In sum, it was decided in the meeting that Rafiq ought not to be the candidate; it needed to be someone else this time. If necessary, Maruf Sheikh was available. This was not a meeting of any political party. Nor was it the meeting of any organization. But nevertheless, Maruf had been able to create a consensus among all those present. The crown for the success, however, was deftly placed on Iqbal Ostagar’s head. He had never been involved in his life in any particular endeavours for the community. Iqbal was unaware that standing by people in times of distress and calamity brought a sense of contentment. The presence of all these people in his house for a discussion on a community matter imbued him with a sense of confidence. Farid expressed eloquently the role of Iqbal Ostagar in what the meeting had accomplished. It was his enthusiasm that had led to the meeting today. Iqbal’s chest swelled with pride as he heard that. He vowed that the Panchayat elections this time would be different. He would provide the money that was required. But no one could retreat now.

Riziya was sitting in Maruf’s room. His sister Amina was her friend. Maruf had sent word for her to come. But he himself was absent. The two friends were chatting. When they heard the sound of Maruf approaching, they became silent. Seeing Riziya there, Maruf said, ‘You’re here!’

‘Yes. What’s the matter, Chhot Da?’

‘I wanted to speak to you regarding your family’s land.’

‘What happened?’

‘Rafiq Ali Sheikh wants to buy it.’

‘I know that! He had come to meet me. I won’t sell that land,

Chhot Da.’

‘Why not? What’s the problem?’

‘You know everything. But I have other plans. I need the land. That’s why I told him that I am not selling it.’

‘Hmm. I don’t want the land to be sold either. But there’ll be a lot of problems, Riziya! Will you be able to handle that?’

Riziya was silent. Didn’t she know! Hadn’t it begun already? Boro Mami had quarrelled with Chhoto Mami yesterday. Boro Mami was of the view that it was Chhoto Mami who was actually behind it, that the wicked woman had forbidden Riziya to sell it, although she knew nothing about the matter and was not wicked either. Raqib and Rahman Da had threatened her quite a few times. They had said, ‘Look at the arrogance of this chit of a girl!’ For that matter, even Fulsura, who had come to her father’s house for the first time from her father-in-law’s house, hadn’t met her at all. Riziya was under psychological pressure. It was as if they wanted to subject her to social boycott. Of course, she kept these things to herself, she didn’t tell Maruf. She only said softly, ‘If I have problems, you people are there after all, Chhot Da. Let’s see what happens!’

‘Rafiq Ali met me. He thinks that if I speak to you, you’ll agree to sell the land.’

‘So what do you advise me to do?’

‘No. Don’t sell the land. That’s my opinion too. But you can’t change your mind later.’

Once Maruf left the room, Amina stirred. She said to Riziya, ‘I’m terribly jealous of you, Riziya! Where do you get so much strength from?’

‘I don’t know. But I’m the one who should be jealous of you. Not because you are a wealthy man’s daughter. You’ve got an angel of a brother. You got the love of your father and mother. All that!’

‘Mother?’

Riziya fell silent. After all, Amina was also motherless. She then said, ‘Do you know where I get the strength from? From the firmness of my convictions. From my inner resolve.’

Riziya was lost in her thoughts. Her firm resolve had formed only a few days back. At first, she had not realized her weakness in regard to Tahirul. But as the days went by, her attachment to Tahirul had only grown. His way of speaking, his melodious voice and charismatic personality seemed to have entranced her. It was such a life companion that a female heart which had been deprived of love since childhood sought. Riziya had observed that although Tahirul carried out his duties as imam of the mosque, he had ample potential in him. And after all, being the companion of a good man itself meant receiving a lot in life. She remembered what Reshma Bhabi had told her. ‘He may be a Maulana Saheb, but … he’ll never cheat you. When someone is God-fearing, Rizi, he can never do anything wrong … You’ll be a Maulana Saheb’s bibi!’ The prudent Riziya liked that very much.

Following Fulsura’s marriage, Tahirul taught her in her own room. When the class was over, after all the students left, Tahirul stayed a while. He had tea. And he secretly conversed in whispers with her. From those conversations, Riziya gathered that Tahirul loved not just her but the village of Sadnahati too. He would not leave this village. He wanted to settle down here and raise a family. And that was when Riziya’s resolve became firm. No, under no circumstances would she sell off the land that belonged to her. This would be her gift to her lover. Perhaps Tahirul had got a hint of this too. But Riziya wouldn’t say anything of her own accord right now.

thirty-four

The political climate in the state was turbulent. The appeal was, ‘Simply stamp on the flower’. Sometimes that appeal turned deadly. The channelling of anti-Left consciousness into the public mind was being ramped up. All these years, the Muslim minority in the state had acted as the principal sentinel of the Communist Party and guarded their immense mansion. There had not been any problem as such. But of late, the Communist Party had become an anti-religious and atheistic party in the view of various religious personalities. Communism highlighted atheism. In their view, religion was actually like an opium addiction. But in India, whatever was pitched emotionally was actually pitched via religion. That’s why the Communists in West Bengal didn’t adopt rigidity in religious matters. Muslims had been supporters of this party for three or four decades. But the very same people had now begun to say that this party was supposedly a party of atheists. Supporting them meant going directly to hell. Who was saying that? Who was broadcasting this opinion? It was Maulana Tahirul – and various imams like him in the state. Although they didn’t say that explicitly, people understood. Many Pirs, sons of Pirs, imams and maulanas spoke in the same vein. After all, people were not used to walking against the current. People were changing very slowly. They were shaking themselves and diving into the stream. But it was here that Maruf’s realization was of a different nature. He could not figure out which stream the minorities should flow with. It did occur to him, though, that something ought to be done. A certain force was needed in the state. For how long would they stand guard at someone else’s mansion? When would they build their own house?

There were four villages under the Sadnahati Gram Panchayat, with seventeen constituencies. Five of those were in Sadnahati village. Therefore, those who could exercise their control over Sadnahati were the ones who wielded the power to run the panchayat. Sadnahati was a Muslim-majority area. Kalim Mirza had been the village chief ages ago. The Indian National Congress had been in power then. But after him, no one from the Muslim community ever became chief. However, the post of Deputy Chief was reserved for them. Hasan Ali of the CPI(M) never stood for elections himself. Gaffar Sheikh, who died a few years earlier, had been Deputy Chief for two consecutive terms. After that, it was Abid Sheikh. And now it was Rafiq Ali of the Trinamool Congress. Hasan Ali’s ancient eyes knew many tales. This comrade of the party that had been in power for very long despised the likes of Rafiq Ali, the disorganized upstarts now in power. But he could not ignore them either. How they could make a comeback was beyond him. Surrendering to bourgeois power had become a matter of deep humiliation for him. But young blood was needed among party workers.

Hasan Ali encountered Farid in the marketplace. They used to sit and chat in Pintu’s motor garage. They had tea and singharas. And so, in the guise of such banter, he made the proposal.

‘Farid, I know you to be a really good boy. I observe you are always with Maruf.’

‘Yes, we are good friends. Why do you ask?’

‘If you people do get organized to protest against wrongdoing, then join us.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘Yes, I mean it. Didn’t you people meet in Iqbal’s house? I have all the news. I know everything.’

‘Yes. We had a meeting. But as independents. It wasn’t a meeting of any political party.’

‘Do you know, there’s no such thing as “independent”? Once there’s consensus among two or more people, a party is born. You were about ten or twelve people, isn’t it?’

‘But we can’t join the CPI(M), Chacha.’

‘Who’s asking you to join the CPI(M)?’

‘Then?’

‘Come one day to my place. We’ll talk.’ And then, after a pause, Hasan Ali said, ‘No. Call another meeting. I will attend. After all, my dear, even if I am not a Muslim like you people, I’m the same old Hasan Ali. Don’t I too have empathy for our community?’

There was another meeting in Iqbal’s sitting room. This time, it wasn’t just ten or twelve people, there were almost forty in all. Something Hasan Ali had never managed to accomplish in his life. But he did that today. During the long period of the Left regime, he had in a way admitted to the fact of deprivation of the Muslim masses. But at the same time, he laid the blame for the underdevelopment squarely on the Muslim community. No one could dispute his logic. Not even Maruf. It was true that over a quarter of the state’s population was Muslim. They seemed to have wilfully blinded themselves. It was as if, by being divided, they unwittingly laid the snares for their own peril. Had they raised the issue of development in explicit terms? Hasan Ali’s simple dictum was, the infant who doesn’t wail, doesn’t get his mother’s milk. When he finally ended his speech after saying a lot of things, the audience present there seemed to be discovering a new Hasan Ali. True, he had nothing to do with prayers and fasts, but he did not lack genuine empathy towards the Muslim community. Everyone was silent. Iqbal Ostagar was so overwhelmed by his speech that he spontaneously began clapping. Many others followed at once, and Iqbal’s sitting room resounded with applause. All of them realized that their secret meeting was no longer a secret. The crowd would swell. Looking at Hasan Ali, Maruf asked, ‘What do you suggest we do? I mean, what should we do?’

‘Struggle! Unending struggle. Struggling endlessly against injustice is the Prophet’s dictum. You can call it a duty. A duty that is as essential as prayers and fasts. We will fight, Maruf. We’ll stand shoulder to shoulder and carry on an unremitting struggle.’

Despite the crowd there, Maruf was able to be meditative. What was it that he could hear? That melody! That beautiful melodious voice! Was it the call of Bilal’s azan? Hasan Ali was an atheist. How could Bilal’s azan emit his heart? Maruf was at a loss. Hasan Ali nudged him. ‘Why are you quiet? Say something!’

Maruf looked at the large gathering of people. Some were seated, and some were standing. Everyone was looking at him. It seemed all of them had heard the azan. He suddenly said, ‘We shall fight in the way you tell us.’

Hasan Ali was dumbfounded. Perhaps he hadn’t imagined that he could influence these people so easily. But should his party resort to religion? Which was supposedly against Communism? Couldn’t one trample over ideals in order to enter the hearts of people once again? After all, there was only one goal: to stand by the exploited and oppressed masses. The issue would be raised in a party meeting, but the party would not accept this. It would go up only to the zonal level. Hasan Ali gazed at the gathering once again. Not everyone present here was Congress-minded. There were some Leftists too. But everyone wanted justice. To be able to get on with their lives. One had to be organized in order to survive. Even the cave-dwelling folk of primitive times had learnt that. So Hasan Ali patted Maruf on his back and said, ‘No. Not CPI(M), not Congress. Rather, come, let’s build another force.’

‘Independent?’

‘Why independent? A party of all these people. Will you call that independent?’

Haidar Ali asked Hasan Ali a difficult question. ‘So are you quitting the CPI(M)? Can you tell us clearly?’

Hasan Ali took his own time to reply to the question. After quite a while, he said, ‘No. Why should I quit? The power of the CPI(M) in Sadnahati has declined. The CPI(M) will not stand for election. But it can join in when there is an organized opposition. We shall extend our support. So where’s the problem?’

Terpol Haji was chewing paan. The moment he started speaking, blood-red paan spittle shot out of his mouth. Where would he spit in this crowd? He simply gulped it. He hiccupped and started talking. ‘I’m Terpol Haji…’ But he couldn’t continue. He hiccupped again.

Farid, who was sitting next to him, interrupted him with a laugh, ‘We know, no lie emits your mouth. So tell us the truth now.’

Everyone laughed when he said that. But Maqsood Saheb didn’t take offence. He began speaking. ‘I can’t understand. Are we Trinamool, or CPI(M) then? What are we now?’

Hasan Ali was about to reply. But Iqbal stopped him and said, ‘We are Sadnahati folk. We want to defeat Rafiq Ali. That’s all. Does everyone agree?’