining with him, I was able to obtain three
hundred taka. With the money in hand, I did not wait for tomorrow. That very
day I went to Kushtopur and gave the money to Nargis’ mother. Repeatedly I
insisted they leave for
I did not make any reply.
****
I ran to
“When did you come?”
“Not today, I arrived yesterday.”
“Yesterday?”
“Yes, yesterday. Why didn’t you come home last
night? Where were you?”
“I was in some place.”
“Where is that some place?”
“I was there.”
“Where?”
Without replying, Rudra took his towel and lungi
and went into the bathroom. I never saw him spending so much time over taking a
bath. Smelling all over of scented soap, he emerged from his bath, saying,
“Have you eaten?”
“Yes, I have.”
“Then you wait. I’ll have my food and come.”
Rudra went towards the dining table. Lying on the
bed I wondered, why couldn’t he tell me where he had been! Why did he hide the
place where he had been, behind the words “I was there!” My thoughts did not
take me anywhere. I had not ever seen Rudra spending so much time over his
meals either. Every grain of my body was eagerly awaiting his touch. I wanted
to sit next to him at the dining table, to see how he ate. He must not have
eaten last night. Otherwise why would he have gone straight away to eat in this
way, without so much as touching me even slightly! Pride and fear kept me in
their grip. After he finished his meal and returned to the bedroom, I asked him
to sit next to me. Taking his hand in mine, I said, “I think you are trying to
avoid me.”
“No. Why should I?”
“How come you won’t tell me where you were last
night?”
“I said I was somewhere!”
“Where? At some friend’s place?”
“No.”
“At some adda?”
“No.”
“Then?”
Rudra remained silent, his silence became steadily
unbearable and the pain cut me to the quick, almost paralysing me. I began to
find it difficult to breathe. Rudra please say something, if you confess, my
pain will go away. But such pain did not go! It only increased. Rudra said he
was at Narayanganj. Why in Narayanganj, did any friend stay there? No. Then why
did you go? With whom did you go? Alone. To whom? To no one. Where were you at
night? Tanbazar. Rudra’s expressionless eyes were focused on mine. I could hear
my heart beating loudly. Tanbazar in Narayanganj was the country’s largest red
light area. Was Rudra trying to tell me that he had gone to spend the night at
some brothel in Tanbazar! No, Rudra, whatever else you say, please don’t tell me
that. Tell me that you spent the whole night at some tea shop, liquor shop or
even on the footpath, under a tree, something of that kind! My eyes were full
of entreaty. But Rudra said he had spent the night at Tanbazar, at a
prostitute’s place. My eyes were stricken. Rudra, prostitutes are also human
beings, like your mother, your sisters. Say, because you were hungry the
prostitute fed you; you were so sleepy, after drinking, that you went to sleep
soon after eating. Tell me you slept like the dead the whole night, and have
just woken up and come. Say you haven’t touched any other body. You had
promised not to touch anyone else, tell me you have kept your promise. Say,
that these lips are the only ones you kiss, no others. Tell me you do not
desire any other body but mine. Rudra was unable to read the language of my
eyes, he told me about his intercourse with the prostitute. Throwing a world of
darkness in my direction, he continued speaking. I sat stunned. I could find no
air to breathe. I looked at the decorated room, I looked at Rudra, I looked at
my home. I had slowly patched together my broken trust and faith, and started
life anew. Oh my life! This was no home, it was a whole graveyard. Like the
dead lie in the graveyard, I lay in my home. I was on fire, burning to ashes.
However, suddenly I gained strength from within myself. That strength pulled me
out of the blazing fire. It saved whatever little was left of my existence.
Rudra, who had washed off from his body all the juices and scents brought from
the prostitute’s body, lay down straight in the bed. After lunch he always took
a nap; that was his habit. After he woke up from sleep, he would go out in the
evening. He would fill his stomach with liquor at night. If I was near at hand
he would have sexual intercourse with my body, if not, then with any other
woman’s body. There would never be an iota of change in Rudra’s daily life’s
routine. Not even a tiny one. He was not going to change his nature for my
sake. I cried fie on myself. I should have forsaken him on the night our
wedding was consummated, on the bridal bed of flowers. Where had been the
requirement of bearing the burden of my love around for so many years! Once
someone betrayed your trust, he would always do so. Betraying was his nature. Betraying
was his propensity.
With no regret in my voice I asked, “What does one
have to do to get talaq?”
In a cracked voice, Rudra said, “You have to go to
a lawyer, give the reasons for the break up, give all details required. Various
problems.” I noticed, that unlike the last time, I was not weeping. I had not a
tear in my eyes. From utter stupefaction, there emerged a stony voice, “Tell me
where the lawyer’s house is, I will go there today itself. Why me alone, you
also come along. You of course know very well, that there is no meaning left in
our relationship. Therefore, I am not forsaking you out of anger. Let’s both of
us go and do the job. Let’s break our relationship. And please believe me, I
don’t even feel that I am divorcing you because you have slept with other
women, and thus our relationship should end. Our relationship should end,
because you do not love me.”
“I do love you,” Rudra said with conviction.
“The love in which there is no trust!”
“I do trust you.”
“You trust me. But have you thought of my trust? If
you were in my place, what would you have done? Can one love someone without
trusting that person?”
“This happens to some extent with artistic people.
They do not follow all the norms of society. You at least should have
understood that. You married me knowing I was an artist. Then, why so many
questions now?”
“The question is not about social norms and mores.
In personal relationships, the most necessary ingredient, trust, is what we are
talking about.”
I started laughing. Laughing, I said, “If you are
an artist you can get away with cold-blooded murder, isn’t that so! As an
artist, you have the freedom to do whatever you please. Does that mean if one
was an artist one did not have it! I too write poetry, does that mean I can
also do whatever you are doing? Or is it that I do not have the freedom,
because I do not write good poetry. Whereas you do, because you write well! Or
is it that you have freedom because you are a man. I am a woman, is that why I
shouldn’t have that freedom?”
Rudra was silent. He stared out of the window for a
long time, except for a high wall there was nothing in front of it. Only a
white-washed wall. I stared at Rudra’s eyes. After looking at the wall in the
same way for a long time, he said, “Can’t you forgive me for the last time?”
“You said the previous one was your last time? Your
truly last time will never ever happen.”
“It will.”
“You said so before as well. You know what? This is
your habit. It is not so easy to change one’s habits.”
“Okay, give me one more chance. I will change
myself.”
“Why should you? Do you truly want to change? If
you did, you would have done so. In any case, what is the need for you to
change? You don’t think there is anything wrong with your habits, do you?”
Rudra left the bed. Speaking in a harsh voice, he
said. “I have told you so many times to stay with me all the time. How many
days have you spent with me since our marriage, tell me! It took three years
for you to get over your hesitation. Can a man live alone like this?”
“I managed to stay alone.”
“What is possible for women is not possible for
men.”
“Why not?”
“Whatever the reason, I am unable to do so. When I
returned to
“That means whenever you are angry, you drink!
Don’t you drink otherwise at all? Don’t you drink even when you are not angry?
Don’t you drink when you are happy?”
“Forget about liquor. What will you say about the
fact that you have not stayed with me from the very beginning of our
relationship?”
“You know very well I had to stay in Mymensingh for
my medical studies. Now I don’t have any problem in staying at
“You should have stayed with me from the
beginning.”
“Are you trying to say that I should have left my
medical studies and stayed with you? For your convenience. That’s it, right? So
that you don’t go astray. Achcha,
when I get a job, it is not necessary that it will be in either Mongla or
Mithekhali. I will have to leave my job. You will be going to check on your
prawn enclosure, or to sell your paddy. Won’t I then have to go with you to
Mongla and Mithekhali so that when your body gets aroused, to satisfy it, you
can have a woman’s body close at hand?”
Rudra remained silent. I said, “When I live without
you, I don’t go to other men to satisfy my bodily desires. The thought of
another man does not even peep into my head. I just can’t do it, how do you! Do
you know the reason? The reason is because I love you, and hence cannot go to
any other man. You don’t love me, so that’s why you can. This is the very
simple, straightforward answer.”
I knew Rudra would not accept this simple answer.
He would say he loved me. He had slept with other women but not out of love.
Rudra’s reply would be equally simple. Rudra did not give this simple reply,
but in a grave voice said, “I believe in a free marriage. I told you this
earlier. A marriage which involves no lies. A marriage in which the domestic life
of the couple is different from all other married couples. This marriage will
not make it difficult for me to breathe. I will not feel entrapped. If married
life feels like a cage, then the open-sky is preferable.”
Sitting on the chair at his writing table, Rudra
lifted his feet on to the bed and said,” … Yes. That is what I told you. I told
you not to want to put me into any strait-jacket.”
“Does that mean you want the freedom to sleep with
any woman you desire?”
“When you are with me, I don’t want that.”
“When I am not there, you do?”
“I don’t. It happens.”
“What do you mean by ‘it happens’?”
“It happens means, it happens.”
“Suppose it happens to me as well?”
“What do you mean?” Rudra’s eyebrows creased in
shock. His feet came off the bed. Sitting face to face with him on the bed,
looking at the narrowing eyes, under his puckered brows, I said, “I mean, when
you are not with me, suppose it happens that I too sleep with another man!”
“What did you say?”
“I said, suppose I too happen to sleep with some
man, when you are not with me!”
“Don’t talk rubbish”, Rudra snarled in reprimand,
loads of disgust in his reproof.
“This is not rubbish. What you have the right to
do, why shouldn’t I have the same?” My tone was very soft.
“We are not talking of rights, yesterday I was
drunk”, Rudra’s voice too was soft.
“That is no excuse. Drinking is your addiction. You
get drunk every night.”
“No, I don’t. I do not drink every night.”
“Then what is it you want to say? That on the
nights you drink, get drunk, on those nights you have to have a woman under any
circumstances, if I’m there, then me, otherwise anyone else!”
Rudra picked up a book, and kept his eyes on the
pages of the book. As though at this very moment, it was more necessary to read
the book than talk to me. Snatching the book from his hands, I said, “Speak to
me. Look into my eyes and speak. Tell me how you will feel if I too spend the
night with another man and return home? Suppose I don’t return home tonight. I
return tomorrow afternoon, after spending the night with another man?”
Rudra looked at me with narrowed eyes, snatching
the book back, he said, “You want to take revenge?”
“I don’t want to take revenge, I only want to know
isn’t this what you would call ‘free marriage’? Or do you want free married
life only for yourself, not for me!”
“I said I made a mistake yesterday, it won’t happen
again.”
“Why won’t this mistake happen again? Because I do
not like it?”
“Yes.”
“But you do. You have no problems in having
relations with more than one woman!”
“Why are you giving so much importance to physical
relationships? No spiritual or mental relationship has taken place.”
“Okay, I will not have any emotional relation with
anyone. Only physical. Acceptable?”
Rudra thought for a long time. He then shook his
head. No, he would not accept that.
I laughed and said, “Actually I have no desire to
have a relationship with any other man. This goes against my taste. Even if you
had wanted me to, I would never be able to do it. But you used to say, you
believed in the equality of the sexes. I was just checking that. I have seen
how much you believe in it. You talk of equality, because it is fashionable to
do so. As an artist you have to say these things. Or if one has to appear very
progressive, then one can’t but say these things. You think you believe in
equality, because you go about town with your wife, you chat with your friends
in her presence; you haven’t confined your wife to the house, and have not kept
her to do household work. That is why you possibly experience some kind of
thrill, thinking you are a great supporter of progress. Of course, it is very
easy to support progress, and equally easy to talk of equality. But when it has
to be discussed and applied to one’s own life, it becomes very difficult.
Right?”
I talked of applying for talaq by mutual consent,
but Rudra would not agree. He made it very clear that he would not go to a
lawyer for talaq. He repeatedly asserted that he had kept the promise he had
made after his sickness was detected for the first time, to never to go to
other women. Only that day by chance the unfortunate incident occurred at
Tanbazar. I should for this time, and this would be the last time, forgive him.
I should never ever again think of anything as dreadful as talaq. None of
Rudra’s statements gave me any relief. I did not somehow feel that Rudra had
only that day gone to the brothel. My heart told me that Rudra, who had been
going to brothels from his youth, had never stopped going. After infecting me,
he had only written the poem ‘The Darkness of Remorse’, he had not really felt
remorseful. Composing words and believing them was not the same thing.
Restlessness began to eat me up. I did not know any lawyer whom I could ask to
draw up the talaq papers. I went ultimately to the lawyer who had prepared our
marriage document. I took Rudra with me though, but that was only two days
later. I had told him, “If you don’t come along, I will go on my own. This is
in spite of the fact that I do not believe in relationships on paper, and had
come to you because I love you, not because of the marriage document. The talaq
document is also a piece of paper, but this paper will free my body from any
rights you have over it. At least legally.” The lawyer was amazed to see that
we had come to sign a talaqnama. Laughing
loudly he said, “Go home, go and sort out your differences. Is there any couple
as wonderful as you?” Sitting on a wheel-chair, the physically challenged
lawyer called his wife. The extremely beautiful woman, seeing Rudra, arranged
tea, biscuits and shemai on a tray,
and came and happily sat down to a literary discussion. The lady not only
enjoyed the flavours of literature, she was herself a writer. She had written a
book. Sitting close to each other, Rudra and I both experienced her excitement
and joy at having written her first book. Who would have guessed that Rudra and
I were there to give talaq to each other? After having tea and biscuits, and
concluding the literary discussion, I told the lawyer before leaving, “We have
not quarrelled. There is nothing to make
up. But it is better to end the relationship.”
“Take some more time. Think over it. Don’t do
anything out of a whim.”
“I have nothing more to think about. I came only
after I had thought it over.”
The lawyer gravely told me to come back to him
after a month. What were the reasons I was seeking talaq for, I had to tell him
everything. Only if he thought the reasons were valid to get talaq, would he
grant it, otherwise not. He also spoke of carrying a hefty sum of money with
me, when I came next.
***
Although Rudra very often said, “Let’s make love”,
his mind did not completely lose control over his body. Even though my body was
there for the asking, he did not this time have sexual intercourse with me. He
kissed me though and squeezed my breasts till a river of arousal flowed in my
body, and drowning in overwhelming desire, I clung to him like to a straw. I
made him my saviour, so that he would safely carry me to the shores and save
me. But he cruelly snatched my straw, and turned away from me. His limbs were
not cool, yet he turned away. My limbs cried out for touch of his, but he still
turned away. Why? He lay inert next to my aroused body. Was he asleep? No, he
wasn’t. Was this a show of pride in view of our impending separation? No, it wasn’t
even that. Then what was it? The next night, Rudra went to sleep in another
room. I tossed from side to side, flung my hands and legs around, my body was
aroused on the pure, unblemished bed; it was soaked with lust and sweat.
Rudra’s touch and scent aroused me so tremendously that I was unable to repress
it and disguise my response.
“Why are you staying away from me? Don’t you want
me? What is wrong with you?”
At
He showed me the red boil at the base of his penis.
He definitely did not want to infect me this time. He was sure that he had
carried the virus from Tanbazar that day.
Covering the penis, I said in an impossibly quiet
tone, “No, you did not get this from Tanbazar. This disease does not manifest
itself so rapidly. Did you not go to any other bazar before Tanbazar?”
“What are you trying to say?”
“You surely understand what I am trying to say.”
There was no reason for Rudra not to understand.
Sitting bemused for a long time he finally said that one or two times
unfortunate incidents had occurred without warning.
“Where? In Banishanta?”
He slowly nodded his head. They occurred in
Banishanta. That he went to Banishanta regularly, I was absolutely convinced.
When I was with him in
“You of course told me that nothing happened after
1983, only that last day at Tanbazar!”
Rudra heaved a deep sigh. “So I did.”
“You have been lying to me from the day I was
introduced to you. If that sore had not manifested itself, then even this time
you would have hidden behind a mask and claimed that you were completely mine,
and were pure. You would not have disclosed the Tanbazar incident either.”
Rudra’s face was a pathetic sight. Did I loathe any
prostitute? I asked myself the question repeatedly. The answer was, no. Did I
loathe Rudra? No. I did not. Instead I felt sorry for Rudra. The next day I
took him to Shahbagh for a shot of penicillin. The same employee of the same
pharmacy took Rudra inside, laid him on the table, and gave him the injection
in his buttocks. Rudra did not suffer very long from the pain of the injection.
Like before, the two of us chatted with our friends in the university grounds,
in Shahbagh and Sakura and returned home at night. The next day when I was
packing my clothes into a suitcase, Rudra appeared to
fall from the skies.
“What’s up, where are you going?”
“Mymensingh.”
“Why Mymensingh?”
“I’m going.”
“When will you return?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know when you will return?”
“No.”
“Tell me clearly when you are returning.”
“I may not come back at all.”
“What do you mean?”
I told him to understand for himself, what that
meant. I told him I was going, going away.
“Going away, meaning?”
“Going away means going away. After a month I will
go and sign the papers at the lawyer’s.”
“Then why did you do all this? Why did you get me
injected?”
“That was for you. For your well-being.”
“If you are concerned about my well-being, then
stay with me.”
“Just because one is concerned, does one have to
stay?”
“Why not?”
“I can want your well-being even when I am away
from you. Can’t I?”
“What’s the use? If you stay far away, then why
should you be concerned about what is good for me?”
I laughed and said, “So what? Our relationship has
been such a long one, has my love for you suddenly dried up, or what? It is
still very much there.”
“Then why are you going at all! Come, let’s start
everything anew!”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I want to deny this belief of yours that I am only
a female body and nothing else.”
“Who said that was my belief?”
“Ask yourself. You will find the answer.”
Forsaking all attachment for my home I went back to
Mymensingh permanently. On the way there I spent one night at Chhotda’s house.
After hearing all the tales of Chhotda’s foreign travels and eating dinner,
just when I had gone to sleep, everyone woke up in the middle of the night at
the sound of banging on the door. Moving aside the window curtains, I saw Rudra
standing outside. Absolutely drunk.
“What’s happened, what do you want?”
Rudra screamed, “Come out.”
“Why?”
“You are my lawfully wedded wife, you have to
listen to whatever I say, come out, or I will call the police. No son of a
swine will be able to stop me.”
“Go away. Don’t scream.”
“I will scream. Till you come out, I will continue
to scream.”
“I will not come out. Go away.”
“Why won’t you come out? You just have to come out.
I’m telling you I will break down all the doors and windows. Let’s go home.
Come out, I say.”
The whole locality had woken up because of Rudra’s
screams. He was systematically kicking the door to break it down. Chhotda
pulled me away from the window. Pressing my face bent in shame to his chest, he
hugged me with both his arms. Making me lie down on the bed, he lay down next
to me and stroked my hair. Chhotda’s tender loving care finally opened the
flood gates for all the tears I was holding in. Wiping my tears he said in a
choked voice, “Be strong, be strong.” The next day, Geeta personally drove the
car and dropped me to the Kamlapur station. This sparkling red coloured Toyota
Corolla, was given by Chhotda as a present to Geeta, on her birthday.
That I had left Rudra and come, even if I told no
one at Aubokash, they all understood.
Taking my clothes out of the suitcase, Ma arranged them on the clothes stand
and in the almirah. She spread a new sheet on the bed. She tidied the table,
clearing away all the scattered papers. She brought a fresh rose and put it in
the vase. After two days my employment papers arrived. I had been appointed as Medical
Officer; Specialist in Medicine, in the Health Centre at Nakla Sub-division.
The day after the papers arrived, Baba took me by train to Jamalpur. From
Jamalpur by bus to Sherpur, where I sat in the Civil Surgeon’s office signing
my joining papers. Within seven days I would have to start work at the Nakla
Health Centre. Baba himself escorted me and my suitcase across the
When I was treating a cholera patient in the
Shower rain just once more, O sky far away …
The fresh young mustard fields are burning in the
extreme heat of the sun.
The farmer unskilled in agricultural practice, has
no irrigation facilities,
His heart is only full of a genuine love for his
crops.
Send clouds just once, or forgiveness in the form
of rain,
Do not destroy even this one handful of grain in
life.
Let me bear fruit even in the anarchy of this
polluted afternoon,
Let the field be heavily laden with golden mustard.
Take back the hot droughts of estrangement,
These fiery distances between
Send the clouds and shower rains on the afflicted
body of life.
For this simmering, shattered heart, O sky, touch
with your mystical hands
The breast of the clouds, so that caresses shower
down as rain.
The plough tears apart the heart to sow the seed of
paddy-love
Desolate wilderness is awaiting this day,
You gave it clouds, rain and hope,
And the scorching fallow decayed earth dreamt of a
harvest …
The darkness of remorse, became the sunshine of a
refreshing dawn.
The soil that had burnt for a long time in
dreamless morbidity,
That had turned into earth, collecting the deluge
of defeat …
You had given it clouds, rain, water and the whole
sky.
You had given it hope, even its first exposition,
You had given it only the dream of flying, but not
the wings.
You had picked up your whole life and placed it in
my hands,
But what you didn’t give me was the extremely
insignificant location of your secret solitary retreat.
Whatever I had, I had given it all to Rudra. Even
the extremely insignificant location of my solitary retreat. This was possibly
his only consolation, that there was at least one thing I had failed to give
him, hence the complete chaos that had finally resulted. There was something I
hadn’t given him, hence, today our relationship was in this mess. Yet I had no
secrets. I had kept nothing for myself. I not only signed the legal papers, I
even paid the money demanded. After that I hadn’t bothered to find out the
consequences. I only knew this much, that I could not spend my life with Rudra,
and yet I loved Rudra, hence life without him was also unbearable. The way I
had rashly signed the marriage documents, I did the same with the talaq
documents. Sitting in my dreamless, grey existence I had repeatedly told
myself, do not ever go back to the person who has insulted you, girl; do not
suffer any more. He has not valued your love even a little. He never will. He
believes in free marriage, a marriage in which no promises are kept. He is
someone who has drunk the water of every port, in whichever way he can; he will
float in the rivers of pleasure, he will not look back at the solitary figure
awaiting his return on the shores.
I had forsaken Rudra, but I had to sift through his
memories twice a day. I wanted to forget Rudra. Yet when I sat in the verandah
of the house on a lonely afternoon, looking out at the blazing sunshine, the
person I thought of, the one I could not but think of, was Rudra. An unbearable
pain wrung my heart, and brimmed over into my eyes. I tried my best to make
sure that the nightmare called Rudra, and the black past which I had left
behind, never managed to touch me ever again. I kept failing to do so. I
realize very secretly and confidentially, that my love for Rudra has not dried
up even today. But do I really want it to die!
‘Come back certainty, come back all consuming love.
In the rapid flow of troubled waters I am floating
like a ferry into the unknown,
With no ties, no bonds of love, affection or
solace,
There is no shelter, no pardon, no vast
forgiveness.
After ploughing darkness the whole day I return
home,
Through the night I sow seeds of pain in my heart …
I know you are my safe-haven, the warm waters to
return to,
You are like a mother’s aanchal …come back pure
gold.
I am being destroyed by the seasons, nature and
adverse times,
Man’s cruelty, and my own unforgiving conscience.
I am being destroyed at once both by love and the
lack of it …
My tears with love I feel have far exceeded my
tears without it.
I am beheaded by the formless knife of anarchy,
I am burnt by the restless hooves of the horses of distrust.
I fearfully keep rolled up the tender wings of
faith,
The Ashwin moon rises and gets to know the
distrusted name.
All around the blind waters raise their hoods … come
back arrows,
Come back straws, the body made of glowing wood.
Come back deliverance, lift me up fully,
My failures, sins, love, hate and affections.
The extremely rapid flow of nighttime, comes and
strongly pulls me away,
Come back certainty, come back the dawn of my
sunshine.’
But
to whom would I return? He would only cause me greater sorrow. Even though I
knew it would hurt me, I still read his poem ‘Graveyard’, and tears gathered in
my eyes. I broke down in love and pain.
‘I put forward my hand of desire, it returns after
touching emptiness.
You are not there, a blacked out lamp burns alone
in the fore-front
Like a pair of stone cold human eyes,
While the thirsty body is filled with painful
wailing.
The soft light of the moon dies in the Agrahan night,
What lives is love and the shining, star-spangled
memories.
Your emptiness is surrounded by long sighs, and the
scent of pain,
Hundreds of graveyards are pervaded by your absence
and remain awake.’
I had settled into my life in Mymensingh. I
decorated my room at Aubokash again.
The daughter of the house was back. Actually the daughter of the house had been
at home always; only once in a while she ‘disappeared’. Those bouts of
‘disappearance’ had now come to an end. But had they completely ended! On one melancholic
evening, ‘Come to
Putting my two hands on both his cheeks, I laughed.
Caressing his whole face with my fingers, I said, “I love you; that’s why.”
“If you love me, then why did you go away in the
first place? And since you did leave then why have you come back now?”
“That is because you called me.”
“So what if I did, you have not kept any connection
with me.”
“I am still battling with myself.”
“Why battling?”
“So that I can love myself. By loving another so
much, what happened was, I completely forgot one should also love oneself.”
Rudra lay resting his head on my breast like a
small baby. I stroked his hair with my fingers. He said, “Let’s go to the
lawyer again, and tell him not to prepare the talaq documents.”
I smiled sadly.
That night I was attacked by high fever. Even the
next day the temperature kept rising. In the afternoon, Rudra got up from next
to my fever-ridden body, on hearing someone’s footsteps. Someone was knocking
at the door. Who it was, who knew! Rudra was speaking to the guest in the next
room. I moaned for a little water, but Rudra was not there. He returned after
an hour or two, for a little while.
“Who has come?”
“Nellie.”
That Nellie! Rudra’s Nellie khala.
Bits of Rudra and Nellie’s conversation, laughter,
loud laughter, whispers and giggles floated into the bedroom. I was racked by
it all and the fever. I kept thinking that even today Rudra was in love with
Nellie. There were some feelings which remained even after a relationship was
over. My fever did not make me shiver as much as did the pangs of loneliness.
After another two hours, when Rudra returned to the bedroom after sending
Nellie off, in my feverish, but strong voice, I asked, “How did Nellie know the
address of this house?”
“She has come before.”
“She comes often, does she?”
“Not often. Only sometimes.”
“Oh.”
Was I a little jealous? Yes. When I spoke, it
sounded like delirious raving, “Whenever I am away, you do not remain mine any
more, you became anyone’s playmate. I do not call any man my own.”
What sounded like my delirious ranting continued,
“I know what the nuptial night means. I know what it is to stay awake on a
dangerous night in a port. I know, my bones and flesh know, so does every
fisherman on the sampans, every cargo labourer; the morning launch also knows,
and do you know any less? How destructive love can be, that someone who does
not know how to swim, sinks herself in the waters of the Rupsha and actually
floats back again. From the other end of the sky, swaying in a litter carried
by four bearers, after burning in the flames of doubts, she returns to place
her face and cry out again in the weak arms of the same drunkard who lies
fallen in the drains. This innocent girl returns from another city to drink sip
by sip the blood and pus picked up from Banishanta. You are drunk, deep in
sleep, but you know no less. How many times I have lifted you on to the raft
and been wretched and worn out every time, while on the tired waters of the
Jamuna.”
***
The day the fever abated, we both went out. Just
like before. In the university grounds, a meeting was going on of some new
poets. We too were to participate in this meet. We sat on the grass, just as we
used to. The meeting was to organize a poetry festival to oppose Ershad’s Asian
Poetry Festival. Some young poets, Rudra and I signed on a paper to having
attended the first meeting of the National Poetry Society as members. Rudra was
always very enthusiastic about all these things. He had been writing poetry
against the autocratic government for a long time. Now he had a deadly weapon
in his hand, to oppose one festival with another. A few poets who supported the
government and Islam, who could be counted on one’s fingers were in Ershad’s
party. The rest were with the National Poetry Festival. With this handful of
poets only, Ershad had given his poetry festival the name Asian Poetry
Festival. The Asian was arranged in a closed hall, the National on the streets.
The Asian sank into a well and the National swam in the sea.
***
When Rudra’s enthusiasm about the National Festival
was at its height, and he wanted to run here and there, he was unable to.
Forget about running, even if he walked, his legs pained. Earlier they pained
if he walked ten yards, now they pained after only four yards. The distance was
reducing every day. Rudra still did not lose his eagerness, even if he had to
halt; he continued to walk. The big toe on his right foot was changing colour,
turning blackish, the blackish colour was turning dull. It was as though this
was not a toe, but the root of a tree. The illness was definitely Burger’s
Disease. If gangrene set into the toe, there would be no option but amputation.
I was blue with fear. “Stop smoking. Your blood circulation is getting blocked.
This is a kind of peripheral vascular disease. You are getting intermittent
clodication. It is happening in your calf muscles, in your foot. After this
even when your foot is at rest, it will pain,” I told Rudra. Rudra didn’t
believe all this could be caused by smoking. So many people smoked, they didn’t
get it! “Everyone doesn’t get it, some do”, I said. “My advice was treated like
pages of bad poetry, torn into bits and thrown away. Hoping he would listen to
a reputed doctor, I took him to the B.N. Medical Hall at the corner of
Shantinagar, to Dr. Prajesh Kumar Ray. Dr. Prajesh Kumar Ray said the same
things I had repeatedly told him, “You have to give up smoking. Otherwise there
will be no option but to amputate your foot.” The doctor prescribed some
medicines. For as long as I was in Dhaka, I made Rudra take his medicines
regularly, made him soak his feet in hot water, so that even if only a little,
his veins and arteries dilated somewhat. I snatched cigarettes from Rudra’s
lips and threw them away. He got very angry. Pushing me aside he went to drink
liquor every evening. If he had money to spare, he went to Sakura, otherwise to
Methorpatti. If he spotted any pretty girl, on the streets, even while he was
on the rickshaw, he would wink at her and whistle, and yell, “Special Stuff”
and laugh loudly. There had been a talaq between the two of us, so I was no
deterrent for Rudra in these kinds of antics. When was I anyway! Before leaving
for Mymensingh, I repeatedly asked him to take his medicines regularly, to
follow the doctor’s advice, and impressed on him, that there was nothing more
valuable than life. I did not feel I was Rudra’s beloved or wife, I felt more
like a friend, a well-wisher, a doctor.
***
Rudra continues to remain addicted to liquor,
cigarettes, ganja, charas and women. And Rudra continues to be my addiction,
something I try my best to get rid of. On the one hand, Rudra completely drunk
keeps saying,
You
are my living crutch, I want you.
Wherever
I go, wherever I turn,
Whether
in my memory or future,
I
want you now.”
No, my life is not for becoming someone’s living
crutch. I cannot sacrifice my own life to become another’s crutch. I feel sorry
for Rudra, but more than that, I feel sorry for myself.
The End