Someone from the crowd shouted out in a protesting tone, ‘Can you tell us what bamboo Rafiq Ali shoved up your arse?’

Everyone strained their necks to see who asked the question. It was a youth who was standing right at the back. It was Chhappa Haji’s son. He was an eighteen- or nineteen-year-old boy. A nephew of Rafiq Ali. Who invited him here? Everyone looked askance at him. Hearing such words uttered by such a young chit of a boy in his own house ought to have made Iqbal furious. But he restrained himself and asked, ‘Where are you, son? Come and sit in front. I’ll explain to you what bamboo he shoved!’

‘I’m fine here. Why don’t you tell us what harm Rafiq Chacha caused you?’

‘Go and ask him that, son – about the bamboo he shoved.’

‘Of course, I’ll ask him!’

Iqbal could not stand his argumentativeness. He lost his temper now and retorted, ‘Yes, do that. The bastards have just looted and swallowed and grown fat, and then they talk big! Don’t forget to also ask your Daddy why his name is Chhappa Haji!’

Iqbal Ostagar was livid. Addressing everyone, he asked, ‘Hey! Who brought him here? Throw him out!’

The youth wasn’t exactly cowardly. The main reason for that was that Rafiq Ali’s group was very large, and he was the deputy chief’s nephew. Many in Sadnahati had the arrogance of numbers. The strength of a group was another fundamental aspect of life in Sadnahati. He shouted back, ‘Fine. I’m leaving now. But I’ll be back. And I won’t be alone then. We’ll see who shoves a bamboo up whose…’

People rushed forward to restrain the others. They were moving the youth away fearing imminent trouble and commotion. Maruf fell silent. It occurred to him that they did not yet have the power to control merely forty people, so how would they leap into such a great battle? It wasn’t that he couldn’t discern Hasan Ali’s diplomatic moves. Nonetheless, he observed everything silently. Actually, he wanted to test the depth of people’s minds. But his thoughts were interrupted by a loud uproar. Maruf stood up and bellowed, ‘Hey! What’s happening? Such immaturity? Silence, please! Please sit down, everyone.’

Everyone fell silent at that. Iqbal said in a tone of regret, ‘That chit of a boy threatened us. And no one said a word?’

Hasan Ali checked to see whether the boy had left, and then he burst out laughing. ‘What do you expect from snakes, Iqbal? That’s why we need to form an alliance.’

Farid addressed Hasan Ali, while looking at Maruf, ‘Rules and regulations are required for a united battle. Won’t we have some conditions?’

Maruf replied, ‘We won’t talk about the conditions now. Let the battle begin first. Let the campaigning start from tomorrow. Let’s see what people want. After all, there’s still seven or eight months to go for the elections!’

Hasan Ali rose to support Maruf. ‘Right. Let’s do that. We’ll need to meet again. Can I take your leave now?’

thirty-five

Tahirul had never imagined that he would run into Riziya like this. He was on his way to the Waqf office in Kolkata, after which he would go to the Baker Hostel; he had something important to discuss with someone there. As soon as he boarded the bus, he spotted Riziya seated. There was a sweet smile of surprise on both their faces. Riziya was going to college. She blinked and smiled, and touched her hand to her forehead in salaam. Tahirul responded to that with a nod and tried to move ahead. So near, and yet so far! Riziya was seated on a ladies’ seat. There were some people ahead of Tahirul. A woman was standing by Riziya’s seat. So being close was impossible. He could have pushed his way through, but his nature kept him behind. Young men like Tahirul tried to be very civil while in public, and travelling. So that the non-Muslims who nurtured negative notions about Muslims could see for themselves how baseless they were simply by observing Tahirul. Let them know how well mannered and civil they could be. Tahirul often gave up his seat for elderly people, or women. And so, he wasn’t able to be near Riziya and talk to her. After all, how much could one converse through gestures! How sightly would that be? They looked at one another in futile fervency.

Riziya got off the bus at Howrah Maidan. The bus became vacant. And with that, Tahirul’s heart as well. As she got off, she flashed an earth-stirring smile. That made Tahirul feel a powerful tremor in his inner world, he couldn’t be still. All of a sudden, Tahirul got off too and, as if in inertia, called out to her from behind. Riziya turned around and saw Tahirul behind her. She asked, ‘Where are you going?’

‘Oh, I have to go to Dharmatala.’

‘But this is Howrah Maidan, Hujur!’

‘I know that. Let’s go that way, you can enter your college, and I will take the stairs and go up to the Bankim Bridge. I’ll take a bus from there.’

‘Fine. Let’s go. Why are you going to Dharmatala?’

‘I have some important work there. I can’t be late either.’

As they spoke, they reached the college. But why was the college looking so empty today? Was it closed or what? Riziya said, ‘Just wait, let me go and see what it is!’

Tahirul waited across the road. Riziya returned and informed him, ‘The college is closed today. I didn’t know that. Heck! Did Amina know? Who knows! So what shall I do now?’

Tahirul suddenly flashed a broad grin and suggested, ‘Come along with me. I’ll finish my work in Dharmatala, and we can return together after that.’ Riziya smiled disingenuously. ‘You’re very brave, I see, Hujur. Can you imagine what would happen if anyone saw you? A cap on the musulli’s head, and he romances hush-hush! What’s this!’

‘Won’t you be in trouble as well? Aren’t you afraid of getting a bad name?’

‘What can happen to me? After all, I don’t have to be an imam.’

Riziya laughed somewhat animatedly. The laugh conveyed assent. She was keen on accompanying Tahirul. She wanted to walk together with him for a while. Sit privately and talk as well. Acknowledging her assent, Tahirul said, ‘Come. There’s also something I want to tell you. That I can tell only you.’

Dynamism was a key characteristic of life. Stagnancy was not. But just like stagnancy entered life at times, so did lightning speed. Two people sitting beside one another in a bus stuck in a terrific traffic jam on Howrah Bridge. They perspired in the muggy heat. Sweat streamed down their faces. Once the jam cleared, the bus began to move and took on great speed. That made Riziya, who was sitting next to the window, shut her eyes. Although the cool breeze on the Howrah Bridge provided relief to her outwardly, the warmth inside her did not wane. Beneath her tranquil appearance lay an immense rush. Did speed actually blind people? She had sat in front of Tahirul many times. In the same room, under the same roof. That took place with appropriate social distance. But never in such proximity. She was sitting shoulder to shoulder with the broad-shouldered Tahirul. The bus was moving. Neither of them said anything for quite some time. But Riziya was not one to be quiet for very long! What was in her mind?

Tahirul too seemed unable to think of anything to say. All that he had to say seemed to have been spent even before he could begin. What did he want to say? Why was he simply not able to remember? A younger relative of his stayed at the Baker Hostel. He was supposed to send some money home through him. But Riziya’s presence made him self-conscious. How would he appear accompanying an exuberant hijab-less woman? How would the youth perceive that? Tahirul suddenly changed his plans.

‘Riziya, there’s no need to go to Baker Hostel today.’

She turned her face from the window, and with a smile on the corner of her lips, she said, ‘I’m not interested in going there either,’ punning on the Bengali word ‘bekaar’, or ‘useless’, which sounded like ‘Baker’.

‘Bekaar? No, I did have something to do there.’

‘Achchha, can you tell me why the hostel is called “Bekaar”? Is it only bekaar boys who stay there?’ Yet again, Riziya punned on the similar-sounding word, but this time, it was used to imply ‘unemployed’.

‘Since they are all students, obviously they are unemployed. But that’s not why the hostel is called Baker. That’s the name of an Englishman. The hostel is named after him. It’s the hostel of Islamia College. The name of the college was changed to Maulana

Azad College.’

‘Really? When the name of Islamia College was changed, why does the hostel still have that useless name? Shouldn’t it be changed?’

Riziya burst out laughing. Tahirul was startled at her words. She was right! This had never struck him before. He turned his head and gazed at Riziya. The girl seemed to possess a fine sense of history! Tahirul felt even more pleased with her. He said, ‘I was astounded the very first time I met you.’

‘Why was that? Was my nose terribly flat? Did I look ugly?’

Tahirul laughed. He said, ‘No! Stop it! The things you say! You had come to me to learn Arabic. But you had a Bengali book in your hand. I realized right then that you were different from everyone else.’

‘Do you know that I love to read? Suman Da got me into that. And I borrow books from Maruf Da’s house. Have you seen how many books there are in Amina’s house?’

‘Yes. But why don’t you buy books? Why do you need to read borrowed books?’

‘O Khoda! Don’t books cost money?’

‘Come, there’s no point going anywhere today. Let’s get off at Burrabazar. We’ll walk directly to College Street. I feel like gifting you some books. You need to read some Islamic books.’

‘Janab, can you tell me what’s your motive? Do you want to make me a Maulana Saheb too, eh?’

‘A woman maulana?’

‘Why not? Aren’t there any? There must be scholars, right?’

‘I don’t know! Do you want to come along?’

‘Let’s go. I had been to College Street a long time ago. Not a bad idea.’

There were no pavements to speak of on the two sides of Mahatma Gandhi Road in the splendid city of Kolkata. The road could hardly be made out, with the various shops and vendors that had made their place there. One could not figure out whether it was pedestrians or vendors who had the right of way. When they reached the Chitpur Road crossing after making their way through the narrow, congested road, Riziya shouted out like a little child, ‘Hujur, I’ve been here before! This is Chitpur, isn’t it? There’s the mosque!’