‘Now, Dada, if this force exerted by the government, this uncompromising attitude is directed towards the malaise called illiteracy, then Muslim children are bound to be educated. But it is Hindus who eventually gain. Because once their lives improve, according to your logic, theft, robbery and terrorism are bound to decrease. So in their own interest, the Hindu majority ought to pressurize the government for the education of the Muslim minority.’
Sandip was shocked to hear Suman’s reasoning. At a loss over how to respond, he sought to use some hackneyed bits of propaganda as his weapon. He said, ‘You’ve been going on and on about improvement in the lot of Muslims, but don’t you want to know about their history? Won’t you look at how orthodox they are? How filthy they are! This sex-starved community has been seducing our Hindu women ever since the days of the Muslim emperors and consigning them to their harems. That tradition still continues! There are lots of incidents like this in your Sadnahati, aren’t there? But can you show me a single case where a Hindu man marries and sets up home with a Muslim woman? I doubt whether there’s even one in a hundred thousand! Don’t you want to know history, Suman? They converted tens of millions of Hindus to Islam!’
The comment made Suman somewhat cheerless. The mention of Sadnahati embarrassed him, in fact it made him a bit numb. Perhaps Sandip had forgotten that Suman’s own paternal aunt, Sujata, had married Alam and raised a family. But if he mentioned that now, Suman would be even more embarrassed. So in order to change the subject, he said, ‘Dada, I would advise you to try to educate yourself a bit instead of poring over fake history. If you do that, you’ll realize how helpless they are, and they suffer from an inferiority complex. There’s no need to be afraid of them. Because they are harmless. Your attitude is simply harmful for the country at large.’
‘I’ll introduce you to Chinmoy Da. You’ll get along very well with him. He knows a lot.’
‘Whether it’s Chinmoy, or Mrinmoy, or Tanmoy, it doesn’t matter. As I see it, when it comes to football, it won’t do for even a single player in the eleven-member football team to be lame. If the country has to advance, there needs to be peaceful coexistence among all. Mutual trust and understanding are necessary.’
Sandip did not say any more. He slipped away. A thought suddenly occurred to Suman.
Suman often thought about who all these Muslims of Sadnahati village actually were? And who ultimately were the Hindus? After all, other than religion, there was no difference in any respect. Because he was educated, he could understand that the physical anthropological features of the people were not different from those of the Hindus. They spoke the same language and looked the same. They shared the same life struggle. They had lived next to one another for centuries on end. It could well be that, at one time, when the entire village was
non-Muslim, they gave up their religion and became Muslims. Perhaps the Muslims in the village today were descendants of those people. After all, it was on account of the humiliation suffered at the hands of the high-caste Hindus that many people embraced Islam at that time! So why had some people not done that? How did his Jogipara manage to survive? Were they the oppressors then? Or was it because of their great caste pride that their forefathers hadn’t converted? Perhaps it was not merely on account of living together with Muslims in the same hamlet but for some other deeper reason that Suman considered them as his kin.
Was it because of that sense of kinship that he was secretly in love with Riziya? That he professed a sense of responsibility towards her?
When Salaam Chacha had first brought his niece for tuitions, Suman had thought she was like any of the other girls. She was in Class Seven then. She used to come wearing a frock. He was amazed at her memory. Teachers were supposed to be fond of the students who were not afraid of mathematics. Suman was just a first-year student in college then. He had been amazed that Riziya had managed to memorize all the algebraic formulae in a single day. He was unable to disregard Riziya after that. It wasn’t just her studies; the girl had a different way of conveying her respect. When she spoke, she did that with a smile and her head lowered. There was a self-restraint and simplicity in her. Afterwards, she overcame her inarticulateness and became very fluent. But as soon as this girl was promoted to Class Nine, her Mama, Salaam Chacha, began looking for a groom to get her married off to. Riziya went straight to Suman and told him, ‘Dada! Do you know, Mama says he’s going to get me married off. Won’t I be able to take the Secondary examination?’
‘What are you saying? Is this any age to get married?’
‘But I want to study more. If Mama just…’
‘Oh, I can speak to your Mama. I’ll stop your marriage. And, you are so good in studies, but won’t you speak in proper Bengali now, instead of using the dialect? Do you understand?’
Suman had spoken to Salaam Miya. He had been able to explain Riziya’s aspirations. But Suman himself was unaware that Riziya would steadily become the woman of his dreams. And when he did become aware, he kept that secret from the entire world. Even Riziya never had an inkling. She wasn’t supposed to either. That was because Suman had locked up his secret love in the recesses of his mind, where it was out of everyone’s sight. He had to do that because of various social ramifications. He wrote down a lot of his inner feelings in the form of poems in his secret journal. Suman’s journal of love was a mysterious Pandora’s box.
Riziya was getting married. But since he had been able to be so secretive about his feelings, he hadn’t really felt any anguish when she informed him. It was the fact that she was going to get married to Raqib that caused him anguish. Could this even be possible! Ever since his childhood, Raqib had been a wayward, ill-mannered boy. There was no way that he was worthy of Riziya. Besides, even if it was a distant relation, she was his cousin after all. Suman was quite pained when he heard the news. His hitherto powerful ability to conceal his emotions seemed to suddenly weaken.
Suman had also heard talk relating to the imam of the mosque, Tahirul. However, in that instance, he had not felt so bad. He had thought, after all, my Riziya is not going to an unworthy man. But when he heard the name of Raqib, he thought he ought to do something, however offensive it may be. He wanted to go right away and land two tight slaps on Salaam Chacha’s cheek, although he knew that he would never be able to be so brave in his life. After all, being brave was untoward and unethical on the part of the ‘minorities’! They would cloak their anguish. They would suffer in secret, and with a smile on the face, one would placate the other. Suman did the same.
Meanwhile, Riziya steadily became isolated. It had been a very long time since she felt so helpless. She would never have submitted to the decision of the family if Tahirul had got in touch with her. She had wondered again and again how a man could be so unperturbed. Even if no one knew, at least Allah knew how deeply she loved him! After all, her Allah and Tahirul’s Allah were not different. Couldn’t he feel her heartbeat from his room in the mosque? Ayan was in the madrasa now. If he had been here, she could have written a letter speaking her heart. So would she have to eventually accept Raqib as her husband? Every time the thought struck her, she felt nauseous from the core of her being. Yet she did not sink into despair. Riziya thought that she ought to speak to Raqib directly. If she could explain to him that she was unwilling, after all, wouldn’t he too be unhappy at such a marriage! Or was it utterly pointless to tell him!
Riziya also felt hurt as regards another person, and that was Suman. After all, Suman Da had once halted an undesired marriage. Wouldn’t he be able to do that this time? Hadn’t the news reached him in these last two weeks? Why was he sitting idle when his favourite student was about to be ruined? Although he was Hindu, Muslim families did heed his advice! Couldn’t Suman Da have dropped by?
Finally, Riziya herself went to Suman’s house, on a flimsy pretext. He was sitting on a chair in the room he took classes in. He was overwhelmed to see her. He smiled and said, ‘Hey Riziya, how are you? You haven’t come in a long time!’
Riziya felt terribly wounded. She was certain that he knew about her impending marriage. And yet he was pretending that he didn’t know. So Riziya too did some play-acting. Deliberately using the Sadnahati dialect, she said in a mocking way, ‘Don’t you know why, Dada? I’m really getting married this time! After all, once one is married, there’s no longer any need to study. That’s why I probably won’t be coming any more! So I came to visit.’
Suman realized that Riziya was angry. He said, ‘But hey, don’t you call Raqib “Chhot Da”?’
‘Yes! Once I’m married, I’ll call him “Bor”. Does anyone have a problem? Whether I call my husband “Chhot Da” or something else is my business. No one has to worry about me.’
‘Aah! Why are you talking like that? Will you tell me something, Riziya? Tell me the truth! Do you like Imam Saheb?’
Riziya was silent for quite a while. Her silence conveyed that she did like Tahirul. Suman began to feel an ache in his breast. But it was deep inside, with no outward manifestation. He said, ‘I understand. Why don’t you ask him to marry you?’
‘The people at home wouldn’t want that. Won’t my uncles lose their hold over my Ma’s property? After all, they’ve swallowed all the land, and they have pledged in an affidavit to sell it to Rafiq Ali. I’m not willing to sell the land. So they are against my wishes.’
‘If people at home are unwilling, go and get married at the registrar’s office. That will end the matter.’
‘Dada, are you a child? Don’t you know Tahirul is an imam? A maulana? Will people like him want to do something like that? Forget about Allah, will people spare him?’
forty-eight
Hasan Ali’s death had apparently not really had much of an impact in Sadnahati. But perhaps, beneath the surface, it had laid the ground for an inevitable change. It could be that this death merely occasioned that. Constant change was indeed the demand of the times! And as regards fulfilment of the demand, an occasion was needed. Had Hasan Ali’s death portended that?
Abid Sheikh was inwardly furious with Maulana Tahirul. But to what avail was that? After all, Tahirul was not just any ordinary person, he was an imam. And so, he couldn’t intimidate him. When Hasan Ali had spent his entire life with the Muslim community, how could he be rendered into an isolated corpse in a moment! How had the entire Muslim populace turned their faces away following a single announcement by the Imam Saheb? So what was more powerful? Religion or politics? Or was it that ancient power that had arisen from the amalgam of religion and politics, which was ruling the whole world? Influencing the minds of Muslims who were full of half-baked faith! What was this equation?
The Panchayat elections were forthcoming. It was the responsibility of Abid Sheikh and Maruf to move forward with the combined strength of the political alliance that had come together, thanks to Hasan Ali. That was what was supposed to happen. But all of a sudden, Maruf had a change of heart. He lost all interest in this matter. His disinterestedness made Iqbal Ostagar terribly dejected. It was a sentiment shared by many. The platform opposing Rafiq Ali Sheikh that had developed stealthily was not able to mature following Hasan Ali’s death. It was as if the platform had been stillborn.
Bengali Muslim politics seemed to have lost its sense of awareness. Maruf realized that, and therefore he was unable to figure out where that incognizance would land them, and when. Rafiq Ali Sheikh was the leader of the area now. An influential family of the village, the Haji household, was under his control. Just a few months ago, he had built a full-fledged domed majar over the late Haji Saheb’s tomb. And with that, he became popular overnight in all of Sadnahati! Had that fake popularity frightened Maruf? He had not constructed the roads and health centres for which government funds had been allotted; how would the construction of a majar with money from his politically acquired earnings benefit the public! Yet, because of that, the people of Sadnahati had made him their undisputed leader. The writing on the walls had begun. It screamed out, ‘Vote for Haji Saheb’s dear one, the daughter of Sadnahati’s soil, Jasmin Begum, on the twin flowers symbol.’ Amazing! Jasmin was contesting the elections!
Meanwhile, Abid Sheikh, despite having been in politics for a long time, was unable to step out of his circle. With or without reason, he got angry with people – voters – and went around swearing at them. He said, ‘All are bloody traitors! You carried on with your lives for so long with the generosity of the CPI(M), and now, after you see which way the wind’s blowing, all of you scoot? Don’t forget that the CPI(M) is still running the state. Let the Panchayat elections be over, and I’ll teach you a lesson! If you ever come for anything, I’ll kick the whole lot of you in the arse and drive you away!’
When Hasan Ali was alive, he used to get angry at Abid Sheikh. Was getting people’s support so easy! Was the battle of the Leftists a matter of a day? He wanted to put a lock on Abid Sheikh’s mouth. But Abid Sheikh didn’t heed Hasan Ali. With such behaviour on the part of Abid Sheikh, many people made up their minds. No! Whoever else might win, the CPI(M) would never return to the Sadnahati Panchayat. They were steadily getting isolated from the people.
Abid Sheikh was no longer brave enough to pour out his hateful venom like before. He seemed to be all alone now. Jasmin was the daughter of a butcher. She had fallen in love with Haji Saheb’s grandson and married him. They had not been willing to let the lowly-born girl into their household. How much trouble Abid Sheikh and Hasan Ali had gone through to fight on her behalf! They had finally organized an arbitration meeting and thus helped this girl set up a family. Haji Saheb eventually had to accept Jasmin. And now, the very same Jasmin was fighting against them in the elections! If it had been another time, Abid Sheikh would have sworn at her openly. But Hasan Ali was no longer alive to restrain him. He was beginning to realize only too well now the importance of Comrade Hasan Ali, with the sling-bag on his shoulder. He felt as helpless as someone who had lost his parents.
For some unknown reason, it was Iqbal Ostagar whose ire against Rafiq Ali was the greatest. Maruf’s friend, Farid, was full of energy, and it was with him that Hasan Ali had first spoken. So the two of them could simply not accept Maruf’s indifference. If Maruf had been willing, the battle could have been fought! Did Hasan Ali’s departure from this world mean that the battle against Rafiq Ali would be halted?
‘Whatever you may say, Farid, nothing’s going to happen with Maruf. He’s not the kind of person I thought he was! Abid Bhai was saying that if you people don’t stick around, they will nominate someone from the CPI(M). If Rafiq has to be defeated…’
‘Let them do that. I don’t like it any more. I can’t open my mouth in front of Rafiq Saheb. Do you know how he taunted me the other day? He said, “Have you lost your zeal for a new leader already? What news of Maruf Sheikh?”’
‘I too feel ashamed. Do you remember his nephew, I mean Chhappa Haji’s son, created a scene at the meeting in my house? Rafiq Ali met me subsequently about it. Do you know how he snubbed me politely? He said, “Iqbal Bhai, if I am at fault, or made a mistake, you could have told me directly. Was it right to gather people together and make false allegations against me? After all, I will win this time as well. Will you be able to face the consequences?”’
‘Are you ashamed, or afraid? Tell me something, Iqbal Bhai. Why do we want to defeat Rafiq Ali? Forget about me, tell me why you want that.’
