Just a couple of months ago, she was witness to something; even thinking about it filled her with sheer loathing.
From time to time, Riziya accompanied Reshma Bhabi to bathe. Fulsura was there too, before she got married. They soaped each other’s backs to the accompaniment of much giggling and laughter in their regal, bamboo-matting-enclosed bathing place. They poured cold water all over each other’s bodies. There was a pond behind the bathing place. Raqib went there to fish. Suddenly, it was Reshma Bhabi who spotted a pair of eyes gleaming from behind a bush! They were definitely Raqib’s eyes. Reshma wanted to raise a commotion about this, she wanted to get her husband Nazir to mount a fierce protest. But Riziya did not allow that to happen. She requested Reshma to remain silent about the matter in order to safeguard the honour of the family. Who would she confide in about this? Was she to be married to a man of such a nasty and perverted mentality? For which the whole Miya household was now rallied?
Perhaps Maulana Tahirul had got the bad news even before Riziya, that Salaam Miya and Kalu Miya had decided to get Riziya married to Raqib. Maybe he had a difference of opinion with Riziya on various matters, but there was no lack of love on their part. Couldn’t Riziya have got in touch with him in regard to such an important development? Had she, too, simply consented? Did she think Raqib was worthier than him? All these days, he had viewed Riziya as a lotus blossom on a dungheap; wasn’t he being proved wrong now! After all, didn’t she, too, belong to the general populace of Sadnahati?
A great sense of personal hurt was growing in Tahirul. It was steadily turning into rage. Tahirul had to encounter acute humiliation about a week ago. He had to swallow that quietly, like bitter medicine. Salaam Miya had said to him unequivocally that day, ‘You needn’t come to our house any longer to teach, Hujur. It’s gone on for too long. I don’t want to see you here ever again!’ It was difficult for him to tolerate such severe condemnation from a mere musulli. Yet he put up with it in silence. So that there was no hue and cry in the village about it.
Couldn’t Riziya have got in touch with him even once since then? How had she become so aloof and indifferent?
So was Riziya simply play-acting all these days? Did he have to suffer defeat at the hands of Raqib as regards his worth?
He had heard a lot of gossip. Many people had apparently begun to express their decision to not recite their prayers standing behind a characterless imam. But no one had any definite proof. And so, the opposition to the imam continued in secret. Under such circumstances, Tahirul wanted to meet Riziya at least once. Embarrassment, fear and reluctance held him back. He made mistakes in the verses he recited during the prayers. And yet, he wanted to act normal, as if nothing had happened. He made sure that there wasn’t the slightest change in his behaviour as far as the musulli were concerned.
With his eyes shut, Tahirul wondered whether there wasn’t a single trustworthy person with whom he could speak his heart! What about Maruf Sheikh? He could share everything with him. After the Isha prayer at night, Tahirul decided to visit Maruf.
But what was this! Why were his feet so heavy? Why wasn’t he being able to exit his room? Would Maruf think poorly of him? Tahirul didn’t advance a single step. He lay down on the cot in his room. He remembered the advice of one of his former teachers, that one should not make a hole in the plate one eats from! The Dowa Yunus was recited in times of distress and calamity. He began reciting it without pause.
forty-six
Seeing Farid come running in the afternoon, Iqbal Ostagar feared imminent danger. That turned out to be true. They had to set out at once. Hasan Ali had been admitted to hospital. He was an elderly man. He felt dizzy all of a sudden and fell on the road last night. He had hit his head against the lamp post and injured himself badly. It was the pedestrians who had him admitted to the Howrah General Hospital.
After having participated in meetings, conversations and discussions in relation to the forthcoming Panchayat elections in the last few days, everyone felt a special kinship with Hasan Ali. Although, as an atheist, Hasan Ali did not observe any religion, he never sought to impose his views on others. He never declared that he was an atheist. If he was questioned in this regard, he fluttered his eyelids and smiled.
Maruf was ready. Iqbal Ostagar, Farid and he would all go together. That was why they had gathered.
‘Who are Hasan Chacha’s family members?’
‘There’s a nephew. But they don’t get along. And how could they! His old bachelor Chacha gave away all his property. Who did the anganwadi and the child health centre belong to? To Hasan Chacha. The only people he has are the party folk.’
‘He didn’t get married, and followed no religion, all in the cause of the party. Went to jail as well. Come, let’s go and visit him. Let me carry some money. What do you say, Farid?’
‘That won’t be necessary. I heard that all the expenses will be borne from party funds, that’s what Abid Bhai told me.’
‘Isn’t he going?’
‘Not now, his party boys are going. Apparently his niece is getting married today.’
‘How can Abid not go? Let him return! We’ll all go together in the evening.’
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.’
