When Hasan Ali felt terrible pain on his injury spot, he realized he was alive. And being alive meant the stream of consciousness. Bobbing up and down in the sea of thought. But as soon as he regained consciousness, he thought that he was about to die now. He was not yet lying on the mound of death. He turned to one side with great difficulty and saw rows of sick people lying beside him.

It was a government-run district hospital. His bed was beside the window on the third floor. The window glass was broken. Was this his final encounter with the sun? The oblique shaft of sunlight revived his desire to live. Had he been alive for far too long? Hasan Ali calculated his age. He was seventy-three years old. Yet he was surprised! He had been a strapping youth just the other day. The youngsters still considered him to be a revolutionary who had served time in prison. He was a full-time party member. His voice used to unleash a storm of protest at one time. The presence of the revolutionary comrade Hasan Ali in a public meeting or discussion meant setting the blood of many in the audience aboil. And yet he had not been devoured by attachment to worldly desires or power. His identity in the eyes of the people of Sadnahati was as a party worker. They had seen him from their childhood, clad in a half-sleeved panjabi and wide-bottomed pyjamas, with a Santiniketan bag on his shoulder. Did they, too, know who Hasan Ali was? Where he had been, early in his youth, when he left home and was away for ten years? No one besides senior party members knew.

It would have been better if the bandage on his head had been a bit looser. Hasan Ali observed the crowd of people at each bed. They were the patients’ family members. They were treating their sick kin with loving care. It suddenly occurred to him – where was his family? After all, he used to consider all poor people to be his family. Had the hundreds upon hundreds of families in the jute mill forgotten about him? Hadn’t the people of Bauria held him in high esteem!

He sensed Sudipto Mukherjee, the secretary of the district committee, standing by his bed. There was a visibly pleased look on his face. The man’s father had been Hasan Ali’s childhood friend.

‘Can you recognize me, Jethu? How do you feel now? Don’t worry about anything. All of us are there.’

Hasan Ali wasn’t able to reply. His lips quivered, his eyelids fluttered. He had spent a long time in north Bengal with Sudipto’s father on party work. They were together in prison too. A large number of young men had accompanied Sudipto. Hasan Ali knew many of them. He could spot Binoy, Avinash and Rustam.

What was that in their hands? A small case. He guessed that it had the appeal pasted on it, ‘Donate for Comrade Hasan Ali’s Treatment’. That angered Hasan Ali at once. He tried to turn his face away in hurt. He shut his eyes and pretended to be asleep.

Speaking softly, Sudipto said many things to him, but none of that penetrated his ears. Inwardly he pondered, how terrible! Comrade, are you an object of pity now? Has your lifelong battle for rights been consigned to this begging bowl?

Why hadn’t Abid Sheikh come? Hadn’t he got the news?

After everyone left, Hasan Ali realized that he was all alone. There was no one around him. An open window. And his grey eyes went back to fifty years ago. He could clearly recall that beautiful day. The face of a dear one. He had just left home then on party work. Many educated youths who roared against the bourgeoisie were enrolling in the party, in the ultra-left Naxalite movement. Hasan Ali was in his final year in school. He was the one who had been most drawn to Communism, and the mantra of this great ideal, Communism, had been broadcast by Sabita’s father, Samar Ghosh. Hasan Ali used to call him ‘Kaka’. Samar Ghosh had been killed in a police encounter. Sabita was a party worker too. She was very close to Hasan, his soulmate. He glimpsed that soulmate’s hazy face.

‘Hey, hold my hand, you might fall.’

‘Comrade, I want to hold this hand for the rest of my life.’

‘But that’s not possible, Sabita. Let me fulfil the responsibility your Baba has entrusted to me.’

‘Just as Baba loved the country, he also loved his daughter. I’m certain that had he been alive, he wouldn’t have thought about anyone but you for me. Didn’t Baba entrust you with the responsibility of his daughter?’

‘No.’

‘But nature is calling upon you to take up the responsibility, Comrade! It’s been twenty days, but I haven’t had it. I think…’

‘What are you saying? Really?’

‘Yes, Comrade!’

‘There’s a week to go for the operation – Kaka’s most important incomplete job. Let me complete it. As soon as it’s done, we’ll set up home. We two lovebirds will return to Calcutta. We’ll dissolve ourselves in the stream of people. I give you my word, Sabita.’

Sabita was holding his chin and caressing him tenderly. She had said, ‘Do come back when you’re done. I’ll be waiting.’

Hasan Ali had come back – but only after seven long years. They had been trapped by the police. He hadn’t been able to find Sabita after that. He had searched a lot. He later heard that she had apparently got hitched to someone else. He had been terribly hurt. Sabita’s husband was a member of the legislative assembly. He left the party of violence and returned to the party of democracy. The reckless Hasan Ali got even more deeply involved in this party’s work. He left Dinajpur, and returned to his birthplace, Sadnahati.

He suddenly remembered Bikash Jain’s face. The oppressive black marketeer. Sudipto’s father, Bhuban Mukherjee, had delivered the envelope containing a letter written in red ink. The attack came about a month later. They were five comrades. A single glance at Bikash’s bloody, motionless body had left them with an eerie sensation. After that he remembered the doctor. What was the wrongdoing of the doctor who charged a high consultation fee? He had apparently been exploiting the people. Two bullets dispatched him as well as all the learning he had gathered in his life to the other shore. Bhuban was a hardliner.

His head ached unbearably. There seemed to be a howling inside his chest as well. Was it the pain of failure? Or was it remorse? Like a sensitive snail, his consciousness was steadily returning inwards. At once, Hasan Ali moaned inarticulately in pain, ‘Forgive me, Allah.’ He realized that he was about to venture into another world. The arrogance of his atheism was breaking down. He wondered whether he would go to heaven or to hell. Was there really an afterlife? If there indeed was, where would he go?

A lot of things remained undone in the world. The world was carrying on without him, and it would continue to do so. Like it had during the seventies. No one cared that people were dying. Even when an insect died, it fell with a plop. But Comrade Hasan Ali was dying in silence. It occurred to Hasan Ali that he hadn’t written a book like Karl Marx had, he hadn’t built a nation like Lenin had; a people’s movement like Mao’s hadn’t been launched in the country. What did I leave behind in this civilization, he wondered. Would his very existence be forgotten as soon as he died? On the other hand, couldn’t he have left an offspring behind?

Was Sabita still alive? Could she keep her child safe? He suddenly felt as if his veins were being bitten by red ants. His legs were steadily becoming numb. He felt dizzy, there was deep darkness in front of his eyes. As he lapsed into unconsciousness, he entered a vast black hole.

When Maruf arrived, there was a large crowd of party workers at the hospital. Going up to the third floor, he observed Hasan Ali’s lifeless body covered from head to toe with a white sheet. Maruf learnt that his body would be taken to the zonal office, and then to the local committee for final respects, before reaching Sadnahati. It might be late at night by then.

The imam, Maulana Tahirul, had declared that he would not be able to conduct the funerary prayer of the atheist Hasan Ali. But Abid Sheikh was simply unable to accept that. Why should the imam of a mosque have such likes and dislikes? He had to assume the responsibility for all the funerary prayers of the locality. Hasan Ali did not observe prayers or fasts, but had he left the Muslim community? Had he ever spoken against Islam, or been hostile towards the religion? He had stood beside poor, helpless Muslims all his life. He had been their companion in their joys and sorrows, and yet such a fatwa from Imam Saheb? How could that be accepted? After all, many Muslims had nothing to do with prayers and fasts. Would such a fatwa be applied in their cases as well? Wasn’t it like throwing the baby out with the bathwater? A commotion began once again in Sadnahati around such questions.

Hasan Ali’s body had been brought to the office of the local committee. People from other political parties too were laying wreaths of flowers on it out of courtesy and paying their respects. But the imam of Sadnahati, Tahirul, had clearly declared that, if, eventually, there was indeed to be a funerary prayer, then some unimportant person should recite that. He himself would not conduct the prayers for anyone who had abandoned Islam, even if that meant losing his job.

Abid Sheikh screamed out, ‘You think you can get away by saying that you won’t recite the namaz-e-janaza? You are the imam of the mosque. You have to listen to us too.’

Rafiq Ali was also present in the crowd in front of the mosque. It was under the leadership of Hasan Ali that many people had held secret meetings against him for the forthcoming elections. For that matter, they had been able to bring Maruf too into the fray. Rafiq Ali had received reports about everything. This was the perfect time to foil that coalition. That’s why, without any delay, Rafiq Ali had roared out against Abid Sheikh, ‘Why are you screaming, Abid? I wonder when you people will figure out why Hujur won’t recite. We didn’t say anything when you were pandering to an atheist party and destroying the faith of innocent Muslims. It’s gone on too long. Get lost now! Can an atheist ever be a Muslim?’

After that, looking this way and that, he shouted, ‘Are you here, Maruf? Let him say whether Communists are atheists or not. How can those who don’t even believe in Allah come to recite the namaz-e-janaza with Allah as witness? We can’t have all this happening here.’

That silenced the crowd. It was only Maruf who came forward and said, ‘Rafiq Bhai, I don’t know how many people here are fully Muslim. I know that prayers and fasts are essential for a Muslim. But not many Muslims could do what Hasan Ali did.’

Imam Tahirul was sitting inside his room. Stepping out and addressing Maruf, he said, ‘Maruf Bhai, are you going to look only at his deeds and not his faith? Did Hasan Ali believe in Allah and his Prophet?’

‘But faith is invisible, Hujur! What I do know is that I never heard him speaking against Islam.’

Tahirul replied, ‘What is egalitarianism? It means equal rights for all people. Hasan Ali spotted Karl Marx, but he failed to recognize our Prophet (PBUH). Tell me, who instituted egalitarianism in this world? Was it the Prophet (PBUH), or was it Marx? Whom did Hasan Ali follow? Followers too must suffer the fate when the tribe is banished. Isn’t that so?’

Maruf wanted to say something in response to that. But then Rafiq Ali caused a commotion by issuing a threat. And with a lot of people shouting at the same time, Maruf’s words would have been reduced to insignificance. Rafiq Ali said, ‘So you’ve learnt more about the shariat than the imam of the mosque! No one in Sadnahati will give him a place for his burial. That’s final! Let’s see who dares to do that!’

Once word of the trouble reached the local committee, they promptly busied themselves in arranging for Hasan Ali’s burial. When they took his body to the government cemetery, it was late at night. A handful of young men completed the task. No one knew how many people from Sadnahati were present.

forty-seven

Suman and Sandip were sitting beside one another. Sandip was his older cousin. Suman was visiting his Mama’s house after a long time. The relationship had almost faded away. But of late, it was Sandip who had begun keeping in touch. He was drawn to Suman. The boy was so educated, and yet he had somehow failed to become a real Hindu. Sandip belonged to an organization. He had to expand its membership. Members had to be fervent Hindus, but they also had to know everything about the Muslim community. Sandip had picked out Suman as one such youth. But he seemed to have retained an excessive degree of Muslim influence. Sandip endeavoured to rid him of that. He had asked Suman over quite a few times saying there was something important he wanted to talk to him about. That’s why Suman had come to meet him today.

In the course of their discussion on various subjects, Suman had protested vehemently. ‘No, Dada, I can’t accept that. You can’t simply say that Muslims are the root cause of every kind of problem! I don’t think that is correct.’

‘There! This denial of yours is the problem with Bengali Hindus, Suman! You don’t see anything. Because you are supposedly “secular”! Just look at what’s happening in the cow belt. See how they keep them under constant pressure. They can’t stand the sight of Muslims. Don’t you read the reports in the newspapers? It’s these sons of nedes who are romping around, doing all the robberies, fraud, snatching and crimes. They are the ones creating terror in the country.’

‘It’s better to be blind, and definitely better than having partial sight. Tell me how much money do they snatch? How much money do the people who get snatched carry? Ten lakh rupees? Twenty lakh rupees? But do you know how much money bank managers embezzle? Do you know how many crores of rupees in bank loans are defaulted by wealthy industrialists? All that money belongs to you and me. It’s people’s money. Aren’t they enemies of the country?’

Suman was silent for a while after he said that. There was a magazine by the name of Bortika (The Wick) lying nearby. There were numerous hate-filled articles advocating violence in the magazine. Ordinary people did not read it. It was read by the members of Sandip’s organization. Suman glanced at it casually, and then asked, ‘Is there any place in India where the police fear to tread? Of which even the government is wary? Go and see the areas where the Maoists operate. Police personnel don’t like to be posted in many parts of the North East too. For fear of their lives. Who are they afraid of? Who are the people who have created an environment of terror there? Are they Muslims?’

‘What do you want to say? That they are not terrorists?’

‘Maybe some of them are. But it’s not that they do so because they are Muslim. Someone is a thief, so he steals. Someone is a robber, so he robs.’

‘You live in a Muslim locality, don’t you! You get all these ideas only by hanging out with Muslims.’

‘Listen, Dada. First of all, I don’t live in a Muslim locality.’

‘What do you mean? Don’t you live in Sadnahati? Where do you live?’

‘Yes, I live in Sadnahati, but that is my village. The village does not belong to Muslims only! Why do you have the notion that a place belongs to those who are greater in number?’