She wondered whether the people of Sadnahati would recognize her. But after all, how long was ten years! She was gripped by a sense of terror. Abid Sheikh could understand her state of mind. In a reassuring tone, he said, ‘There’s no need to talk much to anyone, Rizi. Just be quiet. After all, the one who’s gone isn’t going to come back. But can you tell me why Suman committed suicide?’
Not getting a reply to this question either, he wanted to change the subject. He asked, ‘Who will cremate Suman, my dear?’
This time, the little girl cried out loudly, ‘Baba had asked not to be cremated, please don’t cremate my Baba! Bury him. Baba often told me he didn’t want to burn in fire. He was afraid.’
Faced with the difficult reality, Abid Sheikh retorted in fierce reprimand, ‘What else will they do with him if not cremate him? Whose burial ground will you bury him in, tell me? After all, your Baba didn’t become a Muslim!’
Riziya felt somewhat humiliated at this. She said, ‘Mama, it’s correct that Suman didn’t become a Muslim, but he could never be a Hindu either. Perhaps I, too, couldn’t become a Muslim like you all, although I was born in a Muslim household. Even when my daughter was born, someone had affectionately given her the name Sompreeti. We call her Preeti.’
Abid Sheikh did not say anything more. He kept thinking about the Riziya of ten years ago. Her personality was just the same. She was just as stubborn. The same defiant stance.
The car entered Sadnahati. A confounding tremble seemed to course down Riziya’s body. She looked out of the window at the streets and sights of Sadnahati, at the people of Sadnahati. She nudged her daughter gently to let her know that they had arrived. It was the houses that had undergone the most transformation in these ten years. Huge houses had come up. There were a large number of shops by the side of the road leading to the cemetery. They passed the majar of Haji Saheb. Festoons of paper in various colours had been put up all along the road. Was it some festival?
As they went a little further, seeing a house, Riziya couldn’t contain her curiosity. She asked, ‘Whose house is this, Mama?’
‘It’s Maruf Sheikh’s house. They are the wealthiest now; it’s Maruf who’s the mosque secretary now. He has called all the people of the village to a meeting because he wants to organize some event. Doctor, Farid, everyone’s there. He asked me to be there too.’
‘Which Maruf? Do you mean Nasir Sheikh’s son, Maruf Bhai?’
There was a look of astonishment once again in Riziya’s eyes. In these ten years, only once had she met someone from this village. And that was Maruf. They were wealthy even in those days. He was the elder brother of Riziya’s friend, Amina. And more significantly, he was Suman’s friend. How many books she used to get from their house. And now the same Maruf was the wealthiest person in Sadnahati! It was he who was the mosque secretary now!
two
‘That scorched girl’s returned to the fire, got that, Bubu!’ Tanzila’s Ma declared loudly and fretfully as soon as she arrived at the pond-bank. There were many other women. Perhaps their tummies hadn’t relished such juicy gossip in a long time. Another woman then joined in with pungency, ‘You said it, dear. When you abandoned your religion and faith and married a man from another faith, didn’t you think of Sadnahati?’ ‘The fiend’s come to devour! Suman wasn’t enough for her, just you see, she’s going to seduce someone again and set up home for another ten years!’ And thus did they regale themselves with jest and banter.
Salek’s wife was known as ‘Anandabazar Patrika’. She was the first one when it came to gathering news. She would reach the place in question all of a sudden. She had done so just last night. She went on in a coddling tone, ‘Just go and have a look, the whore’s got a strapping girl. She’s really pretty, my dear! She’s prettier than the whore!’
‘Yeah, the whore was beautiful, and educated as well. She used her beauty to do all her misdeeds. Do Muslims have any honour and dignity left after what she did?’
Before she could finish, Tanzila’s Ma provided a fresh piece of news. ‘I’ve heard they’re going to put up a room in Suman’s father’s place in Jogipara. She’ll live as a Hindu there. Where else can a widow go?’
‘Where else can that shameless whore go! And I’d like to ask Abid as well, why did you go to fetch the wretch?’
‘Hey, didn’t my Rashid’s father protest her arrival? They silenced him by threatening to set the police on him.’
It was Tanzila’s Ma who was the chief patron of this women’s assembly that was taking place at the pond-bank. She carried on gravely, ‘Who knows what the menfolk think! Why all this sympathy for the woman who brought disgrace to her religion and became a kaffir, the one on whose forehead the red sindoor is still glowing?’
This women’s conference at the pond-bank proved that perhaps no one had forgiven Riziya. Was holding Suman’s hand and going off her biggest crime? Or was she guilty of an even bigger crime? Riziya had apparently wounded the religion. She had slandered the imam. That slander was akin to slandering the religion. The imam was their leader, he was the most respected person in the community. Hurling criticism at him was unacceptable. Muslims could tolerate everything, but they could never tolerate attacks on their faith and beliefs. That’s why the youths of Sadnahati, reeling from the humiliation, had thought of cutting Riziya into pieces. And that absconding woman had returned to Sadnahati today. Naturally, there was a lurking sense of unrest.
Another historic incident was about to take place in Sadnahati. In just three days, the conference of the mosque committee was to begin. Maruf wanted to introduce another dimension to the event. This conference was going to play a major role with regard to plans for the future of Sadnahati and its development. The youths of the community were preoccupied with preparations for the event. That is why there hadn’t yet been any flutter surrounding either Suman’s corpse, which had been severed by the wheels of a train, or the return of Sadnahati’s rebellious daughter, Riziya.
three
By dawn, the youths of Jogipara were ready to cremate the body. Even at this unearthly hour, when crows start cawing, a small crowd had formed. Suman had been laid on the pyre. Arrangements had also been made for some garlands to be laid on it.
Tired and exhausted, Riziya gazed indifferently in that direction. Once the cremation was over, the sindoor on her forehead would be wiped away by other widows. That was the custom, Riziya knew that. She wasn’t distressed about that. The belief and faith in, and reverence for what the sindoor symbolized, one that was nurtured in a Hindu girl from the time she was born – Reena aka Riziya didn’t possess that. She didn’t really know how heartbreaking and agonizing wiping the sindoor away forever from the forehead could be. The red sindoor in the glade of Riziya’s thick, curly black hair appeared to be merely a part of her facial make-up. She used it sometimes, primarily to please Suman. Towards the end, Suman had started becoming a bit more ardent about following Hindu customs, and Riziya had swallowed that too. One day, she had pointed to a fair-skinned young, married woman adorned with sindoor and exclaimed to Suman, ‘See how pretty she looks!’
Suman had then said to her, ‘Oh, it’s nothing, just the glow of the sindoor. Otherwise, you’re even prettier than her.’
In the beginning, Suman had not insisted on Riziya applying sindoor. But she had regularly applied sindoor in the last few years, entirely out of compulsion, for fear of the landlady of the flat they lived in, as well as Suman’s obstinacy. Because they couldn’t have found another place for such a low rent! There had also been talk in the housing estate about Riziya’s identity. Besides, the landlady didn’t give her flat out on rent to any Muslims. That’s why Riziya had to apply sindoor routinely. Suman was taking this sindoor along with him today.
‘Bolo Hori, Hori bol! Bolo Hori, Hori bol!’
Riziya returned to her senses at the sound of the funerary chant. The azan from the mosque in Sadnahati for the Fajr prayer sounded just then. Maulana Tahirul’s face flashed through her mind. Was he still around in that mosque? Wouldn’t he come and stand by? Wouldn’t he witness the cruel joke played by fate whereby Riziya lacked any place to stand today as well? Wouldn’t he see for himself how, using fine acting skills, she had managed to survive as she traversed through hostile circumstances?
She had been thinking about that as she sat quietly in Abhijit’s veranda. Suman’s body had been taken away. Her little daughter, Preeti, burst out crying, ‘Baba! Baba!’ But Riziya was impassive, she wasn’t able to weep. There were quite a few familiar faces in front of her. But there wasn’t the slightest bit of empathy in anyone’s eyes. Was it a sin even to look at a person who had become a kaffir? Had she really become a non-believing kaffir? Were all the Muslims in Sadnahati impeccable believers? What had changed for them in these ten years? Nothing whatsoever. And people’s minds, least of all! The mind that was like an ancient, foetid pond.
What was Riziya’s wrongdoing? Wanting to find her soul’s mate? Forming a set of beliefs in her own way? But Suman was not such a soulmate. He was the man she loved, a person she trusted. And yet when Riziya discovered that Suman’s love wasn’t unalloyed, she had felt terribly affronted. Had she, herself, been able to give love either?
For the last ten years, she had hidden an enormous truth. That was her greatest wrongdoing as regards Suman. And this wrongdoing wasn’t insignificant in any way. But what was her wrongdoing as far as the village community in Sadnahati was concerned? The educated Riziya had expressed her disgust at some people, and at their false beliefs. After all, she wanted to live with her dignity intact. She had wanted to enter the inner core of religion. And finally, at the time of her grief and humiliation, who had come to stand beside her? It was Suman. Had Suman, too, been subject to injustice? Or had he himself atoned for his sin? Riziya was unable to understand that even today.
Suman had departed from her life for ever. During their married life, once when there was a disagreement and quarrel, she had said to Suman, ‘It’s haram to drink water from a kaffir’s hands. It’s your good fortune that I’m living with you. Remember that.’
Perhaps Suman had felt insulted by that. He ought to have been. Suman had said, ‘Reena, do you think I’m a kaffir? I don’t worship idols. You know that. We are Naths. The Naths, too, believe in the one God. Although we are brahmin by caste, we are known as Jogi brahmins. But we are very liberal-minded, you aren’t unaware of that either.’
Riziya had replied, ‘But didn’t you say that you would become a Muslim? Didn’t you? Then why are you so absorbed in your own religion? Aren’t you a member of the Hindu Jagaran Samiti?’
‘I told you I would become a Muslim, didn’t I! I still want to. But tell me, what kind of Muslim shall I become? Shia or Sunni? And if I become a Sunni, then exactly which kind of Sunni? I too did a lot of study, re! After much reflection, I thought that when there are so many divisions within Muslims, it’s best that I don’t get involved in those divisions! And the matter of Hindu awakening is more political than religious. But you won’t understand that.’
‘You could have recited the kalema and offered namaz prayers. There are no differences among any sect of Muslims when it comes to that.’
‘Do all the Muslims in the village offer namaz prayers? Did your Chhoto Mama do that? Did Hasan Ali? He’s a diehard atheist. If they can be Muslim without offering namaz prayers, what’s my fault?’
Riziya didn’t say any more. Suman, too, wasn’t ignorant about religion. Nonetheless, he had an arrogance about the Hindu way. The educated woman’s eyes didn’t miss that.
Riziya remembered something else. What had she really been for these ten years? Hindu or Muslim? She had misgivings about many illogical customs of the Hindus. It had occurred to her so many times that, since she had come away, she would become a part of this community. She would finish off the very identity of Riziya. She would live her life as Reena. But she couldn’t. The main reason for not being able to do that was her faith.
She had once gone for an outing with Suman to the Dakshineswar temple. He had told the priest there, with quite a bit of joyful pride, about Riziya’s antecedents. Hearing that, the priest had turned grave. The man had spoken extremely insultingly. ‘You married a mlechchha? It’s not so easy, boy! No one can be converted into a Hindu. One can’t become Hindu either. You have to be born a Hindu. We don’t accept anyone and everyone like the mlechchhas and yavanas do. We’re proud of that!’
