My Youth

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MY YOUTH
Autobiography - Volume II
MY YOUTH http://taslimanasrin.com/MY YOUTH.htm
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Chapter One
AGE
I had just submitted my application form for the SSC Examination, when a four feet one inch cat-eyed Da Vinci Kalyani Pal, the Bangla
teacher, declared that I would not be able to take the exam. What was the reason? You are underage, you cannot take the exam at fourteen;
you have to be fifteen. But how was I supposed to acquire a whole year? Disappointed, I returned home and informed everyone that I
wouldnt be able to take the exam that year. Why not? I was underage. After much deliberation Ma said I have heard that many things
cant be done because one is too old for them, you cant join the University or you cant get jobs. Maybe so, but for the SSC the reverse is
true. If you are underage, sit at home and grow old. Come back to take the exam when you are fifteen. Towards dusk, Ma read the Esha
Namaz and read two parts of the special sixth prayer known as the Nafal Namaz as well, bowing her head at the darbar of Allah. She
informed the Almighty, in tears, that her daughter was not being able to take her exams. However, she was sure that if Allah chose, He
could deliver her daughter from this terrible eligibility problem; enable her to not only take the exam but also to pass successfully.
I do not know to what extent Allah came to my rescue, but Baba certainly did. He went to my school the very next day and scratching out
the year 1962 from the SSC form, he wrote 1961. He told me that from now on I had better glue myself to the study desk and chair. I was to
stop all gossip and mischief and concentrate fully on my studies so that I passed my SSC exam in the First Division with four Distinctions.
If I didnt, he would throw me out of the house he had said without mincing words.
My age had been increased by a year. A child, I would be taking the exam with elders. I was overjoyed. Pricking my balloon of joy Dada
said, Who said you were born in 1961?
Baba did.
Rubbish. Baba had lowered your age.
That means I was actually born in 1961?
Not 1961, you were born in 1960. I remember seeing the parade at the Circuit House on 14
th
August, Pakistans Independence Day. You
were born soon after.
Chhotda got up, and tightening the knot on his lungi and exposing his black gums, added, What are you saying Dada. How could she have
been born in 1960? She was born in 1959.
I was crushed. I went to Ma and demanded, Tell me my real date of birth, will you! Ma said, You were born on the twelfth day of
Rabi-ul-awal , the third month of the Muslim calendar , I dont recall the year.
All this Rabi-ul-awal doesnt work at school. Tell me the English year. The date.
Can one remember years and dates after so long? Ask your father. He might.
There were two birth dates, Dadas and Chhotdas, written on the first page of Babas Anatomy book. There was no trace of Yasmins and
my birth dates or years in any corner of any one of the twelve hundred pages of the book. In fact, they could not be found on any scrap of
paper in the house. Ma was born on Id, one of the Chhota Ids. Which year? That was not known. Till today, no one has had the courage to
question Baba about the date or year of his birth. Most worried, I was about to spend the entire day calculating anyone and everyones ages.
Get Mas age, by adding twelve years to Dadas age and get mine by subtracting ten, but Ma said Leave all this and study. Years flow by
like water. It seems just a few days ago that I tied my hair into banana shaped plaits and ran to school, and today my children are passing
their BAs and MAs.
Ma may not have been worried about anybodys age but I was. I asked any khala or mama from Nanibari visiting us at Aubokash whether
they knew the year of my birth. No one did. No one remembered. I confronted Nani when I visited her. Spitting a mouthful of paan juice
into a spittoon, she said Felu was born in the month of Shravan, you were born the same year in the month of Kartik.
Same year was which year?
Who keeps track of which year who was born! Kids have been born every year in this house. If there had been only one or two, one could
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have calculated years and dates.
I became obsessed with as insignificant a thing as the date of birth. The matter induced a mood of despondency amongst people both at
Aubokash and at Nanibari. Nani remembered that on the day that I was born, Koi fish spawn were cast into the pond in her house. Runu
khala remembered that Tutu mama had been running between his room and the toilet that day, and had slipped and fallen with a thud on the
stairs, but she couldnt recall which year that was. Hashem mama remembered picking up four golden frogs from the courtyard and
dropping them into the well, but he didnt have a clue about the date or the year.
I had never before felt this keen desire to know my year of birth. Baba had substituted 61 for 62, ensuring that I took the exams. No one
could complain about my being underage. I was happy. I could experience the joy of studying in right earnest. But my mind remained
occupied with the unknown age factor. It was as if my age was a person standing miles away from me. Someone whom I was always about
to meet, but never did, although the meeting was imperative. When I had enrolled at the Vidyamoyee School, I had asked Ma my age and
she had told me I was seven. Even when I was promoted to the new class and asked her, Ma still said I was seven. Why seven, I should be
eight! I had protested. Ma had inspected me from head to toe, slowly shaken her head from side to side and said, Eight would be too
much, you must be seven only. The next year she said eleven. Why eleven? Because it seemed I looked like eleven. I was growing tall like
a banana tree, so I had to be eleven, thought Ma. Even though I could never find out my age from Ma, I always held the belief that I could
from Baba. That was because the wisest person in the house was Baba. He was also more educated than anyone else. He was a storehouse
of knowledge. He was, after all, the head of the household. When he told me I was nine years old, he meant nine. However, Baba had also
not kept a record of my birthday - that much was very clear. If he had, then next to Dada and Chhotdas birth dates, my birthday would
have been mentioned there. It was not. This feeling of non-existence engulfed me the whole day long; it left me sitting mournfully in the
verandah; it made me ask Joris Ma, who was forever sweeping our courtyard, about her age. On hearing the question, Joris Ma
straightened her cramped waist and stood upright. It was the only time she would rest the entire day. It was the only time she could actually
call her own. After thinking for a while she lowered her eyes from the sky and gradually bent to sweep the courtyard again. Then she said
with a nod, Nineteen. The last light of the evening was lightly touching the courtyard. As it did, it touched Joris Mas dark body, too.
Ma came and sat on the verandah. Since I did not like Joris mothers answer about being nineteen, I asked Ma about her age.
She should be at least forty or forty-two, could even be forty-five, Ma said, looking askance at Joris Mas loose breasts hanging from her
limp body.
How old is Jori, Joris Ma?
To tell us Joris age her mother again straightened her waist and stood up. Ma scolded her. She said, Hurry up, sweep the courtyard and
then go and eat. Then scour the utensils, and put the rice for dinner on the stove.
We all had had our lunch. Only Joris Ma was left. She, alone, had to finish the cooking, feed everyone, scour the utensils, clean and mop
the house, and sweep the courtyard, before she could eat.
To think of Joris age, her mother needed to look up at the sky again. The reddish sky was filled with flocks of birds flying towards their
nests. Joris Ma had never been able to return to any nest with her daughter. After the birth of Jori, she had been bound to one house or
another - bound by work.
How old? Twelve! Khala, wont Jori be twelve years old?
Joris mother asked, looking at Ma helplessly.
How can you say twelve? She appears to be at least fourteen or fifteen.
Ma did not know when Jori was born. She had not seen her at birth. Joris mother had come to stay in this house along with Jori only two
years ago. Ma kept Joris mother for this house, and left Jori at Nanibari to run errands for Nani. Whatever Ma said about ages were all
conjectures. Ma guessed ages looking at the physical appearance of people. However, these conjectures were happily accepted by Joris
mother. From now on Joris mother knew her daughters age to be fourteen or fifteen, and her own to be forty or forty-two, or even
forty-five.
Joris Ma gathered the fallen leaves, branches and feathers in the courtyard and heaped them on the garbage pile near the pond. She then lit
a small oil lamp in the kitchen and sat down to eat rice and aubergine curry. Meanwhile Ma sat on the verandah, sorrowfully staring at the
coops of swans and hens running about. I sat with my legs spread out at her feet, listening to the whirring buzz about my head, of the
evening concert of dancing mosquitoes along with the sounds of ululation drifting in from Dolly Pals house. I watched how darkness
slowly fell from the sky onto our cleanly swept earthen courtyard, like water droplets dripping from the wet hair of a melancholy maiden.
Staring at the segun tree behind the tin shed, I asked Ma softly, How old is the segun tree, Ma?
Ma looked strangely at the tree and said, seems to be three hundred years old.
How Ma guessed the ages of all human beings and trees, I could not understand.
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Why dont people live for three hundred years, Ma?
Ma did not utter a word. Darkness had enveloped her as though bats wings had flapped and covered her face, which otherwise always had
the carefree appearance of sea gulls flying playfully over the waters.
Anxieties about age have continued to haunt me since then. I suddenly had the desire to celebrate my birthday according to the date written
on my SSC form. It helped that Baba was in a good mood. As soon as I asked, a cake, a basket of malaikari sweets, one packet of
chanachur, one pound of sweet biscuits and a dozen oranges arrived. In the evening I lit a candle on the cake. In the presence of whosoever
was at home and one single precious guest, Chandana, I blew out the candle. I cut the one-pound cake with the only knife that could be
found in the kitchen the long knife used for the Holy Sacrifice of cows. Who would offer the first piece of cake to me was a matter of hot
dispute between Geeta and Yasmin. Geeta finally won. Her desires and wishes, she being the daughter-in-law of the house, were given
more importance than Yasmins. Yasmin moved away from the cake, sporting a long face. Meanwhile, before the camera light could come
on, Geeta fixed a sweet smile on her face and offered me a piece, with her eye on the camera. My birthday was thus celebrated in the midst
of cake-cutting, clapping, camera clicks, biscuits soaked in the malaikari, and lips licking the white icing on the cake. In this house it was
the first time any birthday had been celebrated, and that, too, owing to my own enterprise. Chandana gave me three books of poems as a
present. Raja Jaye, Raja Ashei (The King goes, the King comes), Adiganta Nagna Paddhwani (Bare Footfalls Reaching up to the Horizon)
and Na Premik, Na Biplabi (Neither Lover nor Revolutionary). Dada gave me Rabindranaths Galpaguchho (Collection of Stories). This
was the first time in my life that I had received presents on my birthday. I couldnt take my hands, my eyes or my mind away from the
books. Much later that night, Ma said with a parched throat, You could have broken a piece of sweet and given it to Joris mother. She has
never eaten a sweet in her life. She could have tasted some, too. I suddenly realized that not just Joris mother even Ma had not got a share
of the birthday food. Ma of course said that she could do without it. If ever a biscuit or handful of chanachur was offered to Ma, she said I
really eat only rice. You all are kids, you eat. You all peck at rice like birds, so you need to eat other foods as well.
After my birthday celebrations, Yasmin became very keen to celebrate her own. She caught hold of Baba to find out the date and month of
her birth. Baba kept putting her off, but Yasmin doggedly persisted. After keeping her hanging for almost two months, Baba told her it was
the 9
th
of September. That was all she needed. Before the 9
th
of September could come, Yasmin sent Baba a long list, three kinds of fruit,
two kinds of sweet, along with chanachur and biscuits. She had already invited almost all the girls at school. When Baba saw the list he
said, What is a birthday? There is no need for having birthdays. Study hard and become a worthy individual. I do not want any
celebrations in my house. Ma cajoled Baba, in secret She wants to celebrate her birthday, let her! Girls are Lakshmis, it is not right to beat
and discipline them. They too have some desires. She is being childish, but indulge her for once. Ma would use the respectful address
aapni for some time and then switch to the more intimate tumi. The reasons for descending or ascending from the familiar tumi to the
formal aapni were so numerous, that by now neither Baba nor we were even startled by the change of terms. However, whether she used
tumi or aapni, in a light or serious tone, whether she cried or laughed, whatever way Ma voiced her desires, Baba gave them the least
importance. Ma knew this as well as Baba.
Forget all this meaningless fun and games. The daughter dances and I see the mother doing the same nothing but a dance of apes.
Ma did not get cowed down by Babas frowns. She continued to cajole him while massaging hot garlic oil into his cold-affected chest and
back. Once you marry off the girls, they go away to another home. Whatever dreams and desires they have, must be fulfilled in their
parents home itself. Even if the garlic oil softened Babas flesh, it certainly didnt seem to soften his heart. Yasmin was disappointed.
Nothing was being done to celebrate her birthday. However, surprising everyone that afternoon, Baba sent us all the items in Yasmins
list. The girl danced with delight. Arranging all the food in saucers, all dressed up, she sat staring at the black main gate all evening,
awaiting her guests. Since no one appeared, Yasmin had no alternative but to invite three of her neighbourhood gollachhut playmates when
the girls came to the grounds late in the evening, and feed them the birthday feast.
When Chhotda returned home at dusk, he was surprised to see the display of food. Hey, what is the occasion today?
Yasmin laughed shyly and said, Its my birthday.
Who said you were born on this day?
Baba said so. Once Baba had said something, it did not behove anyone to utter a word in contradiction; for everyone at home, whatever
Baba said, was the truth. There was after all no one more knowledgeable and intelligent than him.
Okay, understood. You needed a birth date, so you asked Baba for one, and he made up one.
Yasmin was stunned at Chhotdas audacity.
That day too, the one who did not get to share even a single piece of Yasmins cake was Ma. She had left the house in the afternoon to
return only at dusk. In her hand was a brown paper packet, inside which was a red coloured dress material for Yasmin. Ma was going to
stitch a frilled frock for Yasmin herself. Having no money, she had, without telling anyone, borrowed some from Hashem mama, and gone
to Gaurhari Cloth House and bought three yards of the material.
When I saw it, I leapt up shouting But it is not her birthday today!
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Who said it isnt her birthday?
Chhotda did.
So what! Ma scolded. Never mind if its not her birthday. The girl wanted to have a little fun, let her.
We never got clothes except on the occasion of Id. Baba gave us clothes only once a year and that was on Chhota Id. Before the next years
Chhota Id could come, our dresses would either tear or become small. If one requested Baba for new clothes he would snarl and say,
Dont you have two dresses, wear one and wash it when its dirty, and wear the other. There is no need to have more than two dresses.
Ma would increase the length of our short dresses with sari borders, or any other extra piece of cloth and mend the tears. School going girls
normally had two kinds of clothes, one to wear at home and the other to wear outside. If ever I wanted to keep my Id clothes for wearing
outside, and asked for clothes to wear at home, Baba said, Why do you have to go out? If you have to go out anywhere, that is to your
school. For that you have your school uniform. At school, girls were given the liberty to wear clothes other than their uniforms when a
cultural function was held or a picnic organized. The girls wore different dresses for different functions. Since I wore the same dress for
each and every occasion, one of my classmates asked me once, Dont you have any other clothes? I was so afflicted by shame that I ran
and hid myself behind a pillar for a very long time. Baba had never refused us our school uniforms. He personally took us to Gaurhari
Cloth House to buy the material and then went to the tailor shop at Ganginar Par. When the tailor took our measurements, he repeatedly
instructed the tailor to make the uniforms larger, so that they would last longer. Even at the shoe shops, Baba would say to the shopkeeper,
Make sure the shoes are a little bigger, so that they can be used for a longer time. I found that even the clothes and shoes larger in size,
shrank rather fast. Ma said, The clothes and shoes dont get smaller, you all outgrow them. As we kept growing physically, I used to be
scared that Baba would get angry. Later when Dada was studying at Dhaka University, he saved money from his monthly allowance and
bought Yasmin and me two silk dresses. Second hand foreign dresses bought from the pavements, landir maal, cheap stuff, but there was
no end to our happiness on being given even these.
Yasmin was delightedly jumping all over the house wrapped in the red cloth that Ma had bought for her. Ma sat in the dark verandah with
her hair hanging loose, and watched the bright red Yasmin, who appeared rather beautiful in the glow of the lighted room.
Chapter Two
WILD WIND
She came on transfer from Comilla and took admission in the new school in Mymensingh. We established eye contact the very day she
joined class. Her almost wholly shut eyes spoke volumes on that first day itself. Of course, on that day, she stuck close to her paternal or
maternal cousin sister Seema Dewan. She did the same on the second day also. She sat on my bench on the third day, and after that she did
not sit anywhere else. Chandanas complexion was like virgin paper, her nose was as if chiseled by stone. Half her eyes were concealed by
her eyelids. The other half twinkled directly at me and lighted up my heart. When her loose, long, thick hair freely tumbled down her back
like monsoon rain, it secretly soothed my entire body. Ever since Dilruba left, the seat next to me had remained unreserved. Before I knew
it, Chandana had taken over that place. Every day Chandanas sounds, smells, complexion and Dilrubas absence hovered over me like
shadows. Chandana was not the only girl newly admitted to the class. Flocks of girls from Vidyamoyee were coming in. They were the
same rebellious friends of mine. Yet the fragrance of our relationship in which I was totally submerged, remained fresh and unaffected.
The Residential Adarsha Balika Vidyayatan or Model Girls School stood in a deserted corner of the town. The number of girls here could
be counted on ones fingers. However, in the SSC exam, their results were better than the Vidyamoyee girls. Not only that, the first division
average in this school was higher than any other girls school. Hence, my father pushed me there in the seventh grade, just like other fathers
did. If not possible in the seventh or eighth, then ninthtenth graders were pushed into this school, and had to spend a long time in the
wilderness. As a student of the senior-most class, I was overjoyed at that time. I wrote CLASS X boldly on the covers of my books, more
prominently than even my own name.
While I was flying high with Chandana in her wild ways, my SSC exams hung over my head like Damocles sword, threatening to invade
my home and enter every nook and corner. Baba advised me to learn by heart and internalize each word on every page of every book. My
world was to be surrounded by nothing else but dark black letters. However, my desire to follow Babas advice would vanish as soon as
Baba left the house or the sound of his snores became audible. On the way to school the one-class senior boys of Edward School wearing
ironed clothes would be leaning over, with sweet smiles peeping from the corners of their eyes and mouths. After seeing them, my whole
day would be suffused with red, blue, green, yellow and every other colour in the world. On reaching school, my pre-occupation was more
with Mehbooba who walked to school from Natakghar Lane than with my studies. She gave me all the details about the boys, their names,
who stayed where, who was thinking of what etc. Mehbooba gathered all the information from her brothers, and the details she didnt get,
she guessed. Whenever Chandana opened her fist, love letters poured out like monsoon rain. She had begun to receive at least four or five
letters everyday. Why shouldnt she! Boys between eighteen and twenty-eight from Panditpara had lost sleep after seeing her. There was
small talk about the most beautiful girl in class, Mamata Banu all the time. It seems Imtiaz Tarafdar of the Baghmara Medical College
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hostel, was about to commit suicide by drowning out of love for Mamata.
Asma Ahmed, with her nose and chest both up in the air, was a good student who kept herself aloof from everyone. It seems even she had
exchanged glances with one of the good students from the Zilla School. Jehangir who lived in the house next to the school wall, was
always staring at Sara. Sara did not seem to dislike him either. Poppy and Nadira were always whispering to each other between classes.
Ashrafunnissa, a girl with a harelip, saw this and guessed that Nadira must have fallen in love with Poppys brother Baki. Which male
teacher peeped into which female teachers room, who collapsed with laughter at whose words, for whom were whos eyes shining like
stars these tidbits would reach our ears as well, wafting in with the breeze. Chandana was captivated by all these rumours and so was I.
She was overwhelmed with her own casual love affairs. Sitting in class, she would write page after page of love poetry about someones
melancholy eyes, eyes she had seen only that morning. For the bespectacled boy seen on the street named Lutfer, I too felt something. On
the way to and from school, two-three scraps of paper thrown by him caused my nights sleep to vanish. From the day the note with the
eyes tell the story of the heart - yours Lutfer written on it, flew out of my physics book and fell at Babas feet, instead of fall if you have
to on the gardeners shoulder, I had to go to school escorted by guards. Borodada , grandfather was given the responsibility of escorting
me to school in the morning, and taking me back home when school was over. After school, some girls took rickshaws home, some walked
and one or two had hunchbacked Volkswagen cars coming to pick them up. Even when everyone, even Mamata Banu (whose belligerent
mother always escorted her) had left, I had to wait till my long white-bearded, green lungi clad, black rubber-soled shoe wearing old Dada
appeared. It was uncomfortable to be standing alone like that at the gate after school hours. However, if by chance Borodada came early,
then, getting in to a rickshaw with him in front of everyone was equally embarrassing for me. I was sure, seeing Borodadas skullcap,
bearded face, rubber shoes and lungi clad body, everyone must have been suppressing their laughter and privately assessing what a rustic,
unpolished family I belonged to. I had neither the capability nor the courage to pretend that the bearded man was not related to me. That he
was actually rather a close relation was also something I could voluntarily never tell anyone. On finding no trace of scraps in my books for
a long time, Baba lifted the guard. The policing had also to be lifted because of Borodadas claims about fields full of mustard, sheds full of
cows, a granary full of grain, his own thatched hut, and also because it was time for him to return to his village of Madarinagar. If
Borodada spent too long in the town away from his village, he began to get confused in his head. Everyday he would carry his Jainamaz ,
prayer mat in his hand and ask someone or the other in which direction was the west. Whenever he asked me, I pointed out every direction
as the west, except the west itself. He, too, would happily spread his Jainamaz and, turning in that direction, would touch his thumbs to his
earlobes, and invoking Allahoo-Akbar would begin his namaz.
If Borodada was with me, I would sit in the rickshaw with my head bent in shame because of his appearance. When I raised my head, it
gave me the opportunity to furtively look at the boys standing on the road. A new plump boy standing next to Lutfer, wearing blue trousers
and a white shirt, set my heart aflutter again one day. One glance was enough to excite me. I kept feeling I was drowning in loves
bottomless waters. I kept feeling that the plump boy would be thinking of me. That he would be standing on the road at ten, when I would
go to school, only to get one glimpse of me. He did stand on the road the next day. When I saw him, I was sure there was no one more
handsome in the world than this roly-poly. I was amazed at how my whole life now seemed centred around him. How, if I didnt see his
smiling lips and eyes everyday, my life was futile.
Then suddenly one day the mind switched from these instant love affairs, without which I had thought I would surely die, to the books in
the library. My eagerness to finish reading as many books as were on the shelves gained the momentum of a hungry shark. Once the books
within our reach had been read, the ones beyond our reach were obtained by either standing on our toes, or using ladders, and were gobbled
up by Chandana and me. These books were kept under our textbooks, pillows, mattresses, in spite of the fact that our exams were looming
ahead. The home tutor Shamshul Huda, taught me physics, chemistry, biology, mathematics and all the seven kinds of sciences. He would
slap me almost every evening as a routine. But despite that, as soon as Shamshul Huda had disseminated scientific knowledge to me, had
his tea and biscuits and left the house, I would bend over those unwholesome books. Chandana was far ahead of me in this. Where I
finished two books, she finished seven. In the race to read books, I was always behind her. It was my belief that Mamata, the bookworm,
too could not keep up with Chandana. The library books were called outbooks by the girls at school. On wanting to know what outbook
meant I was told that any book outside the syllabus, was an outbook. Girls who read outbooks were not looked upon very favourably by
the quiet, serious-minded good students. Those who read outbooks were considered to be the kind who did not concentrate on their
studies. Their minds were restless. Most importantly, such girls were not good students and got marks resembling zeros in their exams. This
was the general idea current in the school. Why this was so, I was unable to fathom. Even after proving that I could read outbooks and
still do well in my exams, this idea was not dispelled. Our addiction to these other books created a different world for Chandana and me.
Now, personal love stories of students or teachers did not drift into our ears, they got stuck somewhere midway. The air around us was now
heavy with the tears of Parvati, the sound of Rajlakshmis bare feet, Charulatas loneliness and Bimalas dilemma.
It was not that the air was always heavy. Once in a while it cleared up with pure laughter, and became free from gloom. Such an
unblemished smile played often on our librarian Syeduzzamans lips. He taught Islamiat once in a while. For this subject the school had no
teacher. Whenever a teacher was free, he came to take Islamiat classes. Syeduzzamans unadulterated smiling stretched up to his ears in the
Islamiat class. His smile had value, because this class was less important than all other classes. Kalyani Pal taught us Bangla wearing a
Monalisa smile. Such a smile had use in the savouring of the essence of literature. Suraiyya Begum also exuded the scent of rajnigandhas
through her toothy smile. Could the scent of a flower be transmitted through a smile? Chandana said it could. Our Mathematics teacher
came to class with a grumpy face. Just as well. Encouraged by Syeduzzamans smile, even if we sat in the Islamiat class gazing
abstractedly at the sky, writing copies full of poetry, spending half-an-hour instead of five minutes in visiting the toilet or drinking water, it
did not make any difference. Syeduzzaman, too, spent more time on telling stories than teaching Islamiat. His tales were not totally
uninteresting either. However, he repeatedly told us that as a subject Islamiat was not entirely to be ignored, as it was a scoring subject. If
one could write the Surah Fateeha more or less correctly or give four names of the Asmani books, one could score ten out of ten. In case
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you lost marks in physics or chemistry, then you could depend on Islamiat to get first class marks without much hard work.
For the Mussalman girls in class there was Islamiat readings, for the Hindus, Sanatan Dharma teachings. In the whole school there was no
one to teach Hindu Religion either. Just because Kalyani Pal was a Hindu, she was constantly pushed into that class. She would tell her
students that instead of wasting time with religion, they should spend time with mathematics that will be more useful. The Hindu girls
therefore got a big holiday in their Religion class. They didnt waste any time on mathematics and went straight to the grounds to play, or
spent time in adda , gossip in the empty classrooms. Since Chandana was a Buddhist, she too should have left the class. When there was
no teacher for Hindu Religion, there was no question of there being a teacher for Buddhist Studies. But she remained motionless in the
Islamiat class, either deep in some storybook, or in poetry. Sitting next to her I could neither concentrate on Islamiat, nor open a
Niharranjan Gupta under Syeduzzamans nose. I would just scribble or compose verses.
Syeduzzaman fires a cannon
Loading a religious horse on his shoulder
He speaks whatever nonsense he can find
He not only has a cough, he even pants.
He also puts a cap on,
But does he really believe in the Quran, the Hadith?
Or is it all a put on?
Having ripped Syeduzzaman into shreds, I felt bad later. He was a thorough gentleman in shirt and trousers, whose pate had not been
adorned with any cap. Why had I slighted him so! Actually it was not about Syeduzzaman at all. I could have done this to anyone. A person
looking like a puny tangra fish could safely be converted into a wide-mouthed booal fish, especially with a little indulgence from
Chandana. When the Bangla teacher Suraiyya Begum would waddle along, Chandana and I would follow her like two ants. Chandana
would whisper Olo Suraiyya, picking flowers, turning your face.
I would add How much longer will you waddle, the day has almost gone.
Chandana, feigning a deep sigh would conclude, By the time you reach, you will be gone too.
We knew the teachers at the Residential Adarsha Balika Vidyayatan were not to be disregarded. Nevertheless, we indulged in limericks,
which rarely remained secret, private or unknown. Other schools would recruit BAs, but, if you wanted to teach at the Residential, you had
to be an MA, the qualification for University teaching. None of these Vidyayatan teachers were from this town. They came from very far,
mostly from Dhaka. The residences of the faculty members were all within the school premises. Each teacher had an independent house,
with grounds in front, and gardens at the back. When this school was built, residential facilities were not provided for the teaching faculty
alone; they extended to the students as well. Compulsory residence. It was the dream of the East Pakistan Governor Monayem Khan to
shape this school from top to bottom just like a Cadet College. His house was in Mymensingh, hence he had begun to build this residential
school here and named it Rabeya Memorial, in memory of his late wife. It was spread over 100 acres of land, with all fens and marshes
filled up. Then, of course, came the end of East Pakistan and the Governor had to go. In 1971, bomber aircrafts encircled the town and
caused most of the half built school building to collapse. Once the war was over, the landslip was removed and the remaining building was
repaired and white washed. The name, Rabeya Memorial, was changed to Residential Adarsha Balika Vidyayatan and the school was
re-started. The framework could be said to be the same, a residential system, but even though the faculty members were able to sustain the
residential mode, the student body could not. For a new country, it was not possible to implement such a massive project. However, what
was done was not insignificant either! Students were not compulsorily confined to the school boundary. The hostel remained at one corner
of the grounds in ghostly isolation. Only for a few girls coming from Khulna and Rajshahi were living arrangements made in the ground
floor of the Principal Wabaida Saads house. In spite of this the school was the towns most reputed and expensive school. The very best
teachers had been selected for jobs and the best students had been selected for admission. As a result, the style of this school was quite
different from other schools. Scholarships were given to the students of this school. Other schools had no such facility. For scholarships in
other schools, one had to depend on the results of board exams.
Even the auditorium in this school was worth a look, and so were the functions that were held there. This auditorium was not a hencoop
like in the other schools. It had dimensions of a cinema hall. At the press of a button, heavy velvet drapes moved from one end of the stage
to the other. The stage itself was a revolving one. The audience seating arrangements were extensive .The kind of plays, dance-dramas,
musical concerts and other functions that could be performed on this stage could not be bettered by any other school. If not every month, at
least every two months cultural functions were held, apart from the various festivals that were observed all the year round. If one solicited
enough, formidable teachers would come out of their shells and sing in amazingly tuneful musical voices. There was no need for bombs to
be thrown, requisite amounts of tickling could bring forth poetry from the innermost recesses of many, in fact even from that of the Maths
teacher. It wasnt as though apart from these concerts we spent our time listlessly. Suraiyya Begum teaching Bangla poetry, would very
often recite the poems she had composed. Suraiyya Begums heart may have been as soft as clay, but Jinnatoon Nahars was as hard as a
rock. She taught us English. Actually, I had never liked the English teachers. The teachers of English were as tough as the subject was
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difficult. I loved Bangla, so did Chandana. One day, as was our routine, we reached school in the morning and stood in class-wise rows in
the grounds. We completed our daily exercises, and sang our National Anthem Amar Sonar Bangla Aami Tomai Bhalobashi , my golden
Bangla I love you in front of the Bangladesh National Flag. Then we went to our classes. As soon as we entered our class room, our
Principal informed us that writer Kazi Motahar Hussain was visiting our school at that time and, if we wished to, we could meet him. Our
hearts trembled with excitement. Kazi Motahar Hussain was our Principals father. He wrote very well, played very well, as it was with
most intelligent people competent in every field of knowledge. He had fathered quite a few talented children. Except for this Wabaida
Saad, the others were all quite renowned. His son Kazi Anwar Hussain was a famous writer. Daughters Sanjeeda Khatoon and Faimida
Khatoon, were both celebrated Rabindrasangeet exponents. But, in going to meet this famous father of famous children, Chandana and I
got into a very embarrassing situation. At first we kept peeping through the door. Soon we opened the door softly with eighty-five percent
fear and fifteen percent courage, and entering his room, we saw him laughing, waving his white beard. His eyes were bright with curiosity.
We entered the room, saying in submissive tones that we had come to meet him. He listened to us, smiled sweetly, and switched on a radio
set kept on the table. The volume was very loud. The radio remained on for quite some time. Chandana and I kept exchanging astonished
looks. His white-haired and bearded face glowed and he continued smiling radiantly, with his ear glued to the radio. We again informed
him of the reason for our visit. This time he nodded his head, meaning that if not then, now at least he had understood why we had come.
Then immediately he left the room, not just the room he left the house and walked rapidly towards the school. Following him we found he
had, Oh Ma, gone straight to his daughter and was asking her, You called for me? Wabaida Saad was stunned. She had certainly not called
for her respected father. What was happening? The respected father was hard of hearing. How were we going to carry on a conversation
with him then! Wabaida Saad could not find any solution to our problem. We had no alternative but to silently hurl our reverences at this
dignified figure of a much venerated, respected and saluted man. It was the first time I had seen a living writer since I had grown up. I had
heard from Ma that when I was six months old, Rahat Khan, a writer friend of Baba, used to visit us. He would rock me in his arms, and
sing songs of his own composition. The songs were dedicated to Farida Akhtar, a school friend of Mas. The mendicant maid of my
dreams lives near a festering pond, but I sailed my barge and went and saw her... Rahat Khan was a master at Nasirabad College. If Ma
was asked how a master and a doctor became friends, her answer was, Both of them fell in love with the same woman. She was the
beautiful wife of a lawyer, whose house your father was assigned to administer, while he was a student. It seems Baba, too, had fallen in
love with Farida Akhtar. The fair, tall, pock-marked Farida was also my teacher when I was studying in that Rajbari School of my
childhood. Ma would say, Farida as a student was a back- bencher, I was a front-bencher. She was a much worse student than me. That
Farida now teaches at a school and I shove fuel into an oven. That is my fate! Even if others worried about Mas fate, Baba certainly
didnt. Ma had to look after the children, cook and feed everyone, and guard the house against thieves. How could anyone who had such a
great responsibility have the time to think about her fortunes!
Ma was not as keen as I was to hear stories of Rahat Khan. To a well-read girl, a writer was someone great someone who lived on a
different planet. That those who wrote books were human beings like us, that they too urinated and excreted, that their noses too, once in a
while, got stuffed with cold, that if they blew their noses thick yellow mucous would come out, was something I could not believe. I had
the same belief about film stars. They led beautiful, elegant lives, lived in a starry world, rode in shining cars and wore dazzling clothes.
They lolled on bolsters like kings and ate apples or grapes and they slept on beds as soft as cotton-wool. They did not exude any physical
smell, let alone that of sweat. From them emanated the scent of roses. They never made even a single mistake in their work, never spoke
untruths and never caused anybody pain. They were what could be called noble. I was as much a bookworm, as I was a cinema addict.
Chandana was the same. I would request and cajole Dada to take me to the cinema, and we would pick up Chandana on the way. After a lot
of trouble and effort on our part Dada would arrange once in a while, to show us a movie, but for my first chance to see a film magazine at
home, I owe thanks to Chhotda. Chhotda was a young man who could not concentrate on studies, who roamed all over town; a jack of all
trades, he was married rather prematurely. Every week he would return home late in the afternoon with a Chitrali in his hand to while away
his leisure hours. Chhotda had no wealth, but he had a heart. As soon as Chhotdas recreation was over, my curiosity would be set free.
What was written in that paper with pictures? I was the kind of girl who, whenever she saw printed words, would read them immediately.
On the way to school, in case there were no boys around, I would read anew all the signboards I had read a million times before. After
buying nuts, I would read what was written on the packet while eating the nuts. After eating tamarind pickle, I would lick the remnants and
even decipher what was barely readable in the oil-smudged paper. Why would a book worm like me allow a journal full of amusement lie
unread, because it was in pictures! It became a habit to look at Chhotdas Chitrali. The habit gradually descended to an addiction. Or grew
in to one, who knows! If Chhotda forgot to buy the magazine, then what! Saving the rickshaw fare to school, I would buy the magazine and
read it from cover to cover. Id go to sleep at night with all details at my fingertips regarding the houses, cars, meals of all the heroes and
heroines, along with news of their love affairs and separations. In my dreams, I would see one of the heroes meeting me on a starry night
on the banks of a moonlit lake with a soft breeze blowing. That hero would dance and sing for me as he swore that he could not live
without me, with the trees, skies, air, lake water, moonlight everything as his witness. Unless I had the magazine in my hand on Friday I
could not digest my food, at least Ma thought so. I was not worried about my digestion at all. However, if the magazine arrived while I was
eating, I would push my plate aside and get up. Or, I would be holding the magazine in one hand and eating with the other. The hand
holding the magazine was invariably faster than the hand eating food. Chitrali had the power to not only make me forget food it could even
make me forget my parents. This started when one of my articles was published in the Readers Page. I had just sent a piece, on why the
ethereal-voiced Sabeena was being ignored; given the sweetness of her voice, Runas voice was harsh in comparison and so on. That was
the first time ever any article of mine had been published in a magazine. Before sending the article, I had asked Chhotda whether Chitrali
would publish something I sent. Chhotda had said Stupid and pushed me away. Apparently, Chitrali got five thousand letters a day. Four
thousand nine hundred and ninety two were never opened, let alone read, they were thrown into the wastepaper basket. So if I sent a letter
it would go straight to that basket. Although Chhotda had extinguished with one puff, my chandelier of desire and had heaped sacks of
despair over my hopes, I had still secretly sent my article to the Chitrali address, testing my fate. Quite delightfully, it actually got
published the very next week, the photograph of Sabeena Yasmin and Runa Laila inserted. There was major excitement at home. I floated
in the currents of hip-hip-hurrahs. My name was printed in the magazine, an unbelievable event indeed! Chhotda, after remaining totally
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open-mouthed for sometime, finally stuttered Wow, y-your wr-writing has been pu-published! As though I had accomplished the
impossible! A victorious smile was stuck to my lips like red ants on a sugar-candy. I brandished the magazine innumerable times before
everyones eyes except for Babas; in fact even before Joris Mas eyes. Joris mother looked at the magazine with astonishment. But this
looks no different from thongar kagoj, paper packets, she said.
After this unbelievable event took place, another equally unbelievable event occurred. Next week, I found that several responses, both
favourable and unfavourable, to my article had also been published in Chitrali. My enthusiasm bubbled like boiling rice. I began sending
my articles not only to the Readers Page, but also to the Letters section. Those days a new magazine called Purbani modeled on Chitrali,
was making its appearance in the world of star-entertainment literature. I was not so heartless as to neglect Purbani. I just had to have both
Chitrali and Purbani every week. If either of them carried my articles, Chhotda would say with a thin smile on his lips, Yes, its been
published, and if it was not he would say, What happened, didnt they print your article? Chandana did not have to be pulled into this
world. Struck by glamour she entered the arena herself. More was written about me than I wrote myself. I was becoming like a member of
the group. It seemed the person who gave the replies to letters in Chitrali, known to everyone as Uttar (answer) da, dipped into a pot of
syrup while composing his replies. As I continued to write, this unseen Uttarda began to feel like my own Dada. After a small hair-pulling
battle between Yasmin and me over a pencil, I wrote to Uttarda to inform him of my unhappy state of mind. Even if I was full of good
spirits, I had to inform him first. Plucking a phrase from the Golpukur adda, Chhotda one day said, Twenty springs of my life have passed
by and not a crow has cawed let alone a cuckoo sing here. Cuckoo meaning the cultural luminaries, while crows stood for the smaller fry
in the cultural scene. I quickly picked up the phrase and sent it to Uttarda. He was so upset to hear it that he chased all the crows in Dhaka
towards Mymensingh. By doing this he was able to shoo away the cawing crows from around his vicinity and somewhat bless my
supposedly dry spring. Rubbish, how could I turn in to such an old woman at twenty! I knew it was only for fun! However, this was not a
forum for only fun. Plenty of serious matters were also discussed. Peoples pride and respect, sorrows and mourning, love and separation
and their crooked ways, and sometimes, even problems of life were solved on the pages of the magazine. The number of readers was so
widespread that in every city a Samiti named Chipachosh was formed for readers of Chitrali. In Mymensingh, Chhotda himself was the
helmsman of Chipachosh. He had to be. After all, if not a writer he was certainly a reader. His studies had gone to the dogs. He had nothing
to do, and it was possible only for him to spend twenty-four hours with Chipachosh. They even had a meeting, one day, in the Town Hall
grounds. In the dark green field, under the shade of the banyan tree, this evening get-together became quite lively. Underneath one of the
banyan trees, Chipachosh was being nurtured, built up, under the other, grown up girls and boys were carrying on with their former raw
childish games. The young had now grown old, but were not willing to lose their appellation of young. Roknuzzaman Khan of the
newspaper Ittefaq, just in case he got called Dadabhai by the young, had not only opened a forum for them in his paper, but also built up a
society for youth in various cities. There was no dearth of institutions, councils, committees, and associations in Mymensingh town. From
Chhotda, one got all the news of where in the town various discussions and literary meetings were being held, and where dance music and
dramas were being staged. When I heard of these my cup of desires would overflow. When Chhotda returned from the Chipachosh
meetings, I would ask again and again Who all came? What did they look like? Did anyone say anything? What did they say? Chhotda
would give me one name at a time, with an introduction. Swallowing the bitter pill of compliance to my request, he would recite a couple
of words or phrases spoken by others. Although Mymensinghs Padmaragmani, the main female attraction in the Chitrali forum, attended
meetings proudly, it had not been possible for Chandana and me to get permission to step on to that shaded, peaceful, cool grass in the
midst of a crowd of menfolk. Except for male relatives and male teachers, we had no opportunity to mix in the company or gatherings of
any other men, however much we wanted to go.
After my articles were published in Chitrali, quite a few letters came in my name to the Aubokash address, from various cities of the
country with requests for pen-friendship. This had never happened before. Till then, no letter had come for me from anyone outside our
relative circle. I was quite excited on getting these letters. Pen-friendship was quite a unique affair to know people far away only through
letters, and then to gradually get to know them almost as relatives and friends. Jewel from Dhaka, Sabbir from Sylhet, Shantanu from
Chhatagram I grabbed these invitations to become pen-friends immediately. That girls and boys could be excellent friends was a belief
that was gradually growing in my mind. What I had seen of relationships outside the family circle, were those of love. It had happened in
the lives of Chhotda and Dada, in the lives of Jhunu khala and Runu khala as well. Love had only one purpose marriage. Dada was
unable to marry his Sheila, Chhotda made sure he married his. I had not seen any other relationship between boys and girls beyond these
amongst the people known to me. They existed in novels or in the movie stories. They had no place in the world in which I lived. Yet, the
letters coming to me for the first time caused something different to happen. Letters from strange men, but not love letters. I was to be
married to no one, yet I got letters. Letters from pen-friends that came by post were read at home in a kind of group. Whoever received the
letter from the postman first, read it first. Then, while handing over the letter, they would speak of its contents to me. A letter came from
Jewel. Yasmin, while handing over the open envelope to me said, Jewel wants to know whose songs you like better, Hemantas or Manna
Des? Sabbir wrote pages and pages on religious matters. He even sent small religious texts as presents. When his letters came, Chhotda
would read them before I could. He would throw them at me and say, Go read, read the letter of the Munshi fellow. That letters were a
personal affair was something I had yet to realize. This pen-friendship infected Chandana later, as it did Dada. Dada suddenly began
pen-friendship with a girl called Sultana in Dhaka. Sultanas handwriting was amazingly beautiful. When her letters came, Dada would call
all of us to show us her handwriting. He would sit us down before him and would read out the letter. Later, stroking the top of the letter he
would say, This girl must be really beautiful to look at. Dada believed that anyone whose handwriting was so neat, whose language could
be so poetic in a letter, could not but be a paragon of beauty.
Chandana had begun to read another magazine, Bichitra, apart from Chitrali and Purbani. One of her articles had even been published in
the Readers Page. On hearing that women were to be recruited by the Police Force, Chandana gave a proposal for the uniform the women
police could wear. The Burkha. Remaining under the Burkha would be in accordance with religious requirements and at the same time the
activities of thieves and robbers could be observed through the eye-holes. No passerby would suspect she was a policewoman. Bichitra had
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published her article along with a Burkha-walis cartoon sketched next to it. I had to save four to six annas from the school rickshaw fare, to
buy Chitrali and Purbani. It wasnt always possible to have the money to buy Bichitra. I would perpetually beg for it from Dada. Dada
enjoyed seeing my outstretched hand, and once in a while, dropped some coins into it. With that, I would buy Bichitra like an addict. To
buy meant that I had to make Yasmin or Joris Ma stand at the black gate, or stand there myself in order to call a hawker as soon as one
appeared. If there was no hawker, I would send Yasmin to the Ganginar Par turn, and she would buy one. Since I was grown up I was not
allowed to walk alone on the streets. The prohibitory order had not been imposed on Yasmin, so at bad times I had to depend on her. It
wasnt just the expense of buying magazines, to write for the magazines and reply to the pen-friends was also expensive. If one gave
Chhotda the letters, even the money for postage stamps had to be counted out. In case Dadas mood was off, the option was to sell old
glass bottles and papers. Next to Aubokash, hawkers would call out all day and pass along the three roads that went in different
directions one towards Golpukur Par, another towards Durgabari and another towards Sherpukur Par. They would call out melodiously-
Sari and kapod-wala, badam-wala, chanachur-wala, aachar-wala, churi and pheeta-wala, ice-cream-wala, hawai-mithai-wala, ghee-wala,
murgi-wala, kabootar-wala, hans-wala, kotkoti-wala, muri-wala, glass-bottle-paper-wala. As soon as I would hear the hawker calling the
last glass-bottle-paper-wala, I would send whoever was at hand to catch the fellow. On his head would be a big basket. Before the basket
was lowered from the head, bargaining would be on. How much?
Newspaper three taka a ser, books and copies two taka.
What do you mean by three taka? If you will give four taka, tell us.
Four taka would be too much. You can take three and a half.
Are your weighing scales okay?
Sell only after you are satisfied.
Once the hawker lowered the basket and sat in the verandah, I would forget my fascination for the old magazines under the bedroom cot,
and get them out. I even hunted out old books and copies. After selling them, I would get about ten or fifteen taka. Even ten-fifteen taka
made me feel like a king. Chhotda too sold magazines, Ma sold old glass bottles after hoarding them, even torn scraps of paper found in the
courtyard while sweeping, were dusted and stored. The two paise Ma earned from broken glass and torn paper, she kept under the
mattresses, or tied in the corner of her sari aanchal. This she was able to put to use and stemmed at times Yasmin and Chhotdas extreme
penury. Chandana was never lashed by poverty. In spite of living in a rented green tin house in Panditpara, Chandana easily procured
money for magazines every week. Chandana may not have been able to go to the Town Hall premises full of men but she would manage to
do some amazing things without warning. She arrived one day at the crack of dawn riding on her younger brother, Sajus, cycle. On seeing
Chandana, my heart overflowed with joy. The rest of those at home scrambled out of bed and stared open-mouthed at her. How daring a
girl had to be to take a cycle out in the streets of the city, whether early in the morning or at deserted midnight! Making Chandana sit in the
inner room, Ma ran into the kitchen and heated rice, rotis and meat. Ma made her sit next to her and fed her. Chandana, of course, had to
run after stuffing herself. Before people came out she had to reach home. Chandana rode away on the cycle, with her hair blowing in the
mild breeze while I was left standing at the black gate staring at her in fascination. As if the girl on the cycle, her hair blowing in the wind,
was not Chandana at all, but me. I wished I dared to cycle around the whole city, like Chandana.
While I was in this frame of mind, almost every evening, after finishing his work, Shamshul Huda would come to tutor me. As soon as I
saw Hudas face anywhere near the black gate, I would start trembling. On a delightful evening I would have to do sums, delve into physics
and almost drown in the pond of chemistry. When Rabindranath Das came to teach Yasmin, I found it quite enjoyable. Rabindranath taught
Yasmin for fifteen minutes and chatted for forty-five minutes. He did not chat with just Yasmin, but with me too. He had a daughter,
Krishna and a son, Gautam, growing up in the Kaliganj village of Tangail. In exchange for meals and a place to stay, in Mymensingh
towns Chhoto Bazaar, he tutored Nirmal Basaks son Gobinda. He was himself the Principal of a primary school in the suburbs. With the
job of a principal and several tuitions in town, he very rarely got time to visit his native village. He was able to send money home and
spend some days there only once in a while. While in town, he continually thought of his wife and children. Often, he told us stories of his
children. As a consequence, we too came to know what Krishna looked like, what she liked to eat, do and wear; whether Gautam liked
football or cricket, what marks he had secured, in which subject of the exams, everything. Of course, if Baba returned home suddenly, I
would move away and Rabindranath Das too, alerted, would bury his head in the book. When Baba wanted to know how much gray matter
existed in Yasmins head, what Das Moshai would laughingly tell him was that the gray matter was more than normal, but the attention to
studies was less than normal. Baba would say, Spank her. Unless she is spanked, she will not learn. Baba personally took out the cane
from under the mattress and handed it over to Das Moshai. If he found my home tutor close at hand, he instructed him also to straighten me
out with a beating. Baba was of the opinion that unless children were whipped they did not become worthy individuals. Thanks to Babas
repeated instructions, Shamshul Huda never hesitated to beat me. He was a good teacher. He taught Mathematics at Vidyamoyee School.
At home he taught me the science subjects. For the rest of the subjects, there were two other tutors from Vidyamoyee, Gyanendramohan
Biswas and Pradeep Kumar Pal. Pradeep Kumar Pal had six instead of five fingers on his left hand. Whenever I sat before him to study, my
eyes would repeatedly stray from the books towards that extra finger. He even wrote poetry. Everyday after studies were over, he would
say, Listen to one of my poems and he would pull out pages of his poetry from the breast pocket of his shirt. However, he would always
leave abruptly, without asking how we liked or did not like his poetry. As a home tutor, if Gyanendramohan lasted out at Aubokash,
Pradeep Kumar did not. Baba was sure that any tutor, who did not deal me sufficient boxes and blows, was not a good one. Baba took as
little time to hire tutors as he did to fire them. When Yasmin failed in three subjects in Class Five and her promotion to Class Six was not
granted, Baba began to tutor her himself. On her return from school, Yasmin went straight to Arogya Bitaan, his pharmacy, with her books.
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There she sat and watched home tutors waiting endlessly for Baba to pay them. Baba would make them sit uselessly for two to three hours
and give them twenty to twenty-five taka in hand. No home tutor had been able to receive their monthly fifty taka from Baba at one go.
Baba always preferred to keep three to four months taka pending. This was very embarrassing; I would hang my head in shame. Baba was
always very arrogant. No amount of shame could put a chink in his shining armour. He had told me innumerable times, that if I did not pass
with five distinctions and brilliant marks he would throw me out of the house and that all my life, I would have to walk around the streets
with an empty begging bowl in my hands.
The SSC exams were close at hand, in fact they were literally at the tip of my nose, so to speak, and there was no option but to stay put in
the house. Out of twenty-four hours, I was at my study table for eighteen. Suddenly I became the most important person in the house. If I
went for a walk, everyone stood aside to give me space. If I went to the toilet, Ma would herself go and place a pitcher of water there for
me. No one had to be told to fill my bucket of water, before my bath it was always filled. Since I had to sit up at nights preparing for the
exams, special delicacies were cooked for me to eat. Ma was actually feeding me with her own hands. Every so often, Baba would return
home with fruits and would caress me. There was pin drop silence in the house day and night. The inhabitants in the house whispered
amongst themselves so that no sound disturbed my concentration. When the Puja songs started in the para, Baba personally went and told
the Chairman of the Puja Committee, that the songs had to be stopped any which way, as his daughter was taking her SSC exam.
Understanding the importance of the SSC exam, Dilip Bhowmik actually stopped the music. In case he had to play them, the mikes were
turned the other way. Next to my open books and copies on the table was also an open box of biscuits. I was to eat them whenever I felt
hungry while studying. Ma came and gave me hot milk twice a day, saying, Milk helps the brain to function and helps remember all that is
memorised. One of the girls of this house was taking the SSC exams, what could be bigger news, or of greater significance than that? As
the days drew closer, I got the feeling that the Angel of Death, Aajrail, was coming to seize me forcibly. My heart trembled. My body,
hands and legs shook. At two or three at night, Baba would awaken me and say, Splash some water in your eyes, and sit down to study. I
would do so and sit down. Baba would say, If the water does not work, apply mustard oil.
The first day was the Bangla exam. I had never felt afraid about Bangla ever before, but on the day of the exam I kept feeling I would not
pass. Every morning Ma gave me a fried egg to eat, saying it was good for me. But on an exam day, an egg was not allowed, because if one
ate an egg one scored an egg too. A banana, too, would not do. Not even a kochu. Getting a banana or kochu in the exams was the same as
getting a rasgolla. Although bananas, kochu and rasgolla were my favourite foods, I had to forego them while the exams were on. I was the
one having exams but Baba was more restless than me. The night before, he hadnt slept a wink. Seeing him, it felt as though Baba was
taking the exams. He repeatedly wanted to know if I had memorised the whole book or not. Radhasundari School was just a few minutes
walk from the house. I knew the way, but was not allowed to go alone. Baba himself would take me in a rickshaw to Radhasundari and
bring me back again when the exam was over. When Ma was tying my hair in the morning, Baba gave the thing, a paper. The paper had
to be folded and tied with a thread, and clipped to my hair. On the paper was written something in Arabic, someone had told Baba that if
the writing was kept on the head, then one could remember ones lessons. To make sure I didnt forget any details while writing my exams,
this paper had a prayer written on it for remembering what I had studied. I sprang aside. I did not have the disease of memory loss that I
needed to wear this prayer in my hair and sit for the exam! Ma would daily massage coconut oil into my head to keep it cool.
Ma was tying two banana shaped plaits with my oily hair on my oily head. Now all that was left was to tie the threaded paper with a knot in
my hair. My eyes were spilling over with tears of shame, but still Baba caught hold of me and tied the small paper packet to my hair.
Chhotda was in splits on seeing me, so was Yasmin. Chhotda said, You cant possibly pass your SSC, but with the power of this amulet
you might.
Baba handed me not one or two but four new fountain pens and a new bottle of Pelican ink. In case, the ink in my pen finished while
writing, I was to fill up and continue to write. Although everyone had been catering to the moods of the examinee, no one listened to my
No regarding the amulet. That amulet surfaced like a Kholshey fish on my oily hair. Chandana also took her exams at Radhasundari
School. When the last bell rang, I found her standing in the verandah as soon as I came out. She had already submitted her papers. Without
asking any questions regarding the exams, she informed me that an article of hers had been published by Bichitra. Then immediately, her
eyes widened into saucers. Hey, what is this you have tied to your head?
Mother Earth, please swallow me up without further delay, I prayed fervently for only the second time in my life. But the Mother Earth
did not comply.
If I am to pass I would do so anyway, not because of any amulet, I said as soon as I returned home, pulling it off my hair with one stroke.
Ma objected, It will help you remember your lessons.
I can remember what I had learnt anyway, I said gritting my teeth and suppressing my sobs.
Baba rebuked me and said, You can remember because this is on your head, otherwise you wouldnt.
I stared in astonishment. I could not believe that this man who had faith in blessings, obeisance, amulets and charms was my father.
Everyday that talisman was put on my head. None of my rejections were heeded to. Full of shame, with my head bowed I had to go
everyday to the Radhasundari School. I had to be careful that the shame on my head did not get exposed. I had to keep touching my head
and try and hide my shame behind my hair. Every so often, my attention would stray for sure from my question paper, in fact, even from
my answer paper to climb up to my head. My head became a big burden for me. The shame of my head made me come home after my
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exams with my head bent. If I wanted to I could take it off, but I felt scared, too. Suppose my memory really failed me! What if on the day
of the Maths exam, I forgot something as simple as that five and seven added up to twelve! What if on the English exam day on beginning
to write an essay on the cow, I couldnt remember the first sentence, The cow is a domestic animal!
Chapter Three
TA TA THOI THOI DANCING AWAY
Chhotda re-entered Aubokash with his wife, just before my exams. This happened because of Ma. She had been inconsolable in her grief
over her son. When her appeals and requests to Baba failed, she sent Hashem mama to fetch Chhotda and his wife to the city, from some
shanty in a village in Islampur. However, reaching the town was no guarantee that he would get permission to enter Aubokash. Baba
straight away declared that they were not to even look towards Aubokash even in the distant future. Ma cajoled Nani, and a room next to
the well in Nanis courtyard, the room that used to be our dining room, was cleared out. A wooden cot was laid out for them. Once Chhotda
began to live there with his wife, Baba issued orders by which at least Yasmin and my visits to Nanibari had to stop. Ma, however,
regularly visited Chhotdas family. Obviously she never went empty-handed. For the welfare of her son, rice, daals, vegetables, whatever
she could collect from Aubokash, she carried with her. Whenever Baba was not at home, Chhotda dropped in at Aubokash. He, of course,
never dropped in without reason. He came only when he needed something. Ma would think of Babas cruelty and say, Is he a man or a
stone? But her untiring efforts softened Baba a bit one day and he agreed to allow Chhotda and his wife to enter Aubokash, but they were
to only stay in a small room in the corner. They were not allowed free access to the rest of house. Baba only agreed because he wanted to
see (since Chhotda was already married, although there was no justification for marriage at this age) if he could complete his studies and
earn his own keep. Ma arranged the small room that she occupied for them. To hang their clothes, she placed a clothes rack in front of the
door adjoining Dadas room that she kept shut. Chhotdas old cot was brought from Dadas room and placed in the small room. Chhotda
insisted that the dressing table be moved into his room. Nana had gifted Ma this dressing table along with the pots and bedspreads for her
wedding. Wooden flowers and leaves were carved around the mirror and at the bottom and they swung if the table was moved. It had two
small shelves on both sides and two drawers. This leonine four-legged table was dragged from Babas room by Ma herself and put in the
small room. She wiped the dusty mirror with her sari aanchal. Geeta would spend an hour before the table, getting ready, and would go out
with Chhotda almost every evening. I looked at them with longing eyes. If only I, too, could do the same!
Baba had sworn he would not look at Chhotda and his wife. However, within two days of their coming to stay at Aubokash permanently, he
called for me after having his morning bath. Clothed in his shirt, pant, shoes and tie, with a head full of curly hair, combed and doused in
mustard oil, he was sitting cross legged in the drawing room. When Baba called, it meant that wherever you were, whatever you may be
doing, you had to drop everything and rush to stand before him. As soon as I stood before Baba, he said, Call those two. Those two
were which two? I had the opportunity to ask that question, but didnt. Since Baba had given orders, I had to figure out which two in the
house were those two. Why only me, everyone at home had to know which two Baba could summon at this time. I figured out who
were those two. Entering Chhotdas room I said in hushed tones, Go, summons have come, not only for you but for both of you.
Chhotdas face turned pale in a second. He got out of bed in a hurry, tying the knot of his lungi.
He asked Geeta, a score of times to accompany him. She sat motionless on the bed, while agitatedly Chhotda moved back and forth
between the bed and the door. Nasreen, with a weird sound the second call came from the drawing room. This meant why those two
were taking so long! Finally, when the two mustered up enough courage to drag themselves up for the audience and stand before him, I
pressed my eyes, ears and nose to a crack in the door. Geeta bent down and touched Babas feet. For a Hindu girl, kadambusi, much like a
pranam, was nothing new. Baba coughed to clear his throat, although there was no such cough filling up his throat. Looking at Chhotda
with eyes as red as it was possible to make, he said, Have you thought about your life? You have got married so your studies have been
abandoned. You went to set up house in the village with a hundred taka job. What job was this, may I ask? A coolies work, right? What
else would you get but a coolies job with your education! You have dug your own grave. Has it hurt anyone else? Has anything happened
to me? Nothing has happened to me. It has to you. Even a madman understands himself, but you dont. If you ask a madman for his money,
will he give it? If you ask him for his food, will he give it? No, he wont.
Baba paused for a while. I dont know whether he was waiting for words of defense from the two embodiments. Then he said, Go and
take admission in Anandamohan. You have a third division in the intermediate, so your chances are dim, but go and try at least. When you
go, take money from my chambers. Baba now turned to Geeta, and screwing up his eyes and nose said, What were you thinking of when
you did this? You did not think even of your own future, did you? Geetas eyes were not visible as they were cast down, her hair
arrangement could not be seen because of her aanchal-covered head. Geetas mouth was a small one and in her small face the mouth looked
smaller. Baba paused again, cleared his throat in spite of the absence of cough, and said, Geeta, both my daughters have to study. Let me
not see you chatting with them. Have you understood? Geeta nodded her head to convey she had understood. Baba got up noisily and
loudly closed the door adjoining my room. Leaving orders that they were to use the inner verandah door only, he opened this door noisily
and left equally noisily. Chhotda had no option but to follow Babas orders. He secured admission in Bangla Honours at Anandamohan and
returned home. Hearing of this, Baba went around with a sarcastic smile on the corner of his mouth for a week saying, How many men
have succeeded studying Bangla? Bangla graduates are qualified, at the most to drive bullock carts, not much else. That was all he said.
Baba had seemingly given up hope, and did not drag Chhotda to get him admission in some science subject. Chhotda safely kept spending
his married life in Aubokash. Once in a while carrying a copy in his hand and a fountain pen in his pocket, he would go to college, and
return with a despondent face.
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In spite of Babas strict orders, Yasmins and my friendship with Geeta grew. When the elders were not at home, I was normally the one
who was the leader of the mischief makers, the King of Lanka. We would play in the grounds or climb up the terrace and survey the
world. The world meant the dozens of different people on the streets, the houses and courtyards of neighbours, the holy Tulsi corner ritual,
the evening incense, and the singing of kirtans with the accompanying music of the cymbals. It also meant watching the procession of
women, each clad in a single wrap of coloured sari and carrying bell metal pitchers, led by a hired band, heading towards the Brahmaputra.
It also included the performance of all household holy rituals with the muddy water of the Brahmaputra as though it was Ganga Jal, or
reading that which was not prescribed. Geeta not only occupied my kingdom, with one snap of her fingers, she outstripped me and usurped
my status as the ring-leader by clambering straight up the jack fruit tree. Sitting on its branches she would eat the jackfruit pods. From
below I would tie a cloth bag of salt and chilly powder to the end of a bamboo stick and hold it within her reach. She would jump onto
custard apple trees even on wood apple trees.
You wont be able to climb the banana tree, will you? I asked once. What do you mean wont be able to? Even in a sari she would
climb up the banana tree and go straight up to the topmost branch. Perched precariously, she would even eat the guavas which were within
her reach. The neighbours could see the new bride of the house perched on the tree from the streets. We were awestruck at Geetas antics.
We stuck to her like a tail. I had no knowledge of climbing trees, Geeta initiated me. She taught me many other things as well. When it
rained, it was our old habit to run around in the courtyard and grounds and get wet, climb up the stairs to the terrace and dance all around it.
Geeta was not satisfied with just running and dancing in the rain. Drenched like a wet crow, she would climb up the thatched roof of the hut
and sit there.
I was sitting in the verandah watching her and saw her fall. She had heard the sound of the black gate, and in her attempt to clamber down
she had fallen. What was worse, she fell on the broken brick laid courtyard. Having slipped on the wet roof, she had rolled down like a ripe
pumpkin torn from its stalk. Yasmin too was on top of the roof. Seeing Geeta fall she was not sure whether to laugh or cry. Geeta sat in the
courtyard, with a pale face and a wet crumpled sari. Meanwhile Ma had come and was hanging up her wet burkha on the clothes wire in the
verandah. She was shocked to see the bride of the house sitting on the macadam. She exclaimed, Afroza, what are you doing there?
Geeta said, No, Ma, Im doing nothing, Yasmin is up there on the roof, so I am sitting here and watching her.
Yasmin has climbed the roof?
Yes, see, there she is, sitting. I told her so many times not to climb, she will fall, but she didnt listen.
Yasmin came down from the top of the roof when Ma scolded her. Geeta, meanwhile went to the bathroom, changed her sari and came
back looking completely innocent. Ma cooked khichuri ,a concoction of rice and lentils, in the afternoon and poured some onto Geetas
plate. Heaving a sigh of relief she said, Since you are looking after the two girls, I can now peacefully go to Naumahal sometimes and
hear the Quran Hadith. Geeta said, Ma, you dont worry at all, Im looking after them. I will see that they do not get into any mischief.
Ma served Geeta three pieces of meat instead of two, with mango pickle on the side. Geeta said, Ma you have cooked delicious meat.
How do you make such tasty pickle? Ma served her more meat and pickle and carried on enthusiastically, I will teach you how to make
the pickle. Its very simple. Cut the mango into slices and soak them in a jar with mustard oil, a few pods of garlic, and a few dried chillies.
Once in a while you must put out the jars in the sun. Geeta stared wide-eyed and said, Really? Geeta seemed to fall from the skies in
surprise. Once Chhotdas childhood friend Khokon had come from Dhaka and was sitting in the drawing room. On being given the news,
Geeta widened her eyes and said, Khokon Bhai has come? When? How? Hai-hai, Kamaal is not there. Geetas surprise knew no bounds
as Khokon appeared to have arrived suddenly without warning. Yet, she went into the drawing room and smiling sweetly told Khokon,
Arrey, I was waiting for you only. Kamaal has left word for you to wait for him, he will be returning shortly.
Geeta not only looked like a small baby, she also sounded like one. A heavy burden of hair was on her head. Her nose was as sharp as a
parrots beak. Her lips were like Aphrodites, actually closer to home, her lips were more like split chillies. She had small teeth like mice
and a lean neck, like a crane. She had tiny hands, tiny feet and a petite body. No one called a dark girl beautiful, but we thought she was the
most beautiful girl in the world.
When the big drums heralding the Pujas began to beat, we whispered to our baby, The Pujas have started from today. Geeta fell from the
sky. Really? I didnt know! she said Clucking our tongues in sympathy, we felt that having married into a Mussalman household, she was
not being able to enjoy the Pujas. We could attend all the Pujas throughout the year, moving from one community celebration to another.
On Ashtami and Rath Melas, we could buy sugar candy toys and wheat crispies. However, since Geeta had converted from Hindu to
Mussalman, we felt very sad for her as she would no more be able to do so. Suddenly, Chhotda came running and said, Its late Geeta,
quickly, wear that sari of yours.
Which sari? Geeta asked in surprise.
The one I bought yesterday, that one.
The one you bought yesterday? Which one?
Arrey, your Puja sari!
What do you mean by Puja sari? What all you say!
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Having noted my presence with a slant of his eyes, he laughed in embarrassment and said, You know that blue sari you have, the one your
mother gave you, wear that one.
Say that then. Instead of saying that, why did you say that you had bought it? Where do you have money that you can buy anything! You
cant earn a penny and yet you talk big!
Hurry up, its getting late.
Late for what, where are you going?
We have an invitation at Babuas house, have you forgotten?
Dressing Geeta up like a fairy in blue, Chhotda left. These outings happened quite often. Visits to the houses of old friends, Chipachosh
members and new friends at the Golpukur Par adda sessions. But they didnt only spend time visiting friends homes. They attended
various functions also and enjoyed themselves at music concerts, dance recitals, theatre, and cinema. In fact, they didnt even miss jatras if
possible. Seeing all this I was filled with longing. Chhotda had sold his guitar. The reputation he had in town as a good guitarist was
disappearing like cotton wool in the wind, but it did not seem to bother him at all. He was living and eating in his fathers hotel with his
wife but that there was another life beyond, for which he should be looking frantically for a job
After the Pujas, Yasmin returned from school and gave me some news secretly. On Puja day one of her friends had seen Geeta entering her
parents home in Peonpara. Followed by Chhotda. I talked to Chhotda about the incident, and was cautioned that no one, not even the birds,
should get hold of this news. The birds did not get to know. The birds did not even get to know that very often when Baba went to the
bathroom in the morning, Chhotda would stealthily enter his room as if he had to fetch something he had left there. Or, as if he had some
very important matter to discuss with Baba; his face would have such a calm yet serious look. Meanwhile, from the pocket of the trouser
hanging on the rack, he would pick the change, whether ten taka or twenty. His hands did not shake to remove even fifty. Ma saw
everything, but pretended she hadnt. I trembled with fear at Chhotdas daring. To gauge what would be the outcome, if he got caught,
required the kind of courage which neither Yasmin nor I had.
The tree-climbing Geeta not only jumped on trees, she jumped under them too. In order to teach us dance, she would make Yasmin and me
get up from the study table and move around the whole house tapping ta ta thoi thoi, with our feet. If Yasmin and I did not believe that we
were soon to become great danseuses Geeta certainly did. As soon we heard Baba return, we left our dancing and ran helter-skelter to sit
at our study tables. The disturbance caused by our rushing around touched Babas body like the wind. Almost every night, before going to
bed, he would call me and ask in a cool voice, Have you eaten?
Clutching the drapes of the door, I would reply, Yes
Have you studied?
Yes
Have you played?
The answer yes was almost at the tip of my tongue. Swallowing in time I would use another word, No.
Have you gossiped?
No
Baba looked at me in astonishment. Why not?
Forget the other word, no word came to me at that moment.
Why havent you gossiped now that there is no dearth of friends in the house?
I began to twist the curtains on the door around my finger.
Baba said, Adda is a good thing. You dont have to study, or pass exams. Look at Chhotda, what a beautiful life he leads! He has to do the
useless job of studying no more.
I was now untwisting the drapes from around my finger.
When I leave home tomorrow, you will sit down to gossip, have you understood! Till I return, you will continue to gossip, have you
understood what I am saying?
Normally, when Baba made you understand something, you had to nod your head and say, Understood. But now I clearly realized it
would be very dangerous to say that.
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Baba feared that in Geetas company our studies would suffer badly. He had already got the door in my room adjoining Chhotdas locked.
So they were using the verandah door. However, the day Chhotdas friend Khokon spent the night, he slept on Chhotdas bed.
Consequently, Geeta had to sleep on mine. It was only a question of one night, nothing much. Though, it may have been nothing much to
us, it certainly was not so to Baba. He woke up late at night to drink some water, and was pacing from one room to another, when he
discovered Geeta in my bed. He screamed, shouted, threatened and roared and turned the silent night into a clamorous afternoon. Geeta was
compelled to spend the rest of the night on the same bed as Chhotda and Khokon.
Even though Baba tried his best to remove Geeta forcibly from our proximity, our attraction did not diminish, instead it grew. We would
ignore our studies and wait on her all day just to make her smile. If she asked for her shoes, or comb or water I would put it before her. If
she broke her glass, I would tell Ma it had broken because my hand had knocked it over. I saved her from many other misdemeanors as
well. One evening she called us all to the terrace and lit candles on the railings for Victory Day. She then walked on the railings like any
circus girl. She knew that if she slipped even a little, she would surely fall and crush her head, still she continued. In fact, she incited us to
do the same. Lying horizontal on the railing, she reached into her blouse and took out a packet of cigarettes, and a matchbox. She lit the
cigarette and took a puff, leaving us stunned. The people on the road saw her openmouthed. Geeta said, Let them look. I dont care! It is
my wish if I want to smoke. Who has anything to say? In our house no one smoked cigarettes. I had not even seen any male relatives do
so. In these circumstances, a woman, and that too a new bride, was now smoking in full view of the neighbours and passersby, lying openly
on the terrace railing. If this reached Babas ears, it would be horrifying. Just visualising what this unmitigated disaster would result in,
made my body turn cold. Geeta said, Arrey, nothing will happen. Come on, take a pull! My voice shook, as I replied Baba will kill me if
he comes to know! Geeta was least bothered about what would happen or not if Baba got to know. She taught me how to smoke. Inhaling
deep mouthfuls of smoke I would throw it out towards the smoky clouds covering the blue sky. My cold body would slowly turn lukewarm.
I felt an odd attraction towards things denied me. Where did you get the cigarettes from? I asked. Geeta just said, Got them, wearing
only a slight smile on the corner of her lips. She never said anymore than that. In this smoke of cigarettes and mystery, Geeta appeared like
Devidurga. I came down from the terrace, washed out my mouth to remove the smoke smell and I sat down with lips locked. It was not
only Geeta I saved from minor household incidents or accidents, I saved Chhotda as well. Chhotda, out of dire need, had completely
stopped going in the direction of Anandamohan College and had taken up a job as a journalist for a Bangla weekly called Darpan on a two
hundred taka salary. Even this did not meet his needs. Everyday, in a hungry nasal tone, he would ask me, Give me five taka. Come on
give me.
Dont have five taka.
Then give me four
Dont have four either
Okay, then give me three at least. If not three then two taka, if not two then one, if not even that, Chhotda did not even leave eight or four
annas. He swooped down to pick up anything he could. Secretly, he even removed medicines from Dadas medicine chest. Even though we
knew, we kept these incidents to ourselves. It was like allowing pinworms to eat up our stomachs. Dada went to the bathroom in the
morning. Since he normally finished his toilet, shaving and bath in one go it took him at least one hour. Chhotda could at this time, pick the
loose change from Dadas pocket without any fears. Taking money from Babas pocket entailed a big risk. Baba had his bath so swiftly, that
exactly when he would come out was never known. Moreover, Babas room directly faced the bathroom. In comparison, Dadas room was
some distance away, across the verandah and beyond another two rooms. Chhotdas needs were never satisfied. Under the wood apple tree,
where not even the fallen leaves would get to know, Chhotda would walk soundlessly towards the black gate. He would carefully open it
and leave, carrying either big paper packets or shopping bags full of medicines under a panjabi or a loose shirt. Initially, he said he needed
medicines. There was no end to his physical ailments. However, I questioned him when I saw him taking the medicines out of the house.
Where are you taking these medicines? Chhotdas melancholic answer was, Friends ask for them; they want vitamins.
Chhotda did not stick to vitamins for too long. Very soon he was removing medicines not only for cough and fever, but even stronger
medicines for very serious diseases. Why? Friends want. Why? They want medicines, some for cough or fever, and others for stomach
problems, even ulcers. But are friends sick throughout the year!
Do I have only one or two friends?
That was true, Chhotda had countless friends. The people who came home looking for Chhotda varied from journalists, poets, playwrights
to Chipachosh friends. From students, businessmen and executives to the unemployed - all kinds of friends came. Their ages and sizes
varied from ankle high to head high. Some even higher than the head by a couple of feet. I watched them from behind the drapes, watched
and wished that like Chhotda, I too could chat with them. That I had neither the courage nor the opportunity to do so was something I
realized very acutely.
You say your friends are always so sick, but they look quite healthy.
Its not just the friends. Their fathers and mothers too are sick. They have no dearth of relatives!
One day I confronted him. What do you really do with these medicines, Chhotda! Tell me truthfully!
Chhotda smiled mysteriously and said, Why what happened?
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Nothing, but first tell me what you do with them, otherwise I will tell Dada. My threat worked.
Chhotda said, I sell them.
Chhotdas words worked, too. I melted in sympathy. I would myself take out expensive medicines, two at a time, from Dadas chest and
hand them to Chhotda, so would Yasmin. As soon as Dada left, Chhotda would immediately enter the room and apart from medicines,
would look for any money Dada might have forgotten in his room. Finally, he would take a shirt from the clothes rack, wear it and leave
the room. Dada had innumerable shirts, so he never found out. By chance if they met face-to-face at the black gate or on the streets, Dadas
face would darken and he would ask, What Kamaal? Why are you wearing my shirt?
Chhotda would say, I have worn it, but dont worry I will take it off and keep it back.
Another day, Dada would ask Achcha, where is my blue Tetron shirt? With a vest on top of his trousers and socks on his feet, Dada
would go around asking the whole house about his shirt, looking here and there stupidly.
Who knows, Ma might have taken it for washing.
Arrey no. That was already washed and ironed.
Then I dont know.
And where is the white shirt, by the way? The one on which Sheila had embroidered flowers on the pocket?
Didnt you wear that yesterday?
Arrey no, yesterday I wore a red shirt.
Ask Ma, I dont know.
Dada would ask Ma. Ma wouldnt know either.
Wearing a crumpled garish red shirt, Dada would go out very unhappily. He was very busy. Being a representative of the Fisons Company,
he had to go to Tangail one day and to Netrakona the next, and after returning from Netrakona, again to Jamaalpur. Dadas fair face was
slowly getting burnt black as he went around in the sun. I felt sorry for Dada as well.
I told Chhotda, You get a lot of money selling the medicines. Then why do you take two or three taka from me as well?
What are you saying? I dont get so much money! These are doctors samples, dont you see not to be sold written on them? The
shopkeepers give less than half the price for these, Chhotda explained to me.
Ma too noticed Chhotda holding the medicine bag and disappearing very often under the wood apple tree. She asked Baba gently, Cant a
good job be arranged for Kamaal?
Babas tone was also soft. Yes, I can. I can arrange for him to work as a coolie.
What are you saying?
Why? A coolies job is a good one. Arent people living on a coolies income? Let him do it. Coolies do not need to study. You only have
to carry bags on your head. You do not need to know physics or chemistry.
Seeing that Babas tone was fast changing from gentle to angry, Ma moved away.
Geeta was always wearing new saris and going out with Chhotda. She had a lot of new cosmetics. Seeing all this, Ma told Chhotda, Well,
Kamaal. You do not even have a good pant or shirt. You wear Nomans shirts. You can buy a shirt and pant for yourself at least. Even in the
house you wear a torn lungi. Why do you punish yourself?
Is there any money that I can buy anything? Chhotda said with a glum face.
Why isnt there any money? Dont you work?
The money I get from work doesnt even pay for a rickshaw.
For your wife you seem to buy things alright.
For Geeta? I cant give Geeta anything. Whatever she has is her own. Her mother gives her.
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Listen Kamaal. We do not ask anything of you. You buy for your wife that is a good thing. If you dont give your wife, who will! What
Im saying is buy something for yourself, too. You dont even have a good pair of sandals. Buy one.
Give me the money, Ill buy, replied Chhotda.
Ma was silent for a long time. When she spoke, it was as if she had finally climbed out of a pool in which she had been swimming all by
herself in absolute silence.
If I had money, I would definitely give you. Who gives me any money? Ma sighed long and deep as she spoke. If I could read and write,
I would have at least been able to do a job. Would I have had to depend on anyone?
Thereafter, for two weeks Ma kept begging Baba for money. She went and bought Chhotda a lungi, two shirts and a pair of Bata sandals.
However, Chhotdas wants did not end. He continued to remove medicines both in the morning and evening.
Accha, has Sharaf been here? Dada asked with a crease between his two eyebrows.
What do I know, I have no idea.
He must have come.
How do you know he did?
Im finding my medicines short in count.
Is Sharaf mama taking them or what?
He is a big thief. He must be taking them.
In a cracked voice Ma said, Look Noman, dont accuse a person without knowing or hearing anything. Sharaf has not visited this house in
the last three months. What makes you call him a thief? What has he stolen?
You have no idea, Ma. He had taken fifty taka loan from me, saying he would return it the very next day. It is five months now and there is
no sign of him giving it back.
Ma went to the other room. She sat there alone. Through the window in this room the breeze blew very strongly. What conversation Ma
had with it, who knows. None of us understood Mas pain. Taking up Dadas cue, I said, Sharaf mama is really a thief. He came the other
day. I left him in the room just for a little while and went out. I returned to see my gold earrings missing. I had kept them on top of the
table.
Then those earrings of yours were taken by Sharaf only, Dada was sure.
Dada of course ultimately solved the mystery of his periodically disappearing medicines. If he ever entered Chhotdas room for some
reason, his eyes fell on the clothes rack. Picking up six or seven of his shirts, he would leave the room. Out on the verandah, he would
show them to Ma and say, I found these on raiding Kamaals room.
Seeing all this, Geeta told Chhotda, Cant you die? Why do you have to live this life! If you have the capacity, go buy some shirts. If you
cant buy them, then remain naked. On hearing this Chhotda exposed his black gums and laughed. Geeta said in a subdued tone, Go on!
Laugh! You have no self-respect. Everyone at home insults you but you learn nothing. Why have you brought me into this hell?
No one at home had the capacity to understand Geetas moods and temper. One moment she was dancing and laughing and the next she
was sitting with a long, gloomy face. Sometimes she locked the doors and stayed in bed the whole day in her room. At mealtimes Ma
would stand in front of the closed door and call, Oh, Afroza, Afroza! Get up. Arent you going to eat anything? If you dont eat youll feel
ill. Get up Afroza and have your food. Geeta Mitra alias Afroza Kamaal would make a bitter face and would wake up only after being
called several times. She would then eat and drink and go back to sleep. After a long time, Ma had got her younger son back. This child
who was weaned late, spoke late, a semi-lisping, semi baby and his wife were now being given food cooked personally by Ma. She not
only served them herself in their room but if possible fed them with her own hands as well. Ma put in every effort just to make her
half-Hindu half-Mussalman daughter-in-law happy. If she was happy, Ma felt Chhotda would also be happy. Either Ma tried really hard to
win Geetas heart over, because it was not possible to win anyone elses at home, or maybe by spoiling her Ma wanted Geeta to get used to
this household. After all, she was completely unused to Babas bullying and intimidation. On returning home, Chhotda would go straight to
his small room without so much as looking in any other direction. If I ever pushed open the half closed door, I would see Geeta lying down
facing the wall, while Chhotda would be petting her all over. Like a holy man in a trance, he would be chanting, Geeta, Geeta, Geeta! Oh
Geeta!
Chhotda was constantly handed lists. Geeta needed blouses, saris, lipsticks, rouge, powder etc. Chhotdas wan face looked even more so.
The skin of his lips was so dry they had started to chap. He never spoke to the people in the house unless required. He was completely
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oblivious to everything else.
Baba, on hearing of Chhotdas job, heaved a long sigh and said, To one who digs his own grave, what can anyone say? No, no one can
say anything. Chhotda had really dug his own grave rather deep. A journalist now, he would leave in the morning with a diary in his hand.
Returning in the afternoon, he would have lunch and go out again. He came home in the evening sometimes carrying a sari, or a blouse or
cosmetics for his wife. The minute he came home, Ma would go into the kitchen to get food. The days he returned only in the evening, Ma
would be waiting with the table laid out. Chhotda would emerge from his room with a drawn face to eat. No, not alone, he would be
holding Geeta around the waist and dragging her to join him at his meal. Geeta, while trying to untangle herself, would say, What is there
about my food! I can do without it. Yet, Geeta had not only eaten with us already, she had even taken a long nap. However, her face looked
so wan that Chhotda was made to think his beautiful wife was turning into a stick, deprived of food. Since Geeta would not eat, Chhotda
would not eat either. Ma would say, Since he is asking you to, why dont you eat once more with him Afroza?
No, no. I will not eat.
Chhotda would pull Geeta to the table and make her sit beside him. He would mix rice and vegetable and feed her. Geeta would take the
food in her mouth with her nose and mouth crinkled up, as if poison was being given to her. She would keep the poison in her mouth,
neither chewing nor swallowing it. Chhotda stroking her head and back would start saying, My precious, my jewel, eat a little. If you
dont eat, I wont either.
Geeta refused to swallow the morsel. Chhotda refused to eat. He got up. Ma almost ran up from the kitchen to the dining room, a bowl in
hand, a bowl full of meat. What happened? I just got you more vegetables. Why did you get up? Come on eat. You havent eaten the
whole day, Kamaal!
Chhotda would say with a small face, No, Ma. I have eaten outside.
Ma would sit sadly at the dining table with Chhotdas uneaten rice and vegetables in front of her.
Mas eyes were like deep pools with tiny currents on the surface.
Till just the other day, Ma had given Chhotda a bath in the courtyard, made him sit on a stool and scrubbed his back. Now, Chhotda had his
own bath. Ma would say very often, Whats wrong? Why is there so much dirt accumulating on your heels? Dont you scrub them?
Ruffling his hair, Ma would rub her fingers behind Chhotdas ears, shoulders and neck and say, Warts have developed. Ma wrinkled her
nose and spat in the courtyard. Chhotda looked neither at his ankles, nor at Ma. He only looked at Geeta. Why was Geetas face so glum?
Geetas face was not gloomy a little while ago. She had been playing ludo with Yasmin and eating egg-pudding. It seems she hadnt had
egg-pudding for a long time. On her complaint, Ma had quickly made it for her. After the pudding, she had wanted payesh made with date
jaggery. Ma had made even that for her. Ma had lit an earthen stove by blowing into it and had cooked on dry leaves in the absence of khori
,firewood. She had then served the meal on the table. Chhotda was sitting with Geeta on his lap, kissing her lips. He was kissing her and
saying, Why are you so glum? Whats happened? Geeta sighed very deeply and gave no reply. As soon as Chhotda came home, Geetas
smiling face would suddenly turn weepy. Her face looked as though she hadnt eaten the whole day, not even drunk water. The look on her
face suggested as though the people at home were always abusing her in unspeakable language. Whatever time Chhotda spent at home, he
spent it trying to make Geetas drawn face pliable and in trying to bring a smile on the weepy face. His days and nights were occupied
bending over Geeta. Ma noticed it. We saw it, too. Ma sighed heavily in secret. We were more fascinated with the love story being enacted
in our own home than with those in novels and cinema theatres. Never before had we ever seen any one embracing another in front of a
whole houseful of people. Touching lips to lips!
Yasmin and I would look at Geeta in amazement. Geeta took out ironed saris to wear at will. She wore high heels, she applied lipstick, she
wore a dot on her forehead and had a bath with scented Lux soap. Everything about her was different. We washed our hair first with local
Bangla soap, then with the bath soap. From our childhood, Ma had taught us to wash this way. If one used the bath soap to wash dirty hair,
then the soap would not last long, hence the economy. Baba sent mostly Bangla soap home. The scented bath soaps came only once in a
while. Ma had to economise in all things. Ma explained that Babas wealth was not for one household alone. He had to look after his
parents and siblings in the village and also his second wifes family in the town. Ma had to cook two kinds of meals one kind for all
members of the house and the other for herself and the domestic servants. In that other kind, except for stale daal, dried fish curry or
vegetables, if anything else was available, it was at the most the tiny kachki fish or tangra-putti curry. If fish or meat was cooked, it was
only for us. That meant Baba, we brothers and sisters, and the newly arrived Geeta.
We knew Geeta from before her marriage, she was not new to us, but her arrival as Kamaals wife made her appear different at Aubokash.
Covering her head before Baba, uncovering it before Ma, her unrestricted antics before us, her cheerless face before Chhotda, everything
about Geeta aroused Yasmin and my catlike curiosity. Of married life, what we had seen at the most was Ma and Babas. The relationship
between Baba and Ma was bound by accounts of oil, salt, rice and daals. I had never seen them close together or exchanging any sweet
words or going out. In fact, they didnt even sleep in the same room now, let alone the same bed. After Mas small room was arranged for
Chhotda and Geeta to stay, her existence became like that of a refugee. One day she would be in my room, on another she would make her
bed on the drawing room floor. Baba was the head of the household, Ma had to follow his orders, and run the house as he directed. That
was the norm. Used to this system, we noticed in shock, a couple before us, where the husband was constantly alert to the welfare of his
wife. This was very different from Baba, no doubt. Ma noticed what was happening, so did we. Yasmin and I were full of curiosity. Ma
wasnt. Ma soon realised that her baby boy, her lisping son had left his mothers lap and arms forever. In Chhotdas whole world and in his
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life, at that time, there was no one but Geeta. His whole world revolved round making Geeta happy, whatever it would take. To him now
his parents, brother and sisters were of no importance. Ma sat sadly alone on the verandah, sighing deeply once in a while saying, I do not
know when Kamaal comes home, when he leaves. He no longer calls me, nor does he call out to me Ma, Im going Ma Im back.
One day Geeta suddenly took the decision to move to Dhaka. It was not in our hands to change Geetas decision. Nor was it in Chhotdas.
The day she was leaving Aubokash with her luggage, holding onto the black gate, we looked with pitiful eyes at her departure. Geeta was
going to Amanullah Chaudhuris house in Dhaka. Amanullah Chaudhuris paternal house was in Mymensingh, near Geetas house. That
was how she knew them. Chaudhuris wife, Raheeja Khanum had started a dance school. Geeta was going to learn dance at the school. If
Raheeja gave her the opportunity, Geeta could become a great danseuse. Many dance students stayed at Chaudhuris house, and looked
after Chaudhuris children. Geeta would do the same. Leaving his wife in Dhaka, Chhotda returned to Mymensingh. The next week,
Chhotda was sent by Baba to Dhaka with money, with orders to get Geeta admission at the Dhaka University. Having got her admitted to
the Physics Course, Chhotda came back. Even though his own Bangla Honours studies had come to naught, it was Chhotdas dream to
make Geeta a learned lady. Chhotdas job was now to build his future here, get a good job, earn as much as possible and send it to Dhaka.
Whatever time he spent at home, was mostly occupied in writing long letters sitting in his own room. The kind of letters that he wrote
before marriage, the same thirty-two page letters were what he wrote now. Letters came from there also. Short letters, with lists attached.
Carrying the lists in his pocket, Chhotda would leave the house. He would buy all the things and bring them home wrapped in paper.
Shutting the doors and windows of his room, he would make large packets to send to Dhaka. Ma watched and wiped her tears in secret.
Look at Kamaal earning money, buying so many things for his wife. Not once has he said let me give Ma some taka to spend. Never has
he offered me even five taka. No one was affected by Mas deprivation. Ma was always alone, now she began to get more lonely. Sitting
in the dark verandah, the beads of her toshbihor , rosary remained still. In Mas hands they never moved.
Chhotda had friends all over town. If they came looking for Chhotda at home, he normally took them out with him. Once in a while only,
Chhotda sat with friends in the outside verandah room. He would tell Ma to serve tea. Ma would make tea and send Joris Ma to serve it.
The requirements for making tea were not always available at home. If sugar or milk were not there, either a cup of sugar or milk was
borrowed from M.A. Kahhars house. Even from as rich a mans house as M.A. Kahhar, people came to borrow sugar or milk, this
borrowing was to us a routine affair. With tea it was mandatory to offer either two toast biscuits or Nabisko biscuits. Biscuits were not
always there at home, so then one had to make do with only tea in our hospitality. One night, quite late at night actually, almost twelve-
thirty, when one of Chhotdas friends knocked on the door, he was about to go to sleep. I was awoken by the sound of knocking. Parting the
curtains in the drawing room, I saw moonlight kissing the smooth unmoving face of a boy whose doe eyes had a sweet smile in them.
Seeing just half of my face peeping out, the boy said, Arent you Nasreen! How grown up you have become! The boys shining eyes did
not move from my face. I shyly lowered mine.
You dont remember me? I am Zubayer.
I did not make any reply. Zubayer asked, Do you like songs? In a low voice I said, Yes, I do. I was still standing when Chhotda said,
Go inside, tell Ma to make two cups of tea. Ma was sleeping, I shook her awake saying, A friend of Chhotda has come. Give them two
cups of tea. Ma turned over and said, Tell Joris mother. Joris Ma was curled up like a dog on the floor. Waking her up, I said, Make
two cups of tea. Sleepy eyed, Joris Ma went into the kitchen and stuffing dry jackfruit leaves into the oven lit the fire for the tea-water.
The water boiled but where were the tea leaves, sugar, or even the milk! Ma knew where they were. I called Ma again, Get up and make
the tea, the water is boiling.
Ma again turned to sleep, Dont bother me so late at night, Im not feeling very well.
Ma did not get up. She asked if Baba had returned. When I told her that he hadnt, she said, Hes spending the night with that woman.
Giving up, I lay flat on my bed and stared helplessly at the beams. Zubayer was singing in a wonderful voice. On the threads of silence, the
melody of the song was floating into the room. A tune that did not awaken anyone yet did not let me sleep. I wished I could listen to the
songs the whole night, completely absorbed, sitting close to Zubayer, washed in the moonlight, oblivious of the whole world. At two
oclock at night, Zubayer left after singing, I will go away soon, but never let you forget me.
The next day Chhotda came home in the evening and lay down on the bed quietly.
Why are you lying down at this odd time?
I am not feeling well.
What happened?
Yesterday Zubayer who came, my friend I was meeting him after many years.
He is very good looking and sings beautifully as well.
Early this morning Zubayer committed suicide.
Something cold, I dont know what, moved out from within my breast and spread all over my body in moments. The girl with whom
Zubayer had been in love, had been forced by her father to marry someone else, Chhotda informed me in a thin voice. Last night, Zubayer
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had not spoken one word about that girl. He had said, on such a wonderful full moon night, he had not felt like being all alone in his room.
That is why he had come out. He was dying to sing songs. When Zubayer was singing, Chhotda was sitting beside him, dozing. Zubayer
had wanted to sing more songs, but Chhotda had told him to leave as he just couldnt stay awake anymore. Suicide and love are very
closely connected. Chhotda too had swallowed poison before his marriage. He survived only because he was removed to hospital in time
and the poison was pumped out from his stomach by a tube.
I was unable to sleep for quite a few nights after Zubayers suicide. I kept thinking that piercing through the night, a song was floating
towards me, I will go away soon, but will not let you forget me.
Chapter Four
TALES OF TINY SORROWS
Baba may not have liked anything about Ma, but he was very fond of one of her limericks. In a good mood, he would ask Ma to repeat it.
Ma would laugh and while swaying from side to side, would recite it:
One paisa of oil,
On what did it get spent?
On your beard and my feet
Some more on your sons physique.
The childrens weddings took place
Songs were sung for seven days
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Some pitiable women indoors went
And none of the oil was found to be left.
Ma had windswept rough hair with no oil or soap ever used on it. She tied the strands at the back with a string, if it was available. She
normally used old ribbons discarded by Yasmin and me, if not, then a string. After a bath too, she would tie her wet hair at the back of her
neck. As a result, her hair shed even more. Ma used to have very thick long tresses at one time, now no more. She lamented their loss, but
what remained, from lack of care kept falling, but she never looked back. When Ma told me to take care of my hair, I told her, What is the
point of taking care now? My hair is like yours, thin. I told her regretfully also about my small eyes. Yasmins eyes are so beautiful; shes
inherited Babas eyes. Mine are like yours. I commented on my nose as well, My nose is not sharp. How can it be? After all, Ive
inherited it from you. If I was a little fair in complexion, it was thanks to Baba, and any darkness was because of Ma. I gradually began to
seriously believe that whatever defects there were in my appearance, were inherited from Ma. Im lucky to have got Babas chin. There is
a dimple in the chin. The girls say because of this I look pretty. Because Ive got a little of Babas looks, at least I appear human. One day,
after looking for a long time at Ma, I asked, Ma, where is your neck?
What do you mean, where is your neck?
You dont have a neck. Your chin goes straight down to your chest. You dont even have shoulders. Thats why your blouse keeps slipping
off.
Opinions on my features and physique were not a new thing in the family. Ever since I became aware of things I would find different parts
of my body, eyes, nose, ears, lips, the lengthy details of my figure, my complexion etc. being examined, seriously discussed and compared
by relatives. If anyone came visiting too, the same thing happened. In case someone saw me after a long time, they would immediately say,
Good, this girl is growing really tall. She has got her fathers physique. Or, Whats wrong? Why is she turning so dark? Eyes, nose,
ears too were critically examined and opinions were expressed on which was good or which bad, which was like Babas or like Mas or
whether like anyone from Baba or Mas side of the family. Ma too would say, Yasmins hands and feet are like her paternal aunts. When
Jhunu khala came visiting from Dhaka, she looked at me and said, Ish, eyes just like Borobu, hair definitely Borobu. Ma, after listening
for a long time to our examination of physical defects and the complaints finally said, Yes, I am of course rotten. I am dark, ugly to look
at. You all are beautiful. Well then, stay that way.
When bath soaps came home, Ma kept them for the children. She never got any herself. If body odours started she would have a bath with
washing soap. Months would pass and Baba would not send coconut oil. There was no khori. Ma would light even the oven with dried
coconut leaves and branches. These did not light very well but Baba had clearly said, You have to put only coconut leaves and branches.
Coal is very expensive. Because khori costs so much, Ma had to gather the leaves falling from the trees and store them. Rashid, the
dab-wala ,tender-coconut seller would come and would scramble quickly up the coconut tree like a squirrel being chased. Tying ropes, he
would drop tender and ripe coconuts on the ground. After which he would clear the trees, free of charge. Rashids job was to buy our
coconuts and sell them at a profit in the markets. Rashid came every three or four months to our house to buy the coconuts. After he cleared
the trees and left, there would be piles of coconut leaves in the courtyard and fields. Ma would then sit with her iron cutter next to these
huge coconut branches, and take out one stick at a time and make up brooms to sweep the courtyard, clean the bathrooms and dust the
beds. The leaves and stems would then be collected together. If it rained, she would run back and forth to heap the coconut leaves and
branches, jackfruit leaves, mango leaves, jamun leaves drying in the courtyard, onto the kitchen verandah. Mas torn sari tore even more.
The old mattress on Mas bed had torn and hard cotton lumps had come out. The mattress was heavy on one side and light on the other. If
you lay down on it, you would think you were lying on the stones on the railway tracks. Ma had been talking of a new mattress for a long
time, but who was bothered about what Ma said! Mas mosquito net had big holes. To say ours didnt have holes would be wrong, they did
but they were tiny. Ma had mended the small holes in our nets. It was not possible to mend the ones in her own mattress. Everyday Mas
body would be covered with mosquito bites. Ma spoke of a new mosquito net for quite a few years, Baba did not bother. When the net
finally came, she hung that on our bed, and hung the old hole-ridden net on her own.
While cooking at home, if one day there was salt, then there were no onions. If there were onions then there was no turmeric. If there was
turmeric then there was no oil. Baba would angrily shout whenever he heard, Not there. Didnt I just buy oil day before, where did the
oil go?
It was used in cooking.
A whole bottle of oil finished in two days of cooking?
Not two days, the oil was purchased two weeks ago.
How could one bottle finish even in two weeks?
Do you know how much cooking is being done?
Stop the cooking. There is no need to cook anymore.
Im not worried about myself. What will the children eat?
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The children dont need to eat. They are not exactly overwhelming me with any great happiness. It is better not to have children than have
this kind.
Mas life did not attract me in any way, Babas did. Baba had a lot of power. If he wanted to, he could starve all of us. If he wished to, he
could also give us all the satisfaction of a well-fed stomach. If he desired, he could keep everyone on their toes with fear, or he could
himself speak and laugh and make everyone happy. Nothing was done in the house according to Mas wishes. Mas world was very small.
Apart from the torn saris, torn mosquito nets, torn blankets, lumpy mattresses and the blowing into an earthen stove, Mas life was also an
oilless-soapless existence. With this life, she sometimes ran to a Peers house. Sometimes to Nanibari. Apart from these two houses, Ma
had nowhere else to go. At home, the only regular visitor for Ma was Nana. When Nana visited towards afternoon, Ma would scrub him,
give him a bath and make him lie down after a meal. Whenever there was no fear of Baba coming home, Ma would make Nana sit for a
meal. Even if we saw Nana eating, Ma would get very embarrassed. Before saying anything else she would state, Im feeding Bajaan my
portion. Now, no one ever came from Peerbari. Whichever other house they might visit, they would not go to a kafirs house. If any mama
or khala came home, Baba would look at them sharply. That Baba did not like any of them visiting was clear, not only to Ma, but to us too.
If any relative of Ma visited, Baba would call aside the servants and find out whether Ma had given them anything or not. Whether she had
fed them, and if so, what did she serve, so on and so forth. The servants also understood that Mas relatives were unwelcome in this house.
Chhotku had got a job as Munshi in Peerbari. One day he came to Aubokash wearing a very long panjabi and skull cap. Baba had thrown
him out. When the people in Mas world began to get thrown out from this house, Ma became very lonely. She began to fill up her world
with animals and birds. Ma wanted to raise hens. Ma would relay her wishes to Baba everyday while massaging mustard oil into his body.
Baba, of course, did not call these desires, he called them nagging. Why? What will you do with hens? Hens will lay eggs, these eggs
the children will be able to eat. The eggs will hatch into chicks then they will grow.
Mas dream finally came true. As soon as Baba understood that it would be to his advantage if ten hens could be had from one, he bought
four hens for Ma. Ma made a coop for the hens with her own hands. In the morning, she would open the coop and personally feed them
tidbits. The hens walked all over the courtyard and dirtied it. Ma waited. One day the hens would lay eggs. Under Babas bed, spread out
on a jute cloth were kept onions and potatoes. Next to them, Ma placed a basket. In this basket lined with straw, a red hen roosted the whole
day. One day I saw one mother hen followed by many chicks walking all around the house, verandah and courtyard. The chicks looked so
pretty, you wanted to pick them up in your hands. Ma said, chicks didnt grow if you held them in your hands. Ma was overjoyed seeing the
chicks. But though Ma counted twelve chicks while putting them back in the coop, the next day two were missing. It was surmised that
while Ma was walking behind the hens in the courtyard, a cunning mongoose took the opportunity to catch and eat them. This mongoose
lived behind the tin shed in some hole. At sudden intervals, one could see it running.
Ma wanted to rear ducks as well. Baba snarled about the ducks too and said, Why ducks now? Ma took a long time to explain why the
ducks were needed. Baba rejected Mas proposal. Ma placed it before Nana. Nana bought two ducks and delivered them to our house. One
white duck and one brown swan. When the ducks came home, only two of the twelve chicks had survived. The others were lost to disease,
dogs and mongoose. The swan laid an egg. Ma made the red hen roost that egg. The egg hatched and a duckling emerged. The duck went
swimming in the waterhole. Behind the kitchen, just beyond the small wooden gate, on the boundary wall meant for the sweeper, was the
bathroom of Prafullas house on the left. On the right was a muddy water body covered with waterweeds. To call it a pond would be too
much, though a waterhole did not exactly describe it but it was one. A kind of waterhole, a fishless, dirty, muddy, snake and leech infested
hole. The ducklings walked alongside the chicks; they looked similar, both were yellow in colour as well. It was difficult to tell which were
ducklings and which were chicks. Mas ducks and hens did not last very long. The eggs had to be fried for people at home. As soon as the
chicks grew a little, Dada would say, The mongoose will eat them up anyway, it is better you use plenty of onions and roast a hen for me,
Ma. Ma cooked the hen and secretly wiped her tears. Whenever there were guests, someone would say, What can be served, there isnt
anything. Okay, let a hen be slaughtered. Ma would look dreamily at the hens playing and ask, How do you slaughter house reared
hens? Dada said, Say Allahoo-Akbar, slice the end of the neck and slaughter, Ma. Very simple. Mas pet hens were constantly used in
satisfying Dadas palate, in filling up our stomachs and in serving guests until none were left. Ma had never put a piece of either her pet
chicken or ducks into her own mouth. She would make roast potatoes and eat her meal. The duck and hencoop was empty before even a
month was over. Not just the ducks and hens, we constantly ate bottle-gourd, beans, pumpkin, cauliflower, cabbage, tomato and other
greens from Mas plants. Except for rice, daal, oil and salt in months and years, nothing major had to be bought from the market. Whatever
fruit Baba brought home, Ma would plant the seeds in the ground. From these planted seeds grew the dalim ,pomegranate, the fazli mango,
the star apple, the red guava, even the lychees. Suddenly, shaking herself out of her grief for the ducks and hens, Ma one day went and got
two kid-goats. Feeding them milk in bottles like human babies, Ma nurtured the kids till they were full grown goats. As soon as they grew
up, the two goats began to eat up Mas fruit trees right to the roots. Ma put barriers. The goats jumped over the barriers and extended their
overlordship. Ma desperately tried to save her trees on one hand and keep the goats happy on the other. The two goats were named Lata
,creeper and Paata ,leaf. Lata and Paata had a wonderful life eating up their namesakes wherever available. Ma cared for Lata and Paata so
much that she would bring them into her own room in case they got bitten by something while sleeping at night in the courtyard or
verandah. Mas room would be awash with the cries of the goat and their urine and faeces. I myself chose to climb up the jackfruit tree and
pluck leaves for Lata and Paata. If Lata ate jackfruit leaves, then Paata didnt. Her face would look very sad. Her name Paata got wiped out
when I began calling her Bairagi, the Stoic. Bairagi got lost one day. He was grazing in the field. Someone had opened the gate and had
come in, leaving it open. Seizing the opportunity, Bairagi left home, true to his name that meant a recluse. He had forsaken the bonds of
home and family. The whole colony was searched. He was to be found nowhere. Ma went looking in Akuas cowshed, where stray cows
and goats found on the streets were collected and kept. Not there. Ma cried her heart out, went to the Mazaar , shrine of the old Peer, across
the river and poured out money, lit a candle, and asked the blessings of the Peer, so that Bairagi would forget his renunciation and return
home. The Mazaar of the old Peer was an amazing one. It was on the banks of the Brahmaputra. A huge tomb built of stone, the grave was
almost as big as the open room it occupied and was covered in red cloth. Morning and evening there were crowds of vow-takers. I asked
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Ma who this old Peer was, what did he do, when did he pass away, why did people light candles and incense and make their wishes known
to him? Could this old Peer from the other world fulfill wishes and desires? If he could, how did he do it? Ma gave a very simple answer to
these difficult questions of mine. Of course, he can. Allah must have given him the power to do so. Otherwise, why should so many
people visit the Mazaar! Hindus, Muslims, Buddhists, Christians all went. The Peer was a Mussalman but the crowd of Hindus was no
less than that of Muslims. However deep Mas belief was, the old Peer could not work the miracle. Bairagi never came back. Having lost
her companion, Lata grew very desolate as the days passed. Her filth lay scattered all over the verandah and this disgusted everyone at
home. But Ma never felt irritated. She cleaned the dirt with her own hands. She tied Lata in the courtyard, but was always scared that if she
found the gate open, like Bairagi, she too would accept worldly renunciation. Lata had the colour of a deer, if her horns were a little more
twisted and a little higher, she would have actually been mistaken for one, said Ma. I told Ma, Now dont start wishing to keep deer as
well. Ma let out a deep sigh and said, Would a deer be a creature who could accept being a pet! Mas beloved Lata, whom she had
brought up like a child, from a baby to a goat, also one day disappeared like Bairagi. Ma sat dropping tears over Latas bottle, rope, wooden
post and half eaten jackfruit leaves. Before Ma was completely over her grief, I found a red coloured cow in the house. Ma had brought her.
Where did she come from, why did she come, Baba did not go into any of these questions. Maybe Baba had a weakness for cows since his
childhood. So he did not pass any strictures banning the cow from the house. This cow would one day give birth to a calf, give sers of milk
or once it grew up, it could be sold. Baba must have thought that way. Ma very enthusiastically began to bathe and feed the cow. She waved
away flies and even placed an old blanket on her back in case she got a cold. She did practically everything. She called the milkmaid,
Bhagirathis Ma, and arranged for a basket of grass to be delivered everyday. She herself made a strong wooden post for the cow. She
named the cow Jhumri. She could just not allow Jhumri to get lost. But, the days past and the grass in Bhagirathis mothers basket began to
diminish. Ma went crazy trying to gather food for Jhumri. Since the field was converted into a kitchen garden, there was very little grass
left. Jhumri was ultimately sent by Ma to Ghagdohore, to the house of Abdus Salaam, to be looked after. In the village fields, there was
plenty of grass. Along with the other cows in Salaams house, Jhumri too would roam around and eat to her hearts content and become
healthy. For Jhumris upkeep, Ma gave Salaam some money every month. She herself went to Ghagdohore to see her beloved and stroke
her flanks. Days passed. One day, Salaam confessed with a sad face, Your cow has been stolen. Ma was never able to keep anything;
everything was always getting lost. After the cow was stolen, Ma got involved with pigeons. First, she bought some ordinary pigeons from
the market. Ma after all, could not just get something because she wished to. For months she dreamt and cajoled Baba. When Baba refused,
she appealed to her own relatives. When she failed there too, she ultimately borrowed money. Returning a loan was also not an easy task
for her. Whatever coconuts grew on her trees had to be sold to Rashid for Ma to pay back the money. When the trees she had planted after
she came to this house bore fruit, Baba sold off her coconuts like he would the other fruits, and pocketed the money. After Ma started her
hencoop, she persisted day and night, before she succeeded in wresting the right to sell her own coconuts from Baba. The ordinary pigeons
flew away the very next day. Ma stared expectantly the whole day at the open sky with food in her hands. She imitated their sounds and
called to them many times. Not only that, she sat till late at night on the verandah in the hope that since birds normally return to their nests
at night, they would too. Suppose they had lost their way to the house they might find their way back by night. Ma was not one to give up
hope. They did not return. In the outer verandah there was the nest of a dove in a winged alcove. The verandah had turned white with
dove-droppings. I had wanted to shoo them away for a long time. But Ma had said, Doves bring peace to households, do not shoo them
away. One day, Dada finding one of them within reach, caught it and called Ma. The doves are troubling us too much Ma, roast this one
for me. Let me eat it. Ma snatched the dove from Dadas hands and let it fly away, saying, You should not eat doves. If you want Ill cook
other pigeons for you, but never eat these. If you hurt doves, household peace is lost forever. After the ordinary pigeons flew away, Ma
brought home a wonderful pair of pigeons. They looked as though they were wearing socks and crowns. It was impossible to get this breed
of pigeons. Ma had searched the whole district to find them. Ma had made a wooden cage for them under the kitchen roof. The cage had a
small door with a strip of wood in front of it, like a landing. A small bowl of food was kept on this landing, the two pigeons emerged from
their room chattering, bak-bakum and ate their food. Ma had tied the wings of this pair so that they could not fly too far away. Ma had no
desire to deprive them from flying. She only wanted them to eat out of her hands, sit on the trees and plants in the courtyard, and turn the
courtyard white while walking. They could fly, but not too far. Even if they did, they would find their way back home to their pigeon house
by dusk. The pigeons laid eggs, even hatched them too. But, the baby pigeons were taken off either by the mongoose or eaten by crows
after which these two sock-and-crown sporting pigeons of good breeding just kept sitting, till they got sick. Ma was unable to treat their
ailments. After the pigeons died, Baba said, Nobody stays with this ill-fated woman. They all go. That was true, nobody ever stayed with
Ma. All of them left her and went away. In the alcove in the verandah, the doves however, continued their chatter. When I saw them, like
Dada, I too felt like eating them. Baba did not send fish or meat for over a month. I was really sick of eating vegetables and dried fish. I
told Ma that we had no option but to cook the doves now. If the children wished to eat something, Ma would always try to procure it by
whatever means. I had wanted to eat guavas one day when they were not in season. But Ma had gone all the way to a little known ladys
house, out of town, having heard her trees gave fruit out of season. She had returned with some guavas for me, however, she certainly did
not encourage my desire to eat the doves. She by-passed my wishes, because there was no way she would allow the household peace to be
disturbed.
Everyone left Ma and went away. Ma sat alone with her torn sari, unruly hair and rough skin. She tossed from side to side on her lumpy
mattress and under her torn mosquito net. Mas lungs were full of cough. She would cough and spit out the phlegm on the floor of the room
itself. I felt nauseated. Ma had wanted someone for herself, if not human then at least an animal or a bird. The humans certainly did not
stay, but neither did the animals or the birds. From morning to night, Ma cooked for us, fed us, cleaned the house and washed the clothes.
We would eat, make merry and keep busy with our studies, games, music etc. but for Ma there was no one, there was nothing. That was
how it was. Ma was to do her duty. She did too. After finishing her household duties, Ma would sit alone and read the Darood ,invoking
Mohammads name, trying to put her mind to the teachings of the Quran. That Baba had really married Razia Begum, that it was not a
falsehood, was something she kept reiterating. On her way to and from the Peers house, it seems Ma had very often seen Baba on the road
to Naumahal. I believed that whatever Ma said against Baba, she made it up. No matter how distant a person Baba was and how much I
was cowed down by his power and personality, a kind of respect for Baba remained with me. This did not die even in the very worst of
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times when I bore his boxes, blows, slaps and took the whippings on my back. Even after hearing Mas complaints, we did not react. At
least I wasnt in the habit of believing what did not happen before my eyes. I never thought of Ma as anyone but a woman of mean
understanding and one who cried unnecessarily for every little thing. Ma couldnt possibly have any brains, otherwise why did she believe
in Allah Rasool! If she did, why did she sit alone with Aman kaka in the room and whisper under the pretext of giving him advice? Baba
stopped Aman kakas visits to this house. Aman kakas wife came one day and informed Ma that her husband was working in Gaffargaon
and had recently married a woman there. Ma replied in an unaffected voice, He is a man; he will. Ma apparently had no respect for any
man. Yet, as soon as Baba called, how Ma ran to him like a hen! Mas sitting around, lying around, walking about, running and going,
everything appeared extremely disgusting to me.
Everyone was busy at home. Baba was occupied with his patients and landed property in the village. Dada was busy with his job. Chhotda
was occupied with Geeta. Geeta after roaming around the Physics department for a few days, gave up her chance of becoming a physicist,
and had poured her whole body and soul into the art of dancing. She was going to Burma with the dance troupe. I was busy with my
studies. So was Yasmin. Ma was all alone. My dark, plain looking, poverty-stricken mother! In a way, we had got used to accepting this Ma
who had nothing. Ma, who if she had a petticoat, didnt have a sari, if she had a sari didnt have a blouse. All this, we got used to seeing.
Mas oilless-thin hair would fly in the breeze. Finding no ribbon, Ma would either remove the pyjama strings or tie her hair with jute
strings. We would see her and suppress our laughter. We had even got used to our own subdued mirth. At home, Ma was almost like a
clown. The one who laughed at Ma the most was Baba. After Dada got his job, he gave Ma a sari and a petticoat. But once he thought of
getting married himself, he got so busy collecting and making household goods, plus his own suits, clothes and shoes, that he forgot
sometimes that Mas last sari for Id had torn. Ma had gone to the slum behind Nanibari and converted her torn saris into kantha covers. As
soon as it turned cool, Ma would take them out and put one on each of our beds. We overslept in the warmth of Mas kanthas, while Ma
slept under her torn cotton exposed quilt that barely covered her body. She slept on a bed that rocked every time she turned sides. Ma
dreamt of an artistically embroidered kantha. She dreamt that after making it, she would be able to lightly cover up Baba with it one night
when it was cool, and surprise him! Baba of course, was not surprised at anything Ma did. Not when Ma cooked a wonderful khichuri, not
even when she oiled her hair, wore a nice sari, and came before him with a sweet smile on her paan-reddened lips. Not even if, on a
moonlit night, she sat at her window singing, Sleepy, sleepy moon, twinkling stars, this honeyed night, has not ever come in my life
before! Babas heart was not with Ma. Ma knew that; so did we. Tired, she would lie down sometimes, in between the back-breaking
household tasks. If Baba saw Ma lying down, he would scream and bring the house down. Baba was sure that if she lay down like this, the
household would go to rack and ruin. Thieves would come and rob everything in the house. The servants would play truant at their jobs.
They would steal the meat and fish and eat them up. The girls would leave their studies and gossip. On one of the days when Baba was
screaming at Ma for lying down, Ma got up and said, I have lost a lot of blood because of piles. I am exhausted.
Baba heard and said, What a drama over nothing.
Ma had softly asked Baba many times, Is there no treatment for piles?
Baba had said, No.
So much blood is lost. The stools are full of blood. Isnt it dangerous to lose so much blood?
In a grave voice, Baba replied, No.
Ma had been wearing torn slippers for quite some time. Baba was told about buying her a pair. Baba pretended not to have heard. If Ma had
to go somewhere, she wore either mine or Yasmins slippers. In the house, verandah and courtyard, she was of course barefoot. People at
home hardly ever noticed what Ma didnt have or what she needed. A wastrel and vagabond like Nana, however, noticed Mas slipper-less
life. One day, he came bringing a pair of white cloth slippers, which he had bought for Ma. Nana had no idea that women never wore such
shoes. But Ma was delighted with the pair. She showed everyone at home the shoes her Bajaan had brought for her. That day Ma made
payesh with more sugar for Nana, even though she knew he was forbidden sweets. Nana ate, passed his hands over his daughters head and
asked for blessings so that his daughter went to behesht, heaven. Nana described the food in heaven. The food you ate once in heaven, you
could continue eating for the next forty-thousand years. Even the belch would carry the aroma. Listening to Nanas description I was sure
Nana observed Namaz and Roza only to greedily sample all the good food in heaven.
The Naumahal Peers fame had spread so much that even the rickshaw-wala did not have to be told anymore. Earlier you had to ask him
to go behind the Naumahal Chandus shop. If you now said Naumahal Peers house, the rickshaw-wala knew where to go. Earlier, Ma
used to pay four annas. The rate increased to eight annas later and even went up to one taka. Ma never had so much money that she could
afford to make frequent trips to her parents or the Peers house. Very often she had to control her desire to go. The other day, I was ready
for school when she asked, Will you drop me at the corner of the rail tracks? Looking at her from head to toe, dressed in a single folded
sari, with a faded burkha on top, and Nanas gifted white cloth shoes, I wrinkled my nose and said, You can always take another
rickshaw!
I dont have the fare.
Then take the fare.
No one would give it to me.
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Then dont go today, leave it. Go another day.
Ma did not follow my advice. There was no difference between one day and another for Ma. I had no option but to take Ma along that day.
I had to pray with all my heart and soul that there would be no familiar person on the road. Let no one see me accompanying someone
wearing a faded burkha and sock-less white shoes. After crossing C. K. Ghose Street, Ma disembarked in front of the rail tracks. Most of
the route to the Peers house was yet to be covered. The rest of the two-mile journey, she was going to walk. As soon as I reached school,
Ashrafunnisa proudly told me, I saw you coming by rickshaw. I waved to you, but you did not respond.
I never saw you.
How could you have? You were staring at the ground. You looked like a coy family bride.
What rubbish!
At the Mahakali corner, my rickshaw crossed yours. You were accompanied by your maid.
I could hear the thud in my breast. It was at the tip of my tongue to say that, No that was not a maid, it was my mother but I gulped it
down silently. I dont know who sealed my lips tightly together. The whole day, I wanted to rectify Ashrafunnisas mistake, but couldnt.
On returning from school, Yasmin whispered a secret into my ears. Some girl had told her, Your Baba has married a second time.
What did you say?
Yasmin said, I told her my Baba had not married again, it was a lie.
I too whispered back, The other day, a girl in my class told me the same thing.
Ma was sitting unhappily in the verandah. Finding me nearby she said, Your Baba has married Chakladars wife
I said, What all you say, Ma!
Yes, everyone at Naumahal said so.
Who is everyone? How do they know?
Theyve seen.
What have they seen?
They have seen the woman living in the house at Naumahal and your Baba is constantly visiting that house.
That is not new; you have suspected this for a long time.
They have seen your Baba entering with their own eyes. They have even spoken to the woman. She herself has said she is married.
Nonsense!
If it is nonsense, then why does your Baba go to the house?
He can go. Does that mean marriage?
That visiting someones house did not amount to marriage, was an argument I tried to make Ma understand. Why did I do it? Was it so that
Ma would not feel bad, or was it my deep faith in Baba that he could not possibly have done something as shocking as this? Or was it
because, Babas two marriages were so shameful to me that I was desperately trying to refuse to bear this burden of shame. I really didnt
understand.
Ma said, I had gone to Akua. I met Sohelis mother. She said she saw your Baba and Chakladars wife going to the cinema. Your father
never takes me to the cinema!
Would you go to the cinema? You were supposed to be following Allahs path! Saying this, I moved away from Ma.
In spite of Mas grumbles about Razia Begum, she still gave full attention to her cooking. She fed her husband and children. If there was no
oil or onions, she cooked without them, her face unhappy. Serving the food, she would say, How can food taste good without oil or
onions! Eat it up somehow today, Ill see tomorrow if
The next day, the oil came but not the onions. With the onions, Baba had sent a bagful of rotten Koi fish from the market. As soon as she
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opened the bag, Ma detected the smell of the rotten fish. But her children were not to stay hungry because of the smell. She tore a handful
of leaves from the lemon tree and put it in the fish curry, hoping to suppress the rotten fish smell with the scent of the lemon leaves. Greens
could not hide the smell. Maybe the scent of lemon leaves would but the very presence of lemon leaves made me suspicious. I turned up
my nose as soon as I sat down to eat. Why have you put lemon leaves, Ma? The fish must have been rotten. A sliver of a smile appeared
for a second at the corner of Mas lips and immediately disappeared. Ma put an un-broken fish on my plate and said, The fish were alive.
Swear on Allah and say they were alive.
It is wrong to swear on Allah on every instance, Ma scolded mildly.
Dada ate one and took a second fish. I moved away my plate, saying, The fish is rotten, I will not eat it.
How can the fish be rotten?
Ma called Joris Ma from the kitchen, You tell her, werent the fish jumping when you were slicing them?
Joris Ma nodded her head and said, Yes, they were jumping.
Let them. I will not eat fish. If there is something else to eat then give it to me.
Dada explained to Ma, If the fish have turned a little rotten, just fry them. If fried, they dont smell anymore.
Nasreen has the nose of a vulture, Ma said.
When Baba returned that night and was changing from his pants into his lungi, Ma asked him, For whom are you saving this money?
For whom am I saving it? Meaning? I am feeding so many people, educating them. Cant you see with your eyes?
Im not speaking of myself. I can have even a meal of only daal. Im speaking of the children! Why do you send rotten fish? They come
back hungry from school and cant even eat their rice.
Was the fish rotten?
Wasnt it? The smell almost brought down the house.
Hmm...
There are no onions either for the last one month. Is there no money even to buy onions?
Didnt I just send onions a few days back? They finished?
A few days back? Ma took some time to count on her fingers, and replied, Today is Sunday, even on the Sunday before the last Sunday,
cooking was done without onions. The Tuesday before that, you sent onions.
Why do they finish so soon? Why dont you use them economically? Do you have any idea how much onions cost in the market? You
dont earn anything. If you did you would appreciate.
Ma heaved a long sigh. Was it that she was not earning because she didnt want to?
Whenever Babas medical shop assistant, Abdus Salaam came to deliver the shopping, Ma always called him aside and questioned him.
One evening, I found her sitting in the kitchen feeding Salaam fish and rice. Salaam, eat well, whatever you may eat in the morning, you
dont get any food after that!
Mas habit of feeding this or that person was nothing new. If any hungry beggars came home, she made them sit and fed them as well. Stale
vegetables, fermented old rice, dry chillies. They blissfully ate even these. If she heard a landowner had fallen on bad days and was being
forced to beg, she would add two pieces of freshly cooked meat too. Ma was a generous person. After Salaam had eaten and left with a
happy face, Ma called Dada and me and told us, Do you know why your father buys rotten fish and sends it? Why he doesnt get oil and
onions home?
Why, Ma? Dada asked.
In the manner of Detective Kiriti Ray revealing an ancient secret, Ma said, Because he has to send provisions to two places! How can he
manage so much! That woman sends her servant to the pharmacy and your father walks to the market himself, shops and sends provisions
to her house. He has married that woman. The womans younger son even comes and sits at the pharmacy. He pays for his education. He is
actually your fathers son. Not Chakladars
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I felt uncomfortable listening to Mas accusations. So did Dada. He said, I dont know what all you keep saying, and from where you hear
all this to scream about.
From whom do I hear? Okay, why dont you go? She stays in Naumahal. Go to the womans house and see. Find out if she has married
your father or not, whether he daily sends provisions or not?
Yes! Why not? I, of course, have nothing better to do but to go to that womans house! Dada moved away from Ma. So did I. Mas
complaints were all familiar to us, as were Mas sorrows and angers. Mas shouts and screams did not arouse any sympathy in us. If
anything, they aroused only nausea.
Ma sat all alone. There was no one at home to listen to her sorrows. She called Joris Ma and said, Look Joris Ma, I have no peace in this
household. My fate was sealed the day I stopped studying, that very day. Today if I was educated, would I be slaving in my own house?
The children are all worshippers of their father. They do not even care that I am their mother.
Joris Ma did not understand Mas sorrow. In comparison to her own, Mas sorrows were nothing. She had been married into a household
of three wives. She had been traumatised by the tortures of the co-wives. Her husband had tortured her no less. After Joris birth, he
stopped giving her food. Finally he beat her and kicked her out of the house. In this household, Ma was at least getting food. The co-wife
stayed in another house. Not in the same. To Joris Ma, Mas house seemed to be a lovely golden one.
At Mas words, Joris Ma would heave deep sighs. Im sure they were false.
Even in so much sorrow, Ma still decorated the house. She would rearrange the furniture. I liked this exercise of Mas. The rooms always
looked new. It felt as though a new life was starting. Not just the house, Ma beautified the courtyard and the field as well. She always
decorated them with greens and vegetables, fruit and flower trees. Every season had a different variety. For those trees that were leaning
over, a barrier of bamboo sticks was put up. The grass was weeded, the earth was dug up and put back all by Ma herself. Ma loved
vegetables and she insisted on reciting verses while feeding us. She always tried to give us fresh fruit and vegetables. Ma thought we would
happily dance and eat our greens if we heard her rhymes. Ma was also under the impression that like her, we too, had a special weakness
for vegetables planted with her own hands. The whole year around while serving vegetables she would say, Bottle-gourd from the plants,
beans, tomatoes from the plants, this from the plants, that from the plants.
One day at mealtime I caught Ma as soon as she said, Gourd from the plants.
What do you mean? Bottle-gourd is grown on plants only, as though gourds grow otherwise!
Ma said, These are grown on plants, not bought.
Are gourds that are bought grown below the ground?
Rubbish! Why should gourds grow underground?
That means they do grow on plants.
Of course!
Then why do you keep saying it? Even the gourd bought from the markets grows on plants.
Arrey, these are from the home garden.
Then say so. From the home garden. You cant even speak properly.
I am illiterate, I have not studied. You are educated. You can speak correctly, Ma said haltingly. Mas regrets about her lack of education
were lifelong. Just before my SSC exams, when I was bent over a table full of books and notebooks, Ma in a small voice said, If I could
have only taken the SSC privately.
I laughed, At this age you want to take the SSC?
So many people do.
During the disturbances, many people even older than me took the exam. The Government passed them all. That Chakladars wife cheated
in the exams during that time and qualified the SSC. Your father only made her take the exam.
That was true. After Independence in December 1971, the first SSC exam held had allowed anyone and everyone, any age, any
qualification to take the exam privately. There was mass-scale cheating. In that mass cheating, Razia Begum had sailed through.
Now you cant cheat, how will you pass?
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Why should I cheat?
Then how will you pass?
I will study and pass.
Suppressing a bellyful of laughter, I said, Will you remember what you learn?
Why not, I will.
You are always searching all over the house for keys which you are holding in your hands. How will you remember?
If youd just help me a little with maths, you will see I will qualify. Bangla and English are no problem. History and geography I will
learn by rote.
Mas eyes shone with dreams. The dreams remained in the eyes. With dreamy eyes she said, If I could take the exams I would surely pass.
I used to be the first girl in the class. I came first in every exam. Even when I got married, my school masters had told me, Dont give up
your studies, Idul.
Without any hesitation, I told Ma that she would never understand these difficult subjects; that those times of turmoil were no more there;
that one could not do just what one wanted today. Also, that she was too old. At this age if she took her SSC, people would laugh. Ma
sighed deeply. Her pride at having been the best student of her school at one time was now hidden under the embarrassment of old age. Ma
went and sat alone in another room. There, she talked by herself to the wind blowing through the room.
It reached Babas ears that Ma dreamt of taking her SSC exam. Baba laughed aloud. So did we. The whole of Aubokash rang then with the
sounds of laughter. Ma gradually began to shrink. Since the floor of this house was made of strong bricks, Mas dreams fell on it and broke
like glass. Ma finally satisfied her desire to study in another way. At Peerbari, girls learnt Arabic. There was no age restriction. A girl could
begin learning at any age. Ma came home from Peerbari with about three Arabic language books. Taking money from Nani, she bought big
register copies. On those copies she neatly wrote out the Arabic grammar according to the rules and regulations, just the way we had learnt
the English language, He plays, he is playing, he has played, he played, he was playing, he had played, he will play. Mas Arabic
handwriting was as beautiful as her Bangla.
What will you do with learning Arabic, Ma? I asked.
She smiled sweetly and said, I will be able to read Allahs teachings. I will be able to understand and read the Quran Hadith.
We had exams before us, but we did not study as much as Ma did. She sat up nights and studied. Ma had no letters to write, no gossip. Baba
noticed Mas studies. One day, as soon as he returned home, he called, All students, come here.
Yasmin and I went and stood before Baba. Baba scolded us, Where is the oldest student of the house?
I was stunned. I thought I was the oldest student of the house. Couldnt Baba see me? I stopped twisting the curtain in my fingers and came
before Babas eyes so he could see me clearly. Of course, unless you stood right before him, he did not consider it correct.
Looking at me, he said, Call the oldest student.
Im here only, I said.
Baba said, Are you taking your Ph. D.?
No.
Then go and call the one taking her Ph. D.
I still couldnt get who Baba was referring to. Yasmin was sharper than me in such things. She stood at the threshold and called, Ma, come
quickly. Baba is calling. Ma closed her books and copies and came before Baba. Holding the shopping list Ma had given in his hand, Baba
asked her, How did the salt finish?
Ma said quietly, In the cooking.
What great feast are you cooking that two and a half sers of salt finished in two days?
If you are so interested in knowing, sit in the kitchen and watch how it finishes.
Have you any idea of the price of salt?
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Ma made no reply.
Baba gritted his teeth and said, I will only buy salt next month. This month you all will have to eat without salt.
I can eat without salt, your children cant. They all need extra salt on their plates, saying so Ma went away. On the table in the verandah,
Mas books and copies were scattered, the pages fluttering in the breeze.
After returning at night, Baba called Joris Ma and in a low tone asked her, Accha, does Nomans mother remove onions, garlic, rice,
daals, oil etc.?
Who knows? I dont.
You havent seen her taking anything away?
There are so many things she takes.
What does she take?
How can I see what she puts in her bag? I am a servant, I do my work.
Does she take her bag and go out?
Of course, she does. Wherever she goes, she always carries one.
How big is her bag?
A bag is never small; it is always big.
On her return from Babas room, Ma asked Joris Ma, What did he call and ask you?
He wanted to know if you carried provisions to your parents house.
What did you say?
I said I didnt know all that.
Ma flared up. You dont know? Dont my parents have provisions? Has my father turned into a roadside beggar? Even now, the cooking at
my house is done in huge utensils. There is no dearth of food there. Our father may not have built a house, but he never deprived us of food
and clothing. He buys big Rahu fish, Bangash fish, Katla fish and brings them home. He does not send rotten fish. In fact, its the reverse. I
bring money home from my mother. He is making such untruthful allegations about me. Allahs wrath will fall on him. This wicked mans
pride will be destroyed.
Ma angrily muttered through half the night. Joris Ma sat cross legged on the floor and listened to her.
The next day, Baba went into the kitchen, opened the cupboard and checked what provisions were there. Detailed accounts of what had
been bought and when and when what had finished were taken by Baba. As the accounts did not match, Baba got a big lock and put it on
the kitchen cupboard. Now whenever anything was required, he would open the lock and give it out. Baba left with the keys in his pocket.
From the next day, before leaving home, he would call Ma, open the cupboard, tell her what to cook and measure out the required
provisions to her.
In the evening he did the same for the dinner. That is how it went along.
Ma remained alive like a mother. I hardly saw her. When I sat at the study table, Ma left a glass of hot milk, in the afternoon there was
sherbet. I saw the milk and sherbet, not Ma. Ma would come out of the toilet and collapse on the stairs, unable to stand because her head
was spinning. To the question, What is wrong? she would reply in a broken voice, The bleeding because of the piles is too much, I feel
weak. I never noticed Mas health or weakness. I only picked up the word piles.
What is piles, Ma?
A lump forms in the anal canal, and then if you are constipated, it bleeds.
What is the treatment?
I have asked your father so many times for some treatment. He never does tell me anything.
Hmm.
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That is why I say, have wood apple sherbet, vegetables in greater quantities. You dont want to eat them at all. How will your stools
remain soft if you do not eat vegetables! You too are constipated. If your stools remain soft, you do not get the Arsho disease.
What is Arsho?
Just another name for piles.
That means the signboards we see on the streets Here there is treatment for Arsho that means this disease?
Yes.
Ma slowly got up from the stairs and went to her room. She lay down on the bed with her face turned to the beams. She was very weak. I
sat in the next room and thought about the word Arsho, and kept wondering how such a dirty disease could have such a wonderful name!
That was Mas life. We were as used to seeing this life, as Ma was used to living it. One day on hearing the sound of the black gate I ran out
only to see Ma speaking to a stranger and then closing the gate.
I asked her who had come.
Someone came looking for Kamaal.
Who? What was his name?
I dont know. I didnt ask.
What did he say?
He asked me who I was. I said no one. I worked in this house.
Why did you say that?
This boy may have got shocked to hear I was Kamaals mother. I am wearing such a dirty torn sari.
I kept shut. Maybe Ma was right in telling a lie, I thought. Ma had saved Chhotdas reputation. If Ma had said she was Kamaals mother, I
feared that when the boy met Chhotda he would have said, I saw a maidservant in your house. She said she was your mother! The
audacity of maidservants is really increasing nowadays.
I could neither accept Ma nor reject her. Ma cooked for us, fed us even before we were hungry, saved us from Babas spankings saying,
Girls are the households Lakshmis, it is not correct to beat them. They are only there for a few days; they will go away to another home.
We survived because of Mas intervention no doubt, but the phrase will go away to another home inflamed me so much, that my anger
was more at my mild and mellow mother than at my ferocious father.
What does go away to another home mean?
You have to go away. Wont you have to, when you get married?
No, I dont have to.
How can that happen?
It happens. Of course, it does.
Does anyone live her whole life at her parents?
They do. I do. I will.
Whenever I heard the word marriage, my whole body rose in revolt.
Once a girl gets married, she becomes anothers, Ma. Girls are like guests in their fathers home. Love and take care of them as much as
you can. No one knows what is in their fate, happiness or sorrow!
Even though spoken in a soft tone, Mas words pierced me like poisonous arrows. First I am born then my roots spread, all these years I
live close to her, and it seems I belong to others. Whereas the boys who were always away, left the house after marriage, or were immersed
in dreams of getting married, were more hers than I was! For me, however cruel my Baba was, and ugly and illiterate my Ma, misbehaved
and garrulous my sister, I could not think of them as third persons. They were the people closest to me. Some strange person would come
along and become more close to me than them! Impossible! I purposely pushed Ma away, closed the door on her face with a bang.
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Ma give me my food, Ma where are my clothes, where for heavens sake is my bath soap, Ma. Even when I had no rickshaw fare, I took
rides relying on Ma to pay for them, when I reached home. Ma give me three taka, or Ma dear, I think I am getting a fever. This was
enough to make Ma touch my forehead, make me lie down, cover my shaking body with a warm quilt, call for Baba to come and check my
fever, and give me medicines. Apart from these minor matters, I did not think I required Ma for anything else in my life.
When Baba opened the black gate, I recognized the sound wherever I was in the house. If I had a doubt I looked out of the window to see if
it was him. If it was Baba, then I would run back to my place. The problem was that if he found us sitting before our books at two thirty in
the afternoon, he guessed we had only sat down on hearing him come. Then the opposite happened, before the words of wisdom, came the
curses. Of course, if it was before the exams, then whether two in the afternoon or night, we were to be only sitting there. Baba said, Put
glue on the chair and sit, stay awake and study. Baba came at two thirty. When he did, it was not just for me to be alert, but to alert
everyone else as well. As for me, I could afford to leave my study room to have a bath. Baba felt baths and meals in the afternoons were
permissible. Yasmin on the other hand might be sitting on the topmost branch of the mango tree, in the kitchen or on the terrace. These
things Baba would never allow. If he saw anything he did not like, there would be mayhem at home. Yasmin would definitely get a beating.
I too would not be spared. To avoid this I alerted all. In fact anyone who spotted him had the unwritten responsibility to call out as quickly
as possible, running in from one end to the other, so that wherever one was, one had the time to get back to places acceptable to Baba. For
instance, if the maid was resting in the veranda, she would enter the kitchen and begin to wash the utensils, or go to the tap to fill water or
do something else. Baba just could not stand anyone sitting or lying down. When the warning came, Yasmin left the crowns she was
making out of coconut leaves piled in the courtyard and ran into the room. No one had the time to find out who had heard the warning or
who hadnt. Before one knew where others had gone, one had to take a quick decision about oneself. One had to look after ones own
interest first, after all! After giving the warning, when I was walking towards the bathroom with my towel hanging from my shoulder, I
found Ma who had been eating, stop, run into the kitchen to keep her half eaten plate and wash her hands. I entered the bathroom, Yasmin
sat down to do sums and Ma took rice in the wicker tray to clean in preparation for the dinner. After coming out of the bathroom, I asked
Ma in a low voice, Has Baba gone?
He is lying down.
Werent you eating? What made you get up?
Ma, while removing the woodworms from the rice said, Your father has never been able to tolerate my eating.
You cant be alive if you dont eat! Doesnt Baba know that?
He does. However, he gets very irritated if he sees me eat before his eyes.
Just as we would stop playing out of fear of Baba, Ma would stop eating.
After feeding everyone, Ma would sit to eat in the kitchen very late, and whoever was around, maid or daughter, sat with her. This was a
sight I was used to. Even at other times, during functions and festivals too, Ma never sat to eat with her husband and children. Why this
was so, no one had asked so far. This was obviously not a question bothering anyones mind, hence, they hadnt. When we ate, Ma would
stand beside us and serve us. Thats what Ma did and that is what suited her as far as Baba knew and so did we. Ma cooked and served very
well, was what everyone believed.
Very often I returned home from school in the evening and ate something because I was hungry. Ma would then be eating her lunch,
mixing her rice. I would see a somewhat embarrassed smile at the corner of her mouth. She would take her plate elsewhere or wash her
hands saying she would eat later.
I would laugh and say, Why did you get up? Are you shy?
Ma gave no answer. Ma somehow never could eat except secretly, she never could. She really felt shy to eat in front of others. If Baba
came home of course, Ma did not even eat secretly. Baba had the habit of ferreting out details from every nook and corner. Therefore, no
secrets were possible. Even if Baba were lying down, you could not think of playing or chatting, because one could never guess when he
would get up, and roam the whole house pussy-footed. Consequently, if he was at home, even fast asleep, no one ventured to do anything
Baba might not approve of.
Baba would come home in the evenings without warning. On one such day no one heard the black gate opening, and hence, no warning
was called out either. Baba entered the kitchen to find Ma eating.
How much do you eat? Whole day there is only eating and eating. The fat in your body is increasing with your incessant eating.
Ma heard this, and putting her plate away, washed her hands.
I heard Baba, so did everyone else at home. To us, it was like Baba telling us when wed been dozing at our study tables late at night, How
can you feel so sleepy? Whole day you sleep. How much rest do your bodies require? One whack on the back and all this rest will vanish.
With Chhotda, discussions on art and literature were as engrossing as they were on politics.
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Accha Dada, why did Major Dalim, Rashid and Farookh have to leave the country after the coup?
Arrey, underneath that coup, another coup had taken place. Then Dalim and all had no power.
And Safiullah? He was the Chief of the Army Staff, why didnt they kill him? He was on the side of Mujib.
Mujib had phoned him at night, to send the army to Number Thirty-Two his residence. Safiullah called Zia. Early morning, Zia came and
said, No need to go to Number Thirty-Two. Safiullah could do nothing.
Safiullah had understood by then that Zia was not following his orders.
How could he not! Safiullah was then almost under house-arrest. No one was following the Army Chiefs orders.
Who made Zia the Army Chief? Mushtaq? Or did Zia make himself the Chief?
They all were in the conspiracy.
Khaled Musharraf, who put Zia into jail and took over the powers, was himself killed three days later by Colonel Taher. Then why did Zia
kill Colonel Taher? Colonel Taher had after all revolted for the benefit of Zia.
Taher had wanted to remove Khaled Musharraf and form a national government. He did not want Zia.
Colonel Taher was a Muktijoddha ,fighter in the Liberation Army. He even lost a leg in the war. Can a fighter injured in battle be hanged?
Achha, has any leader ever been hanged till today?
No. This was the first hanging of a Muktijoddha after the Independence of Bangladesh.
I cant really understand Major Dalims differences with Zia.
The law and order in the army had completely broken down then. Zia had imprisoned Safiullah in Bongo Bhavan, and declared himself
General. Some supported him, others went against him.
Did Dalim go against?
No. He sent Dalim abroad mainly because Zia had not wanted anyone who had been directly involved in the coup to be around him. Once
you got used to doing coups, you wanted to do them repeatedly.
So he removed the risk?
Yes, you can say that. Before going he had Dalim kill many in jail. Four leaders were killed. He also sent the others on excellent
assignments. Dalim was made Ambassador. Dalim was happy, and Zia got what he wanted.
Ma suddenly entered our discussion and said Dalim? Dalims are ripening on the tree, why dont you eat one!
I burst out laughing.
Arrey we are discussing politics, not the Dalim on the tree.
What about politics?
You wont understand.
All you have to do is make me understand.
Do you understand coup? Coup?
Coup? In the dark of night, when the Nations government is slaughtered, that is called coup isnt it?
Mas words irritated me so much, that I said Go now, Ma! You do not have the capacity to understand such discussions.
Ma went out. There were beggars sitting on the verandah. Sitting with them and sighing deeply, she listened to the details of their miserable
lives. She understood their talk, they understood hers. Someones house had been washed away by floods, anothers father left home and
never came back, someones husband had died, another was blind, or handicapped. Someones uterus had come out of the body. Ma gave
special attention to Dulus Ma, whose uterus had come out. Instead of a handful, Ma gave her a quarter kilo of rice. If she saw her hungry
face, she would come forward and say, Dulus Ma, have something to eat. That day too, while I was having a serious discussion about
politics in Chhotdas room, Ma was feeding Dulus mother. After eating the rice and vegetables given to her at the verandah, Dulus Ma
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raised her hands to bless Ma. Allah, give her as many years of life as there are hair on my head. Keep her happy, who has fed me. The one
who gave peace to my soul, give her the same peace, Allah. May she live always in peace and happiness with her sons and daughters!
Ma listened to Dulus Mas blessings with an utterly expressionless face.
Chapter Five
LEISURE
My joy new no bounds once the exams got over. I had unlimited time to do whatever I wished. Watch movies, read storybooks, recite
poetry, write verses. However, Baba ordered that no film magazines were to be read. All third rate magazines carrying pictures of film
heroes and heroines were banned at home. If one wanted to read, one had to read good journals. Only journals that helped to increase our
knowledge were allowed. So, what was the name of this good knowledge disseminating journal? I was very curious to know; at that point I
was not particularly critical of any thing. Given a chance, I could read the whole world. The journal of Babas choice was called Begum. It
started coming regularly to our house. In one day I read the magazine from cover to cover. I learnt how to cook different dishes, to style
hair, to grow fruits or flowers in the garden. There was also information about decorating rooms, childcare, even husband care. The next
week, the same sort of things appeared in Begum. I didnt read half of it, and less than half, in the third week. It is not that Begum remained
untouched subsequently. In fact our interest in it increased to the extent that the pages tore due to excessive handling. It was Dada who
made Begum popular. The minute he saw a copy with the hawkers, he swooped down on it and was the first to pick it up. Then he began
pouring over it. Not only did he do so himself, he made the entire household follow suit. It had even happened that five to six black heads
had spent a whole afternoon pouring over Begum. Even when the other heads moved away, Dadas remained. During the lazy evening,
right through the night, after all others were asleep, Dada poured over the pictures of groups of girls. Whoever wrote for Begum, whether
stories, poems, articles on human or plant care, had their photographs published on one page. To be able to see twenty to twenty five
photographs of girls at one go was not a matter of joke. Nothing else gave Dada the joy that Begum did. Every week he would choose a girl
from its pages. The very next week this girl was rejected and another chosen. Actually if in the next weeks edition he found some one
better than his last weeks choice, then things became complicated. Unable to decide whom to send a marriage proposal to, he would wait
for the next weeks copy, just in case he found someone even better. Once he chose a beautiful girl named Dilshad Noor, but on reading this
line in her poem The one who has gone is not returning. If he does, I will lay my head on his breast and sleep, Dada pouted and said
No, I cant marry this one.
Why not? I asked.
Cant you see shes waiting for some fellow!
Arrey this is only a poem.
So what if it is a poem!
If you write in a poem that you are flying in the sky, are you really doing so?
Even if I am not flying in the sky, I am in my mind. In poetry, you write what you feel.
So Dilshad was rejected. When he rejected anyone, Dada looked very despondent. As though the most difficult to capture bird had just
flown out of his hands. Of course, in Sultanas case Dada hadnt felt that way. Dadas pen friend Sultana, had sent him a photograph of
herself, sitting on a mora ,wicker stool, wearing a sari. Dada spent many sleepless nights with that photograph, before he decided that this
was the girl he wanted to marry. He had bought new clothes, a new perfume, and a pair of shoes. Spending two and half hours in the
morning, he bathed, dressed in his new clothes, poured half the bottle of perfume on himself and left for Dhaka. On hearing a knock on the
door at night, I found Dada standing outside, biting his lips. All of us surrounded him. What happened? Dada had still not removed his
teeth from his lips. When he did, he said in great relief, I have really had a great escape.
Why?
If there is anything really ugly in this world it is that woman.
What are you saying? She looked quite pretty in her photograph.
Oof! If only you had seen her. A dark, scar faced woman, frail and old. When she laughed, her protruding teeth came out like a rakshas
,witch . Her gums were as black as the underside of a pot. I had never seen a hag before, I have just seen one today.
Why, I saw she had long hair way below her hips!
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Hair? What use is long hair to me?
After a pause he said, I think she wore a wig for the photograph. One of her protruding front teeth was also false.
Dada had carried some presents for Sultana in gift wraps. They came back unopened. Not having eaten the whole day, Dada gobbled his
food, washed off the grime of his journey and took a long nap.
Casting aside his dreams of Sultana, Dada began concentrating on Begum from the next day again. I told the hawker of Begum to deliver
Chitrali, Purbani and Bichitra as well. However, now that I did not have school, there was no rickshaw fare to save from, there were not
even any papers at home to sell to the glassbottlepaperwala and earn a few coins. I was dying to read the magazines, but where was I to
find the money to buy them! Like people normally depend on Allah, I depended on Dada. Of course, Dada was not always sympathetic.
Dada was not only not worthy of being compared to the benevolent Allah, he was a reputed miser. Where the rickshaw fare was two taka,
he would put an eight anna coin in the rickshaw-walas hand and send him off with a rebuke. Not only did those at home hear Dada
screaming at the rickshaw-wala, so did the whole neighbourhood. This did not bother Dada. In his language, he had been paying eight
annas till yesterday.
Just the other day? Ma would say, That was five years ago.
To Dada, five years seemed just yesterday.
If Ma had money with her, she gave the rickshaw-wala four instead of two taka. In case the rickshaw-wala described his penury on the way,
then Ma would give him not only money, but on reaching home, she would choose a ripe and hardened coconut from the pile under the cot.
Giving it to him, she would say, Eat it with your children. Seeing the way Ma behaved, Dada remarked, Ma is a duplicate of Nana.
Whatever she has, she gives away to people.
Dada had certainly not inherited Mas nature. Dadas mind always told him that everyone in the world was out to cheat him. Hence, he too
tried various methods of doing the same. It was Dadas habit to bargain at the shops. Everyone did, but no one could beat Dada at it. I
would always be very embarrassed when I accompanied Dada to the shops. If asked for fifty, most people would try and bring it down to
thirty or forty. When Dada heard the price fifty, he would say, Will you give it for three? The shopkeeper would stare at him
open-mouthed. What on earth was the connection between fifty and three! Dada would then progress from three to three and half and
upward. The shopkeeper would finally agree to twenty or twenty-one. He agreed alright, but also told him off, I have seen many
customers, bhai, but never one like you. You have cheated me. Forget a profit I havent even got my cost price.
I did depend on Dada, but when his stinginess crossed all limits, I had no option but to follow in Chhotdas footsteps. Since Dada normally
took at least an hour in the bathroom, my trembling hand entered the pocket of his trousers hanging on the rack in his room. As soon as my
initiation in this skill was completed through Dada pockets, my hand began to enter Babas pockets as well. Now not only my hands, but
my heart too trembled. Even though the pickings were never more than five or ten taka, I had to hang my head in shame. I got no peace.
Later, this skill oppressed Yasmin as well. Dadas anger at Chhotda increased day by day. Before leaving home, Dada had now begun to
lock his medicine chest inside his cupboard. But it was not possible to lock ones room all the time. If Dada was at home the door was
always open. At such times, as soon as Dada was out of his room, Chhotda would send us to get medicines out of his chest. Since it might
be dangerous to bring the medicine out in our hands, we were ordered to pass them from under the door. The green wooden doors in Dada
and Chhotdas rooms had gaps enough to pass through capsules and tablets, if not bottles. Chhotdas single-minded Bahini ,workforce
constituted of Yasmin and me, showed exemplary courage in regularly conducting these operations. One day Dada came to know. He
closed the gap in the door with a plank bought to size from the woodshop. Not that there was any ebbing in the medicine flow even after
this. We became used to not only smuggling out capsules and tablets, but even medicine bottles under our loose clothes.
In gentlemans language, it could be called the war of the Haves against the Have-nots. In spite of all these, Dada was unable to build up
a snake and mongoose relationship with Chhotda. This was because of his bone-cracking malady. This malady conferred amazing
pleasure on Dada. The sound produced by bones grazing against each other created sweet musical tremors in his ears. Dada cracked every
bone he had in his body everyday. He produced sounds from every bone in his fingers by pulling the joints in all directions possible. He did
the same with all the toes. He then needed to crack all the bones in his spinal column. With one hand on one chin and the other on his
head, he would jerk the head first to the right, then to the left, and crack the bones in his neck. Dada could do this himself, but with
Chhotdas help the job was done even better. The minute he found Chhotda close by, he would lie upside down on the bed or floor. He
would then extremely solicitously keep calling out to Chhotda. Come on Kamaal, give me a pull, please. It seemed that if asked to touch
Chhotdas feet, he would be willing to do even that. Chhotda would hold the flesh above Dadas spine tightly, and jerk it upwards. Crack!
Beginning from the nape of his neck, he would crack every vertebrae right down till the buttocks. Once hed finished cracking the
vertebrae on Dadas spine, Chhotda would lie down in a similar fashion. Then Dada would do him the same favour.
With the object of remaining faithful to his plan of boycotting Chhotda, Dada one day called me to crack his back bones. I did not have the
same magic in my hands. Even using every ounce of strength in me to pull Dadas flesh upwards, I failed to move even a single bone. Go
girl, you cant do it; call Kamaal. Perforce, Chhotda came to administer medicines for Dadas malady. Not just on his own, Dada pounced
on other peoples bones as well. He could never figure out how people could survive without having their bones cracked. Once after
cracking the little fingers and toes of my hands and feet with excruciating pain, Dada had caught hold of my neck in order to crack those
bones. When he jerked my neck to the right, I screamed with pain and ran away from him. He ran behind me saying that the pain would
increase if he did not crack the other side as well. I certainly did not allow Dada to touch the other side. Apart from this bone-cracking
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malady, Dada suffered from another ailment, called flatulence, passing wind through the anus. This was so frightful that instead of
providing food for other peoples laughter, it developed into a cause for irritation. Ma said Nomans stomach condition has not improved
even today. Since his birth, he has suffered from stomach upsets. To gauge whether it was judicious to enter Dadas room or not, I had to
extend my nose first instead of my feet. His flatulence caused no end of trouble. Just when an adda would be getting interesting, thanks to
the terrible odour, except for Dada everyone else had to come away covering their noses and mouths. Dada would be reading from
Rabindranaths Golpoguchcho to which I would be intently listening. Just then, thanks to the same reason, I would have to leave, while
Dada was left alone with the book in his hand. If anyone beat even Dada in this, it was Borodada. Once on observing Dadas flatulence, he
had challenged him. Lets compete. If Dada blew down the room, Borodada blew down the house. The sounds and smells had thrown all
of us as far as possible. At one point, because of scarcity of gas in his stomach, Dada was unable to create any sounds in spite of his best
efforts. Borodada happily crowned himself King of Sounds. Dada became so desperate to win the challenge that he began to contract his
whole body, in a superhuman effort to produce at least one sound, however soft. Borodada warned him, Dont strain too much, you will
defecate. Definitely something unbecoming must have occurred that day, otherwise why had Dada retreated from the battlefield and run
towards the bathroom!
If one overlooked Dadas reprehensible habits, he was not a bad human being, or so I thought. Sometimes things would suddenly fall
through the cracks in his miserliness. In Babas stinginess there were no chinks, no chance of anything ever falling through. This time,
Dada bought Yasmin and me satin cloth and not landir maal to make our Id dresses. When Ma was making them for us, Dada had only one
request. Please make them in the same design Sheila had made earlier. Ma did exactly that. Like Sheila, Ma too made the same scalloped
design at the neckline. Dada was not satisfied. He thought Sheilas were better made. Clicking his tongue, Dada said, Its okay. But not
exactly like Sheilas. Since some of the satin cloth had remained unused, I took Dada with me and gave Chandana the rest of it, to make a
dress for herself. On returning from Chandanas house, Dada said Dont you have any normal friends apart from these Garo, Chakma,
Mog, Murang and Hajong people?
What do you mean by normal? Is Chandana abnormal?
Of course she is abnormal.
There is no one as normal as Chandana.
Chandana is not bad. If only she had had a sharp nose I could have married her. But...
But, what?
Shes a Chakma, a low caste Buddhist!
So what if shes a Chakma?
No way! Am I going to finally marry a Chakma? What will people say?
What people will say comes later, how did you presume that just because you want to, Chandana would marry you?
Dada laughed uproariously, as though I was cracking a joke.
In her whole life, will she ever get some one as eligible as me?
Yes, Chandana has better things to do than to marry you!
After remaining silent for a long time, Dada said, Your friend Dilruba was beautiful. Pretty girls dont remain available for very long.
They get married while they are still in school. Those girls who are studying IA, BA, MA, are the ugly unmarried ones.
If he was in a good mood, Dada bought presents for Yasmin and me, even apart from Id. Once he bought stone necklaces for us. He then
took us to the Chitrarupa Studio, with our necklaces around our necks. Making us stand on either side of him, he had a photograph taken of
our smiling faces. Chitrarupa Studio was on Durgabari Road. At anytime of the day, Dada would go there and tell Chittaranjan Das, Dada,
take such a picture of mine that it can be framed. Dada was a good friend of Chittaranjan. For many years he had been taking Dadas
pictures in various poses. They varied from pictures of him with a false telephone receiver at his ear, reading a magazine on a sofa besides a
big vase, with legs crossed, offering a false sweet picked up with a fork and spoon from a saucer to some one, smiling sweetly, to those
with his hand on the model of a tiger or a lion, the backdrop being either the false picture of a sea or a mountain. He had even dressed him
up like an intellectual and photographed him. He was made to wear panjabi and pyjama with a shawl, a pair of thick black-framed
spectacles on his nose, sitting on a wicker chair, with a copy of Rabindranaths Shesher Kabita in his hand. Chittaranjan Das arranged our
positions according to his wishes. I was made to stand on Dadas right with his hand on my shoulder. On Yasmins shoulder was Dadas
other hand. He gave detailed instructions about where Yasmin and I were to keep our hands, which way to turn our faces, how much to
smile and what kind of a smile whether with teeth exposed or suppressed. Bright arc lights fell on our faces. He put his eye to the camera
placed on a tall stand and saw how we looked, testing whether there were any faults or not. Coming forward, he moved our chins a little to
the left or right with his two fingers. In case there were any loose strands of hair on our foreheads, he gently moved them away. While
standing below these bright arc lights with a false smile fixed on my face, I began to sweat and the distressed look in my eyes was
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expressive of something similar to Deliver me, O Lord, from this torture. Chittaranjan Das had repeatedly told us that we had to hold our
smiles at all costs. After looking through the camera he left it again, to come and straighten the sleeve or frill on my dress, or to remove any
crease falling near my neck or chest. After all this, it took almost half an hour to take one photograph. However, whatever the time taken,
Dada found this photograph the best. Dada would frame his outstanding pictures and decorate with them the walls of his room. He would
examine his own photographs from all angles and distances and state, Say, why wouldnt the girls go mad? Have you seen my looks?
Dada was handsome, we all acknowledged, but the minute he took off his trousers and wore his lungi, his extremely repulsive nature was
revealed. Dada had a very big black mark on his right arm. He, of course, told us that in his childhood a python had walked over his arm
leaving the mark. For a long time thinking that the birth mark was a python mark, I used to recoil with fear. A birth mark was nothing
special, everyone had one kind or other. However, wearing his lungi, when he would start scratching himself between his thighs with his
legs apart, then Dada certainly did not look like a handsome man. If one saw what he did after this, it not only aroused nausea, it actually
made one vomit out everything in ones stomach. Rubbing off the dirt on his body, he would roll it into small black balls, and before
throwing them, he would sniff at them. Even meat particles stuck between his teeth would be made into balls and sniffed at.
Ma said, Noman, why do you sniff at these? We too reproached him about it. Sometimes he even asked us to sniff at his dirt balls. Once
when I asked for digestive tablets, he very seriously handed out three globules for me to swallow. They looked like pills, and I was about to
take them, when Yasmin came running in a frenzy, and said, Those are Dadas filth. I had to run to the bathroom to vomit.
Dada was in service. He was paid a handsome salary at the end of the month. He attended company meetings well-dressed in suits and
boots. He had even received awards as the companys best representative. Unfortunately, however high Dada rose in his career, his bad
habits remained unchanged. A small man with big, big airs. Our small wishes, if not immediately, were fulfilled by him at some time.
Almost every evening when from the terrace, I saw a boy dressed in a white shirt and brown trousers and felt attracted, I thought why cant
I wear the same kind of clothes! Baba had never been forthcoming in fulfilling our desires, Dada was the only one. I got Dada to buy me
white Tetron cloth and even brown cloth to make the trousers. Hearing my wish, Dada said, Not a pant, but you can make a pair of
pyjamas with this cloth. When Dada went with me to the tailor at the corner of Ganginar Par, I said pant, Dada said pyjamas.
Do girls wear pants? Pants are for boys.
What is the problem if girls wear them?
There is a problem. People will stare.
Why should they? Is there something wrong in this?
Yes, there is.
Eventually, Dada felt sorry to disappoint me, and asked the tailor, Can something like a pant be made for her?
The tailor laughed and said, A ladys pant can be made.
How is a ladys pant made?
There would be no pocket, no open fly at the centre, the slit would be on the left side with a zip, no cloth hooks around the waist for a belt -
this was a ladys pant. Well, something is better than nothing, so I had accepted eagerly. Since it was impossible to order a shirt for me, I
had to settle for a dress. However, I made a tiny request. Could my dress sleeves be turned up like a shirt, on the outer side and not on the
inner side? The tailor took my measurements with a long measuring tape. While doing so his hands repeatedly touched my breasts.
Embarrassment made me stiff. But I told myself that it was impossible to take measurements otherwise. The day the ladys pant and the
dress were ready, I was not just delighted, I was absolutely over the moon with joy. But as soon as I wore it, there was chaos. Baba saw me
and couldnt believe his own eyes. Angrily he asked, What is this you are wearing?
I said, Pants.
Why are you wearing pants?
I did not reply.
Why are you wearing these obscene clothes? Dont you have any shame? Take them off immediately. If I see you wearing these clothes
ever again, I will flog you till there is no flesh left on your body.
I had to shed my pants and wear pyjamas. It is not that I didnt wear those pants ever again. I did, only of course, when I knew Baba was
not within a miles distance.
Dadas presents now began to cross the limit of clothes and jewellery and progressed to paint. Not paint for colouring pictures, but paint to
make up our faces. He bought a makeup kit for me. I had not asked for it; he had bought it of his own wish. I had no experience of using a
makeup box. No idea of what to use and how. Then Chhotda came to my rescue. He made me sit on a chair like a statue and coloured my
face, eyes, eyelashes, cheeks, chin and lips. He dressed up Yasmin as well. I began to think of it as a magic box. How wonderfully it
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transformed my appearance. I began to look like the film stars, Kabari, Babita and Shabana. When Chandana came home, she too was
made to sit and was made up. When Chhotda was applying pink powder from the box on to Chandanas cheeks, Ma said, Chandana is fair,
does she need any powder?
Dada did not just give Yasmin and me presents, he gave presents to Ma, too. Ma hid her tears in her soiled saris so that no one could see
them. Even if they could be seen, we had got so used to them that we were never shocked. In fact we would possibly notice more if she
were to wear a new sari. If she wore a pretty sari there would be a storm of questions and comments. Bah! What a lovely sari! Where did
you get it from? Who gave it to you? Some times however, we did take notice even though our eyes were so used to her blouse-less,
petticoat-less saris and the fact that tears were not such a great disaster for her. In case we suggested, Ask Dada for a sari, Ma would
reply, How much more is Noman to give? Hes already giving you all. The man, whos actually supposed to give, is living comfortably.
He has forgotten his responsibilities. He doesnt ever think of buying anything for anyone. Ma obviously wanted that Baba should give
her something, not Dada. Ma waited like the Chatak bird waits for the first drops of rain. She waited hopefully for Baba to think of her, to
do something for her, however small, however insignificant. Baba never noticed anyones hopes or desires, especially not Mas. It
appeared that now Baba was not keen to give us even our rationed Id clothes. That we were getting them from Dada, he of course knew.
Not only would he not give us anything, he even called Dada and rebuked him. He reminded him not to indulge us too much, because if he
over indulged us, we would go to the dogs.
I dont think Dada really remembered this advice. The very next day after Babas scolding he came to me and said, Hey, want to go for a
picnic? Since I was always waiting for an opportunity to leave the house, I jumped at the offer. My afternoon and night sleep just
evaporated with this proposal.
This picnic was not to be in the forest of Madhupur, but in the capital Dhaka. This was my chance to go to Dhaka with Dada. The Fisons
company people were going to picnic at Dhakas Savar. They could take their families with them. Dada was unmarried. He had two sisters
and a brother. He had parents. The parents could not be taken, as a picnic would not suit them. Chhotda was too old for the picnic, and
Yasmin too young. I was the only one who fitted the bill exactly. So now I could begin to choose my clothes. Not that I had much to choose
from. I washed and ironed the one or two things I had, apart from my school uniform, and got ready. The iron was actually a sheet of iron
with a handle. Heating the iron sheet on the oven, I lifted it with a thick double folded towel, and pressed it over my clothes. I carried my
clothes, and the makeup kit given by Dada with me. Traveling to Dhaka by train! What could be cause for greater enjoyment in life! The
entire journey I looked out of the window, with all the dust and wind blowing in my face. I watched the trees and plants, rivers and streams,
paddy and jute fields, buildings and homes, markets and shops passing me by, all the way to Dhaka. We had to put up at Boromamas house
in Dhaka. His house was no more at Lalmatiya; it was now at Dhanmondi. He had bought a plot and built small rooms. In them were tiny
children. Because of lack of space in Boromamas house, Dada spent the night in one of the company bosses houses. I had to share a cot
with Jhunu khala and Boromamas children. We were packed like sardines. Dada came in the morning to take me. Wearing my ironed
clothes, I was putting on my makeup. Shubhra and Shipra, Boromamas two daughters were looking at me as if they had seen a ghost.
They had never seen anyone applying makeup before. Jhunu khala was continually shielding me from them, saying, Elders have to apply
makeup, you all have not yet reached the age to dress up, go away. Jhunu khala tried her best to shield me from Boromami as well. She
feared that if Boromami were to see all these cosmetics, she would drive Boromama crazy, till he bought her a similar box. We traveled to
Savar by bus and unloaded the big picnic utensils, crockery etc in a big field. The cooking, the eating and the playing were all done. A
singer named Niaz Muhammed was hired to sing. In his habitual manner with outsiders, Dada carried on, speaking his version of chaste
Bangla. This always happened to Dada when speaking to people in Dhaka, who spoke in chaste Bangla. While speaking, he was so anxious
to disguise his regional Mymensingh dialect, that his pronunciation of raw turned into rhaw and he sounded quite weird. At the picnic
Dada introduced me to all the important executives in the company, saying, My younger sister, Nasreen. She has just taken her SSC
exams. Seeing me cowering silently after the introductions, Dada laughed and said, Hey, what is there to feel shy about! Come here.
Come meet my boss, offer your salaams to him. On returning from Savar to Dhaka, Dada screwed up his nose, saying only one thing,
You over did the makeup on your face. It seems I was looking like a clown.
Jhunu khala had passed out of Eden College and was now studying Bangla at Dhaka University. The day after the picnic, she took me to
the University. All the time I was there, I looked around me in amazement. Jhunu khala even took me to one of her classes. In the class, the
male students sat on the right side, the females on the left. I was from a girls school, and this was an unbelievable experience for me.
Nilima Ibrahim came to take the class. I had heard of her, and even read her articles. Nilima Ibrahim had not noticed that there was a much
younger girl sitting shyly in class. I did not understand a word of her lecture. However, I came out of the class and whispered my desire
into Jhunu khalas ears, saying, When I grow up, I want to study Bangla Literature at Dhaka University. I said it because on seeing the
wonderful environment of the University, I was beginning to think that if there was a heaven on earth then it was here. With the dream of
studying some day at Dhaka University in my mind, I returned to Mymensingh from Dhaka by train. On coming home, I gave Chandana a
perfect description of the way the girls and boys of Dhaka University walked together side by side, laughed, talked and sang. How no one
looked back at them repeatedly, winked, made obscene comments, or threw stones. There were even circles of boys and girls, sitting
together on the grass in the fields and chatting. There was no specific dress code for anyone. People wore whatever they liked, red or green
dresses, some even saris. It was like a dream world. A dream that swam in the depths of Chandanas eyes as well. Apart from our own
brothers, father and some very close relatives, we had never mixed with anyone else. For us, the outside world was a very vast one. Other
men for us were both fascinating and frightening. After reading so many novels and watching countless movies, if Chandana and I dreamt
of any men, they were always handsome, good looking ones. However, I had got to read my novels at a great cost. Dada one day threw out
the hawker who came to deliver the Chitrali. He tore the magazines into shreds and threw them out of the window. When he categorically
told us that in future we were to stop reading these worthless magazines, I walked out of the house. I walked out without knowing where
to go. I did not even have the money to take a rickshaw to Nanibari. In novels so many penniless heroines walked out too, and within a few
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yards they would find deserted sea-shores, deep forests or remote melancholy mountains. Nothing untoward happened, instead amazing
incidents occurred. The heroine would sometimes actually meet the hero, or a very wealthy and benevolent person would adopt her as his
daughter. In others she would walk alone besides a river or sea, share her thoughts silently with the flowers in a garden in full bloom, chase
a colourful butterfly or just lean against a tree and sing a song of joy or sorrow. In case something unfortunate happened, then the heroine
was always rescued by some courageous person, who would then proceed to become her brother or friend for life. With both fear and
daring suppressed in her heart, this particular novel-reading and cinema-viewing girl kept walking along. Knowing that along the river, the
paws of men would be present, she still walked in the direction of the park. This road led towards a garden area, which had been named
Ladies Park by the people. Since men, women and children had very few places in town to go to in the evening, they normally came here.
They sat on the benches munching nuts and chanachur. They walked around in the breeze and returned home. When I walked out in the
afternoon hoping to find some privacy, I reached the park and sat down on an empty bench, under the shade of a tree. Before me I could see
tiny waves rising in the breeze flowing over the waters of the Brahmaputra, the trees mildly dropping leaves occasionally into the river. I
sat there like that purposely, hoping to look at the beauties of nature, for as long as I wished. Though characters in story books could stay
for as long as they wished, I could not. Lungi clad boys began to gather around me in ones and twos. I was looking at the river, at two boats
that were plying. The boat men were singing a Bhatiali ,country song synchronizing the beat of the music to the strokes of their oars. My
eyes moved to the other bank of the river. What lovely catkins were blooming everywhere! However this gang of boys did not give me a
chance to concentrate on any of this. Splitting with a knife, the heart of silence and isolation surrounding me, one asked the other, Have
the girls breasts developed?
Another came in front, giggled and said, Yes, they have.
How do you know? Have you touched them?
The gang of boys burst into loud laughter.
Is she willing?
How much does she want?
She doesnt say?
Why doesnt she? Is she dumb?
All the limbs of my body were shaking. My throat was drying up. What if they were now to hit me on my breasts, just as a boy had done
once before on these very shores of the Brahmaputra. I moved away and sat on another bench. Seeing this, the boys got even more
impassioned. They created an uproar and came crowding near this bench as well.
Hey, whats your name? Where do you live?
Hey, girl, do you have a father?
I didnt answer any of the questions. One of the lungi-clad boys threw a stone at me. It came and hit my back. Another boy came close to
me and poked my feet with his. From the back, another one poked me. As though I was some strange creature who had fallen out of the
skies, all of them were poking me to see how I would react. Not responding to either the stone or the pokes, I turned to the lapping waters
of the Brahmaputra once again. I held on strongly to a thread of belief which gave me the hope that if I did not reply or throw back a stone,
they would eventually go away. However, this tight thread of hope slowly began to unravel. My eyes desperately searched for some one
who looked respectable, who could rescue me from this vengeful gang of boys. No one was entering the park. All the gentlemen had gone
to the other side. There was no one on this bank. No one. Only me and these boys. The distant boatmen, too, could not see how these
beastly boys had surrounded me like vultures. I reckoned that they were younger than me in age. Since childhood I had heard that one did
not misbehave with elders. Yet, these boys were misbehaving with me without a care in the world! Their misbehaviour progressed from a
poke to a push on my back. This push shocked me into turning around and screaming, I am sitting here, what is it you all? Run away.
The boys began to giggle and smirk.
Shes finally spoken. She can speak then, she can speak
One of them lifted his lungi and started to dance before me. On seeing him another joined in the dance. The rest were laughing and
clapping their hands. One of them came at me with his two claw paws directed at my breasts. I pushed away those paws with both my
hands. The paws advanced again. I kept whimpering, then groaning. My dress was being pulled by two boys. They were widening their
eyes, displaying their teeth, showing their tongues. They were playing with me. Having fun. All they needed was to pull my dress off. Why
only the dress, why not even the pyjamas! In this deserted park, no one would see what was happening on this side. Suddenly I saw two
people entering the park, and some life came back to my limbs. The two men wearing shirts and trousers were coming towards this crowd.
The two gentlemen were coming. Seeing them the boys moved back. The lifted lungi dance also stopped. In the hope of being rescued
from this atrocious scene, I moved towards the men. But one of the two men asked the boys, not me, Whats happened?
This girl is sitting alone in the park.
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Alone?
The other man asked with a serious face, What is she doing alone?
Thats what we are asking. She doesnt say.
Why doesnt she?
The two men stood in front of me. They did not look at my face, but at my breasts. They laughed coarsely. My sixth sense told me they
were not my saviours. My sixth sense told me, run. I couldnt make out in which direction to run. This dilemma was causing someone to
come at me with hands and teeth out, and another to let fly a raucous laugh. The laugh was causing the river to tremble. I began to feel they
were going to tear me apart. Eat me up. Bite me. Chew me. The dusk was falling. The egg-yolk-like sun was sinking in the Brahmaputra
spreading its colours in the water. The coarsely laughing man was zipping and unzipping himself repeatedly. I shut my eyes, covered my
breast with my two hands and bending my knees sat down pressing my head against them. Twisting myself into a coil I became almost like
a little ball. Stones rained down on me. I shielded myself with my own body. I realised that the two men had left me at the mercy of this
gang of boys. They now had the permission to do whatever they wanted to. Suddenly I screamed with fear from inside the coil. My screams
made the boys shout with laughter. Without warning, I got up from the coil and ran breathlessly towards the Circuit House grounds. The
boys followed, laughing, all the way. Whatever I did speak, scream, run everything was a source of fun for them. When people saw a
monkey in the zoo, eating a banana with its own hands, they laughed, finding it funny. All the monkeys antics were amusing to watch. I
could not think of myself as a human being. I felt like an animal which was there for mans amusement. The boys had merrily lifted their
lungis, shown their penis and danced before me. They had thrown stones at me, poked me and molested me. Not once had they thought I
would call them wicked, or punish them when I got the opportunity. No, nothing bothered them at all. I ran without knowing my
destination. I saw some people walking near the park, but I did not feel like approaching any of them, I could not trust any one. Walking
towards this agitated, directionless, breathless, crazy sight of me, was a white shirt and brown trousers! A dry twig before a girl drowning
in bottomless waters. This was the same white shirt and brown pant whom I watched every evening from the terrace. The same one I went
up to the terrace to see so often. White Shirt stopped me. He shooed away the gang of boys and coming closer smiled sweetly saying,
When did you come here?
I didnt say anything. White Shirt walked ahead talking. I followed panting and silent.
Why were you running? Did those boys do something to you?
No reply.
Did they say something to you?
Again, no reply.
I was too ashamed to tell him what the boys had done and said. As though the blame for all their exploits was mine, and so was the shame.
The boys had done wrong, but it was as though it was my fault that they had.
Reaching close to Ishaan Chakraborty Road, White Shirt said, You will go home, wont you?
I shook my head from side to side.
Then where will you go?
My head shook again. A nowhere or I dont know kind of reply.
Following White Shirt I happily went to their house, not exactly their house, their land lords house, not even the house really but its
terrace. Sitting on the terrace and enjoying the breeze was White Shirts elder brother and his friend. As soon we reached the terrace, the
brother and friend quickly went down.
What will you eat?
I shook my head, I didnt want anything.
Except for nodding my head, I was unable to utter even one word in answer to White Shirts questions. White Shirt called out to his
younger brother from the terrace, threw down some money and ordered him to get One Seven-Up. The younger brother ran to get the
Seven-Up, while White Shirt in the darkness of the terrace tried to put both his arms around me like Razzaq embraced Kabari in the movie.
Such an invitation should have excited my desire to melt into the embrace as well. But I noticed that my body remained as stiff as wood.
The wood leapt away and stood. The Seven-Up came, stood by itself, I was unable to touch it. When I had watched White Shirt from the
terrace of Aubokash, walking from Golpukur Par to the corner of Sherpukur Par and disappearing, I had thought Id fallen in love with him.
It wasnt as if my heart had not beaten excitedly. But this matter of rushing like Razzaq to embrace me, appeared so artificial to me, that
deep down in my bones I understood that just by wanting to be Kabari, I couldnt be, by wanting to be Babita, I couldnt be. Life was not
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entirely like the novels and the movies. If that was so, then I would have enjoyed that embrace. Or I would have, with great strength, been
able to uproot the teeth of that gang of boys and those two pant-shirt clad, uncouth men. I could not.
I had walked out in the afternoon. Now it was dark. I did not have the power to imagine what punishment awaited me at home. In that
house, White Shirt said, Let me take you home. As I had nowhere to go, I came down from the terrace and started walking listlessly.
Keeping Miriam School on my right, and Sudhir Das statue shop on the left, past the crossing at Golpukur Par, I walked towards my
house. With disappointment and fear as my props I had followed White Shirt all the way to the black gate of Aubokash. Eventually, I had
entered the house like a lifeless, inanimate object. People at home looked at me as though they didnt recognize me. No one knew my
identity. Why I had come, from where, no one had any idea. When they got used to seeing me, there were a thousand questions to face.
Where were you till now, whom did you go to, what is in your mind, tell me, how did you gather so much courage, and so on. I stood
silent, soundless and motionless. That I had immersed my youth and beauty somewhere and returned home, was what both Dada and Ma
thought. Maybe thats why without hesitation they continued to beat up this silent, stationary girl, without justification. I lay down my
numb body and bore every thing. So far at least I had managed to escape the attack of those urchins, and actually saved myself from White
Shirts embrace, but what I was unable to escape was Dada and Mas unholy practices. My nausea kept increasing because of all these
experiences.
If I stood on the terrace, a boy younger than me standing on the verandah of his house would lift his lungi and show his penis. I had to turn
my eyes away. I had to move away from the terrace railings. These eyes wanted to see something else, something beautiful and elegant.
These evenings on the terrace, out of the damp rooms, enjoying the fresh air, watching the world on my own, were very happy times for
me. For me the wide world was confined to only that much. All my freedom was here. When the cool and calm evening breeze began to
bid farewell to the burning heat of the afternoon, it was the time to stand on the terrace and imbibe the refreshing air, in ones body. Not just
in the body, I imbibed it in my soul as well. But, now, realizing that I was not safe even on the terrace, caused me gradually to shrink. Was
I at fault for making that good boy lift his lungi? I searched desperately for my faults. My own existence kept mocking me. I myself felt
ashamed of myself, to myself. I was very embarrassed when a marriage proposal came from the house opposite our black gate. Next to
Swapans house was a Mussalman house, where an ugly lungi-vest clad boy would stand. He sent his proposal to our house through the
hands of Abdul Baris wife, who belonged to Jaglupara. The Mritunjay School Master, Abdul Baris balloon faced, freckle cheeked wife
came home once in a while. She would chat about routine household and cooking matters and go away. On hearing of the marriage
proposal from her mouth I trembled with fear and burnt with anger. Ma of course did not say anything insulting to her. With a disapproving
face and gloomy expression she said, The girls father wants to educate her further. He will get very angry if he hears of a marriage
proposal now. Even after hearing Mas answer, Abdul Baris wife called me aside secretly. Taking a crumpled letter out of her blouse, she
pulled out my hand and tucked the letter in it, before leaving in a confused hurry. I opened and read the letter in the bathroom. There were
two pages crammed with I love you type of words. For the first time, I tore a letter written to me into bits, and threw it into the filth in the
toilet. After throwing it, without informing any one of the letter, I sat alone, hidden from every one.
On seeing my growing body Baba collected an odhna from Ma, and hung it over my shoulders, telling me, Wear it this way, you will look
nice. Babas words were so intensely insulting that they tied me up in knots. My shame over my developing breasts was so acute that I
buried my head in my pillow and cried all night. I felt ashamed to wear this extra cloth to cover my breast. To me, this was the proof that
something was hidden behind it, something soft, something modest, something one couldnt talk about. That was why it had to be covered,
because what was there, was very obscene, something growing uncontrollably, and definitely not to be seen. So that I wouldnt have to
wear an odhna, and no obscene part of my body was visible, I walked with my back hunched up. It became a habit. Ma boxed me on my
back saying, Walk straight, wear your odhna. If you wear it, you can walk straight. If you hunch your back from now on, later your
backbone will never straighten up. Even then I didnt feel like straightening up and covering myself with an odhna. I found the article
increasingly awkward. Whether I wore it or not, people knew I had grown up. By the time girls had taken their SSC, Ma said they were not
only married, they sometimes even had children. Hearing this, a sharp thorn pierced my breast. My breast trembled. I did not want to grow
up. Marriage appeared to me not only something fearful and troublesome, but also obscene. Maybe it happened to others, but may it never
happen to me. I threw away the odhna Baba had covered me with. I had grown up, yet I was afraid to make people understand this fact.
After my exams, I had dreamt of getting a break from my school books. When I returned from the Dhaka picnic, my dream was completely
uprooted. Baba had told me to read all my old books over again. Every college had an entrance exam, each very difficult. If I didnt qualify,
that would be the end of my education for ever. I would have to spend the rest of my unbearable life with the title of illiterate. Therefore, I
had to sit with the same old books all over again. What I had to do between my studies also Baba knew. For my leisure hours he had
already assigned Begum.
The day the SSC results were declared, Rabindranath Das came rushing to Aubokash and enthusiastically sounded the victory bugle. I had
passed in the First Division. On getting the news, when I was jumping all over the house with joy, Baba arrived with the exam results in his
hand. I was quite sure he was going to call for me and hug me saying, Ma-Ma. He would bring baskets of rasgolla, malaikari, kalojaam,
chum-chum and feed every one at home. When he called me, I went before him with my face brimming over with happiness. Just when I
was physically ready to feel Babas embrace, and mentally prepared to accept his elation, slapping me hard on my cheeks, he said You
have got a Third Division. Arent you ashamed ?
Third Division? My stupefied face corrected Baba, But I have got a First Division.
While raining continuous blows on my head and face, Baba said Have you got a Star? No, you havent. How many Letters have you got?
A First Division without a Letter means you have just about made it, and that means getting a Third Division. From the Adarsha Balika
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Vidyayatan, only three girls had passed in the First Division. No one was Star-spangled or had secured Letters. So what? Girls from
Vidyamoyee had, from the Zilla School they had! Baba caught me by the ears and dragging me all the way, pushed me towards my study
table. Gritting his teeth, he said, Those who got Stars ate rice, didnt you? I kept Masters to tutor you, not for you to get a Third Division,
haramzadi! I sat still with a book open before me, salty tears fell in drops on the letters in the book.
Late at night when everyone was asleep, I walked stealthily around the house looking for rat-poison. My developing body coupled with my
strange existence and my useless brain everything made me feel so small, that I wanted to become smaller and smaller, so tiny in fact that
I would not even be visible. I could not find the rat-poison. What I did find was a dusty rat-trap in one corner of the room.
Chapter Six
MY VERY OWN LITTLE BIRD NAMED CHANDANA
Every year I was given a scholarship at the Residential, right from the seventh grade onwards. But I was not allowed to keep a single taka
of it for myself. Baba counted every penny and took it all. Ma said, Your Baba is keeping it aside for your future. He will give it back to
you when you grow up. I believed what Ma said. In a way I felt content that all the money with Baba was actually mine. I dreamt of being
able to buy books enough to fill a whole room when I grew up. Yasmin, after failing twice in the fifth grade, had actually done something
surprising. Baba had made her take the School Board scholarship exam, and she not only did well, she even got the scholarship. Now if
Baba wanted to call for Yasmin, he would say, Where, where is that scholarship winning student! I had not been able to take the fifth
grade scholarship exam, and though I had taken the eighth grade one, I was not fated to be successful. It was because of my failure that
Baba made it a point to call Yasmin scholarship winning student in my presence. Not just that, Baba compared me very often to the
worms found in dirty sewers. Repeatedly called a worm, I soon began to think of myself as one. When I did not get a star-spangled First
Class, I again began to think of myself as a dirty worm. Chandana had passed in the Second Class. She was not at all worried about this.
Most of the students had done the same. I was, however, very sure that if I, too, had secured a Second Class, Baba would have whipped me
till I was covered in blood and thrown me out of the house. I was saved because that disaster had not taken place. Having secured a First
Class, I would get a scholarship in college and I would study for free. Baba was very fond of scholarships. If he was pleased, I would at
least be free of some of the pressure of having to perform. If even this had not happened, I would have had to face Babas snarls at every
juncture. Not that I was not facing them now. Anyway, I was positive the frequency would have been much more had I not got the
scholarship.
There was no need to take entrance exams for admission. The college admitted me on the basis of my SSC results. I regretted having
wasted so much precious time studying my old school books even after my exam. My time had flown by, literally gone with the wind.
Would such a leisurely time ever come back! Maybe, there would be other times, but the vacation after ones SSC exam would never
return.
I had wanted to join Anandamohan College. Boys studied there, too. However, even if others allowed their girls to study, sitting close to
boys in class, Baba certainly was not one of them. In spite of the fact that Anandamohan had a much better reputation than Muminunissa,
Baba forcibly admitted me there just because it was exclusively for girls. He seemed to rest in peace only after he had literally denied a
hen, so to speak, permission to enter the duck pen, and had pushed it into the hen coop along with the other hens. The reason I wasnt as
unhappy about joining this college as I should have been, was Chandana. Her father too had forcibly admitted her to Muminunissa College.
Having Chandana for company meant that let alone curse my fate at not being able to see hundred boys a day, I did not even have the
chance to sit alone for a couple of hours in a black mood. Anandamohan remained a mysterious seventh heaven somewhere beyond the
skies. Temporarily leaving it on a pedestal, Chandana and I got busy creating other dreams for ourselves. Muminunissa College was
situated on huge grounds in the western corner of the city. Classes were held in a long tin shed, very much like those in the village school
houses. On one side was a new brick building. The science students had their classes there. Classes were not all held in one room as in
school. One had to run to different rooms for different classes. I liked this system. In school one sat in one classroom and remained there
the whole day. There was another system I liked in College. Even if you attended no class and sat in the grounds or dipped your feet in the
water in the pond and chatted with your friends, no one would pull you by the hair and drag you to class. Nor would you be made to stand
on one leg, holding your ears as a punishment in front of a classroom full of girls. Roll calls were taken in every class, not like school,
where one roll call in the class meant you sat there from ten in the morning till five in the evening. I was charmed with most of the new
college rules, but disliked the one that prevented us from leaving college as we pleased. Needless to say Chandana disliked it even more.
Much before joining college she had said many times, Do you know the greatest thing about studying in a college? If you want to attend
class, you do, if you dont, you neednt. Whenever we wish, we can leave college. All we have to do is return home by the time the college
gets over. The idea had not enamoured me any less. However, once we had joined college, the sight of the six feet tall, black as snake skin,
hairless, toothless Gagan set my spleen trembling in shock. Ki re Baba, why a guard? School gates had guards for the school children.
Where was the justification for a guard at the college gate where big girls quite capable of looking after themselves, came to study!
Chandana was of the same opinion. We came to college at ten in the morning. For two hours we had no classes. Chandana said, Lets go
out. We did not decide where we would go. Outside. Beyond this boundary wall. Just as we were anxious to get away from the confines of
our homes, so we were keen to go beyond the bounds of the college building. However, lets go was easier said than done. Every time we
reached the gate Gagan caught us and pushed us back into the college. For two hours we had nothing to do. That may have been the case.
But no way could we take one step out. No way, there was no way. We tried to justify ourselves to Gagan. We were not small anymore; we
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had grown up. We would not get lost, nor could a kidnapper stuff us into a sack and take us away. But Gagan like the sky he was named
after, remained ablaze, not even a hint of rain clouds anywhere. Gagan hurled our dreams into the gutter. The rules in Girls Colleges were
that once you were inside the premises, the gates closed, and would only open in the evening when the last bell was rung. After years of
being confined within the ten-to-five school routine, if one was unable to spread ones wings even in college, then what was the point of
going there! The girls and boys of Anandamohan College entered and left the premises as they pleased. The girls of Muminunissa, because
they were girls, even though they were grown up, were not thought of as such. Hence, they were again subjected to the ten-to-five routine,
again the uniform, white pyjama, white tunic, red odhna. We had left school and joined college. We had changed buildings, changed
masters, even books, but our routines remained the same. We had to spend our time disconsolately roaming within the boundaries of the
college.
Chandana hated the odhna as much as I did. Very often we appeared in college without wearing it. On seeing the wide-eyed shock of
students and teachers, we realised that by removing this absolutely mandatory piece of clothing, we had upset them all. However, none of
us were of the kind to be affected by the feelings of others. Once college started, from the knowledge we gathered about our teachers, we
realised that the one class we could not afford to miss was that of our Maths teacher Debnath Chakraborty even if the world were to turn
upside down. The rest, we could miss unless there was something really important. The Bangla teacher Abdul Hakim mispronounced most
of the words. In his class we could exchange little notes, draw Hakims picture, round haircut, glasses hanging from his nose. There was no
reason to be interested in the poems in the textbooks as our minds were already infused with poetry. Srimati Sumita Naha also taught
Bangla. When she explained the poetry and prose, except for those sitting in the first row, it was impossible for anyone else to hear her
voice. She seemed to keep her voice close to the ground as if she wanted to protect it. Perhaps she feared that if she raised her voice too
high, it might just crash and fall on the ground! She was a well known Rabindrasangeet exponent. Her husband Alokmoy Naha was also an
artist. An artist and a politician. He stood for elections and won. He was a good politician, but that was not the reason he won. He won
because he was a good singer. The Chemistry teachers nose was always wrinkled up, as though every possible thing in this world was
stinking. She taught us in a nasal tone. Whether or not her students understood what she was saying, she continued to teach. As soon as the
bell rang, she would leave immediately, her nose still crinkled up. One day Chandana and I were suddenly sent out of her class as
punishment for being unable to suppress our laughter. We were, of course, thrilled at this opportunity to leave the class. Chandana and I
tried to gauge in which girls hearts a warm breeze blew whenever our Physics teacher entered the class with his crooked smile. The
Biology class created some waves. One had to catch frogs and lay them on their backs in trays of wax. Their chests and stomachs had to be
cut open to show their digestive systems. On thick white paper we had to draw pictures of various creatures. Drawing meant it was my day
to reign as Queen. The whole day I would elaborately sketch pictures with HB, B, 3B and other types of pencils, as though I had joined an
art school. Seeing this Baba would say, Leave all this worthless exercise and learn your texts by heart. To Baba, drawing pictures in
Biology was also worthless. A frog had to be taken to college, so a race after a frog would begin all round the courtyard. The frog ran and
we ran after it. Yasmin, Ma and I. Finally, I carried a golden frog in a paper packet to college. The frog which had been ambushed while
sitting in the corner of a room had its limbs ultimately stretched out and pinned down by me. I even cut it open to expose its digestive
system, but my pity for the frog made me so sad that until Chandana came and shook me, I did not feel normal. Once I did, I left the room.
The less time spent within the suffocating environment of the classrooms the better for us. I left the biology laboratory. We wanted to
spread our wings. Within us was born a strong desire to break our bonds. However, as we were unable to cross the limits of the college
boundary, we were forced to sit under a red cotton Simul tree in the extreme corner of the compound. In a futile attempt to quench our
thirst for milk with whey, we read each others poetry. All the students in the college stared at us unblinkingly. It seemed we were
different, not really normal. At that time Chandana was in the process of falling in love with a boy she saw on her way to college.
Hearing her story of falling, falling, I too felt like creating some waves in the dull routine of my life. But there was no one close at hand
to create a ripple. I had no falling, falling story. My life was only full of the empty silences of the afternoon and the hot dusty winds of the
summer. I felt like a destitute. One day I got Yasmin to secretly give White Shirt a note asking him to meet me near the college gate at ten.
He was the same White Shirt who made my heart beat faster when I used to see him from the terrace. The next day, instead of entering
college I picked up the waiting White Shirt and went straight to Muktagaccha. This method of taking a rickshaw on a long trip to
Muktagaccha was something I had learnt from Chhotda. He used to do the same with Geeta. However, all the way I only looked at the
villages, the farmers ploughing the land and the emaciated cows sitting on the edges of the road. At the famous Gopal Sweet Shop, I bought
two of their popular mondas, and rode back to the college gate on the same rickshaw. On the way White Shirt had asked some casual
questions which I had been able to answer only in the negative or positive, nothing more. There was no doubt that I got a great thrill out of
engineering this episode, and was considered very daring when I described the whole incident to Chandana in detail. But I noticed that for
White Shirt I did not feel anything. I did not even want to run away with him again somewhere and enjoy the weather.
In the meantime something awful happened. Baba had engaged Debnath Chakraborty to teach me at home. Students thronged to his house
to study, and a Pandit like Debnath Chakraborty had actually agreed to come home and tutor me. This was no ordinary matter; it was an
extraordinary privilege! However, I noticed a big danger in this arrangement. In the classroom he had to see my pretty face, not just see, but
every question he had to ask was directed at me, and he expected the correct answers from no one else but me. Naturally I was unable to do
so. Therefore, in every class he showered slaps, boxes, the duster and everything else at my head. When he appeared at Aubokash in the
evening, my body turned numb. With a figure like a round potato, wearing the perennial blue shirt and black pants, carrying a fat black pen
in his shirt pocket, black rubber shoes on his feet, hair parted and combed, a mouth full of paan, a swaying gait, the man could have been
any Kalimuddin-Salimuddin walking along the road. But no, he was Debnath Chakraborty with a big head full of complicated scientific
knowledge. Without his tutoring it was not possible for any student to do well in the exams. Thanks to Debnath Pandit, every evening of
mine was ruined. If I made any mistake in Maths or in the laws of Physics, he would immediately tear my books and copies and throw
them on the ground. Yasmin hovered close by to pick these up and put them back on the table. With my head the target, a continuous
stream of powerful beatings, boxes and slaps rained down on it. People at home watched my pitiful condition from behind the drapes. One
day, Ma stricken with compassion, sent a branch broken from the jackfruit tree with Yasmin, so that it could be used on my back. She was
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keen that the beatings fall on my back alone, not on my head. The way he beats her on the head, one day she wont have one at all! Ma
was really worried regarding my head. When Debnath Pandits temper rose, however, he rarely noticed the branch of the jackfruit tree. The
branch stayed where it was, and as before his beatings again rained down continuously on my head, and he resumed tearing my books and
throwing them down. Not just my evening, Debnath Pandit managed to make my whole life utterly miserable.
****
In this unbearable existence, there was no dearth of other tensions. When the magazine Bichitra started a section called Personal
Announcements, Chandana and I decided we would write for it. For one word the charges were eight annas, for four, two takas. It was not
possible for me to manage more than two or three takas. Saving my rickshaw fare for college, on the way back home, we stopped at the
Post Office and wrote our notices on money order forms and sent them. We had finally got a formidable opportunity to write what we
pleased, beyond the usual movie talk in cine magazines, and the hackneyed monotony of nation-times-society discussions in Bichitra. We
were two individuals extremely impatient to do as we pleased. Seeing Poet Rafiq Azads personal notice One poem for one kiss, our
enthusiasm began leaping like a kangaroo. Chandana and I together wrote, We are one soul, one life. I wrote, I am an unmanageable
turbulence. Chandana wrote, I am the greatest. Just like the reaction in Chitrali, if I wrote one, twenty others wrote about me, some for
and some against. Hardly two or three words used to create a statement, like throwing a stone into a still pond, and creating ripples. Sitting
on the edges, Chandana and I both enjoyed the experience of watching the waves. Ours was a sheltered existence. We had barriers and wire
meshes all around us. There were prohibitions at every step, denials at every stage. We acquired the strength and courage to disobey these
restrictions through words. Our words were pronounced with such pride and arrogance that anybody who read them assumed we were two
haughty, immodest, headstrong, disdainful, fierce young women who did not accept restrictions and cared two hoots for customs, rules and
regulations. Whereas, the reality was the absolute opposite; this unrestricted free life was only the life of our dreams. Many even thought,
we were the two names behind which a man was hiding, that Taslima and Chandana were not two different individuals at all. Like ants in
winter, whatever money we gathered and saved in two and four annas from one rickshaw fare, from our glassbottlepaperwala, from the
pockets of our fathers and brothers with or without their knowledge was perpetually swallowed up in the fast-flowing stream of our
personal announcements.
Chandana and I had never spoken in pure Bangla; we had always used the Mymensingh rural dialect. Chandana was much more of an
expert at this than I was. Initially I used to laugh at Chandana but gradually I fell into the trap of this language myself. Between us, the
competition was about who could use the maximum number of regional terms. I lost to Chandana repeatedly. People going through schools
and colleges tried to overcome their provincialism as much as possible. Chandana had come from the hilly regions of Rangamati in
Chattagram. At home she spoke the Chakma dialect. However, outside her home very few people knew the level of pure Bangla that she
used, just as even people born and brought up here could not match her mastery of the tone and rhythm of the local dialect. Chandana
enthralled me no doubt, but she surprised me as well. Whenever I spoke to Chandana it was in rural Mymensingh dialect, even letters were
exchanged in the same language. I had always known that whatever language people used while speaking, they always wrote letters in pure
Bangla. However, Chandana had never followed this norm. In whatever language she spoke to a person, she wrote letters to that person in
the same language. Before coming to Chattagram, she lived in Comilla. She wrote to her friend there, in Comilla dialect. Before Comilla,
she had been in Chattagram, she wrote to a friend there in the local dialect. After meeting me, she gave up all other friends and gave me her
exclusive attention. In my life, too, apart from Chandana all other friends had begun to fade away. I had no hand in this. Chandanas
individuality, novelty, rarity overwhelmed me, at all times I felt awed by her. After SSC and before joining college our chances of meeting
were very few for similar reasons. Just as I had to sit at home, Chandana had to sit at home, too. There was no question of visiting friends
whenever we wished. Going out meant visiting Nanibari. I had given up visiting Peerbari ages ago, or going to functions with Chhotda with
a reluctant consent from Ma, or watching movies with Dada. As far as movies were concerned I could only go to matinee shows, so that
Baba did not get to know. As soon as the show would get over, Dada, Yasmin and I would hurry home and sit with faces which appeared as
though we had never known what cinema was all about. I had taken Chandana sometimes with me to the movies, but even that was under
Dadas supervision. After seeing Alamgir Kabirs film Seemana Periye (Beyond the Limits), the dialogues of Bulbul Ahmed were always
on our lips. Enacting the part of a moronic stammering man on a remote island, Bulbul had told Jayshree, Wha-what havent I done for
you, I have he-held you-you close to my hea-heart, carried you on my ba-back! This dialogue of Bulbul, Chandana and I knew by heart.
Chandana started it. She had a battle with her younger brother Saju once. Soon after being beaten up by him, a very aggrieved Chandana
described the whole incident to me saying Wha-what have I no-not done for him, I have he-held him clo-close to my hea-heart, my
sto-stomach, my he-head, my shou-shoulders. Chandana never bore a grudge against her brothers even when she was hurt by them in
fights. But one hurt she bore all her life. When Molina Chakma had given birth to a girl child, Subroto Chakma had come into the labour
room with a big chopper to kill his own daughter because he did not like girls. Thanks to the intervention of family members in the labour
room, Chandanas life was saved no doubt. Molina Chakma having subsequently given birth to two male offsprings, Subroto Chakmas
anger with Chandana had abated somewhat, but Chandana had never been able to forgive her father. Even now, like a nightmare the scene
stubbornly remained day and night in her mind.
Chhotda brought the news that Chipachosh was having a function. The one and only Bulbul Ahmed was coming from Dhaka! The same
Bulbul Ahmed of Seemana Periye and Surjo Kanya (Daughter of the Sun) fame. Chandana could not go to the function; she did not get
permission from home. It was not easy to go out with Chhotda. Chhotda was a boy who had gone astray. No one was willing to let me run
wild with him. However, I still got permission. Ma had a partiality for film heroes and heroines, however spiritual she might have been. I
was bursting with excitement. I would actually be seeing a film hero in person. Chhotda said, Dont forget to carry your autograph book.
I had no such thing called an autograph book. On the way, Chhotda bought me a notebook with red-blue-green pages. Bulbul Ahmed was
sitting at a table corner, and pressing around the edge of that table were people sitting and standing. He was talking to everyone very
naturally, as though he had known them all his life. He was cheerfully answering everyones queries. When the time came to take his
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autograph, my heart was pounding; what should I say to him? I like your acting very much. Obviously I liked his acting, otherwise why
would I want his autograph! When he asked my name before signing, I pronounced it very softly. He wanted to know the full name! After I
told him, he burst out laughing, and overwhelmed me by saying, You are Taslima Nasreen? Why should you want my autograph! I should
be taking yours! Hey, you are more famous than I am! I hid my face behind Chhotda. Prior to this meeting I would never have believed
that film stars were like ordinary people, that they too laughed, cried, abused, were abused, that they also needed to answer the calls of
nature, they too caught cold, or felt feverish. However, after seeing Bulbul Ahmed at close quarters I changed my views. I had not even a
tiny doubt that Razzaq, Kabari, Azim, Sujata, Jaffar, Babita, Alamgir, Shabana and all the rest were human beings just like us.
Chandana suddenly, abandoning her casual love affairs with neighbourhood boys who threw notes or wrote letters, became absorbed with
Jaffar Iqbal. Jaffar Iqbal was the most handsome hero in the world of films. Many things were written about the love affairs of hero Jaffar
Iqbal and heroine Babita in the film magazines. We never bothered about such things. It was a question of good looks. There was such a
bankruptcy of handsome men about us, that we both knew we had no option but Jaffar. One day, Chhotda went to Dhaka to chat with Jaffar
Iqbal on behalf of Chipachosh. Chandana and I fell all over him in our eagerness to hear all the details from the beginning to the end.
Hearing everything added more fuel to the fire of our eagerness. Taking Jaffar Iqbals No. 5 Nayapaltan address from Chhotda, I wrote him
a letter. A reply came from Jaffar Iqbal on the second day. On very nice writing paper with Jaff inscribed on it, was a short letter addressed
to a friend whose name was mis-spelt. The evening was spent in a state which was completely out of self-possession. Next morning I
picked up Chandana on the way to college as usual, but the whole day was filled with nothing but Jaffar. No reading, no writing, nothing
else. The wrong spellings in the letter we forgave for the moment, but only because they were Jaffar Iqbals. Those who sent mis-spelt
letters requesting pen-friendship, we very categorically rejected. I incited Chandana to write to Jaffar. A few days later, a letter from Jaffar
came to her as well. The next day, without waiting to meet me in college, she almost flew to Aubokash with his letter in her hands. Our
dreams of Jaffar made time fly like floating Simul cotton, for both of us. After seeing two English films with Chhotda, Chandana reacted
more than I did. She bought a pair of high-heeled shoes, stuck Jaffars picture on it, wrote, I love you on top of it and came merrily to
college. Not just that, copying a design from a foreign fashion magazine, she got a long skirt stitched. Wearing it with a big hat on her head,
she moved about, causing everyone to stare at her as though leave aside this city, she couldnt possibly belong to this world. I too bought
the same kind of fabric in the same colour and made a skirt. I had no concept of fashion before. Chandana was the one to sow the first seed.
In the meantime, my old-fashioned father did something which simultaneously dismayed and enthralled us. He brought home a telephone.
The phone was locked, so no one could call anyone from home. The main reason for installing the phone was to make sure that everyone
was doing their work at home well, and were at the places they were required to be, while Baba was at Arogya Bitaan. The happiest person
when the phone was installed at home was Chhotda. Using a twisted wire he would unlock the telephone and call Geeta every night in
Dhaka. Sensing this Baba put the locked telephone into the drawer of his Secretariat table, and locked the drawer. The solution to this
problem did not occur to anyone, but to Chhotda himself. He merrily removed the desktop, took out the telephone, used the wire again,
opened the lock and continued his calls to Geeta. On this side, delighted with the arrival of the telephone I distributed our number to all and
sundry. Then came that evening, when Jaffar Iqbal personally called me on the phone. Chhotda took the call and handed the phone to me. I
had never spoken to anyone before on the telephone. After saying hello, no sound emerged from my throat. I began to drown in a chilled
silence. Desperately I searched for words. At least one or two. The more I searched, the more they eluded me. From the other end, Jaffar
after talking to himself for sometime, put down the phone thinking there was no one at this end. The phone rang again, I ran to the other
room saying, If Jaffar Iqbal calls, dont give me the phone. The next night the same thing happened. The phone kept ringing. Chhotda
picked it up, told me that Jaffar Iqbal had called again. But what was I supposed to do! I just could not utter the familiar tumi. In my letters
I used tumi, but in response to his voice not even a bomb could have induced me to address him in the same way. After debating for over an
hour about hello, tumi, how are you, I am fine etc., I finally got ready to answer the phone. When it rang, I picked it up only to hear Babas
voice saying, How did you pick up the phone? It was locked up in the drawer! I could not imagine what the outcome of picking up this
phone was going to be. All I knew was that it robbed me of my speech, my own mother-tongue Bangla. Chhotda courageously picked up
the next phone, which was Jaffar Iqbals. Giving me the receiver, he said in a subdued tone, Say hello. Come on. I said, Hello. To the
question how are you? I was able to reply Im fine, and to the query, Have you received my letter? I was able to say, Yes, but from
my side not a single question was asked, because this would then involve my having to address him as tumi. To the question Where are
you studying? I replied, At the University, since I didnt want to be thought a plait-swinging young girl. When I spoke I was not really
in this world, not standing next to a table whose cover had been removed, or holding a phone whose lock had been secretly opened with a
wire. Mistaking the light of the lamppost outside filtering through the red and blue glass of the windows and falling on my body, for the
delightful moonlight, I was mentally walking hand in hand with Jaffar Iqbal on a deserted sea shore. But the very next thing he said
shocked me. No. You do not study at the University. I know that. Returning to earth with a bang, I asked, How do you know? Without
answering the question, he replied in a grave voice, One should not lie to a friend.
*****
The shame of having lied devoured me. Putting the phone down, I went and hid my face under the quilt on my bed. Later, as soon as I met
Chandana I sighed deeply and told her about the embarrassing incident. Ive ruined it. Trying to appear older in age, I went and told a lie.
Jaffar Iqbal knew that Chandana was my friend. If one was a liar, then the other could be one too! After sitting desolately for a long time;
Chandana suddenly shook off her sorrow and said, You spoke only the truth, dont we study at the University? We do. In our minds.
When Baba removed the telephone from the drawer, and walked out of the house with it under his arms the very next day, I kind of heaved
a sigh of relief. The torn phone cable kept hanging for a long time. Chhotda bought an old telephone, from where, only he knew. He tried
connecting it to the torn cable and tested it only to get no sound. Meanwhile out of shame I did not reply to Jaffars letter. Chandana
continued to receive letters from him. His letters had now gone beyond friendship and were hinting at love. So were Chandanas. I was the
listener for both sides. This role suited me. I also realised that I did not have the capacity to accept any other role.
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Chhotda was again organising a function for Chipachosh. Shahnaz Rahmutullah, the renowned singer, and her brother, our one and only
excellently beloved Jaffar Iqbal were coming from Dhaka. The function was to be held in the Town Hall, on Saturday evening. Chandana
and I sat under the Simul tree at college, oscillating between whether to go or not to go and see Jaffar Iqbal. I wavered throughout Saturday,
and finally never went to the evening function. That lie made me shrink. Chandana, after saying she would, also ultimately did not go. At
the end of the function, at Jaffar Iqbals ardent insistence, Chhotda took him to Chandanas green tin house. Over tea and biscuits there,
Jaffar spoke to Chandana. For as long as he was there, Chandana remained with her head bowed down. Some yes, some nos and some
embarrassed smiles were all she had recourse to. She was hundred per cent sure that after returning to Dhaka Jaffar would never again write
letters to her. But Jaffars very next letter was steeped in the language of love. This deep love finally developed into a marriage proposal.
Chandana could fall in love, but marriage was a no-no. It was pleasant to watch a dark wild sea from its shores, but Chandana did not
possess the daring required to leap into it.
Chandana had squashed quite a few lovers meanwhile. She had abused their neighbour, Magistrate Akhtar Hossain as an old bull, had
spat out in disgust on seeing Antu, the boy who sang, walking bare-chested on the terrace, and had rejected Sandipan Chakma, the paying
guest in their house for a few months, on seeing him eat. Chandana could not bear to see bare-chested men or those chewing food.
Romance disappeared in fright from her mind. She had even said on and off, Do you know when it is that people always look awful?
When? When they eat. There is an orifice called mouth in our body, people stuff all kinds of things into it, rubbing their two sets of
teeth on them in the most obscene manner Chhi! The one I love should not eat in front of me, not undress before me or go to the toilet in
my presence. Bas, thats the simple equation. During the vacation, Chandana once went to visit Rangamati. The Raja of the Chakmas,
Debashish Ray was then looking for a bride. At a family function he was amazed to see Chandana. Where would he ever get such an
eligible bride! Where else in Rangamati was there anyone as beautiful and intelligent as her! He wanted Chandana. Wanted means wanted.
Debashish Ray was a friend of one of Chandanas paternal cousins. Through him, Debashish sought an opportunity to meet and speak to
Chandana. Subroto Chakma was over the moon with joy. His daughter was about to become a Rani. At her cousins request Chandana went
to meet Debashish at the banks of a big pond. In its clear water, flocks of white swan were swimming with their smooth necks held high.
Sitting on the grass nearby, when Debashish like a lover had extended his sweaty hands towards her and had just begun to speak words of
love in a serious voice, Chandana had burst into laughter. Returning home she told her enthusiastic cousin that Debashish may be a Raja
and what not, but he certainly did not know how to make love. Marriage would not work out with him. Subroto Chakma, initially in a soft
tone, then in a strong voice told Chandana to accept Debashishs marriage proposal. She did not agree. Beatings did not work either.
Chandana was totally against marriage. She could not even imagine a bare-bodied man sharing a bed with her. Then he would do things,
make her do things, which even if other girls were agreeable to, Chandana certainly wasnt. Merrily rejecting the royal proposal, Chandana
came back to Mymensingh when the vacations finished. She anyway disliked any blunt nosed Chakma man, however great a Raja he might
be. Chandanas ability to quickly fall in love like this and as quickly reject the lovers was very fascinating to me. I had no one to reject, and
I did not fall in love with anyone either.
At Chhotdas request Chandana wrote a letter to his childhood friend. Gradually Hassan Mansoor Khokon grew to be Chandanas number
one pen friend. As the name Khokon was associated with being a mamas boy, Chandana rejected it, and chose to address him as Hassan.
She regularly listened to the song Na Sajni, I know she will not come, and added the name Sajni, meaning ladylove, at the end of her
name. She did not like the name Chandana, and certainly did not care for the title Chakma at all. However, as they were her own names she
could not drop them. Even if anyone was called witch, she had to retain the name as her own. Chandana read Hassans marvelous letters,
and after writing Sajni Hassan on paper, moved around to see how good it looked. Jaffar Iqbal had been handsome no doubt, but his letters
were full of wrong spellings and faulty language. This could be forgiven a couple of times, not everyday. Chandana got involved with
Hassan. Just as Hassan wrote poems about forests and seas, about getting lost one day on some unknown island, Chandana too wrote of her
perfectly beautiful dreams that were like feathers floating sorrowfully in the colourful sky. What Chandana wrote to Hassan, or even what
Hassan wrote to Chandana was all read out to me. There was not even a single little thing that was secret between Chandana and me. I
couldnt believe that Chandana was really keen to meet, in reality, any of the people she wrote to. She liked to play with words and dreams;
she played. I told Chandana that my heart fluttered when I saw Hassans crooked smile. I even told her that Hassan was very handsome. In
fact in my childhood I had thought that there was no one in the world more handsome than Hassan. Chandana listened very carefully to
what I was saying, and while doing so she mentally began walking in some faraway forest holding Hassans hand. The same Hassan,
almost half-mad with reading Chandanas letters, one day arrived in Mymensingh from Dhaka to see her. But how was he going to see her?
The moment she heard that Hassan had come to see her, Chandana retired like a snail into her shell. A soft, colourful feather from the
cloudy sky fell loudly on the senseless dry earth and broke Chandanas absorption. The harsh reality made Chandana turn pale and wan. At
Chhotdas urging I begged this apathetic, lifeless and wan individual to meet Hassan at least once. When she agreed, Chhotda took both of
us to the Mymensingh Exhibition along with Geeta. Geeta, had now settled down in Mymensingh on her return from Burma and Korea.
The main reason for going to the fair was to get Hassan and Chandana to meet each other informally. Hassan was waiting for us at the
Exhibition. The Exhibition meant street-plays, circus, motorcycle races inside a dry well, shops and stalls, dazzling lights and a gambling
game called Housie. Walking slowly around the grounds, Geeta suddenly wanted to play Housie. Chhotda was ever ready to satisfy Geetas
desires. He entered the Housie game with the whole group. There were no women there, only us. After winning seventy-five takas at
Housie, Geeta danced in joy and excitement. Quite a substantial portion of the seventy-five takas was spent eating meat and paranthas, rotis
fried in oil. Once Hasan saw Chandana, he was unable to take his eyes off her. Chandana, however, after glancing at him once, did not look
at him again. To Hassans one or two questions, she had answered in the negative or the affirmative. Are you well? Yes. Physically well?
Yes. Mentally well? Yes. Are your studies getting along well? No. Do you want to buy anything? No. Have you ever been to Savar? No.
Judging from Chandanas shy smiles, everyone assumed that she had really liked Hassan. Girls appeared shy like her especially if they
were head-over-heels in love. Chandana had held my hand throughout. Quite often I had felt the pressure of her hand on mine. I had
interpreted these to mean, Look, look at how beautiful Hassans two eyes are! Look at his smile, can anyone smile so pleasantly! He is
walking with his hands in his pocket, what a wonderful manner of walking! Aah; I am dying! That night I did not get the opportunity to
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see Chandanas excitement in the midst of the crowd and the dust. The next day I was eager to hear her excited words and phrases.
I had already told you how handsome Hassan was, did you see!
Chandana laughed loudly.
Come on. Tell me quickly.
What do you want me to say?
Tell me how you liked Hassan.
Dhoor, he was rotten! The fellow had a paunch.
Hassan was rejected. I too looked closely at Hassan, the fellow really had a paunch. Chandana opened my eyes for me, opened my mind for
me. I clearly understood that Chandana and I both liked everyone, and yet didnt like them. We wanted to fall in love, and yet didnt want
to. We knew all about love, we had read about it, seen it, but somehow its existence in our own lives was acceptable, yet not really so. We
swung between liking and not liking, Chandana and I.
Even though we bunked class, we had not been able to hoodwink Gagan, the guard. So we discovered a thorny bush at the end of the
college grounds and one day, even though we got badly scratched, we escaped from under it into the streets. We had got out but where
could we go? The afternoon was in a daze, deserted and burning in the rays of the sun. Chandana suggested going to the park. My heart
trembled at the thought of the park. Suppose I was confronted again by those gangs of boys! Chandana caught my hand and pulled me
ahead. Her touch was enough to make me more restless, lively and activated. Floating for the moment on the wings of Chandanas daring, I
temporarily forgot the gangs of boys and went to that same Ladies Park. We spread ourselves under a fig tree, and were bathed in the cool
of the waters of the Brahmaputra. Calling a dinghy boat, Chandana made the boatman sit idle, while she herself plied the oars making
lapping noises, which sounded more like a song in Raag Dhrupad, than the sound of oars on water. I dipped my feet in the waters, and
watched the play of the clouds and the sun in the sky. Just watching and floating we didnt realize when the evening shadows began to fall.
The multi-coloured twilight was not only in the sky, it covered us all over as well. I, too, wanted to row a boat like Chandana, I wanted to
float about in the water, I wished my whole life could be spent rocking to the music, reaching nowhere, to no shore, I wished my life could
be spent eternally floating in this way. I wished I could suddenly spread my wings, and fly like a bird all over the sky. Go close to all those
colours, and gradually get absorbed in them. Chandana, do you ever want to become a bird? I wanted to ask Chandana. She, too, must
want to become a bird; her wishes were just like mine. I still felt that what Chandana desired, a lot of it she managed to achieve, surprising
everyone. She might actually be able, one day, to fly really close to the colours of the sunset. We did not feel like leaving the waters of the
Brahmaputra. But we had to. Even if we were to be exiled somewhere, we both thought that that would be like truly immersing our bodies
in a sea of happiness.
In the college premises, Chandana and I gradually became isolated in our different world. Not that we didnt want to meddle sometimes in
the gossip of other girls. Once there was no class. Sitting in the midst of a group of gossiping girls, I heard about when which girl was
getting married, which boy was coming to see which girl and when, the boys name, address, what he did etc. Both Chandana and I had
smiles peeping out of the corners of our mouths. None of the girls liked our smiles. One of them wanted to know why we were grinning.
We are laughing because you are talking about this disgusting subject.
Disgusting subject? Some girls eyes had reached their foreheads; others near their noses, and some girls eyes had bulged out of their
sockets. It was as though Chandana and I could not possibly be human; we must be some strange creatures from another planet.
Irritated, one of them asked, Why should it be disgusting?
Of course, it is disgusting, said Chandana.
You are behaving as though you will never get married.
We never will. I can be married only if I want to! I said.
Chandana said, Phoo! Am I mad to get married! No one but mad and stupid people get married.
We will never get married. On hearing this declaration of ours, the girls wanted to know what was the reasoning behind our decision.
Is there any reason for getting married, if there is, then what is it?
To have a household. There is need for a family.
What is the need for domestic life? Do people not survive without it?
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There will be children.
What happens if you dont have them?
Who will feed you? Give you money?
I will complete my studies and work. I will earn money. I will stay alone. Eat and drink. Roam around. Enjoy myself. Do whatever I
please.
Is that possible?
Why not? Of course, it is. You only have to wish to do so.
We moved away. We could make out that many eyes were staring unblinkingly at our backs. Taking my hand in hers, Chandana walking
towards the Simul tree, said, Dont look back. We walked along together like this, holding hands with our arms around each others
waists and shoulders, without looking backwards. This was nothing new in the college grounds. Friends spent time talking to each other in
this way. However, the girls said that the slight slant of our necks indicated an invisible pride and arrogance.
To Chandana and me, poetry became more important than romance. Everyday we wrote poems, or we wrote stories. Whatever I might
write, in comparison to Chandanas, mine appeared very ordinary. If she created a beautiful red flowering Krishnachura Gulmohar tree,
mine appeared like a wilting, flowerless plant. I was so enchanted by her beauty, her aura, her essence and her extraordinary originality,
that if ever a trace of jealousy was born in my mind, it disappeared in seconds. Chandana and I could never become Chipachosh members;
we could never even go to any societies or meetings; we were not for such things. Ours was a different world. We were involved in the
endless, unworried, solitary and pure game of words. We did not take our words to demonstrations and shout slogans, nor did we know
how to play the game of politics. During that period of poetic abundance, one day Chhotda brought home Shafiqul Islam. Shafiqul wore
thick lenses. His head was bigger than his body, and it was covered with tough, wiry hair. He looked as though he had not taken a bath in
two years, nor changed his clothes. This garrulous man was constantly talking in the regional tune and tone. As soon as he saw me he said,
Whats up, you have become very famous! I publish a little magazine. Write a poem, will you? In one evening I complied with his
request, and wrote a new poem called Free Bird. It went a bit in this way Open the window, I want to go, I want to fly all over the sky.
Maybe I was inspired by hearing Ma, who whenever she sat on the verandah would suddenly break into the song, I am a free, flying
goose, I spread my wings in the far away blue sky. Two weeks later when Shafiquls poetry magazine came out, my poem was published
in it. Padmarag Mani had also written a poem in it. Padmarag Mani came to visit Chhotda and Geeta at Aubokash once in a while. From a
distance I had exchanged glances, subdued smiles and even a couple of words with this eye-catching beauty. Once my poem was published
in Shafiquls magazine, other such poetry magazines began to float in. Rush in and even crawl towards me. Chhotda came home with
numerous small magazines after meeting various poets in town. Frequently he demanded, Write a poem for Banglaar Darpan. I wrote, it
got published. Tell Chandu Mastaan to write a poem. Chandana too kept giving Chhotda poems, and they too got published. Since the
day Chandana had arrived at Aubokash early morning on a cycle, Chhotda had named her Chandu Mastaan, the hell cat. Chandana was
not displeased. Chhotda was told by the Dainik Jahaan also, to get me as well as Chandana to write poetry for them. Entering the material
world of poetry, those were my first uncertain steps. So were they Chandanas. Our poetry notebooks were overflowing with words.
Chitrali and Purbani began to fade away. We neither wrote for them nor bought them. We hardly remembered sending personal
announcements to Bichitra. If the topic came up, Chandana would say, There are dangers in advertisements. A printing error could change
a 24 year old heroine into a 42 year old harlot. So advertisements were out. If we had to send something, we would send poems, either to
the Sunday or Searchlights literary page.
****
At the end of the first year at college, there was to be a promotion exam to the second year. Debnath Pandit came home to tutor, rained
boxes and slaps on my head and back, to his hearts content, and went away. Chandana did not have this Debnath Pandit problem. She was
happy. Chandana had always been unconcerned about things like studies. I, too, would have been, but could not be, thanks to Baba. I was
forced to study in the English medium because Baba wanted me to. Chhotda had studied in this medium and some of his books were lying
around at home. I dusted them and arranged them on my table. Before the exams Debnath Babu informed Baba, She should study in
Bangla only, she would be unable to cope with the English medium. Bangla books were brought and the English removed. I had to rush
through the books, as the exams were round the corner. I didnt know why, but just before the exams, Debnath Pandit would appear at all
odd hours his hair ruffled, the ink from the fountain pen in his pocket soaking almost half his shirt and give me a few questions to write,
saying, Study these answers really well. Bas, after learning these answers very well, when I went to take my exams I mostly found only
these questions in my papers. The exams got over, the results were declared. I had come first. I became famous in college. The Principal
called me to her room and said, You are the pride of this college. Continue to work hard we want really good results in the final exams.
Baba was not really happy, though, on getting the news. He noticed that many letters addressed to me were coming home. He asked Dada,
Who are the people writing to Nasreen?
Penfriends.
Penfriend means what?
In a disinterested tone Dada replied, Friendship through letters.
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What does that mean?
Dada did not reply.
What do they write in these letters? Baba was very astonished.
Who knows, I have no idea.
What do you mean you dont know?
She doesnt show me the letters.
Why doesnt she? What is there in these letters?
Dada was quiet.
Whom does she write to?
I dont know.
Dont we need to know to whom this girl is writing, what she is writing, why she is writing?
Theres nothing much. It is just normal friendship!
Dada tried to cool Babas growing temper, but it didnt work. Babas voice grew steadily louder.
What is the meaning of normal friendship?
Dada stared dumbly at the white wall.
Are they women or men? Whom is she writing to?
Both.
You mean she is making friends with men?
Getting no reply from Dada, he huffed and puffed saying, Does she want to get married?
Dada said, No, not marriage.
Then what?
Just like that.
Meaning what? Just like what?
She just writes casually.
Why does she write casually? What is the need?
No, there is no need.
If there is no need, then why does she write?
I dont know.
Why dont you?
Baba went on questioning Dada his eyes red, swollen and ready to gobble Dada up. To escape from the torture of this questioning, Dada
excused himself by saying he needed to go to the toilet, and went and sat there. Baba repeatedly took off his glasses, and wore them; kept
walking from one end of the verandah to the other and rummaged amongst the books on my table. Every book, every copy. Under the table,
every fallen piece of paper there. Even under the bedsheets, pillows and mattresses. He was looking for something.
After this incident all my letters stopped coming. They were now going to the Notun Bazar address of Arogya Bitaan. Baba had wangled
the postman into doing this. I was sure of this the day Chhotda informed me that he found many letters addressed to me at Aubokash, all
opened, in Babas drawer at Arogya Bitaan. As soon as Baba had left for the Bazaar, Chhotda had made this discovery. There was only one
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thing that I had felt at that time, that this was wrong. Baba, being Baba, did not think that there was anything wrong in this. But why should
the postman do this? That I would get no help from anyone if I complained, I was sure. So I wrote a letter. In the Readers Page of Bichitra,
the letter was published the very next week. Letters for Aubokash, Amlapara were being delivered at 69, Rambabu Road. The dishonesty of
the Postal Department was crossing all limits etc Two days after the letter was published, an official of the Postal Department came
looking for me at Aubokash. In a long bound register he had come to lodge my complaint. However, once he arrived, he expressed his own
complaint instead. His complaint was about my complaint. My letters were not going to some unknown villian, but to my own father. The
owner of Aubokash and of Arogya Bitaan was the same individual. Therefore, according to instructions, the owners letters could go from
one address to the other. In answer to this I said, But the letters are not addressed to my father, they are addressed to me. I had not told the
postmaster to deliver my letters to Arogya Bitaan instead of Aubokash.
Wherever they are delivered, he is your father after all.
In a soft voice I corrected him, Yes, he is my father. He is not me. My father and I are not the same, we are different. The official went
away. The problem remained unsolved. Chhotda helped me out of this situation by allowing me to use his friends stationery shop address.
I informed my penfriends of my new address. Chhotda faithfully acted as my postman. I was very friendly with him. We read the Id Edition
of Bichitra, stories, and novels together, that is, I read them aloud and Chhotda listened. Most of the story books were also read in this way.
Some of these Chhotda did not like, and these I read by myself. The stories of the wicked forest elf of my childhood were forgotten. I had
given up reading Niharranjan Gupta, Phalguni Mukhopadhyay, Nimai Bhattacharya, Bimal Mitra, Jarasondho ages ago. I had nothing left
of Saratchandra to read. I had even had enough of Rabindranath and Nazrul. Michael, even Jibanananda had been consumed. From Shakti,
Sunil, Shamshur Rahman, Al Mahmud to the recent Nirmalendu Goons books, whatever had been published, I had read. I wanted
something different. On the way back home from college, I stopped at the bookshops at the corner of Ganginar Par, and searched for books.
Prose, poetry, essays, all kinds of books attracted me. But I didnt have enough money to buy books. Chhotda rescued me from even this
misery. One evening he took me to the Public Library. As soon as I entered it, a wonderful peace and calm embraced me. From the floor to
the ceiling of the room, were bookshelves. There were books all around. In the centre there were study tables; there was pin-drop silence;
one or two people were studying seriously. Purposely, I spent the whole day in this clean, neat and peaceful temple-like room. If only all
the books in the library could be carried home and read today itself! That very day I became a member and carried home as many books as
I could hold in my two hands. The books kept passing from my hands to Chandanas and back to mine. Once wed gone through Sayyed
Waliullah, Saikat Usman, Hassan Ajijul Haq, it was Satinath Bhaduri, Naren Mitra and Jagdish Gupta. We returned books and got more.
We hungrily read all the books, as though very soon we had to take an important exam on the books in the Public Library.
****
The exams were approaching. In refined terms the Higher Secondary, in colloquial, Intermediate and in bookish Bangla Uchcho
Madhyamik exams. Instead of three days, now Debnath Pandit was coming home five days a week. He didnt come to teach me actually,
only to beat me into a worthy person. Like Babas, Debnath Pandits eyes strayed to the small bits of paper. One day a half-finished letter to
a penfriend fell out of my Maths book. Before I could pick up the fallen letter, Debnath Pandit grabbed it, read it from top to bottom, and
put it into his breast pocket. What was this! He was behaving just like Baba. Was he now going to break the firewood in the courtyard on
my back, because of this letter! Every so often he felt his breast pocket, and seemed to feel a kind of joy in ascertaining that the half
finished letter still existed, and instead of flying away somewhere, was still inside his pocket. It was the kind of joy that inflamed one, that
made the hair on ones body stand on end, and settle down, that made the head throb and not do so at the same time. Debnath Pandit was
unable to teach. He kept shifting from left to right, from back to front. His mind was restless. I finished the sums he had given me; there
were no mistakes. Suddenly he clutched the Physics book with all his ten fingers as though the book had wings and would fly away if he
loosened his hold. Turning the pages, he began to ask me the most difficult questions. I dont know with whose blessings, but even these I
was able to answer correctly. With Chemistry, too, my fate was the same. After that, he suddenly pushed away the Maths, Physics and
Chemistry books with both hands and without any reason gave me one great blow on my head, on the right side of my forehead. Why! No,
there was no reason for it. He said, Why arent you doing the sums I gave you to solve yesterday!
I have done them.
If you have done them, then why cant you show them? Where is your mind?
This was the golden opportunity to punish me for the half-finished letter. I held the Maths copy before him. Even after doing so I got a
sudden blow on my back. My lungs felt the impact.
How many times do I have to tell you to leave a margin when doing sums?
This was first time he had mentioned a margin. Whatever. Then he came to the actual topic.
Who have you written the letter to?
Which letter?
This time a slap landed smack on my cheek.
As though you dont know which letter? This one!
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He took out the half-finished letter from his breast pocket.
Who is Jewel? Where does she stay? What does she do?
She stays in Dhaka. I dont know what she does.
You dont know? Are you fooling me?
How could I fool Debnath Pandit? I didnt have that kind of courage. Debnath Pandit sat before me with his huge body, massive physique,
arms like the trunks of a banana tree, and fingers like hard, solid bananas. I tried, on the other hand, to lie at his feet like a dying blade of
grass, as lifeless as I could possibly be. Tearing the letter into bits, he threw the pieces on my face and left the room breathing fumes of
anger. I sat alone, amidst Debnath Pandits beatings, Babas scolding, Mas nagging, Chhotdas sorrow, Geetas pride and Dadas bossing. I
buried my face in books. The exams were approaching. I knew that, but that did not prevent me from looking at Chhotdas friends who
visited our house. There was Jyotirmoy Duttas son Babua Dutta. There was Tafsir Ahmed, son of the editor of Takbir, so handsome one
couldnt take ones eyes off him. Another reputed lady-killer was Sohan, the D. C.s son, who lived in the saheb quarters. Whoever I saw, I
not only fell in love with mentally, I even heard his personal thoughts in my own mind, Where will I get a pitcher, girl where will I get a
rope, you are the deep river, and I am the one who is drowning. Yet not one of them bothered to give me even a second glance, and I
began to feel like the ugliest girl in the world.
Just like Chitrali and Purbani stopped coming, letters from penfriends also began to peter out. I only replied to some really good, poetic
letters written in neat handwriting. A final year student of the Technical University, Kamrul Hassan Salim, wrote amazingly beautiful
letters, as though he was writing of dreams from another world. I selected Salims letters and kept writing to him from across the seas
which I had never seen. We were like two people alone in another world, facing each other, and talking about our dreams. In this dream
world there were no people, no houses, only skies and seas. On the seashores were only multi-coloured flowers, butterflies, and in the skies
were all the seven colours of the rainbow, soft cotton wool clouds and long tailed birds. It could have carried on this way. But one day,
suddenly, near the college gate a tall young man came and stood before me. My hair was soaked in oil, tightly plaited, and I must definitely
have been looking like a ghoul. Of the two boys standing before me, one was Salim. As soon as he came and introduced himself, I almost
leapt away and quickly took a rickshaw home, my heart thumping. Salim left for Dhaka that day and wrote back. He had come to meet a
friend at Mymensingh, and wanted to meet me once. That was why he had come with his friends and waited at the college gate for me. He
had returned, disappointed at my not having talked to him. Of course, I can meet you, this girl bold with words proudly replied. Come
and meet me. But where? That was a definite problem. There was a restaurant on Station Road, called Tajmahal, where the poets of the
city met. It was true, no woman went there alone. I informed Salim, that I would meet him there. Chhotda had taken Geeta and me to that
restaurant one evening. Because there were women with Chhotda, we were given a table behind a curtain. Whenever women came,
this was the norm, go far away, out of sight. The people at Tajmahal kept peeping at us. As soon as Salim got my letter, he wrote back
telling me on which day, and what time he was coming to Mymensingh. The day I was to meet him, I dressed up and left the house on the
pretext of attending Chandanas birthday. Salim was standing at the entrance of Tajmahal. Controlling the palpitations in my heart with all
my might, I entered the restaurant, and had to sit behind the curtains. Although I sat opposite Salim, drinking tea, I was unable to look him
in the eye. To his questions I was almost speechless, able to utter no more than yes, hmm, no and a couple of impersonal words. I was only
voluble in my silence. Although I used the personal tumi in my letters, I realised I found it impossible to call him tumi to his face. I sat
there only till the tea lasted. As soon as the tea was over, I became restless. We had drunk the tea, now what, except to leave what else
could happen! The word Bye kept coming to the tip of my tongue and receding. In one of my letters I had used the word Ahalya.
Maybe for this reason, Salim asked me, What does the word Ahalya mean?
I did not reply.
He laughed and said, Naked.
Instantly the word that was coming and going from my tongue finally came out. I said, Bye and left without demur. Salim was left
behind, sitting in a state of shock.
That very day Chhotda came back with the news. It seems you went to the Tajmahal?
Who told you?
It seems you were sitting and chatting with some fellow? The whole city has come to know. You are really crossing all limits now.
That I had crossed limits I understood very clearly. But this girl who had managed to do so also felt herself to be extremely dumb and
stupid. How come she was unable to speak to Salim! By leaving the restaurant without any warning, what was she trying to prove? Was she
trying to say that she was not a bad girl, that, she didnt chat with boys! She was from a highly placed gentlemans family, a good girl, who
avoided the company of boys! She had to meet Salim only because he had come all the way from Dhaka, otherwise she would never have
gone to such lengths! Whats this! It seemed hearing the word naked had revolted her physically! The next day she sent a letter with two
takas in an envelope to Salim I am really sorry, I forgot to pay for the tea. I am sending you the money. This was possibly to give him
the message that she was not a sponger! Otherwise, two takas was not such a big amount that if Salim paid for it from his own pocket, he
would have become destitute, therefore she just had to send him the amount by post from Mymensingh to Dhaka!
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Since he met me, Salims letters surprisingly became more passionate. There were more waves in the sea. I was moving backwards,
because his lips had not appeared like lips to me but had appeared if not like a whole, atleast half a tandoori roti. I gradually reduced my
letters to Salim, and one day Salim, too, stopped writing to me. No letters, none at all. After a very long time, suddenly I received a letter
from Switzerland written by Salim. It said if I ever got a chance, I should visit Zurich. It seemed it was one of the most extraordinary cities
of the world. The name Zurich reminded me of our International Ludo game. If you came to Zurich, you had to visit the hospital, and
unless you got the number five on the dice, you could not get out. Invariably my counter would reach Zurich, and wait endlessly for the
dice to roll a Number Five. I had almost stopped writing to many others, not just Salim. Of course, before I stopped writing, I always had
thought the person on the other side must be a prince, must be the most handsome and talented individual. At that time I had only a handful
of penfriends left, and I had not developed any relationship with them beyond friendship. No one had shown an inclination to leap across
Mymensingh on the pretext of seeing me. Writing one of those ordinary how-are-you? Im-well letters to one of them, I had fallen asleep
on Babas bed. I had finished my studies at night, and my dinner, and had been writing the letter lying down with a pillow under my chest.
Hearing the sound of Babas footsteps, I had sleepily left Babas bed and thrown myself on mine. The letter remained lying on Babas bed.
In the middle of the night, Baba pulled me out of my sleep and threw me down on the floor. He then proceeded to take off his shoes and
beat me up. Why was he doing so, what was my misdeed, he did not bother to tell me. I was unable to gauge why Baba had turned so mad.
My inarticulate words, What have I done, what has happened? were lost under Babas angry roar. He became a complete monster. He
caught my hair in his fist, and threw me into space. Then flew the hard Bata shoes and rained blows on my back, shoulders, head, chest and
face. Baba did beat us, but he had never woken up a sleeping girl and beaten her up like this in the middle of the night. Ma had tried to
restrain Baba, but was pushed and thrown far away, before he grabbed me again. He only stopped when the strength left his own limbs. Ma
picked me up from the floor, saying, If only the man had some judgement! He doesnt even know that if you hit on the head, it can get
damaged. Instead of beating you like this, why doesnt he kill and finish off at one go! Then all the problems will be solved. She took me
to the bed. The whole night she sat beside me applying fomentations on my wounds with swabs heated under an iron. My eyes turned
stony. There was no trace of sleep left in them, nor was there a single teardrop. I figured out that my letter lying on the bed had instigated
all this. Baba may have flogged the skin off my back, even broken all my bones, but he could not wipe out my belief that friendship was
possible between boys and girls, that apart from family and love relationships, merely friendly ties were also possible, just like they were
possible between two girls and two boys.
My address was now no more Chhotdas friends stationery shop, but Post Box Number 6. Suspecting that his own letters were being
removed from the stationery shop, Chhotda had taken a box in the Post Office. We both had now begun to use that. I had an invitation to
contribute to the Personal Advertisement Column of Bichitra, from the Section Editor. The request delighted me, but did not arouse any
desire to embark on the path of advertisements. Even if I had forgotten this world, the people of the advertisement world could not forget
me. I was no more, but I lived in the advertisement page. In the New Year titles, a name was given to my lost self. Some called me scented
rose, others Not a rose, but its thorns. Hate and love. Both sentiments kept me afloat, even though I did not know anyone of the writers
personally. Even when reminiscing, there were some who could not resist mentioning my name. Plenty of letters came to my address. Most
of the letters offered friendship. Some blind admirers had also appeared. Shahin, junior to me by a year, waited for me everyday with a
flower in her hand. With the flowers there were letters, she thought of me as a Devi, Goddess. The girl was rather shy. With lowered eyes
and face, she would come before me, with a warm heart and a frigid body, I would remain speechless. The girl had no idea that her Devi
was even more diffident than she was herself! From Chattagram, a millionaire called Pahari Kumar wrote letters in very neat rounded
handwriting, on scented, blue-tinted paper. Chandana was at Aubokash, the day the postman delivered Pahari Kumars gift parcel. We were
sitting and chatting in the fields, when the packet brought our conversation to a halt. As this was a packet, and had to be hand-delivered and
signed for as received by me, so the peon had not gone to Arogya Bitaan, but come home. Inside the big packet, was a smaller one, and
only after a few more small packets within, the final one revealed the gift. As soon as it was out, Chandana jumped a foot away and
screamed, Throw it.
Why should I throw it? Whats happened?
Throw it. Throw it. Throw it right now. That bastard dog, hes sent something rotten, throw it.
Not knowing what I was supposed to throw, I sat perplexed. Curiosity was consuming me to such an extent that, even though I didnt want
to, my hands wanted to go towards the present. Chandanas hand plunged and removed my hand from the article. The present fell from my
hand, on to my lap, and then face forward on to the ground.
What is it?
My ignorant eyes moved from the ground, to Chandana, and at Chandanas nausea.
Cant you make out what it is?
No, I cant. What is it?
This is a panty. Quickly, go and throw it away.
I ran to the garbage pile and threw the gift along with the wrapping into it. Nausea was creeping up in me as well. Chandana actually
brought up her rising nausea at the corner of the field. This had happened to Chandana before. About porno magazines like Desire &
Woman, too she said, I read them once, I vomitted in disgust. I washed my hands with Bangla Soap and then with Lux soap. While eating
Saala I was scared some of it might get into my stomach. Those hands never picked up those filthy things anymore. The world we dreamt
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of was a world where nakedness did not exist. To Chandana, a mans physique was something very ugly. Yet she believed deeply in love.
Chandana had begun talking of Platonic Love. I asked her, Now, whats that? This was love and romance, in which there was no
wickedness or filth. My two eyes looked fascinatedly at Chandanas two shining ones.
Chapter Seven
SHENJUTI EVENING LAMP
Chandana suddenly left me after taking the Higher Secondary Exam. She left me all on my own. She didnt really leave me; she was forced
to go to Comilla by her father Subroto Chakma the man who was husband to her glum-faced mother Molina the man who had been
satisfied when his craving for male offspring had been fulfilled with the birth of two sons, after Chandana. Before leaving for Comilla,
Dada had taken Chandana and me to the Dhaka Board to pick up our certificates. We had to go in the morning and return in the evening. In
the afternoon, while taking us to lunch at the Chinese Restaurant Tai Tung in the Motijheel, Dada said, What, Chandana, why dont you
keep your eyes and ears open?
Why, what is it that we havent seen or heard?
Arent you going to look out for a pretty girl for me? Youve been studying in college for two years!
We were so busy looking at the boys, we had no time. When were we to look at the girls? Chandana laughed. Excepting the men in her
family, Chandana was the most free with my elder brothers. Thinking of the Raja of Chakma, Dada sadly clucked his tongue and said, You
made a great mistake, and will have to repent it in future. You didnt give a Raja any importance!
Chandana laughed loudly.
Dadas sorrow did not end there. When we visited Rangamati, we could have stayed as the Rajas guests! Thanks to you we have lost this
opportunity.
Chandana laughed again.
Who knows which Fakir beggar is written in your fate! Dada said.
Telling us about Rangamati, she talked more about Cherag Ali rather than Debashish. There was a Daroga, a sub-inspector of police, by
this illuminating name, which meant lamp. Cherag Ali said that his light glowed during both day and night. After some time, Chandana
became serious and said that recently, Cherag Ali was glowing a little less as he had lost his job. Although it was a short sojourn, Chandana
and I enjoyed ourselves, being able to get away from the familiar environment of Mymensingh. Before Chandana left for Comilla I had
told her, Dont go. If you go, how will I survive? Chandana had the same query, but neither of us had the answer to this question.
Chandana had even told Subroto Chakma that she would not leave Mymensingh, she would stay at Aubokash with me, and continue her
studies. He had not agreed. Chandanas half-closed eyes were red on the day she was leaving. She whispered in my ear, You watch, I will
run away one day and come back to you. The two of us will live together all our lives. From Comilla she wrote two to three letters a day.
She wrote long and lengthy letters, describing each and every event of every day, every disaster. She penned her feelings, her loneliness
and the emptiness of each day. How, whenever she looked at the red blooms of the Krishnachura tree, it reminded her of me. Reminded her
of the life she had left behind her, every word, every sound, every bud and every flower. She wanted to regain her past life. I did not feel
that Chandana had left forever. To me she had left only to return. We would meet again and once again rock in our cradle of happiness.
Sitting once more in the stern of the boat, I would look at the colours of the sky, while with lapping sounds Chandana would row far away,
way beyond the horizon. It would be a world where there would be no sin, viciousness, jealously, hatred, cruelty, meanness, where there
was no wrong, no discrimination, no disease, no sorrow, no death. Here we would live with beauty, imbibing the scent of purity, and love
would never leave our side. Suffering from depression, Chandana would write, I am not feeling happy, as though I am above everything
that is worldly. Liking, loving, all these words seem very old to me. I am unable to make you understand. I keep feeling I am not myself. I
have been sad the whole day. When a little touch causes the mahogany leaves to fall peacefully like a shower of tiny flowers, I wish I could
rest my head on the back of some jean-jacket, and go for a Honda ride somewhere far away. I know, and how cruelly I know, though I have
never spoken of it to anybody, that for me these are only empty dreams. Hurt me! Unless I have tears in my eyes I dont stay well. Never!
Actually I cannot even tell you what has happened to me. Then they will know; everyone will get to know. I am just restless, I am dying of
anxiety, yet do you know, you will never know the whole story, never. You who are my own, so close to me, so close to my heart, I wont
be able to tell even you. Poor heart! This heart is my biggest enemy. Just when everything is going well, just at that moment I change. This
thing, called heart, betrays me. I am not well, not at all, I want to scream, I am continually being torn apart by a kind of jealousy and envy,
and yet I cannot make anyone understand. I cant understand against whom I feel this envy, why this rivalry. Is it that I want to be
vociferous against myself? Do I not love myself anymore? Who knows suppose some blue eyed Greek youth, some Apollo had spoken
to me of love! Everything is turning topsy-turvy within me. I do not feel joy in anything anymore. I remember Sadananda in Ashami
Hajir (Here Stands the Accused) who groaned in some unspeakable torture. I think that I, too, am crying in some equally unspeakable pain.
I cant bear this mundane life anymore. Will you be able to uplift me on to some enchanting plain? My heart cries, who have you left
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behind, dearest heart, that your life is over and you have not gained peace as yet! Can you understand what I am saying? Can you? I want
you close to me. I only want you how long since I have seen you. Let us leave this world and all its emotional ties behind, and roam
around with the ektara, monochord of a Baul, the Hindu devotional singer. You will be the Vaishnavi. Both of us will pick tung-tang sounds
on the ektara, and sing songs like The bird tosses restlessly, it cant tear its chains or break open its cage, it dies tossing restlessly within.
Or Eyes are called mirrors, one day they will be lost, what I saw with my burnt eyes, will be what is left behind.
Apart from writing long letters to Chandana, there was only one thing I did sitting in the corner of the room, in the verandah, on the grass
in the field, under the early morning flowering Sheuli, horsinghars, in the shade of the Segun tree. I wrote poetry. From various towns of
the country, poetry journals came to my address. From many districts of West Bengal too, small poetry periodicals came. These were like a
chain, one led to another, resulting in the whole thing spreading. I sent my poems to small poetry journals and even to weekly magazines.
Somewhere or the other, the poems got published now and then. One day a pebble dropped into the pool of my thoughts. Having no idea
from where it came or how it came I sat motionless next to the pond. The tiny waves in the pond gradually grew bigger, till they lashed my
feet, and my body got wet with the spray. I still sat motionless. I looked benumbed, but within me a wish was peeping out like a bud. If I
tried, I could publish a poetry magazine myself. Could I not? I could. My mind told me, I could. The sound of ululation from Dolly Pals
house roused me. It was growing dark all around. What name would I give the journal? What name? I did not have to think for two or three
days. My heart said, Shenjuti! Yes, Shenjuti it would be. The Evening Lamp. As soon as I asked Chandana, she sent me her poem. Even
though school was over, my Bangla teacher Surraiyya Begum regularly wrote letters to me. I got her to write a new poem. Through
Chhotda I got poems written by poets in the city. Under the dominance of my desire and the influence of my happiness, I prepared the
manuscript of Shenjuti. On the last page, I put some bits of news about literature, writers, from where some small literary magazine was
being published and by whom; was it good or bad, if so why bad or why good, and all that. Dada said, Print one of my poems. From his
poetry notebook I chose the best poem. Give my news also. Write that the Paata Magazine editor, Faizul Kabir Nomans first poetry book
Parapar, Crossings would soon be published. I wrote that, too. Dada was pleased. But the time was approaching to bell the cat who was
going to pay, who was going to go to the press, who would get Shenjuti printed! Dada had not even begun writing any book called
Parapar. But maybe because I had still put in the news as per his request, he told me, Okay, I will pay for the printing of Shenjuti. After
all, I know all the people at the press, because of the printing of Paata. My jingle kept ringing in Dadas ear, Oh Dada, Oh Dada, you
said you would get it printed, do so.
Be patient, be patient.
How much more patience should I have?
You must have more. Much more.
How many days?
Another few!
I was unable to keep my patience. I became more and more restless everyday. Finally I handed over the manuscript to Chhotda. After
giving Shenjuti to a printing press in Chhotabazar, I kept at Chhotdas tail, When will it be printed?
It is going to take some time.
How long?
It will be printed next month.
Oof, so long!
You think the press has nothing else to do?
Will you take me to the press one day?
Why do you want to go? I will get it printed and bring it.
This wish to go to the printing press was nipped in the bud by Dada, Why should you go to the press?
I want to see how the printing is done.
Girls do not go to the press.
Why not?
They dont.
Is there any reason?
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Girls should not go to the press.
Why not? What happens if they do?
There are problems.
What problems? People will stare?
Maybe not, but they will laugh.
Why should they laugh? What is there to laugh at? I am editing the magazine, why shouldnt I go to the press?
Editing can be done even at home. You dont have to run to the press like a man.
Dada was unable to dampen my enthusiasm. I went to the press with Chhotda. Somehow I managed it. Black were the tables laid out
dividing the room into columns. Sitting at them, were people picking out each type-set letter from its case and placing it on an iron sheet.
For every word, however small, one had to reach out several times to pick each letter. How did they know in which place which letter was,
how did their hands move so fast! I felt like spending the whole day at the press, watching how letters were joined together to form words.
The printing machine was noisily printing beedi paper, incense stick covers, box covers for ointments, wedding cards and political posters.
Seeing the manuscript of Shenjuti, the owner of the press, Hare Krishna Saha gave a smile, sensing a different kind of task. His smile was
different, too. He said he would print it soon. Every format would cost two hundred taka. Not just that, more money was required to buy the
paper. I went home and began selling all the paper whether whole or in pieces. Old Chitralis and Purbanis were put in the sun and dried in
order to shake off the termites. Setting aside my weakness for old Sunday Sandhanis and Bichitras, I sold them all to the
glassbottlepaperwala in order to collect money. I even managed to get some money out of the knot tied at the corner of Mas sari aanchal.
From here and there I managed some more. Guarding this money like a miser, I took Chhotda with me, chose paper from a shop next to
Hare Krishna Sahas press, and delivered the paper to him. After this Chhotda bought the proofs home, and showed me how to proof-read.
Since he himself worked for a newspaper, he knew. I relied on Dada for the money required to print the magazine. Though I did not get the
money at one go, I did get installments.
The day 500 yellow coloured Shenjutis came home printed I imbibed their beauty, essence and aroma. Sitting on the bed, I began to fold
the pages, pin them together and keep them aside. I quickly pushed them under the bed on hearing the sound of Babas entry into the house.
Babas eyes could see under the bed as well. According to Yasmin, Babas eyes were like a vultures; no one could possibly hide anything
from him. He knew what was going on in the house, even when he was not there. It was impossible to guess who were acting as Babas
informers and when. He called Ma and asked her, What is going on, what is the girl doing neglecting her studies?
In a disinterested tone, Ma said, I dont know what poetry magazine she has printed.
What is a poetry magazine?
She writes poetry, prints a magazine.
What will she get out of a poetry magazine? Havent I told her to study? Who will pass her in the medical entrance exams? Will she pass
with poems?
Ma had to bear the brunt, mostly.
Where did she get the money? Babas curiosity was brimming over.
Ma told him dryly, Noman gave it to her.
Why did Noman give her?
She asked him. He gave her.
Do you have to give just because you are asked?
It was his younger sisters wish, so he gave it.
What does Noman get out of it?
Does everyone look for profit? She writes poetry because she likes to. Noman too used to publish a poetry magazine. Now Nasreen has
taken it up.
I work days and nights to feed them. Is my hard work for them to waste their time in all these useless activities?
Ma said, Why do you ask me? Ask your daughter.
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Baba never came to ask me anything. He caught hold of Dada, Why are you inciting her, just because shes gone crazy, do you have to
turn mad too?
Dada mumbled, I have not incited her.
Why did you give her the money?
I didnt give her much.
But you did. If you hadnt given her the money, could she have done all this?
Dada swelled with pride and said, No.
By writing poetry what do you get in life? Do you achieve anything?
No.
Then why does she write?
Just like that.
Does poetry give you food?
No, it doesnt give you food.
Do you get clothes?
No, you dont.
Does it give a home?
No.
Does it provide electricity?
No.
Dada continued to answer softly with his head bent.
You have seen the life of the people on the rounds of the city. Have you found anyone who built a home by writing poetry?
No.
Do gentlemen waste their time in useless work?
No.
Does anyone except for the mad, write poetry?
Dada did not give any answer to this one. Baba asked him the same question twice over. He still made no reply. Leaving the silent Dada,
Baba walked out, making snapping noises with his shoes.
Baba kept his mouth sealed as far as I was concerned. He would speak to everyone, but not to me. When Baba did not speak it also meant
whatever money he was giving would be stopped. I did not even have to go to college now, so I would not need rickshaw fare. In a way I
was relieved that I would not have to face Babas red eyed, snarling teeth, abuses and orders to sit down and study for a while. This was
Babas habit to stop talking suddenly, without warning. This would go on for many, many days. Except for the domestic help, he had
stopped talking to almost everyone in the house by turns. When talk resumed, he himself initiated the process. He locked and unlocked his
mouth at will; the key remained in his breast pocket. Very often we found it difficult to figure out for what reason he had stopped talking to
a particular person. The reason for not talking to me this time was Shenjuti. Not even a week had passed since hed locked his mouth, when
he began writing letters addressed to me. Without opening his mouth, he put his words into letters and began to send them to me blending
the polite and refined with the colloquial. The letter bearer was an employee of Arogya Bitaan, Salaam. Ma called him by his full name.
Salaam was one of the ninety names of Allah. It was incorrect to call anyone directly as Allah, hence, if one added Abdus, or Abdul, then
the name came to mean Allahs servant. Since man was in any case a servant of Allah, Ma, therefore, called him Abdus Salaam, i.e. Allahs
servant. Ma had a neighbourhood brother called Quddoos. Everyone called him Quddoos, Ma called him Abdul Quddoos. After Abdus
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Salaam handed me the letters, Ma made me read out every one of them to her. I read loudly, so that not just Ma, but everyone at home
could hear me. The letter was of ten to twelve pages. It began with a description of the advantages of obeying a fathers orders and
restrictions, and ended with complete disappointment and desolation. In between there flowed a stream of moral advice. The final signing
off was the usual, your unfortunate father! I read the letter alright, but did not bother to pour over the books required to be studied for the
entrance exams. I didnt do so because I didnt want to. Even though I did not spend any time on the kind of study Baba wanted me to do, I
did spend my days and nights on a different kind of reading and writing.
Just a few days after copies of Shenjuti were sent to various poets and little magazines, plenty of letters poured in. With the letters came
poems. They had to be read, corrected and set aside to be printed in the next issue. I had made Shenjuti a trimonthly. But I wished I could
print it the very next day. It was unbearable to wait for three long months. There were so many letters that Baba told Ma in my hearing,
Hasnt she stopped writing here and there to her penfriends as yet? The penfriendships here and there stopped alright, but the poetry
writing here and there did not. It continued. One day he carefully removed a copy of Shenjuti which was lying on the table in the verandah.
After eating lunch, he read every poem in Shenjuti, while lying on his bed in the afternoon. After reading it, he put it into his pocket and
went out. What was about to happen was something I was unable to gauge. At night, he called Ma, made her sit next to him and read out
one of the poems from Shenjuti, and told her, Look, here the poet is saying that paper is earth, the pen is the shovel, and writing poetry is
to dig your own grave. The poet has spoken the truth, dont you think? The poets dig their own graves. That is something a poet himself
has said.
Baba did not get any rejoinder to his letters. He came home with a dark face, and left in the same way. My tall, fair, curly haired filmstar,
Uttam Kumar like Baba, kept within himself, Lord knows how many scoldings and abuses, all waiting to burst forth. After all, silence was
also one of his many moral lessons. Since I was not weakening in spite of his attacking letters, what he did next was quite unique. He
pasted a paper onto his door, on which he had written,
I am no more able to bear so much wrong
Was this what was written in my fate, all along,
My children have all gone to the dogs
Secretly I weep as I die drop by drop.
After reading Babas poem, I used some rice starch to stick a paper on the red glass of his red and blue windows. On the paper was written,
What is wrong that I all of a sudden have done?
My days and nights are spent
Sitting at Aubokash, going nowhere
I do not even take a step beyond the doorway.
When Baba returned home, I remained curled up in my room. Keeping my ears open for the reaction did not help. Baba came home
silently, and as silently left. After his departure, when I went to check on the state of the paper on the window, I found another paper posted
next to mine, on which was written:
Staying at home doesnt always make one virtuous
The man here gets to know, which is obvious
The happenings at Aubokash always reach his ear
That wishfully a life is being destroyed without fear.
Penfriendship has never lead to success
And illiteracy only causes lifes pillars
To shake and undergo stress.
After reading Babas missive, I wrote again in big, big letters. While writing Yasmins head would just not move away from mine.
I know that, as though I dont.
However, one thing I do not condone.
That beating is the only way to mould
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Do fathers feel great pleasure?
When daughters weep and tears roll!
Baba returned by dusk and spent an hour in his room without calling anyone. After asking Ma for a glass of water, and whether any
groceries were required at home or not, he left again. I sat in my room cowering in fear. My heart was thumping. Ultimately how explosive
would this cannonade of public poetry prove to be, who knew! As soon as Baba left, I came out of my coil of fear.
Baba had this time pasted his poem, on the purple glass of the window.
The core of a fathers heart hurts when daughters weep
The bond between them only a father knows how deep
Today he is present, may not be so tomorrow
Hence on his daughter his wish is to generously bestow,
Education and culture and to guide her onto the path of truth
A path universally approved.
What else, would a father bless his daughters with, forsooth.
*****
This dialogue encouraged me tremendously. Everyone at home came to the window to read the poems pasted on the glass. Leaving Dadas
gifted diary in which I wrote poems, I got completely involved in this game of poetry on the window.
Is there no truth in Tagore?
Would anyone succeed in dismissing Nazrul of yore?
And Sukanta? Absolutely outstanding;
Does poetry follow the path of lies?
If so, then I will give an undertaking
That path, I will not tread,
I will not increase anyones dread.
As insignificant and trivial a person
As I
Only knows
That for jewels I do not die.
My evening lamp should be lit,
That is my most urgent desire.
As soon as one window was covered, the poems were being pasted on the next. Reading this one, Ma said, Cut out as trivial and
insignificant a person as I.
If I cut it out, what can I fill it with?
Write as extremely intelligent a person as I.
The words were not cut, because Babas footsteps could be heard. Baba nowadays came home rather frequently. Apart from calls of nature,
even to drink a glass of water he came across all the way from Notun Bazar to Amlapara. The purpose, of course, was poetry. It sometimes
even happened that within half an hour of writing a poem, he returned without any rhyme or reason. He checked whether anything new had
been pasted on the doors and windows of his room. Without any need, he would pass by my room, and glance in to see if I was there or not.
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We never came face to face; he avoided that and so did I. During these periods of mutual silence, this system of avoiding even the sight of
each other was taught to us by Baba only.
Rabindranath wrote poetry without a thought.
Zamindars lives could after all be spent doing nought.
Does poetry really behove a student life?
This unfortunate struggles rather hard for children and wife.
Does he get the fruits of his strife?
Do any of them at all think of their father?
I do not see any such respect or honour.
How much I urge them to become worthy persons.
Yet there is still no awareness or perceptions.
Time waits for no one.
There will be none to stand by you, when fathers gone.
In student life, there is nothing called leisure
Repeatedly I have pointed this out, as I do even now in greater measure.
Neglect will only ruin your life.
Seeing this, the pain will be no ones but mine.
*****
Baba took quite sometime to write this verse. From Salaam, we got the news that Baba now took pen and paper to Arogya Bitaan, and sat
scratching his head. Patients kept sitting in the waiting room. He would be scratching, writing, throwing and re-writing. Later, after telling
his patients to wait for a little more time, he would make a round of the house. The round was to basically paste a poem on the window.
Reading this poem Ma snorted, Hmm! What tough time does he have running this household? In seven days, he shops once. For that
womans house, fish and meat are bought everyday. Its not that he doesnt earn a good sum. What does he give you all? Has he ever
fulfilled any of your desires?
Inspired by Ma I wrote,
How much do you spend on us really!
Half the time we seem to go hungry.
For Id we get clothes, sometimes not even this,
The thoughts in our minds never come to our lips.
All around us girls talk so much
In our house alone, in dread, we live as such.
Hope however still lurks in our hearts,
Babas love will surely someday wash away our sad thoughts
We will then be able to rise so high,
Maybe even touch the sky
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To the other side of the horizon,
We will one day fly.
Reading the poem Ma said, Why have you written about flying away? Dada read it loudly and said, Nicely written. After this, Baba
wrote nothing more. That there was a lot of difference between the world of poetry and the world of reality, was brought home to me one
day by Babas screaming call for me, Nasreen. As always, I stood before Baba with head and eyes both lowered. He, too, as usual snarled
at me and said, What do you think youre doing?
I was silent.
Can you spend your life chatting the whole day?
No reply.
Cant you understand that a donkey like you can never pass the medical?
No reply.
You write poems? Do you think you alone can write poetry? Everyone can. Ask the maid Malleka; she too can write.
From the donkey a sound emerged, But Malleka doesnt know how to write.
So what, she can speak cant she? Did not Lalan Fakir recite poetry orally? Did not Hachhon Raja?
No reply.
I am giving you my last warning. If you dont get admission into Medical College, your meals at home will be stopped. Have you found
out when the Dhaka University entrance exams will commence?
No reply.
The architecture entrance exams are next month. You will have to go to Dhaka to take the exams. Sit down and practice your maths
immediately. If you dont pass your exams, try and visualise for yourself what is in your fate.
Silently digesting Babas advice, I left his room with my head still bent. However, I didnt sit down to Maths, but to celebrate. Celebrate the
joy of going to Dhaka by train.
Jhikir jhikir Mymensingh, in Dhaka I will dance and sing.
In Dhaka I will dance and sing, jhikir jhikir Mymensingh.
Baba had himself asked me to take the architecture exam. What more could I have possibly asked for? If I talked about studying Bangla at
Dhaka University, I might lose this opportunity of going to Dhaka altogether. Baba would never have agreed to send me for the architecture
entrance exam, if MA Kahhars precious son Farhad had not told him that architecture was a good subject. Farhad had been sitting for
many years in the final year at the Technical University. Just before the exams, he would invariably start vomitting. Every year, doctors
came and gave him medicines before the exams. He took the exams, but had never passed. So what, his opinion still mattered. Architecture
was a good subject, not just good, Farhad had emphasised that it was even better than medicine. His reasoning was that no one but a doctor
would marry a lady doctor, so this was the problem of women studying medicine. What ever argument Farhad might have given, it would
not have been accepted by Baba. He could never believe that any subject in the world was better than medicine, be it for a girl or boy, or
even a dog, cat, worm or insect. Gesticulating with his hands and feet, Farhad had told Dada, Arrey Mia, Mister, you can even work from
your home. You dont even have to go out. Suppose you design a rich mans house, a Government building or even figure out a new design
for the Parliament House, you get a crore sitting at home. You need not work for the rest of the year, if you so choose. Architecture is a
good subject, was something even Chhotda said. Arrey, isnt our Rafique studying the subject there! Rafique was studying the subject,
hence it must be good; if he hadnt, maybe the subject wouldnt have been so good. Just because Chhotdas friend was studying
architecture, he smiled displaying his black gums to such an extent that one would have thought everything, i.e., the A to Z of architecture
was at his finger-tips. One had to attend classes for seven days before joining. The classes were taken by final year students. His friend
could give me even free coaching. What was necessary now for admission into architecture was proficiency in Maths. On my table were
piles of little magazines. I realised I would not be able to find my Maths books. Possibly all my Maths notebooks too were no more at
home. They had been sold by the ser, in order to buy the paper for Shenjuti.
I informed Chandana that I was soon to become an architect. Chandana was taking the Dhaka University entrance exam, but she would be
studying Bangla Literature. We would be together in Dhaka, two birds who would break their chains and fly about freely in the air. We
would look at life with both eyes, run on our own two feet.Our dreams seemed within our reach . Our wings seemed to be alight with
layers of joy.
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***
For Shenjutis second issue, Chandana had sent a poem called Youth, the Name of an Enchanting River.
In the boundless waters around me,
Play a number of handsome youth.
A storm rises in Draupadis breast
Resulting in an endless animated frenzy,
In which they are plundered and ruined utterly
Obviously Chandana while sitting by the window, had been looking not only at the red blossoms of the Krishnachura, and the falling
Mahogany leaves, but also at handsome young men. She had even gone and met one of them without really thinking things out in her mind.
She had given a very graphic description of that meeting, that exchange of glances, that fluttering of the heart. The handsome boy had
wanted to hold hands, but Chandana had carefully removed hers. She had only liked the exchange of glances, and this much had been
enough to keep her wrapped up in a strange rapture for the rest of the day and night. I thought there was nothing as beautiful in this world
as love. I listened to tales of love with complete absorption. In my imagination a Prince would come flying on the back of the King of
Birds. It is now the time for me to love, I too can let flow a flood of love, if I so wish I kept writing poems like this, as well.
Rudra Muhammed Shahidullah, one of Dhakas up and coming poets had sent a poem for Shenjuti. Removing the Bangla nasal signs from
one of his words, I kept his peom You Copper-metalled Shepherd aside, to be published in the next edition of the magazine.
Pipes do not play again and again, they play just once
Copper-metalled shepherd
Krishna, why dont you sound your pipe even once?
Your loneliness and grace resound around you. Your lost illusions
Hover about you day and night, like inaccessible strains
Yet your pipe remarkably still silent remains.
With his poem Rudra had sent a letter, a letter written in red ink. He was keen to be introduced to the Editor of Shenjuti. He wanted to
address her as tumi, because he thoroughly disliked the formal address apni. He wanted to know why Shenjuti was yellow in colour. The
answer was simple the light of the evening lamp was yellow coloured, hence yellow. The next letter effortlessly addressed me as tumi, as
though he was someone very close to me! Since the capacity to make people close through letters was part of my character, I was not
surprised.
Poems for Shenjuti were coming from the cities, towns, villages, market-places, roads, lanes, nooks and corners of two districts. From
Kolkata, Abhijeet Ghose, Nirmal Basak, Chaitali Chattopadhyay, Jibon Sarkar and many others were sending poems. I printed them, not
looking at the names but the poems. If the poem was good, even if the poet was new, or belonged to some remote village, I did not bother. I
noticed that all around spellings of words were changing. The spoken word was being brought into the written language. Many alphabet
and rolling vowels were being dropped by poets like Rudra. Even punctuation marks were changing, in some cases adapting the English
ones. Although I found these changes strange, I welcomed them in Shenjuti. After all, language was no decrepit pond that would remain
unmoving. In Shenjutis Tidbits column, I gave news of other little magazines, their addresses as well, so that anyone reading Shenjuti
would also be able to contact atleast 20-25 other little magazines. Not just news of little magazines, but also of where poetry meets were
being held, who was writing and how. Whose book and which book was appearing soon. Shenjutis publicity was that Any unadulterated
poetry lover was unquestionably a claimant of Shenjuti. Shenjutis bright glow would wipe out all the darkness in the world of poetry.
Shenjuti was eternally true and beautiful. For Shenjuti one had to pay only four quarter taka coins. Not that anyone was really paying those
4 quarters to buy Shenjuti. This magazine with no advertisements was being published out of my personal funds, and I was sending copies
to everyone who wrote poetry or published poetry journals. Sending copies also made quite a hole in my pocket. Read poetry, buy poetry
magazines and poetry books, this was the request I was making to the ordinary public through Shenjuti. I could not rest till I had converted
the whole world into a world of poetry. I had really got addicted to poetry. It was my companion all day and all night.
At home, all alone I sit down to worship poetry, offering flowers and sandalwood paste with my hands
Unaccountably I spend the whole day vainly sitting idle.
At the door ungrateful words wink and laugh at me insultingly
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In the silvery moonlight, words of critics and vilifiers await their opportunity.
Reading Abhijeets long poems written in blank verse, I seemed to have moved far away from metrical measures and versification
measures, on a stream of timelessness.
Rudra had sent his recently published book of poems called Upodruto Upokool (Troubled Shores). I read the poems in the book aloud, and
called Yasmin to read them as well. The air at Aubokash rang with the words of Rudras poems and was infused with the scent of his
poetry. On our lips was poetry. In our hearts was poetry.
I still smell dead bodies in the air.
Even today I see the naked dance of death on this earth.
In my dreamy sleep I still hear the pitiful cries of outraged women.
Has this country forgotten the nightmare and the bloodshed?
In the air was the smell of carcasses.
On the earth were stains of blood.
Those who tied their fates and hearts to this blood-soaked soil,
And found in the wounds of their ragged lives a forbidden dwelling place,
Today their love for this dark cage, keeps them awake in the cave of night.
The flag of nationhood has once more been grabbed by the old vultures
Those who were covered in bloody shrouds and eaten by dogs and vultures,
Were my brothers, my mother and my beloved father.
Freedom is the dear one whom I have won, after losing all others.
Freedom is the invaluable harvest bought with the blood of my beloved people.
My raped sisters sari is now my blood-soaked national flag.
Rudras poems made me sit up. Made me stand up. Made me pace up and down the verandah. Such honest words, strong and forceful
statements, could not but attract me. Rudras poems were the kind which had to be read aloud, recited before a room full of people, out in
the grounds, in a public meeting. Poetry recitation was not something new for me. Dada was taught by Ma in his childhood, and when I
grew up I was trained by Dada. I had now started instructing Yasmin. Yasmin had put her name down for the school recitation competition.
Not only the school, but the Mymensingh District Literary and Cultural Festival was also on, and she had entered her name in the recitation
event there as well. On the slated days she went and recited and came home with all of three prizes. From the hands of the Mymensingh
District Magistrate she was given bulky volumes of the Rabindra-Rachnabali, Gitobitaan, collections of Nazrul and Tagore. She even
began singing songs from the pages of Gitobitaan all by herself. She had a wonderful voice, and hearing it I always said, She should have
a harmonium. There were no musical instruments at home. Dadas fiddle was lying broken, and Chhotda had sold his guitar to buy Geeta
a sari. Baba did not like songs and music. To ask him to buy a harmonium for Yasmin was to invite two slaps on the cheek. Yasmins
dreams of singing had to blow away with the wind as of then. It was better to recite poems, to read poetry; at least no instruments were
required.
When my head was full of Shenjuti, and my heart full of poetry, Dada took me to Dhaka to take the architecture entrance exams. I was
taken to the hostel room of Chhotdas friend Rafique in the Technical University. He was to help me with the entrance exam questions,
even if they were only slight hints about the kind of questions to be expected. Rafique laughed gloomily and said, Your exam is tomorrow;
what can I show you today? Still he made me sit down, gave me a pencil and paper and asked me to draw a simple straight line with one
stroke, so also a circle. After I had done so, he said, Draw a picture of this room. After I did that too, he said, You have a fairly good
hand. With that good hand, I took the exam, drawing whatever I was asked to draw. However, I could not solve any of the ten sums asked.
How could I possibly have, after all, instead of practicing my Math, I had practiced my poetry. It was a two hour exam, but after an hour I
came out of the examination hall telling Dada in a lifeless tone, that I was not going to pass. After a few days the list of students who had
qualified for the viva, was hung up next to the Technical University office. Surprisingly, I got to know that my name figured in the list. I
would have to go to Dhaka to take the viva voce, so our suitcases were packed. But Baba put an end to our trip by saying, You dont have
to go to Dhaka.
Why, why was there no need to go to Dhaka? If I didnt go to Dhaka, I would be unable to take the viva, and if I didnt I would not get
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admission in the architecture course! I was stunned, and sat before Babas unmoving, fixed statue, with a mountain of questions in my
mind.
Baba said in a grave tone, You do not have to study architecture.
The architectural masonry of my own dreams came crashing down all of a sudden. With a heart full of cracks, I sat extremely depressed.
I did not have to study architecture, because I had to study medicine. My name had appeared in the list of those who had qualified the
medical entrance.
Chapter Eight
The Company of Loneliness
What Baba brought into force at home, did not always remain in force for years to come. The strings were in his hands, he could loosen or
tighten them as and when he wished. One fine day he suddenly dropped some of the strict rules he had made. Seeing no more letters from
penfriends arriving for me, he at least did not try to wangle the new postman to take away my letters. The new postman was again
delivering letters home as before. The practice of doling out groceries from the locked kitchen cupboard also ebbed. It was not always
possible for him to come from Notun Bazar in time for every meal to be cooked. The cupboard now remained open. Ma, as before, was
once again submerged in the sea of domesticity. When Joris Ma left, Ma had brought Malleka from the slums behind Nanibari. Malleka
left even before the month got over. After looking for two days here and there, and not finding anyone, Ma caught hold of Halima, a street
beggar from the neighbourhood. Halima, along with her mother, was eventually installed in the house. Out on some errand, Halima
encountered some glassbottlepaperwala. That wala had said he would marry her, and her happiness knew no bounds. Ma gave Halima a
colourful sari and a new lungi for the paperwala son-in-law. The married Halima left the house very proudly. Halimas Ma remained alone
in our house, coughing away, the whole day long. It became difficult for her to do all the housework singlehanded. She frequently had
fever. The day clots of blood appeared with her cough Ma personally took her to the hospital and got her admitted. Before two weeks were
over, Halima came back to Aubokash. What happened? My husband did not give me any food.
Halima went back to scouring utensils, washing clothes and mopping the floor. Every so often she would say, He troubled me so much I
could not even sleep at night. We were eager to know what kind of troubling she meant.
He would cry out glass-bottle-paper in his sleep. Since he spent the whole day calling out glass-bottle-paper, in his sleep, too, he
thought the night was day.
This Halima, within a few days, accepted another marriage proposal from some other wala she met on the streets and left Aubokash.
We got used to the constant comings and goings of these drifting poor. No one ever discussed who was coming or going, why he was going
or where to. If there were some maids, Ma got some respite otherwise she had a tough time. The whole problem was Mas. Whether there
was help or not, we never suffered any discomforts. We remained unaffected. Mas eagerness to find help was always more than ours. Once
a man, wearing a hitched up lungi and a torn vest had come into our grounds. I suspected him to be a dacoit at the very first sight. If he
wasnt a dacoit then why was he carrying a da or chopper in his hand?
What do you want? I shouted standing at the window.
Can I do any work for you?
What work?
Cleaning and cutting with my da.
I ran to give Ma the news, A dacoit has come. Says he does work with his da. You know what that means! He kills people with his da.
Ma was grinding some spices. She said, Tell him to wait.
I didnt turn that way at all after that. Ma left her grinding and opened the door to go into the grounds. Quite happily she brought the man
inside the house, and got him to clean the jungle behind the tinshed. She then not only gave him a plateful of rice with daal to eat, but also
a piece of fish. Ma had no fears at all. Inspite of so many robberies in the house, Ma still did not think anyone was a thief. Ma heard about
dacoities but still never thought anyone was a dacoit. When the man was wolfing down the meal, Ma said, What Mia, dont you have any
daughters? Say around 12-13 years of age? Ma was afraid of employing any young girls. That is why when she asked for a girl, she never
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wanted to cross the age group of 12 or 13. If she was to consider an older woman, then she should not be less than 40.
The man said, Apa, eldersister, I have only one son, no daughter.
How old is your son?
The man could not give the age. Placing his left hand on his waist, he showed He is as tall as my waist.
Put him to work. What do you say? He can at least run errands.
The man was so taken with Mas behaviour that he brought his son, Nazrul, over the very next day. Nazrul would stay and be given meals.
His father too could come and see his son, whenever he was working with his da in the neighbourhood. Whenever the man came, Ma gave
him food to eat. The man would take a look at his son and leave in a happy frame of mind. Nazrul stayed for as long as two years in this
house. After which he ran away one day. When two months had passed, Nazrul was persuaded to return to us by his father. Once he had
finished all his chores at night, he would come inside the room and act like the Raja in a Jatra, an open air opera. He acted alone. We were
his audience, his listeners. Once in a while he would hold our hands and make us stand before him to act as his Rani. So what if she had no
dialogues. Kire Nazrul, what will you become when you grow up? Will you take part in Jatras? Nazruls eyes would be shining as he
answered, Yes. Initially Nazrul did not know how to cook. He couldnt even wash the clothes. Later he learnt everything. When he grew
as tall as his fathers chest, he was taken to work with the da, by his Baba. The day he left, Ma collected whatever money she had tied in
her sari aanchal, and any change kept under her mattress, amounting to about 12 taka, and gave it to Nazruls father. When she had no help
in the house, Ma went to the slum behind Nanibari. If she found no one there, she went to the banks of the Brahmaputra. Poor people dwelt
there in their shanties on the embankment built with broken barriers and thatch roofs. If not in one home, one always found someone to
work in another. If even that didnt work, Ma would get beggars coming to the house to do some work, give them lunch, and put more rice
in their bowls. If all failed and there was just no one to be found, then Baba would send for someone from his ancestral village, Nandail, to
manage the mandatory chores. Mostly they were Babas own relatives. They were not very distant either, quite close actually. His own
sisters daughter. Babas two younger sisters had been married to farmers in Nandail itself. During illnesses, the sisters came to this house,
to their doctor brother, and went home taking their medicines. The sons of the sisters had grown up and would now come by themselves.
They would come for monetary and other assistance. They would stay and eat for two days in this house. Baba would call them and after
questioning them on the state of the estates owned by them, would disburse both advice and funds. The sisters came with a marriageable
daughter. They had found an eligible groom, but the boy wanted a job. He was not interested in working on the farm in the village. The
brides rich Mama stayed in the town. If that Mama could get him a job, he would marry her, otherwise not. Baba looked here and there for
a job and found him one. However, if a daughter brought a complaint to Baba that her husband was beating her, Baba said, let him. Let the
husband beat her, if he gave her a little daal and rice to eat from his earning, she should keep quiet and continue to look after her husbands
household. This was the advice she was sent home with. When a husband gave Talaq to his wife, and married for a second time, Baba was
out to take away the husbands job. Baba gave his niece Sufis husband a job of binding books at the Cadet College. A bonny baby girl was
born to Sufi. Soon after, the husband beat Sufi, threw her out of the house and married again. Sufi came, fell at Babas feet and cried. Baba
said, Go and work in your co-wifes house, and stay alive. Sufi stayed in the co-wifes house for a long time. Finally, because the
husband stopped feeding her, she returned to her parents home. With her pretty baby daughter, this extra-troublesome burden continued
to stay in her parents house, her lips permanently sealed. She was brought one day to town. People thought Sufi was the maid. No one at
home even corrected this notion, that she was not the maid. Sometimes we also forgot that Sufi was our own cousin, Babas own niece.
That was because Sufi worked in the house just like a maid. Whatever clothes were given to the maid, on Id were given to Sufi as well.
Whatever leftovers she got to eat, Sufi got the same.
After the harvest, when family members visited from Nandail, they would always bring pittha, rice cakes, with them, mera pittha, Dada
pounced on it whenever he saw it. This mera pittha one could slice and fry, and eat with jaggery. Sometimes, they bought the horned
catfish or Magur, swimming in big vessels of water. Ma was happy whenever anyone brought something. After cooking and while serving
the fish, she would say, The fish were very fresh; must be from the pond. If anyone brought chilli pitthas, Dada alone ate half of them,
sitting on the chair in the inside verandah swinging his feet. Babas elder sister was quite well-off. In the Kashirampur village of Nandail,
she lived amidst plenty of landed property. Her children were all educated. The second son of his eldest sister, Rashid, studied in a college
in town. He studied in college, living in our house. Many of Babas relatives had stayed at Aubokash while studying. Baba was more keen
to educate his fraternal nephews than his sisters sons. There was an endless stream of visitors either seeking jobs, or ill, or for studying
purposes. Whoever came got a place in the tinshed. There was a spacious sleeping arrangement made there for villagers to come and stay
when in town. On Mas shoulders lay the responsibility of cooking, serving and feeding her husband and children, along with all members
of Babas extended family. Ma never shirked this responsibility, or did a shoddy job of it. Even uninvited visitors from the village who
arrived home late in the afternoon, were served meat and fish by Ma, however small the portion. Ma was like a magician. She would cook
one chicken, and was able to feed everyone at home twice a day. Even on the next morning, I would see some meat had been kept aside to
be eaten with the Rotis. Beef was cheap, so Baba very often bought it and sent it home. Whenever I ate it, slivers of meat got stuck between
my teeth, and the whole day was spent poking between my teeth to extricate them. Ma kept aside bones for me. Big bones with less meat,
these pieces I could still manage. Chicken was more expensive. It was tasty as well. However tasty the chicken and keen the desire to eat it,
no one had been able to make me behead one. Many times it happened that Ma was busy, and no shop assistant was forthcoming to behead
the chicken, the Dadas were missing, so Ma would tell me to do the beheading. In the courtyard I had to hold up the skin of the chickens
neck, say Allahoo-Akbar and cut it till the blood spurted out. I had taken the da many times. I had even picked up the chicken by the skin
of its neck. I had brought the da close to its neck. But I had never been able to perform the act. It had never been possible for me to behead
a live chicken. Seeing a beheaded chicken leaping all over the courtyard in pain, the pain inside my chest too leapt up in a similar fashion.
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Dada felt no pain in watching. Dada seemed to enjoy the torment of the chicken. I had told Ma often, That chicken had to give its life for
us to enjoy a good meal! Ma said, Allah has made them to be mans food. If you sacrifice them in Allahs name, there is no sin. Ma had
said there is no sin, but when it was proposed that the big white farm chicken, named Jhumjhumi by her, which had walked around the
courtyard for four months, should be killed, because it bit people, she said, A pet chicken should not be killed. Ultimately though, the
chicken was beheaded. Ma not only did not taste a single piece of meat, dressed as she was with a burkha covering her clothes, she left the
house to go to Nanibari. She left before she had to see the piteous spectacle of Jhumjhumi leaping in torment about the bloodied courtyard.
At Nanibari she ate a satisfying meal of rice and greens. She kept thinking that Jhumjhumi must be cursing her.
****
After staying in Dhaka, and visiting Burma and Korea, Geeta may have been someone whom we looked at with amazement, but Ma never
forgot that she was her daughter-in-law. Ma had thought that if not much, by handing over some household responsibilities to the daughter-
in-law atleast, she would get some rest. Mas hopes were in vain. Geeta did not even step anywhere close to the kitchen. Geetas splendour
was now much greater than ever before. Her high heeled shoes sounded much louder now when she walked. She had cut her hair shoulder
length. She had plucked her eyebrows completely, and with a black collyrium-pencil had instead drawn two bows in their place. Her facial
makeup was also much more elaborate than before. She stylishly applied red and pink lipstick, and coloured eye-shadow, matching her
saris. She wore prettier and more colourful saris than before. She went on outings more often. Like before, Yasmin and I, continued to
observe Geeta a little amazed, somewhat entranced, slightly hurt, with some understanding and some lack of it as well.
Chhotda had fixed three lights on top of Mas dressing table. Under the bright lights Geeta looked fair in the mirror. When she stood all
dressed up, she was the splitting image of the Durga idol decorating the Golpukur Par idol-making shop of Sudhir Das. The only difference
was that one was ten cubits or a forearm tall and the other two. Whenever Geeta got the chance, she told us stories of Dhaka. Stories of
Rahija Khanums three children. Soon we were well versed in the characters and habits of all the children. When we heard her stories of
Burma and Korea, we began feeling these countries were just in the next lane after Amlapara. As before, Ma cooked and fed the whole
household. Afroza get up, eat something, was a line I heard Ma calling out every so often. Since Baba had given up hope of Chhotda ever
taking up something academic again in his life, he had instructed him to sit at Arogya Bitaan. He would get 250 taka as pay. Chhotda
jumped at this offer of a job. Since he took up this job, his attacks on Dadas medicines almost came to an end. He passed his days in a light
mood. He spent his evening, pleasantly chatting with his friends at the Golpukur Par adda. As soon as the sound of the black gate
announced Chhotdas departure Geeta would run to the small gate used by the sweepers under the Sabri banana tree, and peep through a
hole in it, standing with her plump pitcher-shaped buttocks aslant. Through that hole was visible the house directly opposite where Dolly
Pal stayed. Geeta watched to see whether Chhotda ever glanced in that direction even mistakenly. Dolly Pal, married and a mother now,
was back at her parents home following a Talaq. Chhotda never looked at Dolly Pal anymore but the Burma-Korea returned Geetas
suspicions were still not dispelled. Everything that Geeta did, including her running under the Sabri tree to watch Chhotda out of curiosity,
made us curious as well. We were quick to pick up the words uttered by Geeta. Most of the language Geeta used to abuse the servants was
the kind we had never heard before, nor did we understand its meaning. When Amena was slow to bring the water she had ordered, Geeta
would say, That woman has not brought the water. What is she doing? Has her bigar got roused or what! Yasmin immediately began
using the word bigar here and there, without knowing its meaning.
In this house there was no lack of love for Geeta. At Id, Dada bought Geeta a silk sari, for Ma there was a cotton one. Ma preferred brown
or red coloured saris, but Dada bought white saris with borders for her. According to Dada, Ma looked like a mother, only in white saris.
Whatever sari was bought for Ma, she always gave it to Yasmin and me, to wear first. Once we had worn them, not just worn but really
used them to our hearts content, did Ma wear them. Ma was deprived of many things, but she was not aware of them. After wearing even
the white sari, if after two days someone came crying from the village with a tale of woe, she would give it to her. Ma heard many new
stories about Razia Begum from Geeta. Geetas lame aunt was a great friend of Razia Begum. This aunt called Henna was the same one
who at one time used to tutor Yasmin and me. Razia Begum had become the Matron of an orphanage in Notun Bazar. Geetas Henna Masi
too worked in the same orphanage. The more Ma heard about Razia Begum, the more she got mad at her. This mad Ma would sit with a
face full of bitterness when Baba entered the house. If Baba vented his anger, she did too. One day, Baba took out his whip from under the
mattress, beat this angry Ma till she was soaked in blood, and left her fallen in the courtyard. Like a beheaded chicken, Ma tossed about
tormentedly, crying out for mercy. Blood spouted from all over her body and the crows on the trees started cawing noisily and rousing
themselves flew away to another area. The sight was inhuman, so we did not want to see it, and instead Yasmin and I sat with our door
closed. None of us had the strength or the courage to snatch the whip from Babas hands. We remained turned to stone. Five minutes after
Baba left the house, Chhotda returned. Seeing Ma fallen in the courtyard and groaning, he ran out of the house immediately. Straight to
Arogya Bitaan. Picking up the wooden three-cornered name plate with Doctor written on it from the table, he fell on Baba screaming Why
did you beat my mother? I will kill you today. All the people in Notun Bazar gathered there on hearing his screams. Some people caught
Chhotda and held him back. Very little happened there. Only Babas forehead had swollen up slightly on one side. Nothing more. Chhotda
had hoped for blood, but even though his wish was not fulfilled, he had to quieten down.
At home, extricating herself from the mud and slush in the courtyard, in an amazingly quiet voice, Ma said, Lets go Afroza. Take me
where I need to go. Wearing a burkha over her blood-stained sari, Ma left with Geeta. She actually went to the courts, signed the Talaq
papers and returned home. Caressing Yasmin and my heads she said, Stay well. People do lose their mothers dont they? Think I have
died. Your father is there, and your brothers. They will take care of you. Work hard at your studies. With these words she put whatever
little belongings she had into a little packet and left for Nanibari. Before Ma left, Baba had become quite friendly with Geeta. Baba would
call Geeta aside and get all the household news from her. This was Babas eternal habit. He always had one spy appointed in the hope of
getting all the secret news at home. Normally the servants acted as good spies for Baba. This time of course the spy was of a much higher
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status than of a servant. She was possessed of great intelligence as well.
That Ma was not there was something I did not feel the day she left. I had even suffered from a kind of secret delight in the notion that with
Ma gone, I would have even more freedom to make noise at home. After a few days, not just in my bones, I felt her absence right down to
my very bone marrow. I realised that there was no one to scrub my body and give me a bath, no one to spoon-feed me, no one to tie my
hair. If the clothes got dirty, no one cared. Whether I ate or not, no one bothered to find out. In the evening there was no one to recite a
string of limericks. Ma would know I was hungry before I knew it myself. She would always be anxious to feed me. Now, whether I was
hungry or not, it made no difference to anyone. After Ma left, Baba had sent for his younger brother Motins wife from Nandail, to look
after the household. She was grossly fat and had a jet-black complexion. Motin had married her when he was working for BDR in
Rajshahi. When he had visited us with his wife, we had suppressed grins on seeing her. She looks just like a maidservant! No one went
near this maid, but Ma happily exchanged her joys and sorrows with Motins wife, as though she were a very old friend of Mas. Seeing
us stifle our giggles Ma had said, She worked in a Mess. So what? Shes a very simple person. Whether simple people were
maidservants or fakirs on the streets, Ma liked them. Motins wife cooked and fed us all. But who could possibly replace Ma! Who else
would be anxious and worried about us as Ma! Serving us with greens like Kalmi Shaak she would recite, Kalmi creeper, Kalmi creeper,
when the waters dry up, where will you be? Ill remain, I will. Beneath the soil. Just let it rain, Ill pop up youll see. There was no end to
Mas limericks. She was able to easily recite any limerick she may have read when she was a child. She knew so many that sometimes I
used to think I should write them all down, just in case she ever forgot them! Ma must have forgotten her limericks by now; after all, she
didnt have to feed anyone anymore while reciting them. If she was in a happy mood she could repeat the dialogues of films like Deedar,
Shobar Uporey, Harano Sur, Sagarika, Baiju Bawra, Deep Jele Jai, by heart. Breaking the still silence of the night, she would sing in a
golden voice, The moon is still awake in the sky, but I have come to know you are close by! Now day and night, the still silence of the
night reigned in the house.
Yasmin came back from school and shouted, Wheres my lunch? Motins wife said, Theres none. No lunch, what do you mean? It
has never happened that I have returned home from school and got no food. That was true, it had really never happened. Lunch had
always been served by Ma as soon as we returned from school. Yasmin shouted the house down. Coming to the conclusion that Motins
wife was not being able to manage, Baba handed over the complete responsibility to Geeta. The altercation that Baba had had with Chhotda
was wiped out automatically. It was as though a two, three or four cornered wooden object had never hit Babas forehead. The orders Geeta
gave were carried out by Motins wife and Amena obediently. The days carried on in this fashion. The days may have gone on as usual, but
Yasmin and I could not feel the same. Geeta ran around with us on the terrace, started a dance school in the house, took us to see films, but
somehow something seemed to be missing. As soon as he returned, Baba would call Geeta to his room. We guessed he asked her all the
details about the household and his children. He would have also been checking to see whether anyone was causing any problems.
Geeta would undoubtedly assure Baba that she was running everything flawlessly, that everything was well arranged and in good order.
Even though it was banned, I told Yasmin one evening, Lets go to Nanibari and see Ma. Yasmin jumped at the suggestion. Disregarding
our fears, when we reached Nanibari in a rickshaw, Ma came running. She hugged us and wept aloud.
Why are your faces all drawn? Havent you eaten?
We nodded our heads, Weve eaten.
Ma made us sit close to her and asked us all the minute details of what we had eaten, who cooked, who cared for our clothes and who made
our beds. She personally fed us fish and rice and wiped our mouths with her sari aanchal. She carefully combed and plaited our unoiled and
knotted tresses. Taking us aside she asked us whether Baba said anything about her. I shook my head. Baba had said nothing. I hid the fact
that Baba constantly told us, There is no irritating woman in the house, now you must eat your own food, study by yourselves, understand
things on your own. Ma said she was fine, Nana had bought her a sari, she had no lack of food here, and everyone was very fond of her.
Ma repeatedly told us that in these last few days, both Yasmin and I had lost a lot of weight. Mas streaming tears wet her cheeks and
soaked her chest.
Do you feel sad without me? Do you cry Ma, Ma for me?
Yasmin and I exchanged glances. If we said, We dont, Ma would be hurt. So we didnt. Ma held our silent selves to her breast and said,
No, dont cry, if you feel like crying chat with Geeta, or play Name, place, flower, fruit. Dont cry any more.
We nodded our heads. Okay.
Ma probed us with questions.
Hows the cooking?
Not good.
Why not? Motins wife is not a bad cook.
She puts too much chilli
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Tell her not to put so much.
I found a hair in my greens.
Tell her to wash the Shaak well.
Okay.
Ma, wont you ever go back again? I asked trying to hide the pain in my voice.
Nani was poking her teeth with a toothpick. After spitting out, she said, Why should she go? Grow up yourselves. Then stay with your
mother. Idun will not go to that house ever again.
Ma said, Noman has money. If he takes a separate house, then I can stay.
After staring for a long time at the courtyard disconsolately, Ma spoke again, Youll see Ma; he will bring that Razia Begum home this
time.
Does your father say anything? Does he say anything about bringing Razia Begum home or anything to that effect?
I shook my head, No.
Does your father eat at home?
He does.
Does he like the food?
I dont know.
Doesnt he say anything?
No.
Ma sat ashen-faced. Her eyes had dark shadows under them, her cheeks were stained with tears. She just sat like that. When we left, she
stood next to the pond at the back like a faded rose, whose petals would disintegrate as soon as it was touched.
Since Geeta was running the household, it was expected that she would see to it that the maids and servants did not shirk their jobs, that the
scouring of the utensils, washing of clothes, mopping of floors etc. was continuously done by her orders, whether the fish was to be cooked
with potol, a kitchen vegetable, or shaak, or the daal was to be thin or thick, how many measures of rice was to be cooked etc., would be
decided by her. While Geeta was playing boss and was in Babas good books, one day her younger brother, named Shishir Mitra, pet name
Tullu, came to meet his sister. After that he came quite frequently. Geeta would call him into her room, give him things to eat and chat with
him in whispers. Yasmin and I kept Tullus visits a secret. Geeta had now become a Mussalman after marriage, so it was an unwritten law
in our house that no contact with any Hindu household could be maintained by her. When Geeta took Chhotda with her to visit her parental
home, it too was kept secret.
Dada visited Nanibari to meet Ma, partook of Nanis fabulous cooking, and returned home with his lips reddened with betel juice from the
paan he had taken from her betel-leaf case. Chhotda, too, took his wife to visit his friends, dropped in at his in-laws place in Peonpara and
met Ma at Nanibari on the way back. To both, I said Why dont you bring Ma back?
None of them made any reply. Neither Dada, nor Chhotda. They were quite happy. Aubokash without Ma did not appear to be unbearable
to them as it was to us.
Dada had bought a motorcycle, a red coloured 100 CC Honda. He had bought it but didnt know how to ride it. Kept in the verandah room,
the Honda was cleaned by him twice a day. All the time he was at home, he would sit on his Honda, start the engine making weird noises
and would go a couple of feet forward and backward within the room. He would admire himself constantly in the Hondas driving mirror.
This was the first time any engine-propelled vehicle had come home. Once, Baba had had the sudden desire to buy Zulfikar Akandas old
car. Akanda Lodge was adjacent to M A Kahhars house. Baba had even given an advance of 50,000 taka. At that time we all had begun
mentally driving that white Volkswagon. However, having found some fault in the engine, Baba did not finally buy the car. He did not even
get back the advance; it seems one couldnt. On the purchase of the Honda, Baba began to supervise the arrangements for it as well. The
verandah door was to be kept shut at all times, so that no one could steal the motorcycle. At night he personally began to lock the door from
inside. This red Honda bought with so much enthusiasm, which had yet to enter the roads, was picked up by Chhotda, who asked me to ride
pillion. Chhotda, too had never ridden a motorcycle ever before. He had learnt to drive Babas hospital jeep in Ishwarganj. That was all he
knew. The Honda stalled 30 times within a half-mile distance. People on the roads stopped 30 times to watch us. A girl had got onto a
Honda; that was what they were staring at. In this town, if a woman sat on a Honda, it became a topic of jest or curiosity. Yet in this town,
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Nitu rode her own bike. Nitu, a student of Vidyamoyee school, took her sister Mitu to school everyday, riding pillion on her bike. She was
the wonder of the town. Sometimes I wished I could be Nitu, and ride my bike in the streets of the town, without caring for anyone. When
Yasmin talked of Nitu and Mitu, I listened to her fascinated.
Dada finally learnt to ride the Honda, and began to use the bike for office work in the town and in the cities outside the town as well. One
day he gave me a ride on the Honda saying, Come, Ill show you the mountains. Unexpected pleasure broke the windows, rushed into my
world and flooded it. As soon as we reached the shores of the Brahmaputra, dark clouds began to race across the sky, as though they were
burning the sun to ashes, and causing black fumes to emerge from the burnt sun. It began to rain. We were in a crowded passenger boat in
the downpour, Dadas Honda, Dada, me and my fear of death. Even though I was sure I was about to lose my life this morning in a sinking
boat, I still did not give up my wish to see mountains for the first time. Once we reached Shambhuganj, and crossed the noisy bus-station,
the Honda raced away towards deserted areas. My hair and dress were blowing in the breeze. It was as though this was not Dada and I, but
two butterflies flying away. As far as the eye could see, there was no habitation, only marshland, swamps and paddy fields. I was singing
songs in my croaky voice with full-throated ease and reciting poems by heart. Dada was telling stories real and imaginary from the vast
storehouse within him. When we were kids, Dada used to tell us lots of stories. How many stories could one person possibly know! If Dada
began telling us old stories we would get irritated. We used to press him for new ones. One day he called us saying he had a very long story
to tell us. It was a new one. After our meals, we got under the quilts, creating the atmosphere for story telling, all ready to listen. Dada
began, In the village of Achinpur lived a wood-cutter by the name of Allauddin. One afternoon after eating a hearty meal, he wore a new
lungi, hung a thin towel from his shoulders and left his house. There was a vast field; nothing could be seen anywhere. Allauddin was
walking across that field. He kept walking and walking.
Then?
Then what?
What happened next? Where did he go?
He hasnt reached anywhere as yet. He is still walking
I was keen to know whether Allauddin had reached some river bank or some banyan tree. But I never got to know, as Dada that night
would not tell us anything more than Allauddins walking. As soon as I woke up the next day, I asked Dada, What happened after that?
Where did Allauddin go? Dada said, Hes still walking.
Still walking?
Yes, still walking?
Where will he go?
That you will learn later. Let him go first.
After a week had passed, Dada still said, Hes still on his way. When he would reach, where he would reach, what would happen after
that, Dada told us nothing. He wouldnt even start another new story. Obviously, he was still telling us one. Even after a month, Dada said
Allauddin was still going. Yasmin and I were deeply worried. What do you think? What will happen to Allauddin finally? Yasmin was of
the belief that Allauddin would die of hunger enroute. What Dada thought, he never disclosed. Dadas Allauddin never reached his
destination. We, too, never heard any more stories from Dada. Right now, I wished our journey, too, would never end. After Tarakanda
Phulpur, we crossed some un-tarred, tarred and broken roads till we came to the Kangsa River. This river had a very strong current. It
appeared as if the banks on either side would disintegrate any moment and be swallowed by the river. Two boats had one deck, on which
buses and trucks were loaded, and the river was crossed by tugging ropes. While we crossed the river, Dada explained what high tides, low
tides, and punting poles were all about. He made me understand the relationship between the river and the life of a boat. Once we crossed
the river, we raced at even greater speed. We passed by paddy fields, jute fields, roads covered with paddy laid out to dry, birds coming and
pecking at them, peoples homes, courtyards, fields all the way till we crossed Halwa Ghat, and went further into the hinterlands. Here the
paddy fields were sown and harvested by Garo women. Watching them walking with their babies tied on their backs, we reached a
beautiful hospital at Joyram-Kurai. An Australian had built this hospital for the Garos. Dada spoke to the Australian Doctor, Neal Palkar.
He gave him the medicines. I was standing on the verandah of the hospital looking at the mountains. On the other side of the mountains
was India. From Bangladesh clouds were floating towards India, birds were flying from that side to this. I asked Dada, If I cross the
mountains and go to the other side! Dada said, No, you cant go; that is another country. Leaning on the side of the mountains, was the
other country, India. I felt I could hear Indias heart beat, I could hear her breathe. India was so close, so very close; I wanted to whisper
something into her ears. I wanted to say Why did we part ways? Are you not part of us? On the way back from the mountains, Dada
stopped and talked to many people. He stopped at two pharmacies. We were given tea and sweets. Although we had not eaten the whole
day, we had no pangs of hunger. One of the men at the pharmacy took me to meet his family living in the house behind. I talked at ease
with the wife, and even took their baby on my lap and asked its name. Once we were out of there, Dada said, Bah, you have certainly
improved. You dont normally speak to people. I saw you talking today.
I laughed and said, I was reading a few pages of Dale Carnegie in the morning. May be thats the reason.
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Dada roared with laughter. We floated again in the air.
At one time, I asked Dada, Achcha Dada, you seem to treat everyone so well, talk so pleasantly to all, whether it is to that Nishibabu, that
hat on head, stethoscope hanging around the neck quack doctor who cycles along the muddy paths, the chemist Najmul or with that doctor
who has spent his life time in that hospital in a forest bereft of any human habitation have you learnt Dale Carnegie by heart?
Dada laughed and replied, Dale Carnegie actually came to meet me. After observing my life, he went back and wrote his instructive
treatise.
The shacks by the wayside sold tea in tiny cups. To quench his thirst for tea, whenever Dada would stop at the shacks, he would say, Dont
drink tea, tea wears away your insides. Havent you seen the stains that remain, in empty tea cups? However much you try, those stains just
never go. Your heart will waste away just like that if you drink tea. Like the tea cup your heart too is getting ruined. It is becoming hideous.
One day it will turn into a sieve.
Ma mixed ginger in black tea, and that tasted far better than the tea served in village bazaars, full of milk and stale-smelling. Yet I happily
drank this tea served in the shacks. Of course I drank it only because I was away from home. The outside attracted me. The village fields
full of yellow mustard flowers and the village markets full of various shacks selling wares, were very enjoyable to look at. My fears of
dying in a boat capsize disappeared as I watched the stunningly beautiful colours of the sky, while crossing the Brahmaputra. When we
reached home, we were covered entirely with dust, to the extent that if we tried to speak our teeth could feel the dust particles in our
mouths. The hair was all knotted with the dust. I was looking, according to Yasmin, like a ghost. Whether I looked like a ghost or a witch,
this trip had given me immense pleasure. Almost till midnight, Dada was rebuked by Baba, I thought atleast you had some sense in your
head. You took this girl out on the motorcycle. What are people going to say?
Lying in my bed at night, and looking at the beams, I told Yasmin, Suppose I am a mountain, and half my body is India, the other half
Bangladesh. My right hand cannot go to the left, and my left hand cannot come to the right. But if you are a bird, you can fly across. A bird
has more freedom than a man.
Baba got to know that we had gone to Nanibari. Baba called me and said, Your legs have grown too long. Next time I hear you left the
house, I will break your shins. Babas threats did not work. I kept visiting Nanibari. I told Ma. Ma, come home. Nani said Your saying
means nothing. Send Noman or Kamaal. Send your father. If your father comes to take her, she might go. Drawn-faced and dried-lipped
Ma said, Why will their father come? Even seeing his daughters suffering does not make him say anything. If he brings Razia Begum
home, no one else but these two girls will bear the brunt!
On the way to and fro from Nanibari I saw a printing press in the name of Aziz Printers. Halting the rickshaw, I got down and asked them
the unit cost of printing a dummy-sized, 23 x 18 format. After which I took money from Dada, bought paper, and gave it to the printers. I
then sat in the press myself to proof-read the second issue of Shenjuti. Muhammed Aziz was the name of the owner of the press. Dada
knew him, and went once in a while personally to check Shenjutis progress. One day, after paying up the rest of the printing cost, Dada
brought Shenjuti home. This time Shenjuti was on white paper. Taking a copy in his hand, Dada said, Na, the printing is not good. From
next time onwards get it printed at Jaman. Jaman is the best printing press. Paata was printed at Jaman only. When Dada remembered his
one time journal Paata, his eyes shone with happiness. The literary magazine called Paata that Dada and his friends published was really
very beautiful. Paatas stationery was printed on lovely transparent paper. Their letters, application forms for membership, even receipts for
membership fees all carried a design in its transparency. Dada had even now preserved the Paata stationery as memorabilia. Once in a
while he would pull it out, dust it and caressing it with his hands would say, Youll see, we will publish Paata again one day. Of the three
who published Paata, one was Sheilas brother. Since Dada fell in love with Sheila, her brother Chikan Farhad had stopped seeing Dada.
The other, Mehboob, had gone mad and was now chained up in a mental hospital. Dada could publish, why one, even ten magazines if he
so wanted, but he could never again use the name Paata. Paata was not Dadas property alone. Dada was only the joint editor; the actual
editor was Farhad. Dada used to say, What did Farhad do? I was the one who did all the work! He may have got satisfaction by saying
that, but he never got the right to name another magazine Paata. Dada wanted to publish a magazine called Paata once more. When Farhad
heard this he informed Dada that he would file a case against him.
When I was immersed in Shenjuti a horrifying incident occurred at home. Yasmin had grown a small pair of wings on her back. Growing
the wings was not horrifying, what occurred because of the wings, was horrifying. Yasmins wanted to fly not in order to cross the
Bangladesh-India border, but only to secretly cross the boundaries delineated around her existence. A good-looking neighbourhood lad
called Badal, of the same age as Yasmin, used to stand on the road when Yasmin went to school. One day he plucked up courage to come
forward and talk to her. To avoid being spotted talking on the road, Badal asked Yasmin to meet him the next day in the Botanical Gardens.
Yasmin was so keen to break out of the restrictions imposed on her that as soon as school was over, she got on a rickshaw and went straight
to the gardens. Badal had gone there with an uncle of his. The uncle, Badal and Yasmin went around the garden, admiring the plants,
appreciating the variety of flowers blooming all around, watching the river, unaware that a neighbourhood boy had seen them and had run
to inform Baba. Baba went without wasting a moment to the gardens and brought them back. Catching Badal by his hair, Baba brought him
home, tied his hands and feet with a strong rope, and whipped him the whole afternoon in the verandah room. Badals wails had the whole
neighbourhood trembling, but Baba did not care. He pushed the half-dead Badal out from the house and straight into the hands of the
police. He filed a case of girl kidnapping against Badal that very day. The police tied a rope around Badals waist and look him away. When
his son returned from jail, Badals father, Samiran Dutta, left the neighbourhood. Not just Badal, Baba had whipped Yasmin too, behind
close doors. Not an inch of her body was spared from black and blue bruises. A raging fever started, and clumps of hair began to fall from
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her head. After this incident, very often Yasmin would come home from school, and sit around disconsolately. Her classmates had begun to
say, It seems you were running away with some boy? Mymensingh appeared to be a very vast town. But when people picked up juicy
pieces of gossip like, Rajab Alis younger daughter had run away with a boy, and laughed about it and it came to my ears. I realized how
small the town was really and how narrow the peoples minds were. If Baba had not made such a huge issue out of the incident, Yasmin
would have come home from the garden. If she had been asked, Why are you late from school? she might have answered, I had gone to
Rinkus house. Rinku was her friend, so visiting Rinku after school was not such a great offence. That day Yasmins curiosity about Badal
was not as much as her interest in seeing the gardens. Once she had seen the gardens, her desire would have been satisfied, and she would
have kept her joy at having secretly broken her bonds to herself. No one would have looked with hatred at Yasmin accusing her of having
run away with a boy. She would not have thought herself such a great sinner, and not have tried to hide herself desperately from the eyes
of others.
Geeta had given Tullu something in a sack. A very tiny piece of news. But it reached Babas ears. Baba was in his room stamping his feet.
A whisper could be heard. What is she giving him?
Dont know, may be rice, said Amena.
How many days has Tullu come?
Many days.
What does he do when he comes?
Sits and chats.
With whom?
With his sister.
When Baba thought deeply about something, he would take off his spectacles with one jerk. He would sit with his head bent. In moments
his eyes would turn red. He would pace up and down the verandah. His hands at the back. Sometimes at his waist. Once in a while he
would pull back his head full of black curly hair. He would sit on a chair, then move it noisily and get up. He would then sit down again.
Whenever we saw Baba like this, the only thing all of us at home could do was to wait, because we knew very soon an explosion would
take place. This time, however, the explosion did not occur. In a quiet voice he called Dada into his room and told him, Go and get your
mother back.
When we went to fetch mother back, Ma did not look shocked, as though she was expecting this to happen. On Mas wan face, a smile
appeared. Ma could never hide her joys. Her happiness shone like dust grains from her eyes, lips and cheeks.
***
Baba looked askance at Mas presence in Aubokash. He did not say a word. But Ma never forgot to arrange Babas meals on the table. The
way Baba wanted the household to be run, she now ran it even more efficiently. The floors in the house shone, the courtyard sparkled.
Babas room was bright and arranged in an orderly way. The clothes-stand had washed clothes, neatly folded. The sheets on the bed were
clean. Before Baba came home, his bed was made, with the mosquito net hung in readiness. Our hair was tied up, with ribbons in
flower-knots at the ends. We got our food before we felt hungry, and water as soon as we asked. We got coconut water, without asking.
Wood-apple sherbet, half-ripe guavas, ripe mangoes, blackberry mix, pomegranate pips were put into our hands and brought to our mouths.
Mas presence gave us all endless comfort.
Chapter Nine
Learning Medicine
That year, no medical college entrance exam was held. Admissions were done on merit basis, according to the results of the SSC and
intermediate exams. Anyone having more than 1200 marks in both exams was eligible. I had more than 1200 marks in both my exams.
However, since I had less than 1300-1400 marks, I did not get Mymensingh, my first choice. Instead I was being sent to Sylhet Medical. In
a second, Baba went into action. I was made to sign several application forms. He told Dada to get ready. Dada took me along, and we
boarded a late night train. The train stopped at Akhaira station in the morning. We had to change trains there for Sylhet. At the station I got
lost amidst the crowd of Paaniwalas, Beediwalas, Badamwalas, Jhalmuriwalas, Bananawalas, Biscuitwalas. Dada pulled me out and made
me sit in a waiting room meant for women. I sat surrounded by women, some in burkha, and some without, a few ta-ta, aa-aa, howling
kids, apart from fces, urine and vomit. In their midst, sat I, a gentlemans daughter, wearing ironed clothes. The train which left Akhaira
station for Sylhet had people boarding it in a continuous stream. They pushed against each other in the rush. Lungi-clad people, pyjama,
pant clad, people with naked feet, or, with shoes, hatted and hatless with suitcases, trunks and sacks together in the crowd. Because I
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was a woman, I was given a seat. As my brother, Dada too got a place next to me so that my body did not come into contact with any other
mans. People with tickets for third class sitting in this second class compartment, did not try to get seats. They rested their bottoms on the
floor, some with seats before them, others facing the hot loo wind coming through the open doors. In the corner a group of cowering
women huddled in a heap, sporting pins on their noses, and bolts on their lips. With their tickets in their pockets, the second class male
travelers were talking loudly. Even though I was listening intently, I could not decipher a word of what they were saying.
O Dada, what language are they speaking?
The Sylhet dialect is beyond any non-Sylhet to decipher, said Dada. After which he casually haggled over the price, before he bought a
packet of peanuts which he proceeded to eat with a pinch of spicy powder and a lot of concentration. Despite the heat, the crowd and the
cacophony, I was delighted that I was going to a new town. Dada pointed through the window at a field some distance away saying, Can
you see that field. On the other side of this field is India. I wished I could run across the field and see what India looked like, what the
Indian sky looked like. The train passed close to the mountains and their falls showered their water over it. It moved alongside the tea
gardens, passing through deep dark forests. I put my hands out of the windows and overhanging branches and leaves touched my fingers as
we passed.
The minute I stepped into a new city, fountains of joy filled my heart. This was not Mymensingh; it was another town, it had another name.
In order to convince myself I repeatedly read the signboards. Station Road, Sylhet. Old Bazaar, Sylhet. Dargah Road, Sylhet. Dada had
been here before, so he was aware of how to go about things. Here, the rickshaw-walas had to be addressed as drivers. They got angry if
you called them rickshaw-walas. Climbing on to a squarish rickshaw, we entered the city. We ate a terribly hot chilli meal at a small
restaurant and went to sleep in a hotel. This was the first time in my life that I had stayed overnight at a hotel. Dada slept soundly in a
torpor. From the next room or verandah, the grating sounds of talk and laughter were causing my hands and feet to recoil into my stomach.
I was sure the people would very soon break through the door and enter my room, chop me into pieces, tear me into shreds and eat me, and
ruin me completely. I kept calling Dada in trembling tones, low tones, high tones and weeping tones. Nothing woke Dada from his sleep.
With one leap I reached Dadas bed and shook him awake. Sleepily asking, What happened? he turned over and went back to sleep. With
a fluttering heart I curled up in one corner of Dadas bed, and couldnt sleep all night. When the streaks of light began to enter the room at
dawn, and the grating sounds from outside had subsided, my heart stopped fluttering.
Were you scared at night? Dada asked.
Yes.
Arrey dhoor! What is there to be scared of?
In the morning after taking admission in the Medical College and submitting the transfer certificate, we boarded the train again. The whole
night we passed through deep dark forests, and I felt eerie sensations in my body all night long.
When we came back from Sylhet, Baba bought white Tetron cloth and ordered two aprons to be stitched for me. I would have to wear
aprons to college. To the college in my own town, my fathers college, not the college which took two days to reach, but the one just after
the rail-crossing at Ganginar Par, past my old residential school after the Chorpara turn, that college. If the rickshaw-wala was young it
would take 15 minutes, if old 25. The Sylhet chapter was closed, it was now Mymensingh. According to orders I wore the apron to college,
under it I wore my dress and pyjamas, no need to trouble to wear the odhna, no one bothered to know whether it was there under the apron
or not. This circumstance gave me great joy. There were no restrictions of the odhna. Anyone, boy or girl, whatever clothes they wore, had
to wear the white apron over it. The apron had collars like a coat, pockets, and a belt at the waist I felt thrilled when I wore it. At college
all the faces were unknown. Mostly they were from Dhaka and stayed in the Hostel. Only a handful of others and I were from this town. I
was someone who had only studied in girls schools and colleges. I was not used to seeing young men. But here, whether in class, in the
corridors, grounds, or staircases, I had to walk before slanted eyes, smiling eyes, bent eyes or wide open eyes, and it frightened me.
Uneasiness kept me tightly bound. The classroom, to which the new students were taken for the first time, had Dissection Room written on
its door in white ink. A stink made me wrinkle up my nose and eyes, as soon as I entered the room. My intestines began to churn and spit
accumulated in my mouth. In an effort to stifle my nausea, I held my breath, but there was a limit to how long one can keep from breathing.
As soon as I let go, the smell struck my nose, and from my nose traveled to my stomach, back and legs, right up to my toes. Dead bodies
were lying on tables, and around them were standing white-apron-clad boys and girls. Not just standing, they were actually bending over
them and sniffing as though corpses had the scent of magnolias. These bodies, at one time had laughed, cried, loved someone, even
screamed when pricked by a needle, and yet now that they were being cut and torn, and their chest muscles were being parted to lift out
their hearts, they could not feel anything at all. A sensation of cold death began to flow down my spine and spread to all parts of my body.
One day we, too, would die one by one and, like these bodies, become totally insensate objects. Abandoning my group, I left the room and
death physically accompanied me. I walked in the corridors and death walked with me. I sat under the eucalyptus tree outside and death sat
beside me.
On the second day the whole class was divided into four groups. The head, the chest, the limbs and the abdomen. I was given the abdomen, or may be the
abdomen got me. Bas, now cut up the corpses and learn all about the abdomen, whatever was in the lower belly, place it on a tray. Choose an empty corner, the
Cunningham book was available, one would read, one would listen, another understand, one would question, one had to support and another raise objections.
This group study may have suited others, but it certainly did not suit me. The hostellers had chosen their permanent companions for study, I had no one
permanent or temporary. I was alone. I came alone from home by rickshaw, after class I went home alone, and studied by myself. Baba had bought me some
huge books, which had big coloured illustrations in them. When I turned the pages to look, Yasmin stared wide-eyed at them. When I studied, sixty percent did
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not enter my head, another fifteen percent entered my head but came out promptly, and the other 25 percent did not come anywhere close to me.
Anatomy Book pleased Ma the most. Ma knew the names of all these books earlier itself. When Baba was studying she used to arrange these books on the table,
and hand them over when he asked. In Babas time, the books were not so big in length and breadth. In my time they had begun to resemble heavy rocks and
the trunks of trees. When I was bent over my books, whether I was studying or not, Ma would silently leave lemon sherbet, or fried puffed rice,
ginger tea on my table. At home I was getting an abundance of love and care. Before I left for college, Ma would comb my hair, iron my clothes and apron and
place my sandals close to my feet. But as soon as I reached college, my state became pitiful. I could not answer a question, nor do the dissection. The girls from
Dhaka, living together in the hostel, had made friends amongst themselves. They walked in groups, laughed in groups, and answered heaps of questions asked
by the master all together. I was rescued from this pathetic state by a bespectacled, sunken-cheeked, oily-haired boy called Sujit Kumar Apu. He said, Come
on, lets study together; my house is close to yours. What do you say, should I come over in the evening? With Apu, I began studying the abdomen. The very
first day we had to study the genitals. I had to sit with Cunninghams book wide-open at the shameless illustration of the genitals, while Apu described in detail
which nerves under which muscles traveled till where and which route the arteries took to finally reach their destination. Ma brought tea and biscuits for us.
After returning home at night, Baba would rest his body in the easy-chair, and call, Lets see what you are studying. Bring your book! I held open
Cunninghams genitals illustration before Baba. This was what I was studying, this was what was being taught in class. Baba though embarrassed, covered it up
well by taking shelter under the English language. After telling me a few things in English about genitals, he immediately changed the topic. Almost everyday
after college, Apu came to study. As soon as he got involved in the minute details of the sexual organs, I would stop him and ask him about other things.
Achcha, how would it be if we brought out a literary journal in college? I would ask Apus uncle. Pranab Saha was a noted limerick-writer in the town. Apu
himself wrote verses. Hearing the proposal, Apu would get very enthusiastic. Bas, writing a The End to my group studies I got busy with literary studies. I had
seen a wall-magazine composed of poems, stories and limericks hanging in college. To begin with, let me start a wall-magazine atleast! Just like I concentrated
on my studies before an exam, I put my full attention to Krishanu, Fire. But who was going to hang it up in college? Apu was so grateful that I had taken one of
his limericks, that instead of reaching college at eight, he was there by 7.30 am and hung up Krishanu on the wall. Students passing the corridor stopped in front
of the magazine and read the articles. I watched them from a distance. The cultural week had commenced in college. The wall-magazine was also going to
compete. I told Apu to collect articles from our classmates. Very slowly a few articles came to hand. Whether poems, limericks, stories or essays I had to
polish them up to some standard before publication. Removing whatever change there was in Babas pocket I bought paper, pen and brushes and sat down to
create another wall-magazine Amrita, Ambrosia. I worked the whole night, with the Amrita papers spread all over the drawing room floor. At that time I could
do anything I wanted. After all I was a medical student; so what if I also liked to write poetry and such-like. All this frivolity would fade away one day.
I got over many things, but not my childishness. Apu was going home to Netrakona by train. Since train journeys attracted me like a
magnet, I tried to get some of my casual girl friends to join me on a trip to Netrakona with Apu. Apu promised he would return in the
evening. Leaving the road on the left that went towards home, we went right, to the station from college. The coal-driven train started on its
journey emitting black smoke and a jhikir-jhikir sound. I was very happy while the train was moving. Whenever it stopped, I felt sad, and
put my neck out of the window to look at the engine and pray earnestly for jhikir-jhikir. After reaching Netrakona, we ate at Apus house,
and then toured the towns grounds, finally reaching the station to catch the train back to Mymensingh. There were trains coming in every
minute, but they were all going towards Mohanganj, not towards Mymensingh. Dusk descended and the darkness from the sky fell on my
chest like a stone. I lost the courage to imagine the scene that would take place at home. Seeing the hostellers completely unconcerned, I
wished I had their luck. I wished I, too, could lead a life free of home and angry red-eyes. The train finally came. It hardly moved at any
speed, ultimately reaching Mymensingh at ten oclock at night.
I spent the whole journey trying to make up excuses to give at home, but none of them sounded plausible enough. Throughout the way the
moisture in my mouth, throat and stomach gradually sank towards my lower belly. Since I was the only one with a problem, the others
came forward to find a solution. Apu would escort me home, saying he had taken me and some others to visit Netrakona so the fault was
his! This solution did not sound good to me. Finally, I took all of the girls with me, saying they too were with me. I had not gone alone for
fun with a man, but had gone on a kind of picnic with a whole group of girls. This senseless train had got us all late, thankfully Apu was
with us Ma understood. That time I got away. Luckily, Baba had not returned home. Even if he had, may be he wouldnt have exploded,
because that night he had got news of his mothers death. Babas Ma, my Dadi. Dadi visited us once in a while at Aubokash when she
accompanied Borodada. Dadi was dark, but beautiful. She had very sharp features. Ma believed that this Dadi was not Babas own mother.
Baba and his elder sister were children of this Dadis elder sister. I had asked Borodada, Dadi and Borophupi about this secret several
times, but had never got an answer. Even if she wasnt his own mother, Baba was very fond of her. He sent her saris, medicines for her
ailments and when she was bed-ridden he went personally to Madarinagar to see her. Baba decided to go to his village home for Dadis
obsequies, to be performed on the fortieth day after her demise. With dancing eyes he asked Yasmin and me, Ki, want to go to the
countryside? At this hint of an invitation we leapt with joy. Yasmin and I had never been to the village home. Dada and Chhotda had gone
during the war. Carrying Dadas camera in my hands, we left with Baba for the village early in the morning. After the strenuous travel by
boat, bus, rickshaw, and in the end walking, we ultimately reached the house. Somehow, we never felt the strain at all. What could be
greater fun than to be able to go out of doors! Seeing any new place, village or town, was something I liked. My joy at visiting Nandails
Madarinagar was no less than my joy at visiting Dhaka. In the afternoon people in great numbers came for lunch the poor people of the
village, and all Babas poor relatives. Everyone was made to sit in the courtyard, and served on plantain leaves. Baba personally served
everyone. I look pictures of Baba in all kinds of poses. All the villagers, children, women and men collected in the house to see us. To them
anyone visiting from town was a bundle of surprises! The house was made of bamboo, with a thatched roof and mud floors. Around
Borodadas room had been built Imam Ali, Riazuddin and Abdul Motins rooms. They were all living together with their wives and
children and were reasonably well off. In Borodadas room was a big chest. He slept on a bed laid out on top of the chest. The whole day he
sat and wove nets to catch fish. His eyesight was failing. But he never thought of going for treatment to the town and staying at Aubokash.
Nowadays one could just not cajole him into going to town at all. At this age he had no wish to leave his ancestral home and go anywhere.
Baba showed us all the green paddy fields stretching right till the horizon. He had bought them all himself. So much land, so many cows,
such a large granary full to overflowing at home, yet no one led a fancy lifestyle. They wore the cheap blue lungis available at the local
Madarinagar Bazaar. They slept on cots in huts and ate roasted egg-plant and a thin daal with their rice, they sat smoking their hookahs on
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the verandah, as though all the worries of the solar system were hovering a foot above them, causing their faces to be etched with irritation.
The wives were also clad in coarse cotton saris. A fifteen year old looked twenty-five, a twenty-five old looked fifty. Yet the people of this
house were thought of as wealthy by all other houses. They had never spent their wealth on themselves. All their wealth was saved to buy
more land and was spent in their fixation with cases each brought against the other. For this house, Baba was a God. Whoever amongst
them had turned into a Raja of the Yakshas like Kubera, and had only guarded the wealth he could not use, had done so with Babas wealth.
Everyone followed Babas orders, and did whatever he told them to do. Whose son would go to school, for whose daughter a groom had to
be found, Baba decided everything. He also paid the school fees and the wedding expenses. He told Riazuddin that he would put his son
through school in town, once he had finished at the village school. Anyone coming to study in town meant they had to stay in the tin shed
in the courtyard of Aubokash. Riazuddins eldest son Shiraz, while staying at Aubokash and studying in the town school, had one day in the
blistering heat of a desolate afternoon, stripped Yasmin, then only about 9 or 10 years old, naked. Jhunu khala who was visiting, had been
walking near the tin shed. Peeping in, she had seen the naked sight. As soon as Baba got the news, he returned home, broke whatever
fire-wood was in the courtyard on the backs of Shiraz and Yasmin, and threw Shiraz out of the house on that very day. Shiraz rented
another room in the town, passed school, and soon got admission in college. At Dadis obsequies, Shiraz had come to this house, but even
after so many years since the incident, he did not have the courage to come before Baba. Dadi was buried next to the house itself. Planting
a sapling at the head of the tombstone, Dada returned to town with both of us by evening. On the way, he unabashedly described the
unbearable poverty of his childhood. He asked us to try and understand his achievement in having worked his way from such a humble
birth and upbringing to his present status and wealth. He told us that we should also always look upwards, we should progress higher by
studying and working, so that we really became worthy human beings. We should not waste our time in luxuries, comforts and indolence.
In college the Students League, Students Union, Jashod National Socialistic Students League, Students Group etc., political parties, were
bringing artistes from Dhaka and organising fabulous new colourful music concerts, to entertain us. Each group was busy competing to
hold functions more splendid than the others. One group brought Khursheed Alam, the other Firdaus Wahid. Not just musical concerts,
political leaders were also brought from Dhaka to deliver long political speeches. Mahmudur Rahman Manna came for the Jashod function
and spoke continuously for two hours. I listened engrossed. Whichever leader of whichever party spoke, I was fascinated. When we had
such good leaders, I thought why did the country have to remain in the hands of a military dictator like Zia-ur-Rehman? Yet when I heard
the student group speeches, I thought the country was on the right track; that there was no way it could go any better. As soon as the
colourful music festival was over, the college was hit by election fever. The Chhatra Sansad elections. Various kinds of people asked for
votes. I had to nod at all of them and promise to vote for them. The candidates even started coming home. It seems if they came home to
request, it was like a confirmation. Whether for votes or for any other reasons, young people were constantly coming to look for me. This
was a completely new experience for me. The first year classes were going on in a dilatory fashion, so I took this opportunity to prepare the
third issue of Shenjuti for publication. I spent more time at Jaman Printers than in college. This Shenjuti was bulkier than the others. What
was special about this issue was that the words Lady Editor, Taslima Nasreen, normally printed on the first page, were relegated to the end
of the last page in small print. Instead of Lady Editor there was printed Editor. After reading Shenjuti from beginning to end, Dada
finally stopped in shock, There are still some typographical errors. Instead of Lady Editor, they have printed Editor.
I laughed and said, That is not an error. I have done this purposely.
What are you saying? Are you a man?
Why should I be a man?
Dont you believe in genders?
Yes, I do.
There is something called masculine gender and feminine gender, you know that?
I do. But I do not like this Lady Editor, Lady Publisher etc. etc. Both men and women can be editors. Some words have incorporated some
unjustified gender distinctions which I do not want to use. I want to call who writes poetry a poet, not a Lady Poet or Poetess.
Dada threw away Shenjuti saying, People will call you crazy.
****
As soon as I got to know my classmates, I barely exchanged two words with them, before I proposed that we set up a literary society, called
Shatabdi Chakra Centenary Circle. I even told the girls whom I knew only casually. The bookworms were not keen to join, but those who
were not bitten by the book bug at all, jumped up enthusiastically. Bas, collect donations, just jumping will get no work done. I proposed
that a small committee be formed, which could get down to proper work. Since Amrita had got the second prize, I was very keen that from
Centenary a poetry journal like Shenjuti be published. As soon as an idea arose in my mind, I plunged into action. Of course all my
plunging was silently done. Whoever could write in pure Bangla I would find them and say, Write a poem. I dont know how to, Baba!
they would say. Arrey, you can. Life is a poem! You are living life, so why cant you write about it! After strictly editing the poems that
came in, I published a small poetry journal. I went myself to Leefa Printers at C. K. Ghose Road and got it printed. Leefa was Chhotdas
friends press. Leefa kept its rates low, but did the job alright. I named the journal Roadh, Sun. I went to the press in the Sun, saw the proof,
and came back home soaked in the Sun. After Roadh, next came Apus desire. Bringing a two page long limerick, he said it wouldnt be a
bad idea if a journal of verses could be brought out by Centenary. That, too, will happen; after all, what have limericks done that they
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should be omitted! Jhan-Jhan was the name of the journal of verses, which also was published within a few days. However, I had to cut
Apus limerick to half a page. I did not have the money to print a journal which included such long verses. I spent all my scholarship
money on Centenary. The members were very irregular in paying their fees. I had barely got over my enthusiasm for polishing immature
poetry into proper verses and publishing them, when a new interest brimmed over, theatre. Chhotda was then spending most of the nights
and half his days with a drama group. Mymensingh theatre was enacting new plays every so often in the town. Chhotda took me to see the
rehearsals once in a while. Just when the theatre bug was giving birth to a hundred others in my head, Partho, my classmate, one day like
open sesame, revealed the contents of his trunk. Out of it came a play written by Samaresh Basu called Aborto, Whirlpool. This was not
something that college students could stage; real actors were required. Bringing the manuscript home, I handed it to Chhotda telling him to
tell the theatre to enact it. By that time I had already read Aborto. While reading I had visualised different members of the Theatre
Company in the roles of the male and female characters. In my imagination, the curtains were being drawn on a gigantic stage in the
indistinct light of twilight. From out of a room came Geeta. Geeta would best suit the role of Mangalas mother. She was calling anxiously,
Mangala, Mangala. The theatre group eagerly took up the play and began rehearsals. Almost every evening at rehearsals in the theatre
hall whenever I said, Ooh, no youre not doing it well, go back a little, scratch your head while speaking, because now Mangalas father is
confused. Achcha you will have to incorporate the regional accent a little more into your dialogue. Of course, completely immersed in
the play, anyone would have thought, I must be the Director of the play. One day, Farid Ahmed Dulal, who directed most of the plays, said,
From what I can see, you seem to be doing all the directing, so what do you say, why not become the Director officially?
Me?
Yes. You.
Hiding my face in shame, I said, Are you mad! I have no experience of theatre at all. This is my first ever.
I didnt think one could learn theatre direction by watching a few plays on television, or making Chhotda take me to see some at the
Mymensingh theatre hall or reading some in books. But when the responsibility really fell on me to direct the play, Chhotda told Partho to
come as well. Partho took up the task with great enthusiasm. Almost every night, rehearsals were held in the broken old Mymensingh
theatre hall. It was a story about a poor family in the village. Geeta was cast as the heroine. Of course this was not Geetas first role as
heroine on stage. Earlier with various dance groups she had performed as Nakshi Kanthar Meye, Chandalika and Chitrangada. The new
singing star Sohan who had joined Mymensingh theatre had been cast in the role of the hero. A little boy was found to play the part of
Mangala. There was tremendous enthusiasm in each one of them; they were bubbling with earnestness and inspiration, and if required, they
were even prepared to rehearse any time, night or day. After rehearsals at night, Partho sometimes went back to the hostel or spent the night
at Aubokash. The day Abortos first show opened at the townhall, I was stunned to see the sets. The person, who had been given the task of
creating the sets, had done an eye-catching job. An actual mud shanty, with actual trees planted in real earth and authentic fishing nets
adorned the stage. The show was on for three nights. People bought tickets and came to see the play, and surprisingly the 300 capacity hall
actually filled up in a matter of minutes. The whole huge affair happened as though in the twinkling of an eye. The theatre group of
Mymensingh was quite well-known, and their best and most successful play was Aborto. On the posters printed for Aborto were the names
of its two directors, Ishita Hossain Partho and Taslima Nasreen.
The play could have been staged for a long time in this way, but Geeta got a call from Dhaka. There was to be a dance concert on
television, so Rahija Khanum had called her to perform. There was a shortage of girls at the Bulbul Academy, so Rahija Khanum had
immediately asked Geeta to come from wherever she may be. Geeta danced all over Dhaka. Whenever her dances were telecast, the whole
household sat down to watch the program. Ma did not abuse her anymore as a dancing-woman. Geetas life was full of mystery. In a
moment she could empty out her life, in the next she could fill and renew it. On stage, Geetas acting was amazing. Lord only knew
whether on the stage of life, too, it was all an act. A lot of her life was hidden inside Geetas trunk. Various things were kept in it, many
things necessary to keep secret. When she left the house, she locked her trunk and went. I was very keen to see what all was kept in it. Till
then I did not have anything which needed to be kept secret. Everything was open, spread out for all to see. I wished I too had a secret,
something only I knew. Before Chhotda had fallen in love with Geeta or married her, I had been to their house. Actually it was to visit
Henna Mashi, the Mashi who tutored us. I had seen Geetas trunk then, it was kept next to the pillow, on the narrow cot in which she slept.
After the wedding, from her parental home, if nothing else she had brought her precious trunk at least. Finding the trunk unlocked one day,
I discovered a whole pile of things in it. Chhotdas 30-40 paged letters, small pieces of jewellery, a coin purse, and what caught my eye
most were the cotton wool covered brassieres. I had crossed seventeen years of age, but I had never tried on this one garment. Ma always
hid her own brassieres, under her saris or petticoats. She never hung them out to dry in the courtyard. Behind the tinshed, where even dogs
and cats did not venture, she spread them out in the sun and brought them in dried, as though they were some terribly forbidden articles. I
called Yasmin aside, so that no one would either hear or see us. Using whatever knowledge I had about the forbidden article at my disposal,
I said, Just go to Ganginar Par, and buy me one of these things. Take a rickshaw both ways. After giving her the money, I sat in the
verandah awaiting her return, so that as soon as she came I could whisk the article out of sight before anyone could notice. That evening I
wore the brassiere bought by Yasmin, and sat quietly. Just as there is fun in acquiring forbidden things, there is fear too. I didnt want
anyone to come near me, to detect that I was wearing something new that day. But I was then so friendly with Chhotda, that as soon as he
returned home he would call for me enthusiastically. I had to invariably read some story book, and he would listen while eating, and
resting, lounging almost half asleep. I was that day sitting in a huddle, repeatedly pulling my dress up at the shoulders, so that no tell-tale
strap of the forbidden garment peeped out under any circumstances. Chhotda came in and giving me a whack on my back said, Whats
happened to you? Why are you sitting all by yourself?
The whack on the back brought on all the trouble that it could possibly bring. Chhotda laughed uproariously and said, Kire, it seems you
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are wearing a brassiere!
At the top of his voice, Chhotda informed the whole household, Nasreen is wearing a brassiere.
Within fifteen minutes of my wearing it, everyone at home came to know what I was wearing. I pushed myself against the table as my head
bent lower and lower over my books. The sorrow of having my secret revealed caused the pages in my books to get soaked. Ma came and
said while caressing my head, Why didnt you tell me you wanted to wear a brassiere? I could have bought one in your size for you.
My face, head and ears flushed with embarrassment. Once normalcy returned after the brassiere incident, Ma told me that she had worn one
for the first time, two years after her wedding. Baba had become so incensed that he had thrown it away and angrily stated, You wear
fancy garments that wicked women wear! Is there no end to your desires? Wearing a brassiere was being fanciful and fashionable, many
obviously thought so. Women in the villages spent their entire lives totally ignorant of what was called a brassiere. Baba was a village boy;
he was not used to seeing any extra accessories under ones clothes.
There was one thing in college that attracted me like the forbidden fruit of heaven mentioned in the Quran. That was the college canteen. I
was very keen to sit and talk while drinking tea, like all the other boys. Even though I wanted to, I myself was very often a stumbling block
in the fulfillment of my wish. An editor of the Neighbourhood, also a writer of wonderful poetry, Haroon Rashid, whose poetry I was a
great admirer of, was waiting at the canteen for me. He had come from Dhaka to Mymensingh to meet me, but I did not have the courage to
enter the canteen, or to face some unbearable beauty. While I stood hesitating, a sweet-faced boy left the canteen in front of me, and the
opportunity to daringly call him from behind and stop him had also slipped from my hands and smashed into pieces. These incapacities
were being inwardly nourished by me alone. I couldnt think of myself as anything but a useless cowardly woman. I knew that the boys
mainly went to the canteen, either happily bunking class, or in the break between two classes, or if a class was not held for some reason. If
the girls got a break, they either went and relaxed for sometime in the hostel or went in groups to secluded places to spread out their heavy
books and study. Girls very rarely went to the canteen. If they did, they were only seniors with their boyfriends, or in a group. I wanted to
be able to go to the canteen too. Like the boys I, too, wanted to be able to go at any time to the canteen and call for tea. As soon as it came
I, too, wanted to enjoy the cup of tea in complete relaxation with my feet resting one on top of the other. Since I could not manage to fulfil
my wish, I looked around for a companion. Whichever girl I asked in class, slipped away. Finally Halida agreed. A beautiful girl, with
melancholy eyes, belonging to a house in Dhakas Indira Road, she spoke pure Bangla. As soon as I entered the canteen with her, I saw
pairs of male-eyes devouring us. A first year student I had walked boldly into a male meeting place. Gauging our courage, they began
speaking in loud tones, as though their every word would shake each pore of our bodies. That was the beginning. Later, after I became
friends with Habibullah, the canteen almost became my home. Habibullah, too, belonged to Dhaka. A year senior to me, he had secretly
watched me for a long time. Then one day, blocking my way he said he wanted to be my friend. If you want to be a friend, you will have to
be one who is on completely informal tu, tui terms. The very next day I addressed Habibullah as tui. Although he was stunned,
according to the agreement, he too had to call me tui. After this Habibullah stuck to me like glue. I found him waiting for me before
entering a class and as soon as I left one.
Whats up, dont you have a class?
I do.
Go to class, then.
Dhoot, Im not feeling like it. I wont attend class.
What will you do?
Lets go have tea.
But I have class.
Hai Sirs class, isnt it? You dont have to attend that one.
Arrey, come on now.
As it is I was always ready to dance, and here was the beater of the drum offering his services. We went and sat in the canteen. In the
canteen there would be supplies of tea and shingara, a savoury snack made with flour and a filling of potatoes. Habibullahs friends would
come. Beginning from anatomy the adda would end up with politics. We walked around the college premises proudly and confidently.
Whether I was between classes, or bunking some unimportant class, wherever I went, there was Habibullah. He even began to come home
in the evenings. If Baba came home, Habibullah would stand up and greet him Salaamaleikum, Sir. Baba would go into the inner rooms
with a serious face. Inside he questioned Ma and got the reply that the boy was my friend. Being a Professor of the College this was one
place Baba got stuck. He could hardly shoo away any college student.
****
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The sports season had begun in college. I had given my name for Carrom and Chess, and happily began to play. I lost in Carrom, not that
there was any reason to win, considering the last time I had played was way back in Nanibari! In chess, I beat a keen chess player, a
champion of last year, and progressed steadily. Ultimately, a game I should have won, I gave up out of sheer impatience, and became the
Runners-up. I found even the gallery classes unbearable. I didnt understand 80 percent of what the professors were saying or wanting to
say. The practice of exiting the class was quite common here, something I had never seen before in school or college. One left the class
after giving proxy or through the back door because the class was not to their liking. I too began to get out. Till then girls sat in the front
rows with their bottoms glued to their seats. They gulped down every word their professors uttered. It seems only naughty boys left class.
So I fell into that category, only not a boy, but a girl! The freedom of leaving class was also something I began to enjoy. In Muminunissa
College, Gagan Darwan didnt let us out before five oclock in the evening. Thankfully, here that stifling cage did not exist, whatever else
there might have been. If I wanted to go to class, I did. If I didnt, I didnt. There was no such system that one had to enter college by 8 am
or 9 am. Once I got the hang of this system in the Medical College, I sometimes left for college in the afternoon. Ma would be surprised,
Where are you going at this time?
To college.
What college do you have at this time?
I have class.
Your college commenced at eight in the morning.
Yes, it did. But so what! The class at eight I didnt attend.
What will you do going to college now?
Ill be attending the 1.30 p.m. class.
You cant go wherever you want, at anytime you choose.
Your experience is only till school, you wont understand all this. I really liked the system. Go to class when you want, if you dont, give
proxy and come out. The word proxy was used much more in college. One may not attend classes, but without a certain percentage of
attendance, one couldnt take the exams. Friends gave false attendance. In every class, when the names were being called out, all you had
to do was say, Yes, Sir. It didnt matter at all who was saying it. Whether Toffajoler was answering for Mojammel, or vice versa, who
was there to actually find out! By bending ones head and saying, Yes, Sir, one present friend in a way saved another absent one. This
present when absent, would be saved by the earlier absent, who would now save the present absent.
I was busy with the fourth issue of Shenjuti. Letters, poems, literary magazines, books etc. came in from Kolkata. Nirmal Basak had sent
the Toy of Time, Abhijit Ghoses Lonely Man appeared before us. Their poetry journal Sainiker Diary, Indrani we received regularly.
Poems had been sent by Mohini Mohan Gangopadhyay, Kshitish Santra, Chitrabhanu Sarkar, Shanti Ray, Biplab Bhattacharya, Birendra
Kumar Deb and Pranab Mukhopadhyaya. From various parts of Bangladesh, poetry came in continuously. I arranged all the contributions
by Alamgir Reza Chaudhury, Ahmad Aziz, Khalid Ahsan, Jahangir Firoze, Minar Mansoor, Mohan Pathan, Rabindranath Adhikari,
Ramesh Ray, Haroon Rashid, Sajjad Hossain and many others. Chandanas poem was called Hearty Rifle. I had named mine My Heart is
Oppressed by the Privations of the Bourgeoisie. Everyday ten or twelve literary magazines in both Banglas arrived. I saved them for
tidbits of news. Ten pages were used for these tidbits. I informed Chhotda that for the fourth issue of Shenjuti, we would need
advertisements. It was to be published as a book, with what could be called greater body. Chhotda managed to procure two
advertisements from Peoples Tailors and Tip-Top Confectionery. From Bengal Enterprise, Dhan arranged for us to use their zinc logo as an
advertisement on the last page. It would be in the form of a book that was clear, but who would do the jacket cover? To design it, I asked
Chhotda to find an artist. At Golpukur Par, Pulak Ray, the brother of Terracotta artist Alok Ray, was known to come for adda. From him
Chhotda came to know that Alok Ray was not in town. So there was no alternative but to wait for his return, as Chhotda did not know of
any other artist. As a consequence, I myself sketched a womans face and sent Chhotda to make a block out of it. After that there were
reminders, Come on, why is it taking so long, go get it. I just couldnt stand any kind of delay. I wished I could do everything that very
day itself. This wanting to do things right away was in Ma as well. Ma got a yard of white tetron to make caps for the boys of the house,
just before Id. She had cut out cloth for two caps, but when she wanted to cut the cloth for the third, Ma couldnt find the scissors. She
couldnt find them even after she had looked around her and in all the other rooms. She finally took up her kitchen chopper, boti, and cut
the cloth with it instead. Chhotda said I had no patience. The people at Jaman Printers, too, said the same thing. I, however, did not think I
was short on patience, instead I thought the people were rather laid back and inefficient. For work that could be done in five minutes, they
took over five days. I didnt like sitting around. I didnt even like spending too much time writing poetry. If I took time, I kept feeling the
poem was tying me up in chains. I felt claustrophobic. After I finished one poem, I liked to start a new one. I did not like spending days and
nights over one either. I was unable to rewrite and polish too much somehow. What I had written, was final. I had seen the patience of one
person that was Boromamas father-in-law. A short fair person, he looked like a Sanyasi, hermit, who had just emerged from some
Himalayan cave. After his wifes demise, he had written a poem called Pangs of Separation, and given it for publishing to Dadas Paata
journal. In the 341 worded poem, 286 were either conjuncted letters or words with ro, jo, or re in them. He had taken a whole year to write
this poem. After Dada had published it in Paata, he brought the same poem a little revised for printing in the second issue. When even this
revised poem was published in the second issue, he still continued to pester Dada morning and night to publish yet another revision of the
same poem in the third issue. A time came when no sooner did Dada see Boromamas father-in-laws sweet face at the black gate,
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than he would disappear into the bathroom for atleast an hour.
After class I mostly went back to Jaman Printers rather than home. Jaman Printers were located next to a clear lake opposite the Rajbari
School. The house next to the printing press had a high wall around it. Khurshid Khans house. Man, Dhan and Jan were Khurshid Khans
sons. Dhans elder brother Man was there during Dadas Paata days. Later the responsibility had shifted into Dhans hands. Dhan was an
impossibly amiable and witty man. He wore very clean, elegant clothes. Whenever I entered the press, he called me to his room and made
me sit down. He offered me tea. He chatted about all kinds of things. Khurshid Khan was East Pakistans Governor Monayem Khans
younger brother, Muslim League by lineage. Yet no one looking at Dhan would be able to make out that he was a bearer of the familys
political affiliations. There was no topic which he could not discuss profusely. I was mainly a listener. Dhan would say once in a while,
How is it that you are a literary person, yet not a word can be heard from you? I avoid mixing with many poets and writers, because they
are so talkative. Retaining a slight smile on my lips, I continued to listen to Dhans discussions on anything and everything, till I could
collect whatever portion of Shenjuti had been printed, and return home. After proofreading I would return with it the next day. I began to
make friends with the workers in the printing press. When I entered the press, I noticed that there was a look of peace and calm on their
faces. Hello Apa, how are you? the workers covered in ink, would ask me every time. Even if Dhan was not there, they made me sit
down and brought tea for me. I watched the men working at close quarters, learnt how the machines worked and tried my hand at the job.
The workers laughed at my antics. The ink stained my body as well. The printing press was now no more a place which I did not
understand. The day Shenjuti was printed I went to make the payment to Dhan before loading the big packets on the rickshaw. He said, I
think you must be having excess money. Go, go. I wont starve if I dont take this negligible amount. The fourth issue of Shenjuti was
printed with a white cover, and green pages. Whatever cover paper was saved, I made into writing pads for Shenjuti. On the right hand top
corner was printed. Taslima Nasreen, Aubokash, 18, T. N. Ray Road, Amlapara Residential Area, Mymensingh. No resident added
Residential Area to the tail of Amlapara; this was totally Dadas creation. Dhakas posh localities like Dhanmundi were called Residential
Areas. There were no shops or markets in Amlapara, only homes, so why shouldnt it be called a Residential Area? There was undoubtedly
some logic in the argument.
As soon as Shenjuti had been distributed in all directions, I again became restless. How could one not do anything! I called the members of
the Shatabdi Chakra, and proposed that we organise a function, a welcome to the newcomers. A fresh batch of students were joining
college, we would welcome them. What would we do in the function? We would have everything dance, song, poetry, theatre. Work was
divided amongst the members, some were to decorate the stage, others to rent a mike, get invitation cards printed and distributed. Everyone
got down to work, with a lot of enthusiasm. Anupam Mahmood Tipu, who advertised in the personal columns, wrote for the
cinemagazines, had a sweet smile, excellent handwriting and was a good artist as well, took charge of the stage decoration. I caught hold
of a classmate of mine from Muminunissa, Ujwala Saha, who kept in touch with singing, to render the opening song. The rehearsals for the
function began, some were acting in a play, or reciting poetry, elocuting, or singing. The President of the Chhatra Sansad (Students Union)
called me and said that no groups could welcome the newcomers before them. It was not very difficult to frighten a small group like ours!
After exchanging a few argumentative statements, I retreated and allowed the Chhatra Sansad to go ahead. The second freshers welcome
was the responsibility of Shatabdi. I got the invitations for the function printed. Haroon Ahmed, Professor of Anatomy was asked to chair
the function. He was more than ready to do so. It seems he too wrote poetry, and was keen to read out one of his poems at the function. I
had heard that Nirmalendu Goon now stayed in our town. His wife, Neera Lahiri, was a year senior to me, and they had rented a house
close to college. After hunting everywhere in Shewratola we found Goons house. The rooms were flooded with rainwater. With his feet up
on a chair, he was sitting on the verandah with a small transistor pressed to his ears, listening to the cricket commentary. The room was full
of water. After handing him the invitation card, and requesting him to read his poetry at the Shatabdi function, we came away. Whilst
Nirmalendu Goon was there, there was no need to import any poet from Dhaka. For a play, I caught hold of Chhotdas friend Farid Ahmad
Dulal. He promised to prepare a one act play for the show. I was restless about the outcome would anyone actually turn up to see the
function? But many spectators arrived, and the function was held. Some said it was excellent, and some said that the poetry readings could
have been reduced and the play should have been enacted midway, rather than at the end. Others were very excited, when was the next
Shatabdi function going to take place? I didnt know when, I was then whirling in a wild wind. Like autumnal clouds my hearts sky, too,
was entirely covered with the tune of Ujwalas song, A stream of happiness is flowing through the world.
Geeta wrote from Dhaka asking Chhotda to come to Dhaka. It seems there was a job interview somewhere for him. Chhotda went to Dhaka
immediately, and returned to Aubokash after seven days. He had secured the job, thanks to Amanullah Chaudhury. If he hadnt pressurised
the top brass of Biman, this job wouldnt have happened. There could be no one as great as Amanullah Chaudhury, was a statement
which now kept popping out from Chhotdas mouth like popcorn. To become a steward with Bangladesh Biman, he would go to Dhaka for
training. He planned to rent a house and stay there itself. It was farewell to Aubokash, Baba-Ma, brothers and sisters. Chhotdas voice did
not tremble to say bye-bye, but the very word farewell made my head throb and my heart felt as though a hundred horses were riding over
it. Every time I heard the word I found myself in a scene. A desert, where for miles not a soul could be seen, the only person was me, all by
myself. I wanted only a mouthful of water, the shade of one tree, the sight of just one person, but was getting nothing. But the smile on
Chhotdas face remained. Tirelessly he continued to describe the importance of a steward.
Ma informed Baba, Kamaal has got a job.
How could he have got a job? He is illiterate, said Baba.
Education is not in his fate. He got married very young. Now he wants to run a household. You tried your utmost, but he just couldnt
concentrate on higher studies.
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What kind of a job is it, may I know? Baba was curious.
Crew for Biman. It seems its a very good job, he will be able to go abroad as well.
Oh my sad fate, Baba said with a deep sigh, I tried to put one son through medical college, he didnt qualify. He went to do his masters
at the University, but returned home without taking his exams. Another son got a star in his SSC, but left studies and now has taken up the
job of feeding people. People in the plane will shit, urinate and vomit and my son will clean it all up. Was this the job for which I hired five
tutors to teach him? Was this the job he secured a star in his SSC for? Good, people will ask Dr. Rajab Ali, what do your two sons do I
will have to say, one son roams around, the other flies around.
Just when I was on the friendliest terms with Chhotda, he was leaving. Chandana, too, had left just when she alone was the one and only
unparalleled being in my world. I remained alone where I was; everyone else kept coming and going. Chhotda promised to come often to
Mymensingh, and take me to visit Dhaka frequently. Although I knew that now I had the opportunity to visit Dhaka, my heart did not stop
feeling depressed. I may not have screamed and cried like Ma, but I did cry secretly. My close relationship with Chhotda was because of
literature. Dadas knowledge of literature was limited to Rabindranath and Nazrul. In the field of literature, theatre and music, Chhotdas
moving around constantly and may be some other factors had given him much more varied literary knowledge. Hence his company had
given me more joy. We had read huge thick volumes together. I had read and Chhotda had listened, or Chhotda had read and I had listened.
I was losing not only my audience but also my reader. I was losing the opportunity of accompanying Chhotda to cultural and literary
functions. I noticed that Chhotda had no pangs of loss. In fact, there was the joy of receiving. He was about to get a job in Dhaka, a good
job, a well-to-do household, an independent one. After living long years with uncertainty, he was now about to get complete, flawless
certainty.
*****
Like Habibullah, another person blocked my path one day, but not with the intention of friendship; the purpose was different. Within the
college grounds, in a Shyamganj accent he informed me that he was Shafiqul Islams brother, and that, like his brother, he too wrote poetry.
He was standing for election to the new Chhatra Sansad, and wanted me to do so as well.
Me?
Yes. You.
I am not in politics.
There will be no question of politics. You will be standing for the post of literary member, with the responsibilities of editing the college
magazine, organising functions and such things. You are qualified to do so.
But you have to canvass for votes! I cant do all that.
You wont have to ask for votes. You will win anyway. I can tell you with conviction, that our whole panel will get elected.
I wont have to canvass, sure?
No, not at all.
Okay then.
From the compound I took a rickshaw with the intention of going home. Following me all the way in flashes, was Helims smile spreading
from ear to ear, white teeth in a black face.
The next day Habibullah caught me in a vice, face dreadfully dark. Whats up, I never knew you were a BNP activist!
I, a BNP worker? Who said?
Everyone is saying so.
Who is everyone?
Dont you know who everyone is? Arent you standing for elections from the BNP? Yes or no?
So thats it! Yes, I am, but I am representing no party.
Is there any party worse than BNP? Students pick government parties so that they can reap advantages from it.
What advantages?
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Passing their exams, what else? Habibullah took off his apron, hung it around his neck and said, Go, and withdraw your name today
itself. If you must stand, stand from the Jashod.
Habibullah himself was a member of Jashod, Chhatra League. His very close friend Tahmid, also Jashod, a good be-spectacled boy, came
running. It seems he had told Habibullah that even though I belonged to no party, if I stood from Jashod, why literary member, I could
stand for literary editor. They were willing to bend the rules for me. So, instead of making me a member as junior students were normally
made, they were ready to be generous enough to make me the editor. Tahmid showed me a list of Jashod members. He said, These are all
students who have secured academic positions. And Anees Rafique of BNP have spent 4-5 years in the same class. If one was a member
of Jashod at that time, it meant you were superior. Even in the Chhatra League I found a whole crowd of failures. Good students were
either Jashod Chhatra League or Union members, or were not members of any party at all.
I searched out Helim that very day and told him, Please cancel my name, I will not stand for election.
Why, what has happened?
I dont understand anything of politics. The boys are saying I am representing the BNP.
Arrey, silly girl, the kids of Jashod are turning your head. You are not a member of BNP. But you are standing from BNP, because this
time they are going to win. You are standing in the interest of the college, not the party. Cant you understand this simple fact? Now if you
contest from the Chhatra League or Jashod, there is no question of your winning.
I kept quiet. I couldnt raise my voice. I understood very clearly that if I were to throw back a big No, Helim would be very disappointed,
and I felt very uncomfortable at the thought of distressing anyone. I looked at myself from Helims point of view.
Also, all the leaflets have been printed. Now it will be impossible to cancel anything. It will become a scandal.
I remained silent. Rafique Chaudhury and Aneesur Rahman, two prominent leaders of the Chhatradal came home and very sweetly made
me understand that my contesting the elections did not mean entering politics; it meant promoting the college literary activities.
The season for fresh elections began. The college walls were plastered with posters. There were blazing speeches on the dais, leaflets
scattered all over the benches in classrooms, at short intervals various contestants from different parties were to be seen meeting people in
classes, corridors, in the canteen, laughing and speaking, asking for votes. I felt I should vote for every contestant, from every party. The
president of the Chhatradal Aneesur Rahman offered me a cup of tea, and after giving me a huge smile, said, Come along, lets go out on
election publicity.
Impossible.
Rafique Chaudhury said, You are a party girl, you cant afford to be so shy!
I was a party girl! Others, too, said the same thing. This reputation got attached to me. On the day of the elections, I went to college, and
voted for all those I thought were deserving for the various posts from the Chhatra Union, Chhatra League and Jashod, and returned home.
The next day I got the news that the Chhatra Dal, meaning Anees-Rafique groups entire panel, had won. Last year the Chhatra League had
won, this time Chhatra Dal. Now what was to be done? We had to go to Dhaka to meet the President of the Nation.
I had been feeling dull. The thought of going to Dhaka brought me back to life. We went in a group to Dhaka by bus. The group was also to
come back in the same bus. I was all a tremble with sharp excitement at going to Dhaka, and to meet Rudra. After meeting Zia-ur-Rahman,
Helim escorted me to Chhotdas house at night. Chhotda lived in a single storeyed yellow house on Azam Road in Muhammadpur. He had
rented it jointly with Faqrul mama. After studying graphic arts in Dhaka, Faqrul mama had taken up a minor job. Seeing Chhotdas house
and family life I felt happy but also felt sad. I was sad, because Chhotda now stayed so far away from Aubokash. I felt happy that
Chhotdas dream had finally come true, the dream of getting a good job. Chhotda was very enthusiastic about his job. He was sure there
was no job like his. He could go abroad at any time, and the pay too was plentiful. The next day he took me to a dentist who it seems was a
friend of Chhotdas. Like Chhotda had friends in every nook and corner of Mymensingh, he had them in Dhaka, too. The friend extracted
my teeth giving me a lot of pain. Chhotda was always very alert about teeth. He had got his first geometry box in the senior class in school.
He would use the compass in it to extract hidden pieces of meat from between my teeth, saying, If you dont clean your teeth, they will all
fall. I felt Chhotdas extra care about teeth had inspired the dentist to extract even my good tooth. It is better not to have teeth than have
rotten ones, he would say crinkling his nose. Pressing cotton wool into the roots of my extracted teeth, I returned home. I was in Dhaka,
yet would not be able to meet Rudra the pain I suffered because of this far exceeded the pain of the tooth extraction.
After returning to Mymensingh from Dhaka, I shouted at the top of my voice to all at home, I have shaken hands with Zia-ur-Rahman. His
grip was so strong, the bones in my hand were about to crack!
Hes an Army man! So he is physically very strong, said Ma.
Mas disinterested face remained fixed before my eyes, as did her unconcerned words. I thought, he certainly had more strength. It was this
extra strength he had exercised in order to come to power. Secretly the dissatisfaction with Zia had been growing in the Biman Bahini.
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Guessing that at any moment a coup could take place, thousands of Biman Bahini people had been killed without trial. He had rehabilitated
many enemies of peace who had been hiding in holes. He had made a traitor like Shah Aziz the Prime Minister. Religious politics had been
banned in this country. Now, that ban had been lifted. The snakes were now coming out of their holes waiting to bite as they had done in
1971, siding with the Pakistan forces and killing lakhs and lakhs of Bengalis. Treating the constitution as their patriarchal property, they
took over as circumcisers themselves, and converted the constitution to an Islamic one. As when the Quran is read, you have to start with
the name of Allah, Bismillahir Rahman Irrahim, so too the name of Allah had been placed at the beginning of the constitution. Even if
the people of Hindu, Buddhist, Christian and all other faiths had been beaten up with shoes, there could not have been, I felt, a greater
insult to them. Secularism had been blown away from the constitution with one puff. There was no doubt he had more strength. I went and
washed my hand in the bathroom with soap. Let it go away, let this one black touch be wiped off my hand for ever.
Rudra came to Mymensingh to meet me and said, I dont understand you at all, it seems you contested the elections from the BNP? Why
didnt you tell me earlier?
I didnt.
Why not?
Do I have to tell you everything?
Dont you have to?
No.
Okay, do as you please. You have lost all respect and honour!
Hardly had all the noise of the elections subsided, when classes resumed in full tempo. I had ascended from the lower abdomen to the
chest. On one side I had to cut up dead bodies. On the other I had to study everything about the heart soaking in formalin on a tray. After
dissecting the dead, when I returned home and sat down to a meal, my hands still carried the smell. Even if I used up a whole bar of soap to
wash my hands, the smell did not go. I had gradually learnt to live with the smell. One day, when I had almost finished my meal, I spotted a
piece of dead flesh at the corner of my hand. I had forgotten to wash my hands before eating. The day I carried a heart home in my pocket,
everyone at home looked at it with noses and mouths covered, but wide-eyed. I happily placed the heart on the table, and opening the
Cunningham book, began to study. I even showed them all which was the atrium, the ventricle, from where the blood came in, from the top
to the bottom, then from there it went upwards and to all parts of the body. Mas eyes shone with great delight.
Well, now my Ma has become a doctor, what do I have to worry about anymore, my treatment will now be done by my own daughter,
Ma said.
Dada asked, Is this heart a mans heart or a womans?
I dont know.
It looks small. It must be a womans.
Who told you womens hearts were small?
Wont it be a little different?
No, it wont be different.
Yasmin standing at a safe distance from the heart said, Bubu, is this what is called the soul?
May be it is known as the soul. But this is the heart, not the soul. The work of the heart is to pump blood and supply it to the whole body.
Then which is the soul?
The soul is the mind. Suppose I like someone, my nervous system will get the news first. The head is the abode of all the nerves, not the
chest. The throbbing sound that can be heard in the heart is because the nerves in the brain are disturbed.
Yasmin looked with unbelieving eyes at the organ, the heart.
With Habibullah I shed all inhibitions and spent hours talking about any subject. By developing an easy and free relationship, I was happy
that I had been able to prove that boys and girls could be friends, and not only through letters. Habibullahs unrestricted comings and
goings at Aubokash had gradually become a common sight. Whenever Ma thought of relieving herself of worries, by hinting at this
relationship developing into marriage, I would break her empty dream by saying, Habibullah is my friend, just a friend, nothing more. Our
friendship is like the one between Chandana and me, do you understand! I dont think my reply made Ma very happy. Habibullah was
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good-looking, very polite and well-behaved, both of us were about to qualify as doctors, there could not be a more ideal match. Even if Ma
didnt say so in as many words to me, she definitely muttered them to all others at home. If even a hint of any of these words reached my
ears, I scolded her and told her to shut up. I was sure our relationship was pure friendship. So was Habibullah. Traveling with him on the
same rickshaw did not cause me any flutters. It was like traveling with Dada, Yasmin or even Chandana. Habibullah knew that a
relationship was developing between me and Rudra. At every opportunity, I would recite Rudras poetry to him. But one day Habibullah
stunned me by coming home and starting to address me as tumi. It seems he did not like the more casual tui! Any amount of asking why
he didnt like it, did not elicit any reply, only a bashful laugh. I was not able to interpret the laugh at all. The laugh not only made me
uneasy, it also frightened me. I got up from before him, and lay down in the darkened bedroom, hugging my sorrow to myself. Habibullah
continued to sit on the sofa in the drawing room, and writing a long letter he handed it to Yasmin. Yasmin switched on the lights, and left
the letter for me to read. Written in English, the essence of the letter was that our wonderful friendship could disappear at any time, but if
we could give it a permanent status, then there was no question of it getting lost. He had thought over it himself, had even questioned
himself several times, and the only answer he had got was that he loved me. Couldnt I take this relationship beyond just friendship? I read
the letter and recoiled with the pain of a broken dream. Insult and shame began to tear me to pieces. Pulling myself away from that sorrow,
I followed my growing anger step by step, finally walking into the drawing room. Tearing the letter into shreds, I threw the pieces at
Habibullahs face, and screamed, Leave this house immediately. Let me never see your face ever again.
Habibullah, a polite, gentle, handsome, budding doctor, a diamond amongst jewels, stood for a long time, before leaving. Later he tried to
tell me many things in college, but I never gave him an opportunity. He even knocked at my door several times but I did not open it.
Abu Hassan Shahriyar, who had made quite a name for himself as a limerick writer, was my classmate at Medical College. I had, however,
never spoken to him. One day he left a chunk of dead flesh in my apron pocket unknown to me. With it was a chit of paper, on it was
written a limerick. I was very annoyed at Shahriyars behaviour. I could not believe that anyone could be so wicked in the world of
literature. A few days later, this same wicked boy got so fed up of dissecting the dead that he left his medical studies, and went away to
Dhaka. However wicked the boy may have been I became convinced that it was possible to leave medicine and go elsewhere. However,
while Baba was alive, this would be impossible for me; this was something I knew very well. The dream of studying Bangla at Dhaka
University that Chandana had had, did not get fulfilled because of Subroto Chakma. When she was collecting all the necessary documents
for admission to Dhaka University, she found she hadnt picked up her SSC mark sheet. I had collected the mark sheet from the Residential
Adarsha Balika Vidyayatan, recently converted to Mymensingh Girls Cadet College, and sent it to her. Just when it appeared that if not this
month, then definitely by the next month her admission would be complete, Subroto Chakma got her admitted to Chattagram Medical
College on a tribal quota, to fulfil his own dreams. Chandana wrote from Chattagram that she did not like dissecting the dead. She was also
seriously thinking of someone handsome, left behind in Comilla. That handsome person was writing regularly to Chandana, the letters were
the I will not be able to live without you variety. Fed up with the smell of the dead, Chandana took an overnight decision to leave
Chattagram for Comilla in search of the aroma of the living. One day she suddenly wrote from Comilla informing me that she had married
the will not be able to live. If I had heard instead that Chandana was dead, I think I would have found the news more believable. Whoever
else it might suit to marry, it certainly did not suit Chandana. I didnt think there could be any news worse than this in the world. The
horrendous hairy hand of loneliness gripped my throat in such a vice that I found my breath gradually stopping. I ran to the terrace and hid
myself away from everyone. I had had a skyful of dreams along with Chandana. How could I see the whole world collapsing over those
dreams? On the pile of rubble I stood empty handed, all alone, so alone that suddenly I could not even feel my own existence. Even when
darkness and dew drops showered down on my head, I still felt nothing. After a month had passed, a letter came from Chandanas father
Dr. Subroto Chakma. It was addressed to me only. It said that for the way Chandana had insulted him, he would definitely take his revenge,
somehow, anyhow. He atleast had no desire to allow Chandana to continue to live on this earth. After remaining stiff with fear for two days,
I wrote to Subroto Chakma to forgive Chandana, accepting that she had done wrong, and one day would surely realise her mistake. Subroto
Chakma did not reply. But after a month I again, received a letter from him. He had invited me to Rangamati, for Chandanas funeral
obsequies. He actually observed his own daughters obsequies. A daughter who had abandoned her faith could not be acknowledged by
him. A Buddhist girl, she had run away, and married a Mussalman boy. Such a daughter was dead for him as far as he was concerned.
Hearing this frightening decision of Subroto Chakma, I felt really sympathetic towards Chandana. I wished I could with all my own
strength wrest her from the clutches of that handsome villain, and bring her back to safety. My heart told me Chandana was not well. She
was suffering, crying. I too did not like spending the whole day pouring over thick books amidst the stench of dead bodies and the pungent
smell of formalin. It did not take long for my reputation as a bad student to spread in the college. Utterly embarrassed, I went to college,
and came back. One day, the Principal of the college, the tall, fair, smiling Moffaqurul Islam, called me into his room. Swallowing his smile
and extinguishing the shine in his eyes, he took out a typed letter from an envelope. I recognized the letter. I had got a copy of this letter a
few days ago.
You are Dr. Rajab Alis daughter, arent you?
No words emerged from my throat. I nodded my head.
Looking at my voiceless throat and eyes lowered in fear and shame, Moffaqurul Islam making his own tone sound as harsh as possible,
said, Is your brothers name Noman?
I nodded my head.
Is your other brothers name Kamaal?
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I again nodded my head.
Is Kamaals wifes name Geeta?
Again the head.
Your younger sisters name is Yasmin?
The head.
Moffaqurul also nodded his head. It meant he had tested the truth of the letter he was holding in his hand. Moffaqurul Islam had no idea
that I had already read the letter. A crazy man called Abdur Rahman Chisti had sent me a copy of this letter himself. This man used to send
me copious letters. He had been a pen friend for a few days. In those copious sheafs of his letter, there used to be everything beginning
from fairy tales to difficult essays on the worlds trade policies. Most of it I never got down to reading. When suddenly the same man
offered his love one day, I stopped writing to him. After that came this threat. If I did not respond, he would harm me in this manner. He
would directly write to the Principal of Mymensingh Medical College that everyones character in my family was stinking. My father had
slept with Geeta, my sister slept around here and there. I of course was another one. I had slept with Chisti, why only Chisti, I had slept
with all his friends as well. My two brothers, too, were in the same boat. They pounced on a girl as soon as they saw one. Etcetra etcetra.
Only stories of sleeping around. Moffaqurul Islam, I guessed, had believed every word of the letter.
Heaving a deep sigh, I said, This is a baseless letter. I know about it. A man named Chisti has written it. I did not agree to his proposal, so
he is taking his revenge.
Ridicule was writ large on the face of the respected Principal. A crooked smile played on his lips.
You think you are very smart, dont you? he asked.
I did not answer.
Do you think I understand nothing?
I still did not answer.
I will not keep an undesirable girl like you in this college. I will give you a transfer certificate very soon.
I now got thoroughly shaken up. The Principals room, the Principal and the letter all started swaying before me. My simple honesty had
not been accepted by the Principal. What he had accepted was a mischievious rumour mongering letter, a letter which did not bear the
name of the writer, and on which there was no signature. The writer of the letter was a person the Principal did not know. But this unknown
persons words were considered the truth by the Principal, not the words of the girl he knew. Coming out of the Principals room I noticed I
could not speak to anyone, I could not hide the pain in my tearful eyes. Without attending the rest of the classes, I went straight home. I lay
down on my bed with my face to the wall. When Yasmin came I told her the whole incident. Moffaqurul Islams daughter Sharmeen,
studied in Yasmins class at Vidyamoyee School. It was very easy to get the names of all members of her household from Sharmeen. It was
even easier to write a letter, to paint each character black and to post the letter to the address of the Principal, Mymensingh Medical
College. By this, he would atleast learn what is meant by a rumour mongering anonymous letter. Not just my hands, but my mind as well
was impatient to teach him a lesson. But once Id collected the names, I was unable to write the letter. I did not feel inclined to write.
Muttering the words a dog has done a dogs job, it has bitten the feet I tore up the letter I had sat down to write.
Although I went to college, I could not concentrate in class. If while walking down the corridor I encountered Moffaqurul Islam, I passed
him as though no one was there, and it was vacant space. Normally, if any Professor came before one, one had to raise ones hand in
Salaam. I had never liked this rule. I avoided it in any case. Because I avoided it, my reputation as a discourteous student spread. As I
didnt even bother about this bad reputation, I was known as a comic, laughable creature. It seems one had to Salaam if one wanted to pass
ones exams; that was what was being whispered about. I kept my nose, ears, face and mind far away from these whisperings. I attended all
the important classes, and left college straightaway. On the way back, , I bought books on politics, society, literature from the bookshops. In
the evening along with Yasmin, I went visiting here and there. I attended good discussion sessions at the Public Library. There was always
something going on. When there was nowhere to go, I went to Padmarag Manis house and talked about poetry. Or to Natakghar lane
where my old school friend Mehboobas house was. Sitting on a cool mat in the sunny courtyard, we would drink tea and eat muri, while
talking about lifes simple and uncomplicated facts. Otherwise we went to Nanibari, to the long-left-behind world on the other side of the
railway line. We spent time in that solitary secret world with the small baby sparrows, old torn kites, blue balloons and the weed-covered
pond and bead necklaces and came back. Ma would say, The way you two girls just go out by yourselves, what will people say?
Let them say what they please.
You all think yourselves very daring.
We are not doing anything wrong.
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If your father comes to know, he will break your legs and make you sit at home.
Saying Let him break them, we moved away from in front of Ma. I found Mas nagging extremely irritating.
***
Chandana no more wrote as frequently as before. What she wrote was all about her in-laws house. Unlike the way she did earlier,
Chandana spoke of dreams no more. She did not write poetry either. She had changed a lot.
Some casual friends from school came visiting to chat, to eat. These girls from Dhaka who had left their homes and family atmosphere far
behind, and were staying in hostels, were seeking to find a close peaceful abode, and food which tasted like their mothers cooking. Time
began to fly with these friends.
Again poetry got me involved. The intoxication of getting Shenjuti printed began to glow brightly. Upturning a sack full of skeletal bones
over my innumerable literary magazines, poetry notebooks and Shenjuti manuscripts, Baba declared, As far as I can see, you will not be
able to qualify as a Doctor even in ten years.
Chapter Ten
Viewing the Bride-to-Be
When he started working, Dada began to slowly change the dcor of Aubokash. Removing the cane sofa-set from the drawing-room, he
placed a wooden set with soft mattresses. He also installed a four-legged television set in the drawing room. He got a huge bedstead made
of segun, teak wood, with a most novel headboard, displaying a man and woman lying naked under a grape tree. On the two sides of the
headboard were minutely carved drawers. When each piece of furniture arrived in the house, we would look at it from a distance and up
close, touching and without touching. He brought a dressing table with a mirror as well; that too was huge, with all kinds of carvings. A
lion-legged ten-seater dining table arrived. So did a gigantic crockery cupboard with a glass front. Thanks to the arrival of so many heavy
pieces of furniture, there was no place left to walk in the rooms. Dada very proudly informed us that all the furniture was made of teak
wood and designed by him. Whoever came home looked at Dadas furniture in amazement. They had never seen such furniture anywhere
else. Drawing the design himself, Dada got another green coloured steel almirah made. His greatest delight was that such a piece could not
be found in any other house. That was true, there couldnt.
Dada converted the room opposite the drawing room into his office. He placed in it a table with drawers; and arranged all the Fison
Company papers and medicine bags on top of it.
The whole purpose of getting all this furniture made was that Dada was to get married. A bride would come, and find a fully furnished
home, in fact a ready household. He had bought expensive china ware and arranged it in the cupboard, and the key remained in his
pocket.
Relatives went around looking at Dadas decorated room and left saying, Noman now has everything. Now all he needs is a wife.
****
Dada had been looking for a girl to marry for quite a few years. Girls were shown to him, but he did not like any. Various families sent
proposals, and proposals were sent to many others. He would take along either a relative or friend to see the bride-to-be. Every time before
leaving he went through elaborate preparations. He spent an hour bathing, using up a whole bar of soap. After his bath, while singing a
song completely out of tune, he applied Ponds cream and powder on his face, and olive oil on his feet and hands. Then apart from all the
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nooks and corners of his body, he generously sprayed perfume all over his chest, back and whatever parts of the body were reachable by his
hands. Normally Dada was very stingy with his perfumes. At home only Dada had a storehouse of perfumes. Sometimes before going
somewhere, if I asked, Dada will you give me a little scent? First he would say, There isnt any. If I grumbled, he would ask several
questions about where I was going and why. If he liked the answer, he would take out a perfume bottle from the secret hiding place in his
room and say, This is Earthmatic, or This one is Intimate, Made in France. Dada had to mention the Made in. Then after pouring out
hardly a drop he would say, Ish, quite a bit poured out!
I couldnt even see what you poured!
Arrey, in that drop itself, 200 taka was spent.
When Dada was not at home, I searched for the bottle of perfume in his secret place inside his shoes. I never found it. He had kept it in a
new hiding place. Just like a mother cat picked up its kittens by the scruff of their necks and shifted them from place to place, Dada, too,
kept changing the hideouts of his perfume bottles. Anyway, he took ages over dressing up. He stood striking various poses in front of the
mirror and looking at his reflection. He asked us, Ki, arent I looking handsome! With one voice we said, Of course. There was no
doubt that Dada was handsome. He had thick black hair, a sharp nose, big eyes, and long eyelashes; even in height and breadth he was an
extremely good-looking man. Wearing polished shoes and a suit even in summer, Dada would leave the house to see a prospective bride
with a bright smile on his face, and every time he would return with a gloomy face. Every time the gold ring in his pocket remained there
itself; it was never given to any one.
Ki Dada, how was the girl? I would ask.
Dada would wrinkle up his nose and say, Arrey Dhoor!
Everytime, he would make everyone sit in the drawing room of the house while he described the flaws in the girls he had gone to see.
***
Baba once sent Dada to see the daughter of one of his acquaintances. Dada went and saw her. On his return home, Baba sat down with
Dada and asked, Did you like the girl?
Dada immediately wrinkled up whatever it was possible to wrinkle up on his face and said, No.
How come? The girl was educated!
Yes, educated.
She had passed her B.A.
Yes, she had.
Wasnt she fair to look at?
Yes, she was fair.
Wasnt her hair long?
Yes.
The girl wasnt short!
No, not short.
Her fathers an advocate.
Yes.
He was the President of the Bar Council for a long time.
Yes.
He had two houses in the town!
Yes.
Good lineage.
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Yes.
The girls uncles all have good jobs. One is the manager of Sonali Bank.
Yes.
One of her cousin brothers stays in London.
Yes.
Which of her guardians were there?
The girls brother and father were there.
The elder brother or the younger one?
The elder.
The elder brother just got married a few days ago, to some very rich mans daughter. The brides father was a District Judge.
Yes.
Their house must be quite nicely done up.
Yes. They had expensive sofas etc. in the drawing room.
They do have a television surely!
Yes.
What did they offer you to eat?
They served three kinds of sweet and tea.
What was the girls conversation like? Her manners and behaviour?
Quite good.
Ladylike surely!
Yes, ladylike.
A docile and quiet girl?
Yes.
Then why didnt you like her?
Everything was fine, but
But what?
Her lips
Lips meaning?
Her lower lip was not flat, it was raised. I hate the sight of girls who have lips that pucker up.
Hmm.
***
The search began for a flat-lipped girl for Dada. News of a girl came. She lived in Tangail, but her sisters house was in Mymensingh, in
our locality itself. The girl was brought from Tangail to her sisters place. The date was fixed to view the bride-to-be. Dada dressed up as
usual and took me and Yasmin with him to that house. The girls sister opened the door and made us sit inside. She even mouthed a few
pleasantries, like, Youve just joined medical, havent you?
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Whats your name?
Yasmin! My niece is also called Yasmin.
My daughter studies at Vidyamoyee School. Today she has gone to her Mamas house.
Nowadays it has really become very warm, and during these warm nights the electricity too has been going off!
Achcha, what would you like to have, tea or something cold?
In the midst of this inconsequential chatter, the event of consequence took place. With a tray of tea and biscuits, Dano entered the room.
Three pairs of eyes were directed unblinkingly at her. Dano laughed shyly, and sat down in a chair. Tea was being drunk, and along with it
the meaningless banter continued.
The Bindubashini College in Tangail is not like it used to be; it had a great reputation at one time.
The chum-chum made by Porabari has become smaller in size, yet more expensive!
Dano is a very efficient girl. When she visits me, she takes over all the work. Tidying up the house, cooking, she does everything. She is
interested in gardening as well. She stitches her own clothes, doesnt give them to a tailor.
Do you know Qader Siddiquis house in Tangail? Very close to it is Nath Babus house; I go there once a month.
As soon as we had smilingly taken leave from that house, I asked, Ki, did you like her?
Two pairs of eyes were observing Dadas nose, eyes and lips.
She had beautiful eyes, said Yasmin.
Her lips were definitely flat, I added.
Dadas nose now crinkled up, Too flat.
People at home were informed that because Danos lips were too flat, Dada had not liked her.
After a few months the news came that Dano had been married to the famous Tangail Muktijoddha, freedom fighter, Qader Siddiqui.
On hearing this, I told Dada, Ish, look what you missed, you should really have married her!
Dada said, Luckily, I didnt. She must have been already in love with Qader Siddiqui.
*****
In any case, the news of any beautiful girls marriage made Dada depressed. He kept lamenting aha, aha, as though some wonderful
long-tailed bird had just flown out of his reach in a jiffy. After Dilrubas wedding, Dada in an almost tearful voice had said, The girl was
an absolutely true copy of Sheila.
What do you mean by was! She still is Sheilas true copy.
She is married now! So what if she is still
Hmm.
Didnt she have a sister? Lata! Lata too was a beauty.
She wasnt, she still is a beauty.
Achcha, cant we send Lata a proposal?
But she is much younger than you.
Actually, that is true.
I have also heard that someone is in love with Lata.
Then forget it!
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Dada had seen every beautiful girl in Mymensingh by turns. They were either studying in college, or had passed there IA/BA. Yet he had
not liked any of them. This time Jhunu khala said, Come, Ill show you a girl in Dhaka. She is beautiful and has just joined Dhaka
University.
She lives in Comilla and her father is a College Professor Jhunu khala brought more news.
The girl is very devoted to me, she is constantly calling me, Jhunu apa, Jhunu apa. She stays in the room next to me, in Rokeya Hall,
Jhunu khala said with a forced smile.
Tell me whether she is pretty, was Dadas question.
Very pretty.
Dadas legs swung from left to right at great speed. Her lips are flat I hope!
Yes, flat.
Not too flat again I trust?
No, not too flat.
It was decided that in an icecream shop in Dhakas New Market, Lovely and one of her friends would sit, and Dada could see her from a
distance. If Dada liked her, then matters could be carried forward. Dada went to Dhaka, and after walking around New Market reached the
icecream shop at the appropriate time, and saw the girl. Telling Jhunu khala, I think shes squint-eyed, he returned to Mymensingh.
In all the towns around Mymensingh, Tangail, Jamalpur, Netrakona, everywhere Dada had gone to see girls. He had come back with a
gloomy face. The next was Sylhet! He was going to Sylhet to see a girl. The proposal had come from a colleague of Dadas. I obstinately
insisted on going to Sylhet, too. My obstinacy worked. Dada took me along with him, when he left for Sylhet. Throughout the train journey
he kept saying, Girls from Sylhet are usually very beautiful.
I said, The girl does appear beautiful in the photograph.
Yes, she does appear to be so. But all flaws cannot be always detected in a photograph.
***
We spent the night at the Fisons Company Supervisor, Munir Ahmeds house on Sylhets Dargah Road. It was a huge, beautiful house with
a garden. As soon as we entered the house, I became restless. Dada, lets go and see the town.
Dada was not at all in the mood to do so then. He kept taking the girls photo out of his breast pocket and putting it under a bright light. He
showed me the photograph as well, saying, What do you think, just look carefully once more!
I have already seen it so many times! I said.
See it again. If you look again something or the other will be found.
Dhoot! Did we come to Sylhet just to sit in a house! Come on, lets go out for a little while atleast!
Your patience is really limited Nasreen, said Dada in disgust. We have journeyed so far. My body is covered with dust. Ill have to have
a bath.
What will happen if you dont have a bath? Have one when you return.
Her nose seems quite okay, what do you say! Dadas eyes were on the photograph.
I sat at the window and looked at whatever little of the outside was visible. If only I could go out alone in the city! I could have taken a
rickshaw and gone around seeing everything by myself!
The next day we went to see the girl. The father of the girl was a Police Officer, and the girl was a graduate.
Everything was good, really fair complexioned girl, but her front two teeth were a little raised. Rejecting the girl, Dada took me along
to see the Mazaar of Shahjalal. I was not interested in seeing any Mazaar. I would have preferred to take a hooded rickshaw and enjoyed
going around the city and getting to know its character and behaviour much more.
Thousands of people thronged the Mazaar. There were many standing on the shores of the lake feeding the black fish. Coming up to catch
the food in their mouths, the fish would then dive back into the water! Bah! Dada said, Do you know why people feed these fish? If you
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do, it seems you get a special passport to Heaven. Hazrat Shahjalal personally persuades Allah and makes efforts to ensure Behesht,
Heaven for the feeders.
Afterwards Dada gave me his shoes to hold, saying, Stand here with my shoes, while I go and see the inside of the Mazaar. Shahjalals
tombstone is there.
Take me as well.
No, women cannot go there.
Dada went up alone to the tomb at the higher level. I stood and stared at it amazed thinking, if women went there how did it cause
problems, and for whom!
While returning to Mymensingh by train, I told Dada, So you didnt like this Sylhet girl either.
Dada said, Sylhet girls are normally very pretty.
Then why didnt you like her?
I did.
But you said she had buck teeth.
Arrey, not the toothy one!
Then who did you like?
Munirs brothers wife.
Did you see her lips? Those were the kind of lips I wanted.
Will you marry her then? I asked with my eyebrows raised upto my forehead.
How can I marry her? She is already married!
Dada looked despondently out of the window for a long time and suddenly said, Did you see the black beauty spot on top of her lips?
On top of whose lips?
Munirbhais wifes lips.
You had come to see the police officers daughter. Talk about her beauty spots. She had one on her cheek.
I didnt even see the spot on her cheek. Actually one shouldnt look too long at women with buck teeth. The eyes really get strained.
***
Dadas preferences worked even in the matter of names. Once, a proposal was sent to a girl because Dada had found out that her name was
Nilanjana. He was absolutely dying to see Nilanjana.
This girl has to be beautiful.
How do you know that?
How can someone who has such a lovely name be possibly ugly!
Of course after seeing Nilanjana, Dada only said Chhi, Chhi the whole day. Dada rejected a beautiful girl as soon as he heard her name
was Majeda, so going to see her was far from possible. His opinion I feel nausea as soon as I hear the name Majeda. Girls wth such
names have no business to be beautiful.
All of us at home had almost given up hopes of Dadas marriage. Only one person had not given up hope, and that was Dada himself. He
seriously believed that very soon he would marry the most beautiful girl in the country.
This belief of his allowed him to continue to spend his life happily and enthusiastically. He had bought a music cassette player. The earlier
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one, Made in Russia, which he had won as a second prize in the Udayan Competition, was kept in Babas room. One night, when Baba
was not home, and the door was locked from outside as he was wont to do, a thief broke the iron grill on the window and stole it along with
another big one Made in Germany, which Chhotda had given for repairs and brought back without any. Boro mama had asked Dada to
participate in the Udayan Competition. He had, in a way, even told him the questions and answers to be asked in the competition. He had
told Dada to be very sure not to tell anyone at the function that Boro mama was related to him. The first prize was a trip to Moscow, the
second a cassette recorder, the third a camera. No one knows how far Boro mamas influence worked, but Dada was thrilled to get the
second prize. With great joy he returned home with the recorder and after buying a whole load of music cassettes, began to listen to them.
Till then even Dada was someone who had not progressed beyond Hemanta, Manna, Sandhya, Satinath and others. After the robbery, the
house was without music for a long time. After buying the new machine, Dada bought many cassettes of his choice from Dhaka. This time
there was Firoza Begums Nazrulgeet. Falling in love with Firoza, he devoted himself to her songs. Increasing the volume of the recorder,
he would call us close, and singing completely out of tune along with Firoza, he would intermittently cry Aha! Aha! in his excitement.
Explaining Firozas love for Kamal Dasgupta he sang, Is this your last offering, the pain of separation look how long she is drawing out
the tune in the words. The day Kamal Dasgupta died, Firoza sang this song sitting before his coffin. Listening to the song, Dadas eyes
would become wet.
This attraction to music dissipated a little when he hired a machine called a VCR from Amritos shop. Amrito had started a new Video shop
at Golpukur Par. He was a very handsome boy. He was almost on the brink of marrying Jyotirmoy Duttas beautiful daughter. A bright
green light of success was shining on Amritos business. Very often for a night or two, Dada would hire the VCR and watch all the Hindi
movies available in the market. When initially two or three VCRs had come to Mymensingh, there had been great excitement. High priced
tickets were sold and movies were shown whole night in darkened stairways and closed houses. Chhotda had once taken me to one of his
friends house to see movies on the VCR. However, it wasnt my cup of tea. I had returned home before the movie was over. That was my
initiation into VCR-viewing. Later when the hiring of the VCR and watching movies reached a pinnacle of excitement, Dada actually
bought one of his own. After which he not only sat up whole nights and days watching movies, he began to swallow them whole. Initially, I
too sat before it. I was amazed. Who left Dharmendra a horse in the middle of a field? Just a moment before there wasnt any! Why did
Hema Malini suddenly leap up and start singing a song? Did anyone sing songs while dancing on the streets? My remarks buzzed around
like a fly, hovering over the other viewers who remained absorbed. Unreal action movies were not to my taste at all. But Dada, whatever
kind of movie it was, sat before the screen with his backside glued to the seat. However, I selectively watched movies which had no
violence, no unbelievable storyline, and no laughable unrealities. Amitabh-Rekha became my favourites. Even more than them I began to
like Shabana Azmi, Smita Patil and Naseerudin Shah. Showing contempt at my taste, Dada said, Dont get those dark moralistic films
anymore. We are looking at slum life everyday, we dont need to see it on the screen as well.
After watching any directors, any actors, any picture, Dada one day got caught like a Putti fish, in the net of one movie. The name of the
film was Mughal-e-Azam. He went almost mad in his love for the film. The movie would play non-stop. He began reciting the dialogues by
heart all around the house. He showed the movie to everyone at home more than once. From Nanibari, Nani, Hashem mama, Parul mami,
infact even Tutu mama and Sharaf mama were called in to see the movie. Hashem mama was a great fan of old films. Given half a chance
he would go around singing Hindi and Urdu songs of films seen in his youth. Dada had failed to pull and push Fajli khala into watching the
film. Fajli khala did not look at the television as it would be a gunah, a sin to do so. If Ma got a film, she forgot about gunah. It was
impossible for her to resist the temptation to see Mughal-e-Azam, so she had temporarily buried Allah and His orders and directives under
her pillow and had come to see the film.
After which she had read her Ashar or Eshar namaaz followed by raising her hands in supplication to Allah, imploring that she be forgiven
for her gunah. Ma was sure that Allah was very benevolent, and forgave all devotees who were sorry for their sins.
Whenever a guest came to the house, instead of tea and biscuits, Dada would show his hospitality by screening Mughal-e-Azam.
Chapter Eleven
Lukewarm Life
Even after we had given our hearts to each other, I had not met Rudra. Our introduction happened through letters, as did our
love; everything was in our letters. Our exchange of hearts had happened in the course of a play of words. Rudra informed me
that his birthday was on the 29
th
of Ashwin (mid-Sept mid-Oct.).
Tell me what you want on your birthday. I will give you whatever you want.
Will it be possible for you to give me what I do want?
Why shouldnt it?
I know it wont be.
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Why dont you ask and see?
Rudra informed me that what he would ask for would be difficult, painful and something hard to accomplish!
The very next letter carried the question, Will you truly be able to give what I want?
Shrugging my shoulders, I had replied, Bah, why cant I? When I have said I will, I truly will. Pride, in the shape of a tiny
sparrow, seemed to have flown off my shoulder and settled down on the tip of my nose.
Suppose I ask for you?
What is so great about that? Amidst these trifling amorous bickerings I had said, Okay go along, here I am personally giving
myself.
I loved Rudra for his words, for his poems in Upodruto Upokul Troubled Shores, for the syllables in his letters. I did not know
the man behind them. I had never seen him, but had imagined someone wonderful and handsome. A man who could never
speak an untruth, who could never behave wrongly with others, a generous, humble, lively man who had heretofore never
looked at any girl, a man with a hundred sterling qualities. When Rudra intimated that he was coming to Mymensingh to see
me, I had to drink glasses of cold water, because my throat and chest felt parched. Where were we to meet? Masoods house,
perhaps, was the best choice. Masood also wrote poetry. He was actually a singer. He was in Chhotdas vast circle of young and
old friends. Rudra had met him in Dhaka, at the Chitrashashi adda. Rudra was going to stay in his house in Sanky Para. I had to
go there at eleven in the morning. I started looking at my watch from seven in the morning. The closer the hands of the watch
got to 11 oclock, the more frequent and rapid became the beat of my heart.
Looking more modern than I was, I sported a pair of fancy goggles. I was wearing a pyjama-dress with no odhna as usual.
Except for the red college uniform odhna, I didnt have any at home, because like Chandana, I had objections to the odhna.
Even after I crossed the age for wearing odhnas; I stayed at home without one, and went out as well. Telling Ma I was going
to Nanibari, this long haired, lustrous girl, with no fat or muscle proceeded towards the small tin house on the field with a lake,
towards Masoods house. The little heart of this little girl, from a little house, and a little room, suddenly stopped beating when
a bearded, long-haired, lungi clad youth came and said he was Rudra. My first sight of my lover was in a lungi! At that time
Rudra looked like someone who could be a brother-in-law of Riazzuddin come from the village. I lowered my eyes though
already hidden behind dark glasses.
Take off your goggles. I cant see your eyes.
These were the first words from someone with whom I had exchanged my heart in innumerable written words, sitting before me
for the first time face to face.
Rudras deep voice startled me. I took off my goggles, but looked only at the furniture in Masoods room.
Silence.
How come you arent saying anything?
I rubbed my toes against my slippers. There was nothing to look at in the corner of the nail of my left hand, but I continued to
look fixedly at it, as though if I didnt look after it at this very moment, the nail would rot and disintegrate. Even though I was
not looking at Rudra, I clearly knew that he was looking at me, at my hair, eyes, nose, chin, everything. Into a room full of
discomfort, Masood entered with tea and biscuits. I spent the time taken to drink the tea looking at my cup, at the faded sofa
hand rest, at the dolls in the showcase and at times at Masood, and finally stood up.
Whats wrong, why are you so restless? asked Rudra, again in that deep tone.
My eyes were directed then at the window. The leaves on the trees were dozing under the strong rays of the sun. So was the
pond. As soon as the water insects alighted on it, the waters danced to a mild ripple.
Rudra stood up and came slowly towards me. Glancing at his body, I realised he was shorter than me by two spans. When Dada
quarreled with his short friend, Jahangir, he would brag frequently, Short people are enemies of Khoda! Rudra was short
without a doubt and to add to it his face was covered with a beard and moustache. I abhorred the sight of a moustache, and even
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more so a beard.
I moved away, I dont know whether from fear or shame.
Rudra said, Why do you need to leave immediately?
Silence.
You speak a lot in your letters. Why arent you speaking now?
Silence.
Ish, what a problem this is! Are you dumb or something?
The dumb girl crossed the fields of Masoods house and went away almost brushing against the water insects and the water in
the pond.
Before leaving, to the question at the door, You are coming tomorrow, arent you? she replied with only a nod indicating she
would.
I went the next day as well. That day, too, I did not look up at him. My whole body, from my hair to the nails of my feet, was
enveloped in bashfulness. I kept telling myself, Speak, girl, speak, he is your beloved. You know everything about him, you
have read and memorised his complete Upodruto Upokul; now say at least a few words. I couldnt.
Rudra left. He wrote from Dhaka, that he had never met a girl like me. So very shy.
The shy girl replied with a twelve page letter. This is what happens to me, you ask me to write, there would be no one as
garrulous as me. Come close, and I would recoil in such a way that you would think the letter writer must be someone else! I,
too, sometimes felt that I the writer and I the living woman, brought up within the boundaries of Nanibari and Aubokash were
two separate individuals. One spread her wings and flew in the sky, while the other was chained physically and mentally to this
earthly world, in darkness and confined to a closed room.
Rudra came to Mymensingh twice after this. He had really got along well with a couple of Masoods friends. So his time in this
town passed quite pleasantly. However, whenever I met him I remained in the same state. So many meetings had not calmed the
thudding of my heart. I could chat non-stop with friends and brothers but when my lover came before me, my hands and feet
turned cold. There was a lock on my mouth, whose keys were lost.
Rudra was coming, but where were we to meet, where could the two of us sit and talk! Masoods elder brothers had voiced their
objections, so that house was out. If we walked around the streets of town, some one known to us would see us, and inform
Baba in moments, utter ruin! Where to go then? We went to my school friends Nadira and Mahboobas house. They gave us tea
and biscuits, but whispered that their family members wanted to know who the man was. Even then, for girls of my age to visit
anyones house with a lover was considered indecent, after all, romance itself was considered in bad taste then! When a girl
grew up, her parents found a groom for her, and made her sit on the wedding stool. The girl had to shut her mouth and happily
accept an unknown, unheard of man as her husband, and go to live in her in-laws place it was not that girls did not romance
outside this system, but only secretly, so secretly that even the birds could never get to know. I had no reservations in letting the
birds know, in fact not even in letting a couple of friends know. I had let Chandana know every detail, and had told Rudra
everything about Chandana. I had earnestly requested both of them to write to each other as well. They corresponded regularly.
Most of my letters to Rudra were about Chandana. Rudra understood how close to my soul Chandana remained. Sometimes
with hurt pride he would say, Only Chandana, Chandana, Chandana. You need only one friend. I dont think you need me also
in your life! Not finding a place to meet Rudra one day, I took him to Nanibari. Nani made tea and served us, and suppressing
a smile told Rudra, If you want this girl, you will first have to establish yourself, understood! I lowered my face in shame.
Still, what was possible in Nanibari was out of the question at Aubokash. With Rudra I could think of going to many houses,
even to Nanibari, but never to Aubokash. Therefore, we sat in parks, or in the Botanical Gardens, sat in the shade of the trees,
and talked. The Botanical Gardens were slightly out of town, near the Agricultural University area. There we sat on the grass,
looking at the dried up waters of the Brahmaputra, a couple of boats carrying sand sailed passed. I sat looking at them while
mouthing yes or no kinds of words, in reply to the innumerable questions that Rudra asked. People coming to walk in the
gardens looked at us with wondering eyes.
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After joining Medical College, a standard place was found the college canteen. On the first day I took Habibullah with me to
meet Rudra in the canteen. Habibullah was a friend, and because it was my deep belief that boys and girls could be friends just
like boys and boys, girls and girls, and that there was no difference between Habibullah and Chandana, I was able to speak a
few words to Habibullah in Rudras presence. Other words emerged while searching in my cup for the mixed colours of tea,
milk and sugar, like when Rudra asked if my class was over.
Yes.
Any more classes?
Yes.
Do you have to attend?
Yes.
Yes, means what? Cant you miss them?
Yes.
I sat with Rudra bunking my classes. The campus emptied out in the afternoon, the canteen closed. Our love talk continued in
the lawns, in the grounds, or sitting on the stairs in college, somewhat in this way,
Do you get my letters regularly?
Yes.
You must write to me daily, understand?
Okay.
Are you writing poetry?
Just a little bit.
Try and write in iambic metre.
Iambic metre would be in sixes, right?
Yes. In the end you can add a couplet. Six, six and two.
I can understand versification with the number of letters in a line. I find versification with stressed and unstressed sounds
difficult
You will learn it better, the more you write. Initially, begin with letter number versification.
Eight, four and six?
You can do that, or even eight-four-two, six-four-two. Actually the minute you do six-four-two the iambic metre automatically
emerges
The poems in Upodruto Upokul are mostly in letter number versification, arent they?
Thats true.
I keep writing and counting the letters, I find it really troublesome
What is so troublesome? The poetical metre is in the sound, keep your ears alert
Sometimes I feel I cant write this kind of poetry.
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Of course you can, just keep writing. Bring your poetry notebook tomorrow, let me have a look!
I havent written any good poems, Ill show it to you later.
Just bring it, will you! Listen to what I say. Achha, one thing
What?
Why dont you ever address me?
In what way?
Neither do you call me Rudra, nor do you say tumi.
I do.
When do you do so?
In my letters.
That is in letters. Life is not only in letters. Why dont you address me directly?
Shame spread like a burning flame all over my face. Every time before meeting Rudra, I would either stand before the mirror or
mentally rehearse saying Rudra tumi, Rudra tumi. I even tried, Rudra what will you eat, Rudra will you leave today itself,
and other such sentences, using tumi, but as soon as I came before him, on the actual stage, my rehearsals were to no avail and
my performance fell flat. In spite of heartfelt efforts, I was just unable to free myself from the chains of my impersonal voice.
Why do you appear to be so far away? You dont let me touch you at all. How many times I have asked you to let me hold
your hand. You dont let me. What are you so scared of? Am I a tiger or bear or what?
I knew Rudra was no tiger or bear. He was a bright young man of the seventies. The seventies was the decade of war, death and
break-up. The decade of the seventies was a decade of poetry. In the poems one could smell the corpses, hear the screams and
protests. Rudra had evoked this decade brilliantly in his poetry. When he talked of his life in Dhaka, I listened enraptured. I was
very keen to see this life of his. I wished, I too, could take out processions in the city with people injured in police firing, print
leaflets voicing protest and stick them all over the city walls. I wished I too, like Rudra, could sit in the Chitrashashi grounds
and listen to Lucky Akhands songs while sipping cups of tea, or get involved enthusiastically in literary discussions within the
Dhaka University compound all evening, while munching Jhal-muri. I wanted to watch Salim Al Dins theatre being staged at
the Mahila Samity. Every other day there were poetry functions, I wished I could attend them and listen to the poems. Rudra
seemed to be nurturing my budding poetic talent by removing the weeds around it and watering it as required or it could be said
that he lit into a flame what was like gun powder smouldering within me. A great desire to lead an unknown, unseen existence
filled my mind. Every day I had to leave early in the evening with my desires unfulfilled, return home, give an account for my
late return and tell lies, that after class I was in the girls hostel. When I lied, my voice trembled and my eyes were either
lowered to the ground or to my books. Later I had got to see Rudras life in Dhaka as well. An unaccounted for, carefree,
unrestrained, reckless life. In the University ground, within the T.S.C compound, while smoking cigarettes and sipping tea I
saw the variety of people Rudra was always talking to. He talked politics, literature and laughed loudly. He had introduced me
to his friends. They were either poets or story writers, or singers or heroes. I was still the shy, reed-like slim, fine haired girl
who was unable to speak to strangers. I watched Rudras life, amazement choking my throat. A wonderful free life, answerable
to no one regarding his movements, actions and whereabouts. In Dhaka, my time for meeting Rudra was always limited. Jhunu
khala set me free only for an hour or an hour and a half. She did that purposely because she knew I was going to meet Rudra.
Jhunu khala unhesitatingly told me her love story, and I too began to freely tell her mine. She did not act like an overbearing
guardian in this matter. Ages ago, Jhunu khala had left Boro mamas house and migrated to live at Rokeya Hall, the University
Womens Hostel. She had passed out from the University, and she was having a love affair with one of the employees of the
University office, Motiur Rahman, who belonged to Barisal. When she went to meet her Barisal man, she took me along with
her. Sitting on the lawns of the Suhrawarrdy Gardens, she regaled him with stories about her home and relatives. Listening to
her I found this familiar Jhunu khala not so familiar any more. Anyone would think Jhunu khalas relatives were some
formidable individuals. She, it appeared, had no relatives below the status of millionaires and billionaires. Sitting close to her I
looked at the shining eyes of the man from Barisal. I liked everything about Jhunu khala. She went wherever she pleased all by
herself. She went home to Mymensingh during holidays all on her own. She appeared intelligent at all times. Only when she
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met her man from Barisal she appeared to me to be very stupid. She completely turned into a little girl. If I was stupid, she
seemed worse than me, in fact a bigger fool. Once, while travelling from Dhaka to Mymensingh by train, she met a story-writer
called Smritimoy Bandopadhyay. After one meeting, she arrived at Aubokash with him. Tea and biscuits were served to the
guest. In front of Smritimoy, Jhunu khala behaved in a silly manner. On her face there was a shy simpering smile as though
Smritimoy was an old lover of hers. When she came to Mymensingh, Jhunu khala would spend the whole day at Aubokash with
us and return home only in the evening. To humour my requests, she would seek Mas permission and take me to Dhaka for a
day or two. Of course before my desires could be quenched, she would drop me back in Mas care. There were never any real
objections to my going with Jhunu khala. After all she was the highest degree-holding woman in the University, even Baba
talked to her without disrespect.
Even if my love for Rudra was not evident in face-to-face encounters, it grew significantly through our letters. It was his wish
that I write to him everyday. He too wrote everyday. In case my letter did not reach on even one day, Rudra would write in great
anxiety, What has happened to you, are you forgetting me? No, I could not forget Rudra. What I couldnt make him
understand was that to write to him I needed some privacy. With the house full of people, it was very difficult to do so. Rudra
feared that Baba would very soon force me into marriage. I let him know clearly that, that was one thing my father would never
do. He might murder me and throw me into the waters of the Brahmaputra, but before I passed my medical exams, he would
not allow any words about my marriage to be uttered by anyone. Rudra spent his days in disbelief, apprehension and agitation.
Spending a lot of time in Mongla and Mithekhali, he returned to Dhaka, and then came to Mymensingh for a day or two. Like
before, we sat facing each other with silence as our companion. Piercing the silence with a needle, Rudra said one day, Lets
get married.
Married?
Yes, married.
I began to laugh. I felt as though I had just heard some crazy proposal like, Lets go to Mars, or lets drown in the sea! I
couldnt help but laugh. Rudra frowned and said, What is there to laugh about!
I cant help it.
What makes you laugh?
It just happens.
Arent we supposed to get married sometime?
Why is the question of marriage arising?
Why shouldnt it?
Are you mad?
Why should I be mad?
Only mad people keep talking of marriage!
Dont talk rubbish.
Is this rubbish?
Yes, it is.
Rudra sat depressed. Depression was crawling towards me as well. I picked at my nails for a long time, and stared at the pages
of my book without any reason, for even longer. There was an uncomprehending grief in my voice.
Baba will kill me.
Let us both go and meet Baba, said Rudra in a serious tone. My loud laugh pierced through the gravity of his voice.
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How can you laugh?
I again felt like laughing. Certain scenes could possibly be conjured up in ones mind with great difficulty, but this scene of
Rudra and I standing before Baba, saying we wanted to marry and were seeking his permission or something to that effect
was a scene impossible for me to even imagine. Distractedly I tore at the grass.
What are you laughing about, will you please tell me! Arent you ever going to think of getting married?
Why get married right now? Let me pass my medical exams first. Then well see, was my melancholic answer. The words
were without regret, cool.
That would be very late, Rudras voice was steeped in anxiety.
So what if its late?
Rudra could not stand delays. He wanted to do things straightaway. He was already dreaming of marrying and setting up house.
Looking up at Rudra, I felt, I didnt know this man at all. He was someone very distant. He was like a spoilt, irritating
overgrown kid. Take your exams, pass your M.A., only after that does the question of marriage arise, what is the big hurry
now!, I informed him by letter. Rudra replied that taking or not taking the exams was of no consequence to him. He had no
eagerness for such meaningless degrees.
He may have considered them meaningless, but I knew, my family members would want to see degrees. In fact, I didnt believe
that even a M.A. qualified boy would be considered suitable for me. Then to top everything, Rudra was a poet. Poets went
hungry. That they were also very bohemian was Babas strong belief. Rudra said he was a poet, and that was his identity. As he
would never seek a job, so there was no justification for him to pass University exams.
No, but
But, what?
I was petrified of Baba. It was impossible to make Rudra understand of what metal Babas heart was made.
Baba was Associate Professor in the Department of Jurisprudence of Mymensingh Medical College. As there were no other
professors, he was the Head of this Department. Almost everyday I went to college with Baba by rickshaw. Half the way he
generously gave advice, Make sure you pass your Medical at one go. Study with that goal in mind. It was lucky that Baba
wasnt saying he would throw me out of the house in case I didnt pass with distinctions and stars. Once you got into Medical,
some day you would pass out as a doctor, this was his belief. Hence he looked quite relaxed. In fact just passing the Medical
exams was a matter of luck. Even good students sometimes were unable to achieve this feat. Questions on complicated subjects
like anatomy and physiology which were difficult to comprehend and study, were so clearly and simply answered by Baba, that
they were easily understood. There was no question whose answer he did not know. Even then he stayed up nights to study. The
day he had to take class, he would study till 2 oclock the previous night, before going to bed. At one time he was the Anatomy
teacher at Lytton Medical School. That Lytton school closed down years ago, it was now no more a school, but a college, next
to the big hospital, with a big campus, and most of the great teachers there, according to Baba, had been his students. There was
a kind of happiness in knowing that more than I was known myself, I was known for being Rajab Ali Sirs daughter, at least in
college. Baba, who continuously helped me to unravel the complicated study of medicine, gradually came to feel very close to
me. This was a new Baba. As soon as he came home, he called me close. He made me join him for meals and chatted with me
while eating. He wanted to know if I had learnt something new that day. If I said I hadnt, he didnt even get annoyed, instead
with great eagerness he would propose a topic for discussion. Suppose it was the liver, I would let slip that, I dont understand
anything of the liver. He would laugh, make me sit next to him, pull my hand and place it on his chest, and in a mixture of
Bangla and English, he would tell me how the liver looked, where it was located, what its functions were, what were the
diseases connected to it and how these diseases had to be treated. Everything was explained like a story to me. That I was
unhesitatingly telling him I knew nothing about the liver did not make him snarl even once, and ask me, Why dont you know?
Learn the whole book by heart, from cover to cover. I had never before seen this kind of Baba, who was not worried about my
studies any more. He never again demanded that he should see me only at my study table. If I indulged in adda or spent hours
sleeping, Baba got angry no more. Babas attention was now focused on Yasmin. The responsibility of waking her from sleep,
making her sit down and study, chasing her away from games, making her listen to the words of sages, threatening her with
being thrown out of the house unless she got starry marks was being carried out tirelessly by Baba. Seeing that Baba was now
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unconcerned about me, I chose and bought a guitar from Haripada Malliks musical instruments shop, and began to pick up
tung-tang notes on it. The dream of being able to play a song on the guitar made my heart beat tung-tang throughout the day.
Shahadat Khan Hilu had a very good reputation as a guitar player. Not just as a guitar player, Hilu was known to everyone in
town. In the cultural arena Hilu was always center stage. There was no end of people who were willing to accept him as their
guru. He was Masoods guru. After he met Rudra, he became like a guru to Rudra as well. Rudra had once come to
Mymensingh with a tall new storywriter called Mohammed Ali Minar. Minar, too, became a disciple of Hilu. Such was the
charisma of the man. It seems Hilu had been close to Chhotda and Geeta, and was even Dadas friend. One day I went to Akua,
not far from Nanibari, to his huge house with a pond, to request him to teach me to play the guitar. I had heard he never taught
anyone, and Geeta even told me he couldnt stand the sight of women. When Hilu agreed to teach me, I wasnt able to gauge
immediately what a privilege this was going to be. The joy of making the impossible possible was the kind of joy I felt. It was
as though I had been given a jar full of gold coins, and the snake that was normally wrapped around the neck of the jar appeared
to have gone to seek the scent of the Kamini flower. Hilu came to teach thrice a week in the evenings. Like all other home
tutors, he too was served tea and biscuits. Ma knew Hilu. His elder brother was Hashem mamas friend. Ma made payesh, rice
pudding for Hilu, with more sugar. Hilu taught me the chords of the guitar, partook of the tea and payesh made by Ma and left.
One evening, Dada came face to face with Hilu. As soon as he saw him, Dadas face turned pale, but he nevertheless fixed a
cheerless smile on that pale face for the rest of the time. As soon as Hilu left, Dada removed the smile from his pale face, and
asked Why have you asked Hilu to teach you the guitar?
So what is wrong in that?
He did not say what was wrong but made disapproving sounds with his tongue.
When the month was over, I went to give Hilu an envelope with two hundred taka in it as an honorarium.
He asked, What is this?
Money.
Why money?
There was no reason for Hilu not to understand the reason for the money. With a crooked smile on his lips, he said, Are you
paying me for teaching you to play the guitar?
I kept quiet. Hilu did not take the money. In spite of hundreds of requests, he didnt. Hilu was a rich mans son. I knew he did
not need money. But to study for free made me very uncomfortable. My embarrassment remained, along with great respect for
Hilu who was abandoning his evening programmes and taking time out to teach me. In the midst of this sense of respect one
day came Baba. Seeing Hilu sitting in the drawing room teaching me to play the guitar shocked him so much, it was as though
he had seen a ghost. On seeing Baba, Hilu stood up and offered his Salaam. The response he got was eyes spewing hatred.
Going into the inner room, Baba called me in a voice which could have blasted the house down. My trembling heart and I went
and stood before him.
Why has Hilu come?
He teaches me to play the guitar.
Ill take your arse for guitar learning, Haramzadi. Throw the fellow out this minute. A scoundrel has come to my house. How
dare he?
Hilu must have heard Babas words. I could neither breathe in nor out. No, this could not be happening; Baba was not saying
anything; Hilu was not standing flabbergasted in that room. Nothing but the strains of Raag Malkash were entering his ears. I
tried desperately to convince myself that no untoward incident was happening in the house, that this was only a nightmare. In a
room full of darkness, I stood rooted to the ground and my head seemed to float away from me like a gas balloon into the sky,
to disappear behind the clouds. My body, I noticed, became incapable of moving. It was dead like yellow grass buried under the
weight of stones, it felt cold and slimy like the toadstools which grow on them. Baba insulted Hilu that night and drove him out
of the house. After throwing him out, he moved about violently all over the house.
Who doesnt know Hilu? He is a well-known goonda of the town. Aayee Noman, Noman, screaming for Dada to come close,
he continued panting, Did you know Hilu was coming to this house?
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Dada nodded his head, implying both yes and no.
Besides this blazing fire Ma came and stood offering a palmful of water, Hilu did not come to this house to do anything like a
goonda!
Baba did not even bother to hear Mas opinion. The fire continued to blaze, while the water from Mas palms fell onto the
ground wetting it. The whole night, from my two eyes fixed on the beams supporting the ceiling, spewed hatred and anger
towards Baba. Ma came and sat beside me on the bed sighing deeply.
Your father has such arrogance! What does he have so much self-conceit about, I do not fathom! People will curse him. If you
treat people unjustly, why will people not curse you? They definitely will.
My guitar lessons came to an end for the rest of my life. The instrument lay in one corner of the room. With the passing of time
it gradually became the dwelling place of dust and cobwebs. Many times I had thought of going to Hilu and begging
forgiveness with folded hands, but I felt hesitant to stand before such a great person with such a small face.
Soon after this incident, Mitu arrived. A wave of beautifying the house began. The house was decorated from top to bottom.
Mitu was the daughter of Dadas Companys top boss. She was to join Mymensingh Medical College, and stay in our house till
hostel arrangements could be made for her. The day Mitu arrived with her parents in a car, this girl with her acne covered
cheeks, pearly laugh, curly hair and fair-skin made friends with everyone in the house. Even though I was a year senior to her in
college, she unhesitatingly addressed me as tumi, and even told Yasmin not to bother with apni, but to call her tumi. Pulao
and meat was cooked, and the best room, which was Dadas, had been arranged for her to stay. Mitu was an active, bouncy,
lively, bright girl, who within an hour had told us a whole load of stories. Mitus mother did the same, as though they had
known us for ages. I was unable to tell stories so neatly as Mitu could. While relating a story I would get all confused.
Surrendering myself to silence, I just watched and listened. I could not speak English as fluently as Mitu did. I was also unable
to learn the art of making people my very own, so easily. After leaving Mitu with us, her parents went back to Dhaka. Mitu
joined college. Everyone at home seemed to be at her service twenty four hours of the day. People were ready to serve her with
whatever she wanted at whatever time. If Mitu was to have a bath, someone would run to see if there was water in the
bathroom, if not then two buckets of water would be filled up and kept ready for her. She was handed the best towel and soap in
the house. If Mitu was to eat, then the best plate was given to her, and the best pieces of meat and fish were served to her. When
Mitu wanted to watch television, the best place on the sofa was reserved for her. If she had to sleep, someone ran to dust the bed
and arrange the mosquito net. While she was sleeping, no one was to make any sound in the house. Even Baba was roped into
serving Mitu. He sent unending supplies of fish and meat home, so that they could be cooked for Mitu. This English speaking,
shirt-pant clad girl, who watched only English films on television every night, read English novels and listened to English
songs in her free time, was like any girl living at home, yet she was also very much an outsider. However intimate she was with
us, there remained a distinct difference between her and us. I could never make friends with rich girls. I could never understand
what I should say to them. When they talked of fashion, foreign travel and foreign cultures I sat listening like a complete
ignorant blockhead. Even at school, I could never become friendly with the bespectacled rich girl, Asma Ahmed, who talked
and walked in a superior fashion. Yet, I had been to her house, and she had very often taken my poetry copy to read, and had
even praised my poetry as being very good. When Munni used to come once in a while to visit us with her mother, Ma would
sit down happily to talk to her mother. Since Munni was my classmate, I should have gone and talked with her, but I could
never make out what I should say to her. After saying, How are you? I could find no other words to say to her. After passing
her SSC in the third division, Munni was married to a lotus on a dunghill. The flower was some illiterate, impoverished village
farmers engineer son. Munni came to visit even with her husband. After barely peeping into the drawing room I had pushed
Yasmin and Ma forward to meet them. Yasmin and Ma were not very good at routine conversations, but could manage
somehow with great difficulty. I was the one who just couldnt. Yet, this was the Munni with whom I had gone to school, a
stones throw away from home, daily in a rickshaw. I had just been promoted from the fourth standard to the fifth, and my
excitement at going to a new class had yet not left me. Baba had bought the new books for me. I had covered the books with
coloured paper. I had already finished reading both the Bangla prose and poetry texts. The double-lined Bangla copy, the
four-lined English, and blank paged Maths copy had already been arranged by me on my desk. Before 9.30 am, I was ready in
my school uniform, having eaten boiled rice with ghee, clarified butter and sugar, and having packed a small black suitcase
with my books and copies. One could actually walk to school. Just after the Saraswati Temple at the corner, if one walked down
Sher Pukur Par, in front of Manoranjan Dhars house was the main road across the red boundary wall of the Vidyamoyee
School. However, I did not get permission to walk to school from home. Everyone was very sure that if I walked I would break
my limbs under some cars or cows. Every morning, Baba handed out four annas with which I left Aubokash or went three
houses away and stood on the verandah of MA Kahhars house. On seeing me in the room inside, Munni the fat, fair, rich mans
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daughter, who got zero in studies, would wear a stiffly-ironed uniform and a pair of expensive shoes. Munnis mother wore a
pleated sari, and had a bunch of keys suspended at the end of her aanchal. When she walked, the keys knocked against each
other making ting-ting sounds. On seeing me, Munnis mother smiling with betel-juice stained teeth, would say So, girl, how
is your mother? I would nod and say she was well. My mother was well, sitting in the kitchen verandah, trying to light the
earthen stove by stuffing dried coconut leaves, puffing and blowing into it. Covered in smoke was Ma and smoke covered was
her soiled, dirty sari. Mas aanchal had no bunch of keys suspended from it. The bunch of keys was with Baba. If any door or
cupboard had to be locked in the house, Baba did so. Once in a while he locked up the store as well and the key remained in his
pocket. No one in Aubokash had the courage to touch that pocket. There was a vast difference between Ma and Munnis mother.
Munnis mothers body was covered with gold ornaments, her hair was tied up in a bun and she wore slippers with coloured
straps. Mas feet were muddy and bare, her hair hung loose, her face was smoky, her lips dry. There was a vast difference
between Munni and me as well. Munni looked like a doll, all shining. I was certainly not like her, yet we sat together in the
same rickshaw and went to school. I paid the rickshaw fare to school, Munni paid the return fare. Every day, Munnis mother
opened the cupboard in her bedroom with the big key tied to her aanchal. With another key, she opened the drawer in the
cupboard, from which drawer she took out a golden coloured box. Inside this box, was another one, from which she would take
out four annas and give to Munni. On the way to school Munni talked non-stop. I only listened to her. Almost every evening,
when she came with her younger brother Paplu to play in the courtyard of our house, her hair tied in two plaits with red ribbons,
even then she was the only one who talked, I just listened.
That same Munnis beaming mothers toes one day began to grow red. The redness increased and began to spread upwards
from the tips of her toes. When Baba was unable to treat the redness with any kind of medicine, he one day actually amputated
the big toe. Munnis toeless mother gradually recovered her health, and again began to visit her neighbours and friends to
gossip in the evenings. After a few months, the tips of her toes again began to grow red. The redness again spread. It spread
right up her legs. Baba said she had skin cancer, and only if her legs were wholly amputated could the cancer be checked. No
one in her house agreed to this. Baba went routinely to see Munnis mother. Ma too went to see her. She personally heated up
water, and soaking Munnis mothers feet in the water, would sigh deeply and sit and show her dreams of getting well again.
Towards the end, Munnis Mas body began to give off a horrible smell, and she was made to lie under a mosquito net. Bottles
of attar were poured, but were unable to remove the stench. Her own family members did not want to enter her room. Yet Ma,
an outsider, went inside the stinking room, stroked her body, and wiping her tears with her sari aanchal said, Allah will make
you well, keep your faith in Allah. Ma felt sympathy for everyone. Just as Ma could go to the slums, and stroke the bodies of
the dirty slum women, she could also go to rich men houses and soothe the bodies of their wives. Ma had requested me many
times, Lets go and see Munnis mother, poor woman is suffering so much. I would refuse. Ma would go alone. Ma could do
so, I couldnt. Diffidence, fear and shame would just accost me and penetrate my very bones. Ma had stopped worrying about
what people would think of her soiled clothes, soiled body or soiled life itself. After visiting Munnis mother, Ma said, What if
shes a rich mans wife, she is sick, and because her body is stinking, no one goes close to her. They have kept servants, only
they go near. Ma was of the view that there was no limit to the woes of women, whether they were poor or rich mens wives.
Ma was considered a rich mans wife by those slum dwellers who came begging. Ma would correct them. Being a rich mans
wife and being a rich man are two very different things. My husband may be a rich man, but I am a poor woman. I have no
money of my own. Ma sometimes said, If I worked in someones house and even earned five taka, that at least would be my
earnings. Does anyone even give me five taka? The maids in the house have a better fate then mine. Whatever Ma might have
gained by becoming a rich mans wife, she had lost a great deal more. She had been deprived of many opportunities. She had
looked around for sewing jobs, but never got any. Since she was not educated, no one gave Ma any big jobs. And she was not
given any small jobs because she was a rich mans wife. Ma never got any work to do except her household tasks. Yasmin
was about to take her SSC exams. Ma caught Yasmin as well. Will you arrange for me to take my SSC exams privately? If you
just teach me a little bit of Maths, I will definitely pass. Ma examined Yasmins books. Very carefully she turned the pages,
some of them she was even able to read without stumbling. She said, This is not so very difficult! Hearing Mas desire to take
the SSC exams, evoked not just suppressed laughter amongst all at home, everyone actually laughed out aloud, including even
Amena.
Meanwhile Jhunu khala had married her man from Barisal and brought him to Mymensingh. Before she brought him, she had
come alone and explained how exactly the house was to be arranged from top to bottom. She had also instructed everyone
about what dress each one was to wear, how each one had to behave, what they had to say when asked certain questions, even
what items were to be cooked and explained every other detail to each one before she left. She had come to our house and
spoken about inviting the eldest bride. When we went to Nanibari to meet Jhunu khala and her husband from Barisal, we found
everyone speaking in low tones. Nani had cooked a variety of dishes. Jhunu khala was flitting from one room to another. Her
husband sat on the new sheet on the bed, wearing a new starched lungi and white addi silk Panjabi, his face gloomy. Only on
the day the man from Barisal came to Aubokash did the gloom leave his face. He took a great liking to Baba even though his
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shoes squeaked when he walked. Jhunu khalas sisters husband was a doctor, that too a professor of medicine at the medical
college. The man from Barisal looked unblinkingly at Baba saying, You all are, after all, our only relatives. After Jhunu khala
left, Ma said, Why does Jhunu humour her husband so much? She herself is an MA. She will now get a very good job. She
doesnt need to kowtow to her husband at all!
Ma was unable to study because she never got the opportunity to do so. At times I thought, there were others, who given the
opportunity, still wasted their chances. Rudras name was on the rolls of the University, but that was all. Neither did he attend
classes, nor did he take the exams. I told him to at least pass his Masters degree. I told him for his own sake. He clearly told me
that he was not made out for these things. He hardly cared for academic qualifications. He was going to write poetry all his life.
Poetry was his passion, occupation everything. Rudra spent five hours coming to Mymensingh from Dhaka by train; it took the
same time by bus. Once, while hanging from a crowded train he met Nirmalendu Goon, and since then he clung to him. Goons
house became a new place for us to meet. But how long could you sit in someone elses house! They too had their quarrels,
shouts and screams! Hence, better to roam about in a rickshaw! So that no one would spot us in the town, we took separate
rickshaws while within its perimeter. Only far away from town, we left one rickshaw and sat side by side on the other. Rudras
touch aroused great rapture in my mind! The only place we could go out of town was to Muktagachha. The village roads were
deserted over which the rickshaw trundled along, under the big trees tied up with saris to make them stand straight, over small
bridges built to cross tiny rivers. My eyes were attracted by the green mustard fields, the naked children splashing in the marshy
land, the nonchalant crossing of roads by emaciated cows, and my mind and heart remained with Rudra. Shyly thwarting
Rudras endless attempts to kiss me, we reached Muktagachha. We roamed about the courtyard of a Zamindars house which
was covered with weeds, and cobwebs. Even if we walked side by side on the roads, there was no fear; in this town there was
no one we knew who could spread any scandalous rumours.
When Rudra returned to Dhaka that time, within a few days, seven to be exact, I was about to enter class, when a senior girl
came and told me that Neera Lahiri had sent a message, that I should go to her house immediately.
Abandoning my class I ran to Goons house.
I found Rudra sitting in Goons drawing room. There were two wooden chairs in the room, and a bedstead. He was on the
bedstead. My heart danced with joy at seeing him. Whenever I saw Rudra that is what happened to me, my heart danced with
joy.
What happened suddenly?
Yes, rather sudden. I didnt have time to write and tell you.
I see.
Then there was silence while we sat facing each other. The blues of silence were filled with the smoke of Rudras Star cigarette.
Rudra took out a paper from his black shoulder bag and said, You have to sign on this paper.
What paper is this?
Ill tell you later. First sign.
Why?
Dont talk so much.
What is the paper for?
I asked, but was very sure that Rudra needed my signature on some memorandum, or was creating a poetry society, and wanted
me to sign as a member. My eyes filled with conviction, glowed with the gentle light of dawn. My unwavering lips flew about
like a flock of birds.
When I extended my hands to take the paper, Rudra moved it away. I was faced with a dilemma, a suspicion.
What paper is this? I am not going to sign it without reading!
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Rudras moss covered eyes remained fixed on mine.
It is a marriage document. Rudras voice was heavy and broken.
My ears began to burn. Shaking off the burning sensation I forced myself to respond.
Marriage documents.
Yes, marriage papers.
Why?
What do you mean, why?
Marriage papers for what?
Dont you know for what?
No.
Are you going to sign or not?
Amazing! Why should I marry in this way?
That means you will not sign?
Lets see what is written!
As soon as I took the paper from Rudra, he roared, Boudi is coming, hide it.
Why should I hide it?
She will understand what it is.
What will she understand?
She will know it is a marriage document.
How?
Im telling you she will!
Whats the harm in her knowing?
There is harm.
What harm, lets hear!
Rudra snatched the paper from me. In a stony voice he said, Are you going to sign or not, either say yes or no.
This is astounding! Why is there this talk of marriage suddenly?
There just is.
Whos brought it up?
I have.
I never said I would marry!
I am saying so.
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Can you clap with one hand?
Will you sign?
No.
Putting the paper back into his bag, Rudra stood up, saying, Fine, Im going.
Astonishment was clouding my world. Where to?
Dhaka.
Right now?
Yes.
Why, whats happened?
There is no need for me to stay any longer.
No need?
Rudras tone had no regret. No.
Just because I have not signed on the paper, are all requirements over?
Without giving an answer, Rudra opened the doors wide and went out. He was leaving. Leaving. He was walking right over my
heart which was brimming with love for him. He was really and truly going away. Going away. I was left behind alone. Rudra
did not glance back. I was nothing to him now. He was not returning ever.
A sharp agony lifted me and took me to the verandah, took me towards his departure, and with two hands stopped him from
leaving.
Lets see, let me see the paper!
Why?
Why else, to sign it!
Rudra took out the paper.
Standing in the verandah, I scratched out a signature without looking at it or reading anything. Handing the paper to Rudra, I
glanced sorrowfully at his instantly shining eyes and said, That this signature had so much value I never realized before. I have
signed. Are you happy now! Ill take your leave.
I crossed the courtyard of Goons house and came on to the road, as fast as I could.
From behind Rudra was calling, Listen, wait.
I did not turn back.
I took a rickshaw straight to college. I paid a lot of attention in the next classes.
Even then it had not sunk into me that what I had signed out of self-pride had wrought my marriage. I still did not call Rudra by
his name, or address him as tumi, we had still not kissed; our only physical contact was through the fingers of our hands. I
was then barely nineteen years old.
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Chapter Twelve
The Oscillating Heart
Two months after Rudra took my signature on the marriage document, he wrote a letter addressing me as wife. Reading the
address I broke out in goose bumps. How strange and wonderful was this address! Was I then someones wife? Had that
signature really and truly brought about a marriage! It was an unbelievable event. My own wedding, I had never imagined it
would take place in this way. In fact that it would take place at all was something I had never had any belief in. I had signed the
paper on the 26
th
of January, and after being submitted to the lawyer, it had been signed and sealed by him on the 29
th
. In an
ordinary letter Rudra had informed me that our wedding day was the 29
th
. I tried to think of what I was doing on the 29
th
. Had
I thought of Rudra even once that day? No, I hadnt. I didnt have the time. I was dissecting dead bodies. There had been a
minor exam for which I had to study a lot. After the exam, I had come home and as usual, watched television and indulged in
bickering with my brothers and sisters. Like every other day, I had read poetry, heard songs, and after dinner, had gone to sleep.
After receiving Rudras letter, I told myself again and again, Look, you are not unmarried anymore. You are now actually
someones wife. When you marry you have to become a wife. Thats the system. Whether you like it or not, your signature on
that paper brought about your marriage. It had no effect. I was unable to absorb the matter either in my understanding or
beliefs. I just could not experience the feeling that I was not the same as before. That I was now married like Nani, Ma, Fajli
khala and Jhunu khala. Even Chandana was married. After her marriage, Chandana had written, I am now a fearless person.
Putting my life at stake, I have touched my dreams with my hands. I know now how to seriously dream. I have only one life
after all. I have not made a mistake. I can now touch a blood-red rose by merely extending my hand. Even if I had wished for
the married Chandanas passion, it was not aroused in me. It was beyond the limits of my understanding as to what kind of
tremors could be felt by a woman when touched physically by a man, and what desires were aroused by those tremors
thereafter. The men friends I had in college were only friends. Like Chandana. I hadnt yet ever kissed a man. I had not felt any
physical desire for anyone as yet. The only desires I was aware of, were those for water, tea or when it was very warm, for
lemon sherbet.
The second letter written by Rudra addressing me as wife fell into Babas hands. The postman had delivered the letter at
home, and as luck would have it straight into Babas hands. Since Baba was very fond of opening and reading others letters, he
read mine. Someone was addressing his daughter as his wife was something he read with bare eyes, then with his spectacles on,
and in every other way possible. Baba began pacing up and down throughout the room. He ransacked my study table in search
of more evidence. He took off his glasses, sat down, got up, all in rapid succession and finally left the house. But he could not
concentrate on his patients, and returned home. This time he called Ma. Whenever there was some anxiety about the children,
then Baba looked for Ma. Or when guests were expected at home, he would look for Ma. Where have you gone Idun? Come
here, will you! Baba would then give an estimate of the number of people expected, how many people would have to be
catered for, in fact even what items were to be prepared. Ma would listen very attentively to everything. She listened because at
such times at least Ma felt herself to be someone of invaluable worth. That she was needed in this household, was the feeling
Ma gained on such occasions and a strange joy seemed to cling to Ma just as did her sweat. On being called this time, when
Ma came rushing to stand before him, Baba said, Do you know who calls Nasreen his wife? Who has the courage to call her
his wife?
I dont know. I have no idea about all this.
Has she got involved with some boy?
I havent seen anything like that. She in fact chased Habibullah away from the house. No such boy has even come to the
house. I dont think she has got involved with anyone.
If she isnt involved, then how can any boy address her as his wife in his letters?
I really dont know.
You dont know anything. What do you do the whole day at home? If you cant even keep track of what your daughter is upto,
then what is the use? I raised the height of the boundary wall. I made sure that no boys could see the girls. Now how come this
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boy is calling her his wife?
I know she writes letters. She prints a magazine. She has to write letters here and there, she says.
This letter is not for any journal. This is a different type of letter.
I returned home from college. On other days Ma ran to the kitchen to bring food for me. That day she didnt move at all.
Ki, wheres my food?
The rice is in the vessel, said Ma.
Amena too hardly seemed to be moving or stirring at all. At an impossibly snails pace, she brought and served me the rice, and
with it some daal.
Ki! What do you mean by giving me only daal with rice! Isnt there any meat or fish?
You dont need fish and meat everyday. Mas tone was rough.
Can one eat rice without fish or meat? I ate two mouthfuls, and pushed the plate away, screaming, Wheres the water?
Ma said, Water is in the tap.
Even I know water is in the tap, but someone has to bring it.
Who was going to give me water! When I started grumbling, only then Amena moved majestically like an elephant, filled a
glass from the tap and brought it for me. The house was seething with suspense. I gauged that something had happened. Ma did
not wait too long in order to let me know what had happened. When I had stretched out on the bed with a book in my hand, she
came with a grave face to my side and asked equally gravely, Who is Rudra?
Rudra?
Yes, Rudra.
Why?
Why does he call you his wife?
A glass of cold water upturned on my chest. I began to sweat under the whirring blades of the fan. The bright lights of the day
turned into a moonless amavasya night in front of my eyes.
Why arent you saying anything? Who is Rudra?
I did not need to tell anyone who Rudra was! I only needed to know whether my letter had fallen into Mas hands alone or
anyone elses. If it had fallen into Babas hands, then my life was over that very instant. Today I had at least got some daal and
rice, tomorrow I might not get even that. Softening a little, Ma herself said that the letter had fallen into Babas hands. After
learning this, I went about hiding my lifeless body in isolated places. When everyone was asleep I got up like one deranged, and
wrote a letter to Rudra asking him never to address me as his wife ever again in his letters. I had to always write to Rudra in this
way, when no one was at home, or when everyone was asleep. Otherwise anyone could lean over to read what I was writing;
anyone at all in this house had the right to read what I was writing. If I tried to hide, the eagerness to read became almost
irresistible.
Everyday before Baba left, Yasmin and I had to ask for our rickshaw fare to school and college. Baba counted out the money
and gave it to us. The next morning came. I could clearly hear Baba having his bath, the squeaking of his shoes, him eating his
breakfast, in fact even the sound of him swallowing water. But like everyday I did not have the strength to hold on to my
quaking heart and stand before him with my head bent to ask for the rickshaw fare. My very existence had become one big
burden for me. I wished I could disappear into thin air at the snap of my fingers. I wished I was invisible! Watching the serial
Invisible Man on television, I had very often deeply experienced the need to disappear once in a while. Yasmin had asked for
her fare from Baba without any anxiety. Inactive, I remained confined to my room, breathless, dumb, suppressing the pressures
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of my stomach and lower abdomen, hoping I would not have to face Baba. Before leaving, he stood in the inner verandah and
shouted so that everyone could hear him telling Ma Her studies are over. She does not have to go to college anymore.
Everything is stopped. Stop giving her food. No rice is to be given to her!
Baba left. I waited till ten oclock for the postman and made sure that there was no letter from Rudra. Then, taking money from
under Mas mattress, I went to college. Classes started in college from 8 am. If I bunked classes like this, my future was not just
bleak, it was doomed, I gauged. The next day was the same. I had thought Baba would soften with the passage of time! There
were no signs of his melting. I had to beg Dada for rickshaw fare to go to college the next day. Baba was not bothered. He had
forgotten completely that I, too, existed in this house. Ma scolded me at the drop of a hat. She understood whatever Baba made
her understand. Ma was like that. Whatever any body explained, she accepted. She unconditionally accepted any persons
argument, whatever it may be. If someone came and said, Do you know someone fell from the arum tree and died, Ma would
say, Ah, died! and would tell everyone, Do you know, someone in the neighbourhood fell off an arum tree and died! Ma
would never think that no one could possibly fall and die from an arum tree, and that no one could possibly even climb one. Ma
believed every person in the world, and everything anyone could possibly say.
Rudra had stopped addressing me as his wife. But I could make out my letters were being hijacked. The letters were being
removed not only by Baba, but by Dada as well. Even by Ma. Finally, I had to seek Dalias help. Dalia belonged to Khulna. She
was a girl who was normally buried in thick volumes the whole day. Can my letters please come to your hostel address,
Dalia? Hearing my plaintive cry she said, Of course. She too was in the habit of writing poetry. She had even pushed herself
into becoming a member of Shatabdi Chakra. Otherwise who knows whether she would have agreed at once to offer this
service? She might have asked all kinds of questions. After about four months, Rudra again came to Mymensingh. I went to
meet Rudra, waiting in the college canteen with Dalia. Actually, whenever I went, I usually took someone or the other with me,
either Halida, or Madira, or Dalia. Whenever I sat alone before Rudra, I could say nothing. All we did was to sit facing each
other. Very often he had said, cant you come alone? That I couldnt was also something I had never told him. If someone was
there, by speaking nineteen to the dozen with that someone, I was at least able to convey that it wasnt as though I could not
speak. I could. In fact my command over the wealth of words was not bad at all. Of course most of the words used were largely
connected to medical knowledge. Rudra had to be a silent listener then. Finding a chance, Rudra told me that now I better tell
my father about it. I laughed out loud. This was really a crazy proposal from him. There was no way out but to wait for five
years. After becoming a doctor, if it was possible to tell Baba something, I would, before that the question did not arise. Rudra
sat, most unhappy. He tried to persuade me that initially all parents showed a little anger, but later everything became okay.
That there was no way anything would become right later, was something I tried to convince Rudra about. In the bargain, I told
him, my medical studies would come to an end. After Rudra left with a disappointed face, I wrote to him telling him that five
years would pass by before we knew it, and not to worry at all. Rudra wrote, Five years is not really a very long period. It will
pass soon enough. But for me five years are just too many days, too many years. I will not really be able to make you
understand. I understand everything about you, and yet I have to tell you. In spite of understanding everything clearly, I am still
telling you. Try to understand a little. Why am I mentally tormented? If you look at my black past you will understand. You will
then realise why I feel this torment. I am unable to make you understand. You dont know that I have no friends. I know many
well-wishing, devoted people, but none of them understands me. I now need you, only you. I will be unable to keep this
uncontrolled ,unsupported heart well for too long. I knew of no black past in Rudras life. What he actually wanted to explain
by this black past, was something I never got round to learning. I thought he meant his aimless roaming around, his not
studying, not taking his exams. I would tell Rudra about my daily life and all about my dreams. Rudra wrote, My dreams dont
match yours at all. While your dreams are very beautiful, like desirable flowers, mine are entirely made up of bricks and stones.
I see life with absolutely merciless eyes. May be such ruthlessness is not good, but somehow that is how I feel. Lets do one
thing, like spreading memories, you can continue to have the unblemished and verdant green dreams and I will have the
disgraceful and cruel ones. After all life is a mixture of the good and bad. Lets divide our lives in this way, okay! I couldnt
understand how people could see ugly dreams. I lived daily amidst ugliness, hence I dreamt of the beautiful. I told Rudra to
somehow just take the exams, may be if he was an MA, someday I would be able to bring up his name in my house. But Rudra
said, I think somewhere a mistake persists. A gap, whose fissure is extremely fine, a very small but sharp gap of
misunderstanding remains. I can make this out quite clearly. Through this fine gap one day, like Kalnagini entered the bridal
chamber of Lakhinder, in the same way, the snake of distrust will enter. Not the regret at receiving and the weariness of vain
desires. We should be alert, much more alert. As soon as my youth was over, I slowly began to live my life, and change my
belief for a particular purpose. Whatever is understood by an academic career, I have almost completely destroyed. Yes, mostly
on purpose. I have seen a lot of our society, many of lifes dark spots, bright spots, a lot of hatred, distrust, deception, and a lot
of trust and love as well. Maybe I will spend my whole life watching and burning. I will see how much suffering the germ of an
incurable disease can give to my body. Maybe a rose will never bloom in the courtyard of my house. Maybe instead of a
flower-vase, on my table, there will be a huge earthen ashtray. Maybe my most cherished treasure will be the helmet of a dead
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Muktijodhha. Or the skull of a human being. Somewhere a mistake is being made. I dont see so many flowers, birds and
dreams of happiness. Why do you? I see the dreams of two hardworking and busy people. Those who have very little spare time
by day or night.
When no more letters from Rudra came home, the incident was buried under the assumption that some mad poet under some
misplaced passion had one day addressed me as his wife. Thinking the fellows courage had now obviously failed, everyone
calmed down. The other reason the incident got buried was because no one at home could ever imagine that some one could
honestly call me his wife, or that I could truly have become someones wife. Moreover, I was coming home in time from
college. There were no suspicious delays anywhere. Most of the time, my face was buried in Anatomy and Physiology books.
Seeing this, the three pairs of Baba, Ma and Dadas frowns had finally gone. Baba diluted his anger in the tap water, because
my exams were approaching. The exam was called First Professional, in short First Proff. There were three exams to be taken
by a medical student. The promotional exam from 2
nd
year to the 3
rd
was known as First Proff., the one from 3
rd
year to 4
th
was
called Second Proff., and from 4
th
to 5
th
year, was called Third Proff. The 5
th
year exam was the Finals. After the Finals, one
became a Doctor. There was a one-year training period. Then work. During the training period a stipend was given, not a bad
amount. If one worked, the pay too was not bad, but it was a transferable job, you were transferred according to the whims of
the Government; here there was no question of individual choice. Of course, if you had connections you could have your say.
Connections, meaning people, a relative in the Ministry, or some one important in the B.M.A. I was not confident of passing my
First Proff. All these years the home tutors had spoon-fed me. In the medical college there were no home tutors, there was no
such system. There was no one to spoon-feed me. I had to feed myself everything required. I was not very used to swallowing
voluntarily. So anxiety bit at me like lice in the head. To top everything the language of the texts was English. There was no
Debnath Pandit to say, Put her in the Bangla medium, instead of in the English medium, she cannot cope with the English.
There were no medical texts in Bangla. There was no way to study except in English. The only saving grace was that this was
not English literature. There was no harm in case you used wrong grammar or spelling while speaking or writing. But, I had to
know everything from the head to toe of the body, where what was and what their functions were. In this, there was no
forgiveness. While describing all this in written English or in the spoken words, no one bothered about the grammar. A thought
came to my mind in France, Germany, Spain, Italy or Russia, countries where English was not the language, their students
were studying in their own languages, so why were there no texts in Bangla in our country? I was of the opinion that when
trying to gain knowledge in ones mother tongue one learnt much better than when studying in a foreign language. But no one
gave any importance to my belief. Everyone depended on a foreign language to gain this specialized knowledge. Under the
pressure of studies, where all my outbooks, Shenjutis new manuscripts or even my weekly unread Sunday Sandhanis and
Bichitras got buried, I did not even have the time to find out. When after studying all the big books, Baba saw me writing long
answers to all the questions in my notebook, he said, No one fails in the written exam; they do in the Viva. There will be an
external examiner from outside, if you fail to answer just one question, you will fail I was very sure, I would not pass my
exams. If I was asked to write, with great difficulty I might be able to put together something. Of course here there was no
question of making up facts. If the question asked was, What is the position of the pancreas? it was not possible to write
From the autumnal skies if one were to take a piece of the woolly clouds and look at it while holding it between ones two
hands, it would look very similar to the pancreas. It was amazing. How it was able to hide itself somewhere within the body!
One could neither find it, nor could one forget it. The pancreas lies alone by the side of the small intestine, under the spleen, not
very far from the heart. The sound of the heartbeat must cause it to stir as well. From two compartments in its body, like a
waterfall, two kinds of substances cascade, and so on No, that wouldnt do. If I wrote this way I would get a zero. I had to
write, The pancreas is an elongated organ, located across the back of the abdomen, behind the stomach. The right side of the
organ lies in the curve of the duodenum. The left side extends slightly upwards behind the spleen. It is made up of two types of
tissues, exocrine and endocrine. There could not be anything sentimental in this, the more logical, the more to the point, the
more scoring. If one didnt bother about marks, one could become, may be a good butcher, but not a good doctor. If one bullied
or abused the Professors one would never pass. Wherever one met them, whether in class, corridor, street, market or any where
else, one had to greet them with Salaam Aleikum. This Salaam Aleikum was something that just didnt come naturally to
me, just as I could not do Kadambusi, and touch anyones feet. Was there no other way out but to wish others well in the Arabic
language! It was possible in Bangla, Ki kemon acchen, bhalo tow! or Namaskar. The word Namaskar had become a
personal possession of the Bengali Hindus. Was there no word which was without religion? Nah, there wasnt. Whoever I
asked, said, no there was no other way. I remained helpless. I could just about manage a small smile, which was both a greeting
and best wishes. It seems one could pass ones exams this way. I found another way out. If a Professor was walking in the
corridor, I would walk past in such a way as though I was looking outside, or at the ground, or was distracted, or was looking at
the book in my hand, and hence obviously did not see this big person called Professor at all. If I had I would surely have
touched my forehead with my hand and said, Salaam Aleikum. At home I asked Yasmin, dont you feel uncomfortable saying,
Salaam Aleikum? Yasmin unhesitatingly said no, she didnt. Why did I feel so! I asked Ma, what this Salaam Aleikum meant?
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Ma said, May peace be showered on you. From where was it to be showered? From the sky? Ma thought for a while and said
Allah would shower it. Then it would be from the sky, since Allah did live in the sky. Ma could not object to my idea about the
sky. After sometime, Ma thinking of the sky, finally came to remember the real answer, and said, Does Allah only stay in the
sky! Allahs gracious presence is everywhere. Normally, when talking of Allah, Ma used the language of books. Difficult
words. If Allah hadnt been involved she would never have used words like gracious presence etc. For Ma too Allah was a
difficult concept. From the sky I had not seen anything like happiness or peace raining down, only water. Therefore, I couldnt
really translate the Arabic into Bangla and make do for my purposes! Meanwhile, because I did not greet people with a Salaam,
I had already been labelled as rude, discourteous, melancholic etc.
I had to stay awake nights and study, said Baba, as the exams were at the tip of my nose. The tip of my nose which, even if I
stood under the blazing sun, never collected a drop of sweat, my no nonsense, non-problematic nose, was almost getting
flattened with the burden of the exams. When the exams approached closer, Baba assumed his former image. A storm of advice
was let loose, as he kept saying, One cannot cope with medical studies unless one works day and night, all twenty-four hours.
Stay up nights and study; if you feel sleepy, pour mustard oil in your eyes. The closer the exams drew, the sleepier I became.
Along with my fears my sleep too increased. Baba would get up very early in the morning, switch off the fan in the room, and
switch on the lights. The heat and the light woke me up. I would have to leave my bed in an irritable mood. To pour into my
eyes at night, Baba bought a bottle of mustard oil and left it on my table. What have I to do with this oil?
Whenever you feel sleepy, pour it into your eyes, sleep will flee in terror!
Hidden from Baba, I merrily mixed the mustard oil with muri, puffed rice and ate it. By ten I was in the land of dreams, and
chatting merrily with the sleep fairies. Once Baba came in and woke up the entire house with his screams, Arrey, there are
hardly three days left for her exams, and look at her, she has poured oil contentedly in her nose and gone to sleep! Baba
possibly thought that instead of pouring the oil in my eyes, I had by mistake poured it into my nose. Anyway, I did have to pour
mustard oil in my eyes and stay up nights. I had to study Anatomy and Physiology from the beginning to the end. If I stayed up
nights, Baba came and sat beside me. He kept me company, just in case, fearing ghosts, thieves, and solitude, I went back under
the mosquito net. Ma filled a flask with tea and kept it on my table. At that time in front of my flattened nose I saw nothing,
except the red eyes of my Professors.
The written exam was over, now for the Viva. Baba said We must invite your Haroon Sir once to our house. Babas intentions
were clear favour. Maybe I would pass my Viva with some influence. Haroon Ahmed came home with his whole family. Ma
cooked the whole day. When educated people came home, it was not the custom for Ma to come before them. In the kitchen
itself she arranged the food on dishes, and Dada, Yasmin and I carried them into the drawing room, and placed them on the
dining table. Haroon Ahmed ate and talked, the entire discussion was about poetry. He wrote poetry, and would be happy if I
was able to get his poetry printed. He had in fact brought piles of poems with him. One glance at them made me gauge that they
were after You came into my life ending with will lead to some place. Haroon Ahmed was a student of Babas. Many of his
students had become Professors. Baba was yet to become a full-Professor, he was still an Associate.
How do I become one? Busy earning money for you all, I was never able to take any major exams, after all it wasnt as if I
was a bad student. That was true, Baba was a good student. When he started studying medicine, it had even happened that he
did not have the money to buy his books. Baba then came to an agreement with another student. After ten oclock, when he
went to sleep, Baba would loan the books from him. He studied the books all night, and returned them to the boy in the
morning. After staying awake the whole night, he would then attend classes in the morning. Studying in this fashion, all night
through, with books on loan, Baba scored the highest marks in the medical exams, just as he had done in Chandipasha High
School.
I did not have Babas intelligence. In the Viva, Haroon Ahmed could have asked me difficult questions, but he didnt because of
our cordial relations. When examiners from other colleges tried to veer towards difficult questions, Haroon Ahmed would
adroitly hint at the direction in which the correct answer would be or could be expected. Before the other examiners could touch
the bones kept on the table, Haroon Ahmed had already pushed the femur bone towards me which was an easy one. One had to
take the bone in ones hand, and name the parts. One had to indicate which muscle had joined where, which artery was
supplying blood to which muscle, from where were the nerves were coming and how and where were they going, all these kind
of questions had to be answered. I was favoured in my Physiology exam as well. Not being harassed with answering
complicated questions was the way the daughter of an Associate Professor of this college was favoured. Almost everyone knew
how to answer the questions. Here luck played a big role. Some were fated to answer complicated questions. Others were lucky
to get simple ones. Difficult or easy questions depended largely on the mindset and moods of the examiners. When after lunch
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the examiners, leaning on their chairs, asked questions over cups of tea, the questions were easy. Anyhow, whether partly
because of my own knowledge or partly through influence, I at least passed my First Proff..
Chhotda came to Mymensingh with his wife for holidays. He mostly came on the Id and Puja vacations. There were Pujas all
the year round. Even if he didnt get leave on every Puja, he would take leave and come. Geeta came for Id and also for the
Puja festivals. In this house the celebrations were more for the arrival of Chhotda at Aubokash than Id and Puja. Real festivities
started at home when Chhotda arrived. Ma would run to the kitchen, and cook pulao and korma for her son. She would cook
and serve her son and his wife personally, making them sit before her. Ma would keep a sharp look out on whether they were
eating their fill or not. She would fill Chhotdas plate with big pieces of meat, so too Geetas. Caressing Chhotdas head she
would say, I hope you eat properly, son! You must be working so hard!
Oh, no! Ma, what are you saying! I have a very comfortable job. Very good pay. Ive just finished my domestic flights, now
Ill start on my international ones.
Ma did not understand the difference between domestic and international. So far up in the sky away from mother earth, how
could life not be tough? If you wanted to eat a particular variety of rice like birui you wouldnt get it. Not even any fresh greens
or vegetables. Neither could you sleep well, nor walk. If there was no ground under your feet at all, what kind of a walk would
that be?
I went to the Arab countries, Ma. I saw the Kabah Sharif at Mecca.
That one could go to the Arab countries so easily was beyond Mas comprehension.
Oof, it was very hot. Of course, if you had an AC car there would be no problem, Chhotda said.
Ma sat and listened to whatever he said about the Arab countries, completely stunned. That Mas ideas about the Middle East
did not at all match with Chhotdas descriptions of the country was very clear from the deeply distressed look on her face. After
meeting Baba at Arogya Bitaan, Chhotda went around the town. He looked for the one or two old friends of his who remained.
In the evening he went out with Geeta. I guessed that they must be visiting Geetas parents home in Peonpara. Now, everyone
at home knew that during the Pujas Geeta went home to her parents. No one objected. However, even though nobody did, she
never openly declared that she was going to her parents home.
Chhotda continued to go around the world, and sitting around him we, too, got to hear all the stories of his travels.
The sea is much higher than the city of Amsterdam.
What are you saying? Really? How come the city doesnt sink under the water then?
Dams have been built. So it doesnt sink.
And London?
London is very big.
Have you seen the British Museum?
Yes, I have.
Did you go to the Piccadilly Circus?
Yes.
Have you been to Paris?
Yes.
Have you seen the Eiffel Tower?
Yes, I have.
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Chhotda appeared to us as tall as the Eiffel Tower. I was sitting so close to him yet, Chhotda seemed to be someone far away,
someone you could not touch. The Chhotda who used to beg, day in and day out, for two takas, his hands outstretched, seemed
to have been closer to us. Now he was very busy, and was also a moneyed man. I will have to go today itself or tomorrow, I
have a flight, he would say. The leisurely afternoons spent with Chhotda lying on the bed with our heads and feet at opposite
ends, discussing politics and literature were all over. Chhotda, you have come to Mymensingh, have you met your theatre
groups?
Arrey no, wheres the time?
Nazrul, Russool, Milu, Shafique, have you met them?
Wheres the time!
Did you go to Banglar Darpan? Are you going to meet Manju Bhai and all?
I would have gone if I had the time.
Initially when he came to Mymensingh, his visits to his friends were endless. He would sit down to adda with them as before.
Now it was no time, no time. If for any reason he went close to the Golpukur Par, his old adda friends would see him and call
him enthusiastically. They were still the same; they still indulged in adda, only Chhotda was missing. Chhotda now sported
foreign cigarettes at his lips. There was a time when he had begged his friends for local Star cigarettes.
Kire Kamaal, what is this cigarette called?
Cartier.
Bah, bah, Kamaal now smokes filter cigarettes. Give us one, let us also try these foreign brands, his friends would say.
The whole of Golpukar Par stared round-eyed at Chhotda. Chhotda took out cigarettes from a pack and gave them to his
friends. Once he returned home, he washed out the cigarette smell from his mouth first. He did not smoke in front of Baba and
Ma, and he made sure no proof was evident that he did. Chhotda now wore foreign shoes, new shirts and pants all his own.
His distance from his bohemian friends was increasing; he only got closer and closer to Geeta. The beautiful girl Geeta, the
dark girl Geeta, the Geeta who was turning fairer everyday, whose sharp nose was still pointed, whose thin lips still remained
thin, who did not take sugar in her tea anymore, and carefully removed the fat from meat.
Chhotda brought us a variety of gifts on Chhota Id. From Dubai a lipstick, and a shampoo. Two soaps. From Kolkata, for
Yasmin and me, there were three-piece suits, colour and print coordinated dress, pyjama and odhna. For Ma there was a
Jainamaz, and Tasbih. Baba did not even touch anything brought for him. For Baba he got a pair of shining shoes, and said,
Made in Italy. So what if the shoes were from Italy, Baba clearly declared, he did not need shoes. Staring round-eyed at the
shoes, Dada said, The shoes are exactly my size. Dada got the pair of shoes. To Ma, Geeta personally handed over a cotton
Tangail sari, saying, Ma, I have bought this sari for you for Id. Geeta gave us our gifts, as though she had bought them all
with her own earnings. Actually, it was Chhotda who had told Geeta to give them out saying, Geeta, give everyone the gifts
you have bought for them. It wasnt as though Geeta opened her suitcase as soon as Chhotda said this; she opened it only
when she wanted to. If she didnt choose to, the suitcase would go back to Dhaka unopened.
Geeta wore fabulous saris. She was covered with chains of gold ornaments. All her jewellery, Chhotda said was bought from
Saudi Arabia. Geetas radiance was increasing, so was Chhotdas. In the evening, saying he was visiting old friends, he would
take Geeta out. Yasmin said, Actually they go to Peonpara, and carry all kinds of things for her relatives.
Ma said, As long as my son is happy, its fine.
After a pause, heaving a deep sigh she said, There is something called mothers pride. If Kamaal had given me the sari with
his own hands, I would have felt happy. But he gives through his wifes hands.
Chhotda appeared to be happy. We felt happy seeing him so. I gave Chhotda and Geeta my bed to sleep on. Late into the night
we played cards noisily on that bed. In the game of Spadetrump, Yasmin and I were partners and Geeta and Chhotda were
together. In the middle of the night Ma would enter the game and say, Kamaal Baba, you did not eat well at night, Ill bring
some meat and rice, eat it up.
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Are you mad? If you can, give me some tea.
Ma ran to the kitchen to make the tea, even so late at night.
I raised my voice, Ma, a cup for me as well.
For me, too, said Yasmin.
We sipped our tea, completely immersed in the enjoyment of playing cards. Ma lying under a torn mosquito net, warding off the
mosquitoes sitting on her body with both hands, would be thinking I must make paranthas and meat as soon as I wake up
tomorrow for breakfast. Kamaal loves eating parantha and meat.
***
Just because my exams were over, I kept harping that I wanted to go to Dhaka with Chhotda and did so. Now he did not stay in
his Muhammedpur house anymore. He had taken a flat on rent on top of Rahat Khans house in Segun Gardens. Earlier Geeta
told us stories of the Choudhury household but not anymore. Now the stories were about Rahat Khan and Nina mami. The
stories were of the children Apu, Tapu, Kanta and Shubhro. When she was in the Muhammedpur house, she was always busy
hobnobbing with the dance and music artists. Now she hardly even spoke of them. Chhotda had taken a house on rent with
Faqrul mama. They used to share the rent. When he was flying, Geeta would not be alone at home. Faqrul mama would be
there, one male member would be sufficient! After about three months, Geeta declared that she could stay alone; she was equal
to a hundred people and was quite capable. Faqrul mama had to depart lock, stock and barrel. Geeta also announced that she
herself was going to work. She took up a job. Not such an important one, but as a receptionist in the Biman office. For just this
job, she went daily all dressed up. She was still working there. She took me with her to the Biman office,and made me sit there
uselessly for hours. She went around introducing her sister-in-law to this bhai or that bhai, brother. I did not like sitting around
doing nothing, and became restless to meet Rudra. From Mymensingh itself I had written telling him to meet me at eleven in
the morning in front of Rokeya Hall. The minute Geeta made plans to take me here and there, I asked her to forgive me, and
saying I had to meet Jhunu khala urgently, escaped in a rickshaw.
When will you return? she had asked.
In just a while. I said so, because if I didnt meet Rudra, I would have to return very soon. Meeting him was completely a
matter of chance. I wasnt sure whether he was in Dhaka at all, or had suddenly gone to his village home.
A while means how long?
Half-an-hour. Maximum one hour.
Come back to the office. I will leave early today.
Reaching an hour and a half after the designated time, I found Rudra waiting. Rudra took me around with him. I just loved
roaming around with Rudra in a hooded-rickshaw! I wished time would stand still. But time did pass. Rudra took me to visit
two of his girl friends, and there chatted with me over tea and biscuits. Instead of an hour, four hours passed. Geetas office had
closed, I had to return home. I did not have to face Geeta, because she remained in her room, lying down, with the door shut. I
lay alone at night. No one called me for dinner, and no one came to talk to me either. I had stood before Geetas closed door
twice and called, she had not opened the door. The next day, too, I had to go out to meet Rudra. When I went to tell Geeta that I
would be going out, she again asked me in a dry tone Where are you going? I said Jhunu khala had called me again. I didnt
like telling lies, but her guardian-like treatment made my throat dry up, and I was forced to do so. She asked again, You just
met her yesterday, why again today!
Today my results will be available at the University Registrars building. I will have to go.
I can take you there.
Jhunu khala knows someone there, who can arrange for me to see the result.
You think I dont have anyone?
She has told me to come so urgently, I will just have to go. She will be waiting for me.
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When will you be back?
I again replied I wont be late. Today I will be back early.
Geeta had taken leave that day; she was going to take me around. So she told me that if I wanted to go, it was okay, but I had
better be back before afternoon. Rudra was waiting for me on the verandah of the University Library. The minute I reached, he
put me in a rickshaw and took me to his room in his lodgings at Basabo. In the ordinary room there was a bed. Sitting down I
began to look around on my own, at the things in the room, and at the books. Rudra sat next to me, held me close and kissed me
on the lips. The kiss descended from the lips towards my chest. The weight of his body made me lie down on the bed, and his
lips began to descend below my breast. Under his body I began to pant. As soon as his hands reached the draw-strings of my
pyjamas, I leapt away. Pushing him away, I jumped off the bed. Fear had dried up my soul. I said, I will go now. My lips felt
heavy, I couldnt recognise my face in the mirror. My lips were swollen. Rudra continued to lie on his stomach, saying nothing.
He remained like that for a long time. I asked, hiding my swollen lips, what was wrong, and why he was lying down in this
way? I told him again and again that I was getting late, and that I had to go. Remaining in that position for some more time,
Rudra went into the bathroom. Spending a lot of time there, he returned saying I was lying down because my lower abdomen
was paining.
Paining? Why?
Rudra did not reply. My voice was steeped with concern when I said, If you dont eat regularly, you get acidity. You must eat
regularly. You shouldnt eat too much of chillies. If your stomach is empty, then the acid secreted gets no food to work on and
eats the stomach instead. This finally causes ulcers. These are called peptic ulcers. If you take an antacid you will feel better.
Enough of your doctoring! Now come along.
Rudra took me out. He had to go to some friends house.
Impossible, I have to return to Segun Gardens right now.
Why do you have to go right now?
I have to. Boudi was very angry I returned late yesterday. Today she is taking me out with her.
An angry Rudra dropped me back at Segun Gardens towards evening. After returning home, when I tried to talk to Geeta, she
turned her face away. I sat alone in the drawing room. Geeta did not say a word to me. Chhotda, on returning home in the
evening, played a Hindi movie on the VCR and called her many times, Geeta did not come. Finally, stopping the movie,
Chhotda went and sat at Geetas side and caressed her, chanting her name repeatedly, as though he was reciting a prayer. I had
never experienced this kind of treatment from Geeta. Chhotda called Geeta to the dining table to eat, she did not come. Chhotda
too stayed without food, because Geeta refused to eat. I realized that my presence in this house was now not proper. I had
almost mingled with the dust on the floor, at the insult. I could neither reject Rudra nor my own beloved people. The two were
violently opposed. Which way was I to go? The next day, early in the morning I told Chhotda, I will go back to Mymensingh.
Chhotda said, Stay a few more days. Suppressing a deep sigh, I said, My classes are starting. Chhotda took me back to
Mymensingh by train, his face drawn. I had said I could go alone, but he had still personally accompanied me. The whole
journey I had rested my face on the window and thought of Rudra. He must be waiting for me in his room at Basabo. After
waiting endlessly, when he would realize I wasnt coming, he would feel very bad. Thinking of his pain, my own became so
acute that my eyes filled up, repeatedly. On returning home I wrote to Rudra about how I had been compelled to go home, how
I had had no option but to return home.
Rudra wrote, That you had no option is your own fault. Why dont you have an option? Why do you not give any value to
what you want or dont want? Why do you repeatedly forget that now you are very close to someone? Why do you forget that
now your life is entwined with another ? Why do you forget you are someones wife? Kamaal asked you to stay. You also had
permission from home to stay on for much longer. After this, how can you expect me to believe that you had no other option
but to leave? How do you expect me to believe that you have done no wrong? Are you still a baby? That your wishes should be
given no importance? Today, even in this small matter of your staying or not staying, you were unable to establish your will!
Suppose ignoring your unwillingness you are given again in marriage, will you then too write that you are not to blame!
Amazing! Why are you unable to express your desires? Unable to enforce your wishes? You are obviously not particularly
concerned about my anger or happiness. You made it very clear that afternoon. Even after coming so close to me, you are still,
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like a fool worried about who will win or lose in our relationship. When will you gain some maturity? I have never wanted to
establish my rights as a husband forcefully, I still dont. And because I dont, I have always given you opportunities to realise
your own responsibilities. In how many ways I have tried to make you understand, but you think by accepting your wifely
duties, you will be acknowledging defeat. Why dont you just look at another ten married couples? I have never wanted you in
that way. I have wanted you as a completely free being. I have wanted to keep you above social systems and servility to men.
However, that does not mean you should not shoulder your own responsibilities, does it? We have been married for eight
months, but you are still to overcome your diffidence. You still adopt illogical obstinacies to spoil normal life. I will never be
able to forget our wedding day all my life.
There are some inherent rules of life, some systems. You can never deny these. I understand your problem. I understand it very
clearly. In fact, probably, no one understands you better. And because I do, from the beginning I have tried to accept you in a
reasonable manner. What I understand or know well, I have tried to make you understand as well. Otherwise after 26
th
January,
our relationship would have been forced to end. Because I understand your sentiments, I do not disrespect them. But what if
those sentiments disrespect me? That they should not, would have to be your responsibility. I never thought I would have to
ever write about such things. I had always wished you would understand. And once you had, you would never ever do anything
illogical anymore.
If you had only been my lover, not my wife, then may be your going away would not have hurt me so much. It would then have
only hurt my feelings, but now it hurts my pride.
Why do you deceive yourself so much? Does one cheat on ones own wishes?
I was very upset on reading Rudras letter. So upset that I wrote, If you dislike me so much, if my illogical actions hurt your
pride to such an extent, then what are you hesitating about? There is no dearth of likeable girls! Surely they do not live with my
kind of crass sentiments. Or spoil normal life with illogical obstinacies. They surely do not deny the inherent customs and rules
of life. Or, like fools, think of winning or losing. They will beautifully assume their wifely duties, and much before eight
months of marriage will have lost their diffidence. Choose one of these. I will never have any objections to matters which
concern your happiness. From my childhood I have not been brought up in very happy circumstances. I have therefore learnt to
accept any kind of sorrow without much stress. For your happiness, when I hear about the event of your having chosen a new
life, I will not be surprised. I never wish to be an obstacle in the path of your happiness. If you want freedom from this
unbearable life, please take it. I have nothing to say. I will never blame you. My weaknesses will remain my own. My
loneliness will remain mine. How long is life! Very soon it will end, suddenly one day I will die. In all this time I have realized
that I do not have the power to satisfy any man. I really do not have the capacity of making a happy married life. I am a totally
unreasonable person. Please forgive me. I never dreamt I would someday write such a letter to you. But like a fool, I had hoped
for happiness in life, and had seen rosy dreams. Reality has made me understand that the boundaries of life are not so vast. In
fact one almost became breathless trying to achieve something, and had to lose much more in the bargain. Yet, ignorant me, I
had not wanted to lose but to gain. That is why I have now lost myself. That is why even before I have completed a year of
marriage, I am writing such a painful letter. Forgive me for my weaknesses. I will never forget your generosity.
On receiving my letter, Rudra replied, With all your weaknesses you will remain with me forever. Over almost three years I
have worked very hard to bring discipline back to my life, and that, you cannot destroy. My discipline and steadiness is now in
you. Enough is enough; you have done enough now all this madness will not do. I do not want to be an obstacle in the path
of your happiness, repeat this phrase to yourself a hundred times over, you will not say this to me a second time. The entire
responsibility of your life is now mine. You do not have to think anymore of its welfare. Why do you forget this fact? And
please do not hurt me for your own fancies ever again. I am not very well, and this being unwell is because of you. A short
letter, but a pure joy surrounded me the whole day. I understood, very clearly I understood, that I loved Rudra. When Rudra was
kissing me in his Basabo room, he had possibly wanted to do something else. The fear of that something else shook me to my
very roots. I was unable to make Rudra understand anything of all this.
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Chapter Thirteen
Happy Wedding
Sheila came to Mymensingh for a visit from Chattagram, with her daughter Bini. On getting the news of Sheilas arrival, Dada
became agitated. Sheila had put up at her friend Neelams house. Selling their town house at Kachijhuli, Sheilas mother,
brother and sister, had gone to their village home in Gaffargaon. On her way to Gaffargaon, Sheila had stopped at Mymensingh.
She was able to meet Neelam and see the town of her birth. But in doing so she encountered Dada. Sheila had wanted this
meeting and so it happened. It was a stunning face-to-face confrontation. A meeting where, out of a hundred thoughts
accumulated in the heart, not even one got utterance. It was a meeting where the eyes did not blink, and yet to hide the tears
gathering in them, they glanced left and right in embarrassment. Dada invited Sheila home. He himself shopped for rahu fish,
koi fish, prawns and cheetal fish. In case Sheila did not like to eat fish, he also bought goat meat, chicken and even pigeon
meat. Ma spent the whole day cooking all this. Towards dusk, Sheila arrived at Aubokash with Bini. Sheila looked just the
same. She still had her paan-leaf shaped face, the same eyes and the smile in those eyes. She had only developed some freckles
on her cheeks. Sheila smiled and spoke to everyone. Patting her on the head Ma said, Are you well, Sheila? Aha, I am seeing
you after so long. What a pretty little daughter you have! Sitting down for the meal, Sheila kept saying, What was the need
for so much! Serving Sheila with fish and meat, Ma said Noman wished to buy all this; you must eat. After the meal,
sending Bini to play in the verandah, she sat in Dadas room and told him all about her intolerable life. Wiping his own tears
with the palm of his hand, Dada wiped Sheilas as well. After Sheila left, Dada lay on the bed sorrowing, his eyes staring out of
the window. The breeze from outside dried his wet eyes. On Dadas cheeks there were no freckle marks, only marks of dried-up
tears. After spending many days in this sad mood, he finally announced that no one was to look for a bride for him. He had
taken the decision not to marry. Everyone was dumbstruck. After a week he informed the dumbstruck family, that if he got
married it would be to Sheila. He would marry Sheila! People were even more stunned. How could Dada possibly marry the
already married and mother of a child, Sheila! Sheila was going to leave her husband soon. After which he would marry her and
bring her home. So what if Bini was there, she was Sheilas daughter after all. Dada continued to write long letters to Sheila. He
left the letters with Neelam. Neelam put the letters in her own envelopes and sent them by post to Chattagram. One day, very
early in the morning, Neelam came home, Dada had not slept the whole night, and was ready and dressed even before Neelam
arrived. Both were going to Sheilas at Chattagram. No one had the courage to restrain Dada from this path. In a distracted
state, Dada left for Chattagram with Neelam.
After spending a week in Chattagram, Dada returned. This was a completely new Dada. He no more sat in front of open
windows in a melancholy mood. In fact, his desire to marry anyone but Sheila increased beyond all measure. He never told
anyone at home what exactly happened in Chattagram. Not only that, he did not utter the name Sheila, and carried on as though
there was no one and nothing in this world called Sheila. If anyone wanted to know, he would show them photographs of
himself taken sitting on rocks at the Potenga seaport, saying Chattagram is not a bad place, quite nice actually.
Dadas friends were not only married, they had children, too. In fact, even Adubhai Farhad, who had to pass Engineering before
marriage could be mentioned, too, had fulfilled the stipulation and was married. Dada had nothing more to pass. He had been
working for years, and his friends were convinced that if he did not marry now, then he would never be able to do so for the rest
of his life. Dada had seen girls every week, but there was a problem, the same problem with everyone, he didnt like anyone.
The new head of Fisons Company, Fazlul Karim was four years younger than Dada. New to the city, before he had even got
acquainted with the customs and traditions of the new place he had got married. His wife was a classmate of Yasmin. After
seeing Fazlul Karims bride, Dada returned and told Yasmin in a rebuking tone, You never told me that there was such a
beautiful girl in your class!
There are girls, but why will girls in my class marry an old man like you!
There is nothing wrong in being a few years younger.
Dada unbuttoned his shirt and just sat on the sofa. He had even lost the capacity required to carry his body to his room and
change into a lungi.
The girls in Yasmins class are fifteen years younger than you Dada, I told him.
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Then look for a girl in your class!
A medical student?
No, I cant marry a medical student.
Why not?
The girl will become a doctor in a few years. She will not be submissive.
Why do you want someone submissive?
Arrey, dont I have to dominate her? It wont do if my wife doesnt obey me.
O, you of course have to call Doctors, Sir. Anyway, medical students dont marry representatives of medicine companies, so
forget that dream.
Medical is in any case out. Beautiful girls do not study medicine.
For Dada, a girl was required who would obey all his commands and restrictions. She should not be an MA, because Dada
wasnt one. A girl more educated than Dada would be problematic. Dada asked me about my old friends in school or in
Muminunissa College.
Wasnt any one beautiful?
I said, Mamata was there, but she is already married.
There was another Mamata in your school, she stayed in Baghmara. A good student, very beautiful.
She too is married.
Thats the trouble. Beautiful girls get married while in school itself. Those who passed IA, BA, and are still unmarried, you
will see, are the worlds ugliest to look at. Either their teeth are protruding, or their lips. Something or the other is protruding.
Ma said, Noman you have seen so many good girls, and yet you didnt like any of them, heaven only knows finally what you
are fated to end up with.
At the mention of fate, Dadas enthusiasm returned a little. Changing out of his shirt and pant into a lungi, he sat in the
verandah scratching himself. If Allah so wills, that I dont get a beautiful girl, I will not marry. It is better to stay unmarried
than to marry an ugly girl.
I went and saw Seboni. What a pretty girl! And you didnt like her. The girl was very religious, namazi, and practiced purdah.
She was aware of customs and manners, and was BA pass.
Too religious, namazi, is not very good, Ma, Dada replied laughingly.
It is good he didnt marry that Seboni. Im fed up with Mas burkha. There would be no end of trouble with two burkhawalis
in the same house, I commented sharply.
Ma scolded, Speak with care, Nasreen.
Mas rebuke did not reach my ears. That was because I was reflecting on the faces of the girls who studied with me in
Muminunissa, to see which one was beautiful. I murmured, A beautiful girl studied in the arts section in Muminunissa college.
She was a friend of Nafisa.
Whos Nafisa?
Nafisa studied with me even at Adarsh, and at Muminunissa.
That Nafisa! Oof a fat lump! Your friends are all of a kind! As it is you made a friend of Chandana Chakma, blunt-nosed
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Chakma. When I see your choice I dont know what to say.
Nafisa was known to Dada. She had come to our house. Her elder brother had studied with Dada in the same college and class
at sometime. Now a solemn man, he worked somewhere in Dhaka.
Nafisa has joined Medical.
Well, whos the beautiful girl?
Her name is Haseena. She studied Arts, at Muminunissa. I havent talked to her much. She was a good friend of Nafisa.
Dada decided he would see this girl.
I got a photo of Haseena from Nafisa, and showed it to Dada. Dada said he would go to see this girl. Bas, arrangements were
made to see the girl. Dada returned from seeing her and said, Shell do.
What do you mean by shell do? Will you marry her?
Shes nothing much to look at, but I can marry her.
To hear Dada saying I can marry surprised us, but also filled us with joy. For years we had suffered along with Dada and his
procrastination, if not like the burdened father of the bride, but definitely like the burdened relatives of the groom. On hearing
about Dadas choice, Baba asked, What does the brides father do? To what status does the household belong? What do the
brothers do? Without knowing all this how can you jump into a marriage?
Haseena stayed at her sisters house while she was studying. Her brother-in-law was the Railway School master. In her
childhood, Haseena had studied in the same Railway School, so did Nafisa. At Muminunissa, Haseena was in the Humanities
Department, Nafisa in the non-Humanities, that is the Science Department, with me. One day Nafisa had introduced me to
Haseena who studied far away in the tin-roofed Humanities block of classes. The Humanities girls very rarely got to meet the
Science girls. I had never met Haseena before either. That Haseena, the wide-eyed Haseena was going to be my Dadas wife!
Bah! Whatever I didnt know, I got to know from Nafisa. Haseena had no father, only a mother. Some brothers and sisters were
there. I was unable to tell anything more than this to people at home. Dada found out more details and informed us that the
brides mother lived ten miles away from the town of Phulpur, in a village called Arjunkhila. One of the brothers worked in
Phulpur town, another in Mymensingh town, not very big jobs, but jobs all the same. They were able to survive decently
enough. Another brother was a bohemian, and lived in the village. The elder sister, in whose house the bride lived, was called
Kusum. Kusum had two sons. She had recently abandoned her husband, and had run away with a married man, and had even
married him. The second sister was Parveen. In her childhood, Parveen had been given in adoption to her own Phuphu, fathers
sister. Parveen called her Phuphu, Ma and her own mother Mami. Parveens husbands elder brother was Amanullah Choudhury
himself, Chhotdas big boss. Baba heard the details, but they were not to his liking. Baba looked quite disappointed even on
hearing that the girl was pretty, and was studying for her B.A. at Muminunissa. That the father and brothers of the bride had not
made any money, and were not known in the town, was okay. But that the brides elder sister had left her husband and run away
with another man, was a fact that troubled Baba. It was not that this fact did not prick Dada as well; it did. But there was such a
scarcity of beautiful girls in the country that he feared if he rejected this girl, there may not be any beauty left in the world.
Dada remained adamant, saying, Let what is in my fate happen! He was going to marry only this girl. Ma would tell Baba
day and night. You better agree. If Noman does not get married now, maybe he never will in life. After immense persuasion
when Babas No changed slightly to a mild acceptance, Dada sat down to fix the wedding date. The wedding was to take
place on the 4
th
of December. He ran around shopping. He bought whatever was needed to complete the decorations. For me he
bought a yellow sari, for Yasmin a blue one and for Geeta a green coloured Kataan sari, to wear for the wedding. For the
Halud, turmeric paste ceremony, he bought us all yellow saris with red borders. From the decorations on the winnowing tray
made of bamboo strips, used for the wedding rituals, to the saris, clothes cosmetics for the bride, not just saris for the bride but
for her mother, maternal and paternal grandmothers etc., everything was bought. Of course, Baba was paying for everything.
All the expenses of the marriage ceremony had to be borne by Baba, because he was the father of the groom. All the fancy
purchases were from Dadas pocket. Wanting to make the worlds most beautiful invitation card for the wedding reception, he
got an artist to design a red velvet cloth card, with not a letter but a poem written on it. The velvet cloth was to be placed in a
long, red, beautifully decorated and carved box. On both ends of the scroll there were to be silver sticks with bells. The
invitation poem also read like a royal decree read in the courts of Kings and Badshahs. From Dadas head emerged many more
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crafts. He had decorated his room like a Kings palace. He had already asked the best artist in town to decorate the wedding
bedstead. The bed was to be decorated with thousands of roses and chrysanthemums. A red carpet was to be laid from the black
gate right up to the room. Taking a hefty amount from Baba, Dada had personally gone to Dhaka and bought a red Benarasi sari
and lots of gold ornaments for his bride. Just the wedding shopping took a whole month.
On the day of the Halud ceremony, we, that is Jhunu khala, Yasmin, Chhotda, Geeta and I went to the Arjunkhila village in
Phulpur, and applied turmeric paste on Haseenas body. We decorated the already decorated winnowing tray with a yellow sari
for Haseena, and seven colours to apply on her face. Following the tray were thirty-two kinds of sweet packets. The next day
was Dadas Halud ceremony. Dada sat on a mat in the verandah. The relatives applied the paste to his face. Four people had to
hold the corners of the mat and spread it out. As one of the four, just as I was enthusiastically holding one corner of the mat,
Jhunu khala came running and snatched the corner from my hands saying, You cant hold it.
Why not?
Theres a reason. Ill tell you later.
Leaving the mat, I went and sat gloomily in my room. Why couldnt I hold the mat, was a question that would not leaving my
mind. Jhunu khala later said, You are having your menses thats why.
Who said Im having them? I am not.
O, I thought you were.
What if I were? Suppose I was having them!
The body is not clean and pure during that period. During a wedding ceremony, one must be very pure and clean before
touching anything. During an auspicious event, inauspicious things are to be kept far away.
O, so thats it!
I called Ma and said, Ma, is it true that if you have your menses, you cant touch the Halud ceremony mat?
Ma said, It is best not to touch it with an impure body.
Why? What happens if you do touch it?
Ma did not answer the question; she was too busy. Jhunu khala said, Something evil and unlucky happens. I had wanted to
know what kind of evil, but had got no reply. The house at the back belonged to Jeebon During her wedding, I had seen
Jeebons mother keeping paan and betelnuts under the mat. I had never understood why. I had watched the entire wedding
ceremony of Jeebon. A mirror had been placed before the groom and he had been asked what he could see. In the mirror was
Jeebons beautiful face. No words emerged from the grooms mouth. Someone told him to say Moon face. It seems this was
the normal ritual. I found all these rituals strange. I had gone to Dolly Pals sisters wedding. There, around the fire, four banana
trees had been planted. The bride and groom had to go around these seven times. On a fast the whole day, the tired girl was now
going round and round. On Jeebons Halud ceremony day people played with colours. As soon as it started, I had run away and
come home. All the running around and boisterousness affected my nerves. The same thing happened at Mahboobas sisters
Halud ceremony. There, a friend of the groom tried to put colour on me. I had leapt aside, and run out of the house. I kept
thinking the main purpose of putting colour on someone was to touch their body. Mahbooba was shocked to see me leaving. I
moved around with circumspection, I was rather scared of running, jumping and catching activities.
On Dadas Halud ceremony, all the girls at home wore yellow saris. Whoever came home, also wore the same. Nani of course
didnt do so. In her usual white sari, she had applied Halud to Dadas face, and blessing him with her hand on his head, had
said, I pray for your happiness. To Nani, happiness was a thing of immense value, to Ma as well. Chhotda was far away, but
he was happy, and hence Ma was able to console her own sorrow at not having him close to her. The house was filled with
Halud; Halud on the saris, sweets, in the festivities. Everyone from Nanibari came, everyone applied Halud on Dadas body.
People from Haseenas house too came and put Halud on his cheeks and forehead. Dada was looking rather helpless. Haseenas
relatives had a hearty meal of pulao and meat and left. If they hadnt been from his in-laws family, Dada would surely have
cursed the village folk as being very uncouth.
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Then began the wedding festivities. In front of the black gate a beautiful entrance arch had been made with trees, leaves and
flowers. Borrowing Babas friends car, Baba, we youngsters and Dadas friends went to Arjunkhila. Even a brazen person like
Dada, covered his face with a handkerchief and sat with a grooms crown on his head, a white sherwani on his body, white
pyjamas, and white Nagra, footwear. Sitting outside under a tent, he said Qubool, accepting his bride in front of the Kazi.
Haseena, inside the room, said the same to the Kazi, Qubool. It was of course not seemly for girls, when asked whether they
agreed to marry such and such man, son of such and such, for a sum of so many mohurs, to immediately say Qubool. They
were supposed to cry and shed a few tears first. When they were tired with weeping, and had been pushed by their mother and
aunts, they had to finally utter the word. Haseena did not take very much time to say Qubool. Haseenas verbal acceptance
signaled the completion of the wedding ceremony. Now it was time to take leave. Haseenas mother handed over her daughter
to Baba. I was watching all the rituals in astonishment. I had never before seen these wedding rituals at such close quarters. In a
flower-bedecked car, Dada took his seat with his bride and on their either side were Yasmin and me. In the car behind, sat the
rest of the grooms party. Dada had already drawn out the blueprints of everything. According to the blueprint, we jumped out
of the car and entered the house in order to liven up the function celebrating the entry of the bride and groom into the house. We
had to shower flower petals from the trays on to the bridal couple. I stood at the edge of the red carpet, tray in hand, showering
petals on the bridal couple. Baba was meanwhile looking for someone to officially welcome the bride. Ma was standing at the
open door to perform the ritual. She had waited at home the whole day, for this very moment. Next to Ma were standing the
wives of Babas friends. Pushing her away from the door with his elbows, Baba told her, You move away, far away. Go on,
move! Baba then smiled meltingly at M.A. Kahhars younger brother Abdul Momins wife, and said, Bhabi, sister-in-law,
please come, please welcome my son and his bride. Ma remained in the background, the rich Abdul Momins heavily
ornamented-in-gold wife, stood at the entrance door and garlanded Dada and his red sari-covered, bent headed bride Haseena,
welcoming them home. Jhunu khala stared in surprise and said, Amazing, the mother did not welcome her son and his wife
into the house! They were welcomed by someone else! Jhunu khala disappeared from sight. Wearing the kataan sari bought by
Dada, pushed behind the crowd of people at the function to welcome the bridal couple home, Ma stood murmuring her prayers
to bless Dada and Dadas wife with a happy married life.
In Dadas decorated room, the bed was strewn with red rose petals, and on it was seated the bride in a red Benarsi sari. Dada
paced from one room to another. Dada looked like the Dada of yore, but I thought he isnt the old Dada; he is now a married
Dada. On Dadas lips there was now constantly a trembling, embarrassed smile. He sat swinging his legs on the sofa at night,
when Baba in his usual manner said, It is late; now go and sleep. Dada was going to sleep in his room. Till even last night he
had slept alone. Today there was someone else in his bed, someone whom he did not know, did not love. I kept wondering what
the two would talk about! Two complete strangers! Purposely I eaves-dropped outside Dadas door, to hear what was going on
inside! Wondering, if Dada found some fault in his bride that very night, he would immediately come and sit on the sofa on that
night itself. My curiosity troubled me so much I was unable to sleep till late at night.
In the morning, Dada came out first and behind him emerged Haseena. Dada looked shy, behind him Haseena laughed
shamelessly. Everyones eyes were focused on their faces.
Chhotda asked, his eyes dancing, Ki Boudi, did you take off your nose-ring at night?
Haseena replied in her hoarse voice, Nothing happened actually.
I asked, Why do you have to take off your nose-ring?
Haseena poked me in the back and said, You have to take it off on your wedding night.
Why do you have to?
Dont you know?
No, I dont!
When those things happen, it means youve taken off your nose-ring.
What are those things?
Haseena laughed loudly.
I began to feel very stupid. Haseena very easily became familiar with everyone. Even though Chhotda was much older, she had
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merrily started calling him by his name. Even Geeta. Without any hesitation she was addressing others as tumi. It seems,
because she was the elder Bou, bride, so she had to treat everyone younger than Dada as younger to her. I watched Haseena in
astonishment. It didnt seem to me that the girl I had seen studying at Muminunissa College was this same girl. The girl I had
seen at a distance, walking in the grounds, arm in arm with Nafisa was so different.
Anus Ma, the new maid, came to mop the floors with a bucket of water. I told her Have you seen the new bride?
The bride has no flesh on her bones.
That was true. Haseenas body lacked any kind of fat, just like mine.
And she did not even have a bath, or change her clothes in the morning.
Why, who has a bath with cold water on a winter morning!
Yes. As soon as you wake up from sleep in the morning, you should have a bath, wash your clothes, and then enter your
room.
Why, cant we have a bath in the afternoon? And cant we choose not to wash our clothes?
Anus Ma shook her head vigorously, and said with conviction, No.
Curiosity was eating me up. I told Haseena, It seems you must have a bath, and soak your clothes.
Haseena said, You have to if those things happen.
What are those things?
Haseena again laughed loudly. Once more I did not get to know what those things were.
Although Haseena had studied at Muminunissa College in the same year as me, I did not at all feel she was my friend. In fact,
she only appeared to me as Dadas wife.
The Bou-bhaat ceremony was to take place two days later. Since morning Dada was playing Bismillah Khans shehnai on the
cassette recorder. As soon as one side finished, he immediately came to flip the side, the shehnai played the whole day.
Handsome Dada was wearing an expensive suit and imported shoes, made in Italy. A huge tent had been erected in the grounds,
under which tables and chairs had been laid. In the inner courtyard, too. Next to the tin shed a huge pit had been dug, and the
cooks were using huge ladles to prepare big vessels of pulao and meat. Haseena wearing her new Bou-bhaat sari was sitting on
the bed with her head bent. Guests were coming with presents. Guests included relatives, Dadas friends, Babas friends,
Chhotdas friends, some of Yasmin and my friends. One person was keeping a record of the gift givers on a paper, and was
piling up the presents in one corner of the room. The guests came one by one to see the bride, and then proceeded to partake of
the feast; the men in the grounds, the girls and women in the courtyard. This went on from the afternoon to the evening. I felt
claustrophobic in the crowd. By night time the crowd thinned out. Then was the time to open the presents. Glass-ware, brass
ware, clocks, saris, gold ornaments and other gifts filled the room. Dada took the presents and stored them in his room.
After a month, Haseena came to me with a personal problem. The problem could not be told to anyone but me. What was the
problem? This doctor-to-be lent her ears.
I used to get something soon after the wedding, during sexual intercourse, I dont get it anymore.
My ears turned red at the sound of the word intercourse. Struggling to the best of my ability to bring back my ears to a nutty
brown colour, I said What did you get?
A sense of fulfillment.
You got it before, so why dont you get it now?
That is what I want to know, why dont I?
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When there is intercourse, from behind the male organ, meaning the testes the coiled tube epididimis releases the sperm,
which through the vas difference travels over the bladder, and into the seminal vessicle gland behind it. In this gland it mixes
with the seminal fluid and forms semen, the sperm then passes through the urethra.
Taking a pen, I drew a picture on white paper showing the passage of the sperm in order to make Haseena understand. This is
the testes, this is the seminal vessicle, vas difference, this is the urinary bladder, this the prostrate, then an arrow mark to point
in the direction of the urethra.
Haseenas hoarse voice heated up, I understand all that, but I am talking of fulfillment, why dont I get it!
The pen in my hand moved shiftily, once at my cheek, then chin, once on my hair.
Is there ejaculation?
Sitting with her legs hanging from the bed, swinging them back and forth, she tried to reduce her harsh voice to a whisper, and
couldnt. Any sound coming out of her mouth was like the beat of a drum. So that no one could enter the room unexpectedly
and hear this secret conversation, and so that less sound would be heard outside, I bolted the door from the inside.
What is ejaculation?
Semen secretion.
Whats semen?
What are you saying? You dont know what is semen? The secretion from the male organ is called semen.
Yes, that happens.
Then I dont see any difficulty.
Haseena sighed in disappointment and left the room. Searching in my medical books, I tried to find an answer to Haseenas
question. After reading up everything I could find on sexual relations, I called her the next day to tender free medical advice.
Haseena came running to pick up the advice. Sweeping aside all my shame, as though I was not Dadas sister, or Haseenas
sister-in-law, only a doctor, I asked her, Accha, does your husband get an erection?
Yes, he does. Why shouldnt he!
Do you have vaginal secretions?
What does that mean?
It means does anything flow out of your vagina?
Yes, that happens.
Is there premature ejaculation? Meaning does the semen come out soon after erection?
No, no. Nothing like that happens. He takes a lot of time. In fact, more than earlier. But I dont get satisfaction.
Do you have dysperinia? Meaning do you have pain during copulation?
No.
Do you have vaginismus? This can be due to too much muscle spasms. Or else hypothyroidism can cause sexual dysfunction.
I dont know about that; everything is the same as before. It is only in these two last weeks that this problem has happened.
Listen, there is something called a hypothalamus, it is to be found between the brain and the lower part of the third ventricle.
This hypothalamus is connected to the pituitary gland. Forget it, I will tell you in short. The gonadotropin releasing hormone
comes from the hypothalamus and stimulates the pituitary gland into secreting the liutinising hormone and follicle stimulating
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hormone. The liutinising hormone also stimulates the ledig cell of the testes, and releases testosterone. On the other side, the
follicle stimulating hormone stimulates the seminiferous tibiulus cell. This way sperm is developed. In the functioning of all
these, if there is any abnormality, then sexual dysfunction will happen.
There is no dysfunction. All functions are fine.
If that is so, wheres the problem?
I am getting the right feelings during sex. But at one point, there is a feeling of fulfillment, that I dont get.
What is the difference?
I get pleasure during sex. But at that time it is something else. Having sex and getting that is not the same.
Doesnt your partner get it either, this fulfillment you are talking about?
Arrey, of course, he does.
If he gets it, why cant you?
His getting it is not the same as my getting it.
Why shouldnt it be the same? The whole thing is mutual.
Im telling you, it isnt the same.
This doesnt make sense, why shouldnt it be the same? Erection is happening and your vaginal secretions are normal. That
means the hormonal activities are okay. There is no premature ejaculation. Then I cant see any problem.
There is a problem. Somewhere there has to be one. Otherwise why am I not getting that fulfillment?
It was not possible for me to search again in my books and find anything new.
Giving up hope, Haseena said, Take me to a Gynaecologist.
I took Haseena to my Gynaecology Professors personal chambers at Chorpara, where he saw patients. She spoke to the doctor,
Anwarul Azim, on her own for a long time. She emerged with the smile of one who had found the solution to her problem.
I asked, What did the doctor say?
Haseena laughed, her toothy smile spread all across her face. Immersing herself into a pond of secrecy, she said, You wont
understand.
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Chapter Fourteen
Post Mortem Report
My third year classes had commenced. The subjects this year were not very tough. Pharmacology and Jurisprudence. Of course,
side by side classes for surgery, medicine and gynaecology were also being held. Not just classes, but hands-on training by
touching, pressing and fiddling. We had to study the outpatients as well. Eyes, ears, nose, teeth, sexual organs, skin and all other
departments had to be not just peeped into but investigated thoroughly. Theoretical knowledge alone would gain us nothing.
Practical knowledge was the main thing. The medical college laboratory was the hospital. The specimens in this laboratory
were human, not dead bodies in the morgue, but living beings. People like you and me. People lying on beds in a row, if no bed
was available lying on the floor, groaning people, in terrible pain, whimpering, screaming, listless people. People with saline
drips attached to their hands and feet, with oxygen pipes in their mouths, their heads raised on the beds, people lying lifeless on
beds. Going near these people, we had to ask what kind of pain was it, exactly where did it start from, when did it start, where
and when did it stop, whether this kind of pain had ever occurred before, was there pain anywhere else, did any family member
have the same problem, whether they had had the problem ever before etc. etc. After noting down all these details, I had to
examine with the naked eye the area of discomfort, I had to touch the spot. There was a method in touching as well. I had to
press the tips of all my fingers and cross from one side to the other, to feel the nature of the part of the body in discomfort. Was
it like a round potato, or like a melon in shape? I had to note whether it was moving or was it as still as heavy stone. While
pressing with my hands my one eye had to be directed towards the stomach, the other at the patients eye. I had to note whether
the patient was crinkling his eyes in pain, to find out what had caused this round potato, or melon to grow, I had to check the
entire abdomen, to see whether every organ in it was in its correct place. Pressed on the right side was the liver, and on both
sides were the two kidneys. After this I had to place my left hand on top of the stomach and with my right hand tap the hand all
over the area to hear what kind of sounds were emerging. Were the sounds of water, or did it seem as though the knocking was
on wood or stone? Next, I had to take out my stethoscope and listen to what sounds could be heard in the stomach. If a bhurut-
bhurut sound came from the intestines, it meant the intestines were doing their work. If there was no sound, it meant that
something was blocking the movement. If that was so, then was the sickness called intestinal obstruction? Was the round potato
like lump, the intestines all coiled up? If not were some germs collected together forming the lump, or were they worms? One
could not just do this much and leave a question mark on the diagnosis. The patient had to be examined from head to toe. Were
all the nerves okay, were all the organs and systems working; the heart, lungs were they all functioning properly? Even if a
patient came with pain in a finger, you still had to examine him from head to toe. On the very first day at surgery class in the
outpatients surgical ward, I saw a man lying on the bed with his lungi open. The outpatient department doctor was to give us a
lecture on the diseases of the lower parts of the body. The name of the disease was Hydrocil. In the sac below the male sexual
organ, water had collected and caused it to bloat up like a pumpkin. The doctors orders were to study the bloated organ. My
eyes kept turning away from the pumpkin. Possibly because my eyes kept turning away, the doctor chose me to hold the organ
in my hands and examine it. His question was to check its consistency. If I went forward one step, I retracted two. You have no
option Charlie Ghulam Hossain! You have to touch the thing. With both hands I had to press the organ and see whether the sac
was soft or appeared to be hard. After this, I placed my hand on top and tapped it with the other. Hearing the tupush-tupush
sounds I said there was water inside. The man was about thirty or thirty-five, and was moving his body away, from side to side.
That a girl was handling his private organs must have been a very uncomfortable experience for him. But the man had to let his
body be examined. There was no shame in front of doctors or doctors-to-be. Outpatients in the skin and sexual disease
departments also had to break out of their shame and tell their secret stories to us if not to anybody else. The doctor in this
department was teaching us how to get the facts out of the reluctant patients. A patient would come with a rash on his male
organ. The doctor would ask, Ki, do you have intercourse with outside girls? The patient would first say No. Never.
Whatever intercourse he had was with his wife. It there was no wife, there was no question of intercourse. When clearly told
that there could be no treatment unless the truth was disclosed, the man would take a lot of time. He would scratch his head,
with neither a smile nor cry hanging from his lips. Taking a deep breath and forgetting his shame, he would finally confess that
he did have intercourse, meaning he was in the habit of frequenting brothels. The doctor would say, write that there is a history
of exposure. Send the blood for a VDRL. Taking the paper in his hand, the man would leave. Medicines would be prescribed
only after the test reports came in. Sitting in the sexual disease outpatients department, we had to learn to use the word
intercourse. These patients we examined at a distance. We were not to touch them. Anything connected to germs was never to
be touched. So that even the patients breath did not touch us, we had to stand at a safe distance from them. If the doctor felt it
necessary to touch the patient, then he wore gloves. Patients with syphilis and gonorrhea were very repulsive to look at,
big-teethed, with sly foxy-looking eyes. Just looking at them one could tell that their male organs were a depot of syphilis sores.
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When men with wives at home came for treatment, the Doctor told them to bring the wife for treatment as well. They would
promise, but most of the patients never returned with their wives a second time. They promised and swore they would never go
to brothels ever again in their lives. But the same patients returned again with syphilis sores. Thinking of the unoffending wives
back home, I felt great anger towards these big-teethed men. Once I even told a doctor, Cant these men be sent to jail? Their
wives who are without recourse to treatment must be contracting neuro-syphilis. Who would listen to me? A doctors job was
to treat the patient. Once in a while, female patients too arrived with syphilis sores. The disease had come through the husband.
The wife was infected of course, but on testing the blood of the baby-in-her arms, it too was found to be VDRL positive. When
I treated these patients, I loudly gave them a piece of advice as well, Dont stay with that scoundrel of a husband of yours
anymore. Your husband is ruining you; give him talaq. To what extent these women followed my advice I never came to know,
but I couldnt stop myself from giving the advice all the same.
The person heading the Jurisprudence Department was Baba. He took our classes. If there were classes in the morning, Baba
very often went with me to college by rickshaw. When the roll call was taken, like all other students I, too, said Yes, sir. My
Professor father was an excellent teacher. The students considered Baba to be a very pleasant, simple and straightforward
professor. Some of course said he was very strict. During exams, it was said Baba as an Internal Examiner was very good. He
made sure his college students passed. But as an External Examiner, it seems Baba did not remain Rajab Ali anymore, he turned
into Tyrant Ali. I liked Professor Rajab Ali more than Baba Rajab Ali. Baba on the very first day in class said, There is nothing
as shameful as cutting ones foot on a rotten snail shell, you know! Failing Forensic Medicine is equivalent to cutting ones foot
on a snail shell. If you have to cut your foot, cut it on something which saves your pride. Fail in surgery, fail in medicine, these
are difficult subjects, its okay even if you fail. But if you have even a tiny measure of grey matter in your head, you dont fail in
forensic medicine. If I went to Professor Rajab Alis room, he would welcome me with a smile, he would ring his bell to
summon the bearer, and order tea for me. He would ask what classes I had, which Professor taught what. I too had many
questions about medical studies which I asked. Even at this age, Baba had not satisfied his hobby of reading books. He kept
books with him ranging from anatomy, to medicine and surgery all kinds of books, and read them whenever he got the time.
There was no topic in medical knowledge that he couldnt speak volumes on, whenever asked. Professor Baba was
hardworking, attentive, courteous, pleasant, modest and meek. I was proud of my Professor father. To see a post-mortem,
students had to go to the Surjakanta Hospital Morgues dissection area. There the undertakers dissected the corpses. Standing
next to them, Baba explained what to look for inside and outside the body, how to test and find the reasons for death. With
hankies pressed to our noses, we looked at the rotting and swollen carcasses. Baba and the undertaker did not require any
kerchiefs. The undertaker reminded me of Khalilullah. Khalilullah was an undertaker who cut open corpses and ate the hearts.
Once this news spread, mothers began to replace the fear of ghosts with the fear of Khalilullah to induce their babies to sleep.
When the girls in class said, Rajab Ali Sir is so good! I felt thrilled. I felt delighted when I encountered Baba in the college
grounds, and the two of us exchanged pleasantries. The ferocious tiger at Aubokash, was transformed into a gentle, unassuming
good soul in college. There was always a smile on his face, and he continued to disseminate knowledge regarding the rotten
snail. What else but knowledge! It was a murderous business. What kind of weapons did one have, how sharp was each one,
which da gave what kind of blow, which bullet caused which wound, which was suicide, which murder, which accident, and so
on. Once, Baba was showing us the postmortem of a twenty-five year old womans body. It had to be decided whether it was a
case of suicide or murder. The undertaker roughly cut open the chest of the 10-15 day old corpse. Baba leant over that
nauseatingly smelly corpse, turned it around on all sides, tested it and said that it was murder. How was it murder? Very simple.
There was a wound on the head, Baba showed us the scar. No one could deal a blow with a da at the back of ones own head;
therefore, this was by no means a suicide. Another girl too, it seems, hung herself by a rope from a mango tree and committed
suicide. Baba noted the nail scratch marks on the legs and arms, stomach and chest, and said the girl had been hanged. We had
to write all those details in our report on circumstantial evidence. Gradually my enthusiasm for the rotten snail grew. Baba did
not encourage this eagerness of mine at all. Study that which will be beneficial to you, study surgery, medicine or
gynaecology. My thoughts remained with the two women. Who struck that blow on the head of that twenty-five year old
woman? Who could have hung that innocent village belle? Once in a while, when I entered Babas room, on the door of which
was written Head of the Department, I found young girls sitting inside. Baba would take them one by one behind the curtain
and examine them. Once they left, I would ask why the girls had come, for what tests, and Baba would reply rape case. Baba
was now much more at ease with me than before. He now very normally discussed the human body and sexual details with me
in medical terms, of course, under the cover of the English language. I invariably wanted to know who had raped these girls,
but he never gave an answer. This was because these were matters related to a law suit, not to medicine.
***
Baba very often appeared as a witness in the law courts. Frequently, strange people came searching for him at home. Who are
these people? I would ask. Ma would say, Your father appears as witness. So they come about the post-mortem details.
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My eagerness increased by leaps and bounds. Why should people come to Baba about post-mortems? I was keen to know what
they talked to Baba about, in low tones, sitting in the verandah room. I noticed various things being delivered at home by
strange people. One afternoon, when Baba was not at home, a lungi-clad man with a moustache, came and said, Is Doctor
saheb at home?
No.
Achcha, do keep these four fish from my pond. Saying which the strange man handed me four big Rahu fish and left.
Delighted, I carried the four tiger-sized fish and ran to the kitchen, Ma, take these, a man came and gave these fish.
Who gave them, do you know him?
No.
Why did you keep them?
Bah, he gave them to me.
Youll keep anything if they are given to you?
Why, whats wrong? Once in a while Babas patients do come and give things.
Dont keep fish and things anymore. Even if you are begged to do so.
Mas face was serious. Moving two arms length away from the fish, she said, It is wrong to eat such fish.
Wrong? Why?
These people come to beseech your father to change his post-mortem report.
The inside of my head began to whirl with all kinds of thoughts. Which party comes? The guilty or the innocent?
I dont know that.
Was Ma hiding something? Ma was not the kind of person who could keep anything to herself. If the innocent come and give
something out of happiness, theres no harm in that.
The shoddily dressed Ma moved sluggishly towards the taps, and said in insinuating tones, Both parties come.
Does Baba give dishonest reports?
How will I know that? Do I go to court and see?
The fish was finally cooked. Ma did not even touch it. Baba sat down to eat. Taking big pieces of fish on his plate he asked,
Where did you get the fish?
Ma said, A man came and gave them.
On hearing this, Baba coughed and cleared his already clear throat, saying. The fish would have been tastier if you had cooked
it without the coriander leaves.
I was still thinking, did the suicide party bribe Baba to omit murder and write suicide instead? Did Baba take lots of
money in bribes? I couldnt believe, somehow, that Baba would be so dishonest.
However, the day Sharaf mama saw the torn sari worn by Ma, he said, You live just like a fakirs wife, Borobu. Yet, on the
other hand Dulhabhai, our brother-in-law is earning lots of money. I saw a man giving him bundles of taka. He does
post-mortems after all! He must have mountains of money by now. Yet, he doesnt buy you a single sari!
I said, You cannot write untruthful post-mortem reports, Sharaf mama; dont accuse my father without cause.
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Disseminating a wooden laugh, Sharaf mama said, Doctors pay bribes to get this job. To do post-mortems means to become a
millionaire. Peoples life and death hangs at the tip of a doctors pen.
Who gives the money?
Both parties give money. The party that has made the case and the party that is accused in the case. Dulhabhai has almost
bought over the whole of Nandail.
A hatred for Baba began to take birth in me. The man who recited the pronouncements of a hundred and eight learned men, and
was willing to do anything to establish his children in life, was this man now going to court bribed by both the defense and the
prosecution parties!
I asked Dada, Do you know anything?
Dada replied stating, Dont listen to all this rubbish. Baba does not take bribes.
How do you know he doesnt take bribes? That day there was a man who delivered fish, that fish was a bribe.
Which fish? The Rahu fish? Aah, it was very tasty. Actually, the fish would have been even better roasted.
Whether or not Baba took bribes remained a mystery to me. Baba was someone so close to me, someone with whom I had spent
my life in this house, and yet it was this Baba who appeared to me the most distant. Actually, I never got to know anything
about Baba. Thinking I knew or had got to know, I sometimes made mistakes. When Baba would draw someone close, when he
would push them away, not just me, no one in the house knew, not even Ma. Ma sometimes wore her sari in pleats, reddened
her lips with betel juice and went before Baba with a sweet smile. Baba would scold and tell her to move away. It had often
happened that Ma would wash and fold Babas clothes on the stand, clean and mop the room the whole day, open all the closed
windows and doors so that fresh air and light could enter, move Babas bed from the corner to near the window, and spread a
clean sheet on it. She would then await Babas return, hoping Baba would come, see and like her arrangements. Baba would
come home. On seeing the state of the room, he would scream and say, Who has spoilt my room? He would pull the bed back
to its original place and snap shut all the open windows. He would pull the sheet off the bed with a yank.
The way I keep my room, let it always remain that way.
Ma would sigh deeply at his reaction. There was nothing Ma could do which was to Babas liking.
At other times, Ma in a bad mood would be cursing someone or the other. Baba would call her in a soft tone Idun, come here,
will you? Come and listen to me. Idun then was not in a mood to listen to anyone. Baba would then in an even gentler tone
call, Idun, Idun.
Baba would suddenly return home and find me studying and Yasmin playing in the dust. Yasmin would be tense and I happily
sure, that Baba would come and pat me on the head. But Baba snarled at me instead, Just staring like a donkey at your books
wont do, make sure you understand what youre studying. To Yasmin he said, Want to eat lychees, Ma? Ill send some
lychees immediately for you.
This mystery-shrouded Baba remained distant. I never got to know him or understand him. Babas marriage matter also
remained a secret. Ma said, people had told her Baba had married Razia Begum. But Baba had never brought Razia Begum
home or said that she was his wife. Also, he had never spent a night anywhere but at home, when he was in Mymensingh. How
was I to make out anything!
I had told Ma, Ma, you say Baba has married Razia Begum, but Baba never stays at Razia Begums house.
He stays in this house at night, because if your Baba does not stay, the house is robbed. Every time there has been a robbery in
this house, your Baba was not there. Your father comes home at night to chase away robbers.
Then who chases away thieves at Razia Begums house?
Ma laughed and said, Any thief who sees that woman will get scared anyway!
The more I saw of Babas mystery, the more I wanted to remove the cover from his dark secrets, which were as dark as his own
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room. Mas every nuance was so familiar and well-known. Her smallest sorrows, her joys, the smile on her lips, irritations, and
the reasons for them, were so clear that Ma was like a previously read book, an already written notebook. Ma did not arouse my
curiosity, Baba did. Mas love could be had without asking, to get Babas one had to put in arduous effort. And even after doing
so, one could not be sure of getting it. It was like gambling with life. Mas overwhelming love went unnoticed, whereas Babas
two moments of calling in a soft tone could make one happy for the whole day.
Ma said, Girls are a little more attached to their fathers.
I asked, Then do boys feel more attached to their mothers?
Nowadays, Ma had no reply to this question.
If Chhotda came visiting this house with his wife, he either went and lay down in his room with her, or went out with her. Ma
very much wanted to sit with Chhotda and chat, but Chhotda had no time. After his marriage Dada had no time either.
The subjects that Baba had asked me to study seriously were taught even at night, in the hospital. Every evening he took me
there and brought me back as well. His patients were kept waiting in his chambers, but he dropped everything in order to do this
duty. I could detect Babas love for me even amidst the mystery surrounding him. He told me that I was fulfilling his dreams, I
alone was upholding his position and respect. I was the only one making him proud of being a father. Hearing this, the lump of
hatred that had formed in me because of the bribery suspicion over Baba, slipped out of my heart and fell on to the dust on the
roads. I kept feeling sorry for Baba. I felt sorry because one day I would have to inform him that without telling anyone, I had
married a bearded fellow, who was shorter than me, a man who had not even qualified an ordinary MA, a man whose
profession was to write poetry, a profession by which the man did not earn even two hundred taka in a month. I was obviously
going to throw Babas reputation, respect and pride into a garbage pile! The more attentive or dedicated I was to my studies, the
roots of Babas dreams got that much more water and fodder, giving rise to a sapling that grew rapidly into a tree. The more the
tree grew, the more I feared I would one day have to uproot this tree with my own hands and throw it away! Neither Dada nor
Chhotda had been able to make Baba happy. Only I could do so. But what would happen the day I would have to strike a blow
from behind on the head of this happiness! The day I would have to strangle the neck of this contentment, and hang it up! How
was I going to do this task! I felt angry with myself. The more Baba loved me, the less I loved myself! If Liver Cirrhosis was
being taught in medicine, Baba would speak about it so wonderfully that sitting in the rickshaw all the way, I learnt much more
by listening to him, than I ever could learn from books or by listening to the long lectures of my Professors. I began to throw
away into the deep darkness all Babas faults, so that no one could see them. I did not call Baba as Baba, did not address him
as tumi or apni. Yet I felt that Baba was the closest to me. This disease of not addressing people was rather unique to me. I did
not address anyone like Nana, Nani, Boro mama, Fajli khala, Runu khala, Jhunu khala, Hashem mama, Faqrul mama, nobody. I
spoke to everyone, but in abstraction. Very often when one spoke in the abstract, then many things could not be expressed
candidly; it was not possible. I tried desperately to free myself from this abstraction, but couldnt. When I grew up, I would
think for a long time why I spoke in the abstract, what was my reason! When I was small, did they scold me, or slap me, or take
me aside and pull my ears, that out of pride I did not address them in any way? Not having done so for years, had it now
become a habit not to address them at all! Even after wanting to address them when I grew up, I was unable to do so! When I
addressed Ma, Dada, Chhotda, I addressed them as tumi. Baba had always been a distant person for me, I had never addressed
him. Yet being a girl who grew up at Nanibari, I addressed Sharaf mama, Felu Mama and Chhutku as tumi.. The rest who were
close, how come I had never addressed them? Was it because even though they were close, they appeared distant to me?
As the subjects Baba had asked me to concentrate on had another year or so to go, I concentrated on Rudra. Rudra was a
forbidden event in my life, a deep, secret, a private joy. My attraction to Rudra was so strong that as soon as I took a letter of his
in my hands, pleasure rang like bells in my heart, and that whole day I stayed happy. Rudras second book Phire Chai
Swarnagram (I want my Swarnagram back) was published by Muhammed Nurul Hudas Drabir Prakashini. Other books too
had been published by Drabir. Rudras relations were now very good with Muhammed Nurul Huda. And because of this, he had
left the hall and rented a room in Nurul Hudas house at Basabo. Earlier he was at Siddheshwari in a friends house; he left that
and put up at Fazlul Haq Hall. From the hall now to this room. Why did he leave the Siddheshwari house? He had to, because
of Kazi Rozi. Kazi Rozi was poet Sikander Abu Jaffers wife. She, it seems troubled Rudra a lot. Maybe that middle-aged Kazi
Rozi was keen on a brilliant young man like Rudra, but why should he have to leave the house? I was unable to understand the
problem.
This book of Rudras was smaller in size than his earlier one. On the cover of the book was a hand, and below the hand the
roots of a tree. Inside the poems were in newsprint. The book looked poverty stricken, but the poems within would have
awoken those asleep. The copyright was in my name. I was thrilled to see it. Actually there was no meaning in this copyright
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matter. In this country any writer could put the name of a beloved person in the place of copyright. But that did not mean that
the publisher would go and pay the royalties of that book to the person named in the copyright. Anyway, it gave me great joy. I
read Rudras poems aloud at home I wished I could go on stage and recite his poems, so that a hundred people could hear them.
A hundred people could learn the language of protest. Very often, I was invited to recite at poetry functions in Mymensingh. I
went once in a while and read poems. Rudra had never heard me reading poetry. I had heard him though, at a function in
Mymensingh on the 21
st
of February. Rudra recited wonderfully. Many times, after reciting at various functions, Rudra would
say, I recited the best. I was happy to hear this. After the book was published, he was going around reading the manuscript.
Just the way villagers read ancient manuscripts in a sing-song tune, he had written Poems of the Road, so that they could be
read in the same way. Rudra wrote poems about poor, deprived, oppressed, and persecuted people, poems against the
government, against extortionists. The poems were for the labour class. I was inspired by Rudras perception.
Remember you are walking, alone
The indices on your hands are like roots, know that they, are actually fingers.
There is music in your bones, know that those are really your marrows.
The impious glow on your skin appears sleek and coppery.
You are walking remember you have been walking for the past two thousand years.
Your father was murdered by an Aryan.
Your brother was killed by a Mughal.
An Englishman looted you.
You are walking, alone, you have been walking for the past two thousand years.
To the south of you there is a procession of the dead, to your north the signs of death.
Behind you there is defeat and disgrace. And before you?
You are walking, no, not alone, you are part of history
Remember that from a copper inscription your fleet of ships have set sail,
Remember the looms in every home, and the sounds of them working
Accompanying you as you sail downstream to the land of the Mahua,,buttertree. Remember the concert of narrative
songs, remember that beautiful dark woman
At your breast, her eyes lowered, with trembling lips
You are walking, you have been walking for the past two thousand years
I read the book from cover to cover, not just once or twice but repeatedly. Yasmins singing voice was good, and so was her
ability to recite. Along with me Yasmin too recited the poem Harero Gharkhani, House of Bones.
It is still possible to trust a prostitute.
In the arteries of the politicians runs the sin of opportunism
It is still possible to trust a prostitute
In the blood and nerves of the intelligentsia lies conscious wrong doings.
It is still possible to trust a prostitute.
The young men of this nation are harbouring a poisonous snake in their blood,
Their lives are laid open, upturned on the fields like turtles.
There are no words no one speaks, there are no words no one moves,
There are no words no one flinches, there are no words no one
smoulders
No one speaks, no one moves, no one flinches, no one smoulders.
As though blind, their eyes are shut, as though crippled, their hands are tied,
Loveless, hearts without hatred, a frightening debt
Carried on their shoulders just gasping out, only empty words reproduced by rote
They grope in water, groan excessively in sorrow, but do not burn. They shed blood, lose everything but wont they
tear the web of conspiracy? Their hearts burst, their wounds smart but wont they tear the web of conspiracy?
In swarms in the forests and jungles come
Gangs of gorillas, their weapons shining in their hands. Their hands dazzle
With anger and revenge. They will take payment in blood, and power
With authority. In the tempestuous fray even if their lives are lost,
no harm will be done. The resounding thunder arising, will gain for them great strength and ability.
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The day will come, the day will come, the day of equality.
Within me too was born the dream of achieving equality one day. Rudra had dedicated his first book to Sheikh Mujibur
Rehman, Colonel Taher and Siraj Sikdar. In his poem Harero Gharkhani he had written thousand Sirajs die, a thousand
Mujibs die, a thousand Tahers die, only sycophants stay alive, boot-licking dogs, wood worms live, as live snakes. In fact
Mujib, Taher and Sikdar did not belong to one party. Mujib was against Sikdar who belonged to the party wanting to seize
power. He was killed it is said, through Mujibs conspiracy. However, one thing became clear Rudra was against any kind of
death. Lives were being lost as it is, because of storms, flood, hunger, famine, malnutrition, oppression, wounds, how many
more! Let unadulterated love return to the blood of the nation, let stern honesty return to the blood of the nation.
I had not printed Shenjuti in a long time. It had not been possible due to the pressures of studies and exams. I again made efforts
to print it. Again adrenaline flowed in the blood. Rudra was writing a series of poems called Maps of People. Taking some of
these and some of my own, with just both our poems Shenjuti was published. There was no trace of the old Shenjutis. All the
little magazines, Lord knows, where they had got buried. There were no bits of news this time, because I had traveled far away
from that world. Who was printing a little magazine where, in which neighbouring area, whose writings were being published,
what was discussed at which poetry function, all this I now had no idea of. From the Little Magazine movement, medical
studies had pushed me out by the scruff of my neck. After long two years Shenjuti appeared in the spring of the Bangla year
1388. It did not come out in the shape of a book, but like it used to, in the long accounts register format. The one reason,
Shenjuti was printed this way was that I did not have so much money at my disposal. This time Dada was not spending any
money. The question did not arise. Having read Rudras secret love letters to me, he just could not stand the name Rudra any
more. Of this, he had given proof as well. One day entering my room, he took my red diary, the one he himself had given me to
write poetry in, and all other poetry notebooks and threw them into the courtyard, to be muddied by rain. When I tried to protest
he had slapped me so hard that my cheeks remained red for two days. So I had to use my own money. This money had come
from the scholarship I got at medical college because of my good results in the Intermediate Examination. I did not have to pay
any college fees, and got extra money over and above even that. Whenever I got money, I never told Baba what I would do with
it. The scholarship I had got for my Intermediate year, I had had to hand over to Baba like an obedient child. This time I wasnt
going to do it. Now that I had some brains, I told everyone at home about the scholarship money, except Baba. The minute I got
the money, I put Shenjuti into the press. I gave it to Chhotdas friends press on C. K. Ghosh Road, called Leela Printers. I
persuaded Khaleq to put in an advertisement for Peoples Tailors. Trying to get the money for the advertisement, I had spent a
lot on rickshaw fare, but never got to meet Khaleq. I had dared to try and forget Shenjuti. But actually that was going against
my own wishes. In abject poverty I did not curl up like a leprosy patient, but instead established proudly eternal beauty. Instead
of learning the language of agitation, or raising their fists and shouting slogans in protest, the poets who withdraw completely
like cowardly tortoises and revel in poetry only to indulge in superficial anxieties, such selfishly greedy opportunists were not
to be showcased in my Shenjuti; they would be shown the garbage dump by me. I would rather revise the proofs of poems that
courageously spoke of the lives of the labour class, even if that gave me sleepless nights, and in turn acted like a million worms
eating into my intestines, which when very hungry caused gastric ulcers. They had teeth; that is true. I noticed my own poems
had changed a lot. Not in imitation of Rudra, but strongly influenced by his poetry. The Story of Life was the name of some of
my poems in this edition. The poems were the cries of labourers, the wails of the poor and strong hatred against the rich rulers.
In Rudras Maps of People appears their chowkidar, guard.
Neither the deer in the forest, nor the tiger, so late at night, alone walks the Chowkidar.
Hoi, who goes, who goes? The cold winds of the district return bearing no reply.
Who goes? Who else! The darkness of the tenth lunar night walks alone
All alone the chowkidar chases himself in the bends of dwelling areas.
He asks himself, who goes? What is your name? Where do you stay?
Ki, whom will you guard, how much of life will you be able to hold on to
The petty house burglars and those robbers who operate even in the light of day?
Or those thieves who live in our beings, within the darkness of our physical selves?
In the shadows of the night, will you find him, chowkidar will you find this thief
The thief who guards and who in the name of security commits terrible thievery.
By stealing peoples grey matter, flesh, blood, bones, desires of the heart,
Will you get him, who robs the full-moon nights from your life?
The one who steals your illusions of sunny days,
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The health of your child, milk and rice, steals the vermilion from your married sister,
Will you find the thief who removes the human body from your physical self?
Then what are you guarding and why then should you chase the night throughout the night?
On this dark earth only a few stars twinkle in the distant constellation,
The crickets chirp, the night breeze carries the smell of rotting, soaking jute.
Foxes dig up new tombstones and expose half-rotten corpses.
Hoi, who goes, who goes in the darkness of the earth, only the chowkidar walks!
Life was passing in this way some of it with Rudra, some of it at the hospital, with my books, patients, and some of it in the
bustle at Aubokash and in melancholy. At this time a piece of news shocked me President Zia-ur-Rahman had been killed in
the Circuit House at Chattagram. The Commanding Officer of the Chattagram Armed Forces, Major-General Manzoor had
assassinated him. It was a completely fruitless enterprise. Manzoor was unable to do anything more than just kill Zia. That was
because it was not Dhaka but Chattagram. Zia himself had brought in many crocodiles, but Manzoor was really only a baby
crocodile. He had given a bite, no doubt, but that was maybe because, some of his milk-teeth were still there. The bite had
obviously not really caused so much damage. Otherwise that very night Manzoor could have become something. By declaring
martial law, he could have headed the countrys government. But instead things happened differently; the Vice-President Abdus
Sattar had to take over the responsibilities as President. Accepting responsibility and actually running the country are not the
same things. The old man was only a front; the nation was being run by gun-toting soldiers. Was the nation functioning at all!
The nation was floating in blood. On the body of freedom won by the sacrifice of lakhs of peoples blood, were stains of blood,
on the body of freedom there was only the smell of death. If Baba had to give Zia-ur-Rahmans post-mortem report, he would
have counted the number of bullets in his body. He would have been able to tell what kind of gun, what kind of bullets, from
what distance, they had been fired and how many times. Baba would have written his own opinion, This is not suicide; it is
homicide. If a post-mortem report had to be written on this nation, then too something like a homicide could be written. It
could be written that assassins were aiming at the heart of the nation and firing bullets, that the ribs of the nation were riddled
with perforations. The bones of the rib cage had broken and bullets had pierced the flesh and gone inside. The heart had stopped
beating. For many, many days now it had stopped.
After this it didnt take long for the head of the secret service to expose himself. Another peaceful coup. Martial law was
enforced in the country. Following in the footsteps of Zia, Ershads journey began. One army followed in the footsteps of the
other. Major General Manzoor and his friends were executed by hanging. The way Zia had formed the National Party, and
through a referendum had converted his unlawful takeover of power into a lawful one, Ershad too did the same. Ershad too, in
the same way formed his own party and entering into politics, converted his illegal entry into a legal one. The country seemed
to be moving on the back of a queer camel! Even if there was no social equality, did that mean that the country was not fated to
have even a simple peoples democracy? I felt sorry for my country; my anxieties increased. The political leaders who switched
parties were attracted to whichever party came to power. I could not think of them as anything but characterless. A belief
deepened within me everyday that it was the weakness of our political leaders that gave the armed forces the courage to take
over the country at gun point.
Thoughts of politics, poetry and every other thought had to be pushed aside, because I had to prepare for my exams. As I was a
candidate, Baba could not be an examiner for this paper. He went to another college as examiner. In this college, the new
professor from Salimullah Medical College, Abdullah, whose classes were mostly bunked by students after giving proxy
attendance, along with an Assistant Professor remained as internal examiners. The friends in my class were most upset at this
news. The minute they saw me they said, Dhoot, because of you we are not getting Rajab Ali Sir. Everyone knew in college
that as an internal, Rajab Ali Sir was very good. He tried very hard to pass his own college students. But rules could not be
changed, if a son/daughter was an examinee, then a mother or father could not be an examiner. The unhappy students appeared
before the strict external and the spineless internal for their viva, shaking with fear. No one thought at that moment that the
subject was extremely unimportant, only a rotten snail-shell.
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Chapter Fifteen
A Bride on Paper
Rudras letters came regularly at Dalia Jehans address sometimes from Mongla, sometimes from Mithekhali and sometimes
even from Dhaka. I realized what it was to feel something special in my heart when I took Rudras letters in my hands. The day
I received a letter, pure happiness surrounded me for the whole day.
I cannot make you understand how unbearable every moment is for me, without you. Without you my days become so wild
and unrestrained, and you just dont seem to want to understand that. I know there are a lot of problems. At this moment if I
want you close, thousands of problems will arise. But later too these problems will not give us any rest. Therefore, if these
problems have to be faced some day, then it is necessary to bring them to the surface and face them straight away. Problems
cannot be solved by playing hide-and-seek. That is why I had wanted to meet Dada. I wanted to inform him that we have got
married but you did not listen. Throwing my days and nights into unbridled disorder, you are living very happily. This
indifferent happiness of yours strikes me with envy.
Dreams do not gather like clouds in the sky and come down as rain everyday. Without you days pass, as do nights. Without
your touch this desolate field remains barren I havent seen you for so long! I havent caressed your closed eyes for so long!
Your eyes are very misty, very cloudy and so distant. When will I be able to breach that mist and touch you! When will I
understand the meaning of the cloudiness! I become tired just waiting. There seems to be no end to the waiting. There is no
loving touch, and days are lifeless! There is no loving touch, nights are cold and tiring! In this cold darkness when will you
come with the heat of the sun? Today I do not feel good; the whole day my heart swelled with the pain of loneliness and
silence. I cannot explain this suffering in any language. Heavy as the cloud laden skies, my sufferings are so very cool and
silent! Today I do not feel good. Today my pain is cold and frosty.
I tried to experience Rudras suffering. But it was not possible for me to fulfill his wishes. Rudra, with his authority as husband,
demanded that I tell people at home that I was married. If I couldnt do that myself, I should get someone else to say it. That
even this was not possible, I told him repeatedly. There was no way I could get someone else to announce that I had got married
to a homeless, penniless poet. Rudra was under the impression that once we told people at home, Baba would get us married
with great pomp and splendour, after which I would go away with Rudra and set up my own household. Or, Rudra would live in
our house and enjoy the privileges of a son-in-law. If I was thrown out of my house, then I would stay in the hostel and continue
my studies. During holidays, I would go to Rudra in Dhaka, or change my college and join another one, where I could live with
him and study in college or do something else. I could even give up my studies altogether. Even if Rudra was crazy about
setting up a home, I was not. Rudras life itself was one big uncertainty, and I did not have the courage to welcome one more
uncertainty into this situation.
Rudra came to Mymensingh to meet me. He did not come on the set day. After waiting endlessly for him in the Press Club
canteen, I returned home disappointed. He could not always make it on the days promised. However, somehow he always
managed to come if not on the said day then definitely on a day close to that date. Only tea and shingaras were available in the
college canteen. Actually because the canteen was exclusively for college students, initially people looked askance at Rudras
presence there, and now they looked with eyes wide open. Rudras friendship with Assad and Anwar was also not viewed
favourably. Apart from Assad and Anwar being known as the bad students of the medical college, they were also considered as
goondas, rowdies, and anything that went wrong in college was attributed to them. There were rumours that they drank liquor
as well. Seeing Rudra in the college canteen one day, Assad came to talk. It seems both had studied in the same college, same
class. Bas, that was it. They got together. The students avoided this terrible two as much as possible. If they were seen
approaching, the students, specially the girls, promptly changed their paths. However, after the terrible two saw me with Rudra,
they began to pay me a lot of regard. They would come forward on seeing me saying, Ki, Nasreen, how are you? I too had to
smile and answer that I was well. Gradually I began to feel that these two held no terror for me, even if they did for others.
Even without Rudra I had sat and drunk tea with them in the canteen. Maybe Assads wrist would be bandaged, or Anwars
forehead would be scarred, but I never felt they were bad people. In fact I felt they were much more sincere and honest than a
lot of others. Once in a while they flexed their muscles and asked, Let us know if anyone bothers you, we are ready to break
their noses. Rudras sitting and chatting with Assad and Anwar made the eyes of other students grow even bigger. Eating
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shingaras with tea in the afternoon did not really fill our lunch-hungry stomachs. We had to leave at sometime. On the way to
and fro from college I had discovered the Press Club canteen on C. K. Ghose Road. Nowadays I met Rudra there. The yellow-
coloured Biryani available in the Press Club canteen was very famous. After the death of Ram Prasad Babu, his son Hari
Prasad, had hung up his fathers photograph and garlanded it. Now he himself cooked that famous Biryani. We ate during the
crowded lunch hour. Everyone left after their meal, but we kept sitting, because we had nowhere else to go to. The staff at the
Press Club watched us from the corners of their eyes, and found we were not leaving. Even though we kept ordering tea at
regular intervals, we still did not want to leave. Rudra complained and sat with a glum face because I had not arranged for any
vacant room. The staff periodically hinted that we should leave. Making a lot of noise they upturned the chairs and tables, but
when even that didnt work, they finally told us that the canteen was now closed. We had to leave the canteen, but had nowhere
to go. We looked for some privacy all over the town, but could not find it. Finally we sat in the medical college grounds in the
evening, when it became a little less crowded. Very often a ten-year-old handicapped boy, from the slums next door, would
walk on his knees and come and sit next to me. I was able to talk to him with much more ease than I was able to talk with
Rudra. The boys name was Dulal. He had no father, only a mother. It was a poverty stricken household, which he supported
with his earnings as a beggar. I gave Dulal two or three taka, whatever I had in my pocket. I spoke to Rudra about all kinds of
things in life. I told him about Chandana. Chandana had come to Dhaka. She was putting up with her husbands sister. I asked
Rudra to go and meet her and find out how she was keeping. If he went, then I could send something for her with him. What
could I send? There was only one expensive thing in my collection, the yellow kataan sari Dada gave me for his wedding. I sent
that. In a soft tone I told Rudra by and by about how much I missed Chandana, how Dada had changed after marriage, my
loneliness at Chhotdas departure, my studies not going well etc. etc. Rudra repeatedly put his arm around my waist and tried to
pull me close, wanting to kiss me. Again and again his hands went to my breast. Anyone at any time could see us and so I kept
pushing his hands away. My own modesty also proved to be a big barrier. Because I couldnt arrange a private room for the two
of us, he sat in a huff, without speaking. I wanted to touch Rudras two lips with my fingers, and lightly place my fingers on his
eyes. I wanted to hold Rudras warm hands and walk around barefoot. I loved walking barefoot on the green grass. My feet
wanted to touch the tips of the grass and feel the coolness of the dew. My address-less numbness, and our dry meetings even
after marriage, disappointed Rudra, and he returned to Dhaka. However, he left saying many times that I should write everyday,
and that I should write after ten oclock at night, because exactly then he would think of me and picture that I was writing to
him, and thinking of him. After Rudras departure, I went home and took a long nap. Seeing me sleeping for so long, Yasmin
suspected that Rudra had visited. After Chhotda left Mymensingh, Yasmin gradually became close to me. I was very intimate
with her, but our fights too were many. Because she was physically stronger than me, I had always to flee the battlefield. I told
Yasmin all my secrets, yet the closer I felt to Rudra, the more silent I was becoming. My increasingly awkward passion for
Rudra was something I was hesitant to talk about with Yasmin. Rudra had given me an English Pocket Book of Vatsyana to
read. Not only had I not read it, I was so concerned about where to hide it, especially where there would be no fear of it being
found by Yasmin, that my anxieties crossed all limits. The time given to me to keep the book passed, just in trying to find
places to hide it.
You are a busy person. I do not have the courage to ask you to write everyday. By saying this you are actually asking to free
yourself from the compulsion to write everyday! That will not happen. However busy I may be, I will always have time to write
to you. If you were with me, the time I should give you at night would be more than it takes to write a letter. However, since
you are not close, I can write to you everyday, and I will. What is late night for you? Is 10.30 pm night for you? That is merely
evening time. If you dont learn to stay up even this much at night, you will get into great trouble later! There will be nights
flooded with sleeplessness, what will you do on those nights of high-tide? I have not said one word of untruth to Chandana, in
fact I have hardly told her anything. Why, if I dont talk, cant you do so? If I dont lift my face, cant you? Is the responsibility
for maintaining this relationship entirely mine? We have shared everything equally. Then why should this be mine only? You
sit with a glum face, with angry eyes, hence I hesitate to show my love. The question does not arise. Has your love ever been
displayed? Love which has never been extended, how can it be curtailed? Why dont I assuage your pride? When you call,
dont I come close? Even when you dont speak, dont I? Even when you dont lift your face, dont I lovingly raise it with my
touch? Dont I shower your unrepentant pair of eyes with my love? Then why cant you? I still do not understand the language
of pride. Is there any power in this world which can explain something to someone who chooses not to understand, and pretends
she doesnt know anything? Today is the 8
th
of Ashwin. We have known each other for three years and four days. Do you know
how I feel? I feel I have known you for a thousand years. That we met a thousand years ago. I dont remember when and how
we met. I only remember that one sun burnt heart on a dark palm screen, had, wordlessly and silently come and written one
word I. As though from times immemorial, we were searching for each other. One day we met. And in that first meeting we
recognized each other. No introduction was necessary. Both of us watched the pictures we had within us. Yes, this is the one.
The person I have drawn in colours of pain. The person whose name I have written with my hearts blood. This is the one I
have created out of silent suffering and empty dreams. Being wordless, we both came to each other and wrote one word in each
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others palm, I. Meaning I am the person you have created within yourself.
Rudra kept telling me that the private room impossible to find in Mymensingh could be found in Dhaka. But how could I
possibly go to Dhaka! I could maybe travel alone to Dhaka by train, but who would let me? Finally, when Chhotda came to
Mymensingh, I insisted on going to Dhaka. Why Dhaka? I had to get my certificate for the First Proff. exam, from Dhaka. I
managed to go with Chhotda. On reaching, I immediately left the house on the pretext that I was meeting an old school friend in
the Dhaka University hostel. I went straight to Rudras room at Basabo as it had been decided. Rudra did not show his
happiness. To jump for joy, or shed tears when in pain, was not something Rudra was capable of. He was, from top to bottom,
like a block of wood. Whatever he was feeling remained within him. It was expressed on paper. Rudra, of course, said the same
thing about me. It seems I was beautifully simple and straight in my letters but, not in person. Face-to-face I was the same, dead
wood. Rudra gave me a sari to wear. Small flowers and leaves printed all over a white background, with a matching petticoat
and blouse. I had to go out wearing the sari. This sari had been selected by Rudras sister, Bithi. Rudra had never personally
chosen and bought a sari for me. Earlier, when he had given me a green cotton sari, that too he had taken his girlfriend Mukti
with him to choose. Whatever I gave Rudra on his birthday, I selected and bought personally. I myself decided which colour
shirt would match which colour pant. When Rudra asked others to select a sari for me, he described my colouring in this way,
Whatever colour will suit a dark complexioned girl. It seems womens saris were best understood by women alone. Whether
because he had to tell her about the sari, I dont know, Rudra had told Bithi about our wedding; in fact he had even told Mukti.
That night he made me wear the sari, and took me to a Chinese restaurant. After having dinner there, we returned to Basabo. He
had to tell Muhammed Nurul Huda about our marriage, so that my staying at the house did not look inappropriate. No one so
far had come to know of my marriage from me. Rudra had started telling people. Earlier, too, he had told a couple of friends.
Despite the fact that I got upset about people knowing, he still told them. I had to stay that night with Rudra. I just had to. But I
had to go. I had to. I had told Chhotda I would be back in an hour. Let Chhotda go to hell, you are my wife, that is your biggest
identity. But with this identity I cannot live the life I am living. Of course, you can. Then I will have to say I was in Jhunu
khalas room, if I do not return at night! Dont worry about that now, I will tell Jhunu khala to manage something. But will
Jhunu khala agree? Why shouldnt she? I will tell her we are married. Impossible! You remain with your impossible. I will do
what I have to. I had to spend this night with Rudra. It was Rudras wish, request, demand, command, everything. Rudra said,
Tonight I want you completely. Completely, meaning? Completely means completely. Not leaving anything for later.
Estimating the meaning of this, something caused me to tremble inside. The closer the time approached, the more the trembling
within me spread all over my body. The closer day progressed towards night, the faster my breathing became. I tried to
convince myself that I was not doing anything wrong. I was going to spend the night lawfully with my husband. If Haseena
who was my age could do so, why couldnt I! A girl in my class called Madira had secretly married another classmate called
Shaukat. Many people said that Madira went secretly to Shaukats hostel room and spent the night there. If she could, then was
I still such a raw young girl that I could not!
Finally the night came. In the drawing room, Rudra introduced me as his wife to Huda and his wife Shahana. Hudas younger
daughter stared in amazement at this wife which was me. Although it was not very late, Rudra said it was time to retire. Rudra
took me to his room. Taking off his shirt and pants, and wearing only a lungi, he switched off the light. He then took me sitting
stone-like on a chair, and lay me down on the bed. I kept telling myself, You have got married, when you marry, silly girl, you
have to sleep with your husband. You have to! Every girl does it. Shed your inhibitions. I tried desperately to overcome my
modesty. Light from the lamp post outside was streaming through the window, I tired to think of it as moonlight. I loved Rudra,
he was my husband. I was going to spend my first night with my husband. Tonight let me not feel any kind of numbness. Even
though I kept telling myself throughout the day not to feel numb, I was still unable to call Rudra by name or as tumi even once
in the whole day. Turning my back towards Rudra, I lay in a heap in one corner, with my legs and hands all curled up. Rudra
pulled that curled up me close to him. Not me, only my body remained lifelessly in Rudras embrace. My two hands remained
stiffly crossed over my chest; I was unable to remove them. Those two hands were pushed away by Rudra with all his physical
strength. I did not want to tremble, but even if I wanted to stop this inner trembling, I was unable to stem the tremors spreading
throughout my body. Rudra kissed me deeply on my lips. I could feel my lips swelling up, becoming heavy. I didnt want to, but
I could feel my two hands trying to push Rudra away. With one hand, Rudra unbuttoned my blouse, and with the other, he held
strongly my pushing hands. Rudra sank his face into the unbuttoned blouse. His wet tongue licked my two breasts, chewing and
sucking them. In my disheveled sari, I continued to suffer in Rudras embrace. Rudra was moving my legs apart with his own
two legs. The more my one leg tried to come close to the other, the more Rudra used his entire strength against their coming
together. Keep your legs in the way your husband is telling you to keep them, girl, you must, thats the system, Rudra knows
what he is doing; this is what husbands do, this is what you have to do, I kept telling myself. I also tried to render powerless
with all my being, the instinctive resistance gathering strength within me, so that I could keep lying numb. That is what I did.
Forcibly closing my eyes, and covering them with my hands, I pretended as though I was not there, that this was not my body,
as though I was sleeping at home in my room. Whatever was happening here, this obscene incident that was taking place, did
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not involve me at all, nothing was happening to my body or life, this was someone else, this was someone else, this was
someone elses body, I was thinking. After this, Rudra climbed up on top of my entire body. Now not just my eyes were closed;
my breath too almost stopped. The two legs of my numb body wanted to join together. Rudra separated my two legs with his
own and with something additional, created pressure at my crotch. In my breathless state, I tried to think of the pressure as a
natural one created by my husband, but involuntarily an agonized scream pierced through my thoughts and came out of my
throat. Rudra pressed my mouth shut with his two hands. He pressed my mouth, but the downward pressure at the other end
continued. I was groaning in terrible pain. Upward pressure, downward pressure, my ability to take any kind of pressure,
disappeared completely. Rudras iron body, in spite of loving my body so much, in spite of giving so many proofs, was unable
to enter it. Through the night, Rudra used every device, every normally tried methodology to enter, but every time my inability
to make him understand my agony, lead to my screams of Mago and Babago waking the night. Every time Rudra had to
press shut my mouth to stop the screams. But the screams had penetrated even the pressure. When the frightening night was
over, this stricken and fatigued person changed her sari for a salwar-kameez and said, I am going. I wanted to take my
lowered face, lowered eyes, my defeated useless body far away. The nights diffidence, shame, fear and distaste gripped me
even in the morning. At the same time, there was guilt. Rudra appeared to be Rudra, not my husband. On the way to Segun
Gardens, he only said, You need not have done all that drama at night. He did not say anything else. Nor did I. I sat silently
thinking of the night. Instead of this, if only we had spent the whole night chatting, or reading poetry, and bickered a little
amorously, or exchanged two unadulterated kisses!
Returning that morning to Segun Gardens, I told Chhotda in a shaking voice, I was at Rokeya Hall in Jhunu khalas room.
Jhunu khala does not stay in the Hall anymore, said Chhotda. After her marriage, the husband and wife had rented a room in
one of the Universitys houses. This Chhotda knew.
She was there yesterday.
She hasnt given up her room yet, or what?
No.
Hmm. Didnt you go to meet your friend? Did you meet her?
Hmm.
Whats her name?
Nadira.
Nadira? Isnt she that Ramkrishna Mission Road girl?
Yes.
Didnt you say one day that she had taken admission in Jehangirnagar?
Yesterday, she had come to meet Asma at Rokeya Hall. She stayed the night.
Which one is Asma? Isnt she Hashimuddins daughter?
Yes.
Does she study at Dhaka University?
Yes.
Werent you supposed to pick up your certificate?
Yes. I will.
To give my shaking voice a rest I went to my room without going into details and lay down thinking of the night which had
been like a nightmare. The last night. Rudra said I was being dramatic. Was that a drama! Hurt pride made we weep silently.
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My whole body was paining, as though I had just returned from a tigers den. My crotch was in agony whenever I had to walk.
I wasnt even able to urinate without pain. My breasts felt like two mounds of stone. The red kiss-marks were throbbing, and
tender to the touch. Ever since I signed the marriage papers, Rudra had been talking of spending one night together. He did not
bite any less even before I signed the papers. He had always jumped on me to kiss me and touch my breasts, but I had managed
to escape and save myself. Masoods house had disallowed us, anticipating a tussle. Because of this ban he showed a lot of
anger and offense with me. Why a night was so invaluable to Rudra was something I had not understood. I had told him often
that all the nights of our life were yet to come, lets wait for them. The pain of waiting did result in a kind of happiness as well.
No, Rudra would not wait. There was no joy in waiting, he said. The more I said lets love each other, the more Rudra would
say lets go to bed. Rudra behaved as hungrily as a beggar. He wanted it today. Just now. He had to have it right now or he
couldnt take it anymore. When he came to Mymensingh, he went mad wanting a private room. Knowing it was not possible for
me to procure one he still took offense at why I hadnt found one. Not just offense, he even showed his anger. He had to spend
at least one night with me. One night had been spent, ultimately, a nightmarish night. I had never thought of my life in this way.
I felt hurt, angry. I had wanted to throw Rudra away. But I had found my hands did not move to do so, as though I was
handicapped. I had been forced to admit defeat only to this paper, to my signature, because signing on that paper had meant
marriage! But I did love Rudra! I thought. My thoughts did not leave me in peace for a second.
I also thought of the lie I had told Chhotda. Chhotda may have thought that after meeting Jhunu khala, since I was meeting my
old school friend after so long, our talk must have extended far into the night, and that perforce, I had spent the rest of the night
in Jhunu khalas old room, sleeping. What Chhotda had thought who knows, but he did not let me out of sight and did not allow
me to meet any friends on my own. He took me personally to the Registrars Building and procured the certificate. And after
two days he escorted me back to Mymensingh.
Rudra had said later that I did not have complete trust in him. I still had doubts in my mind. I was really hurt on hearing this. I
told him it was because I trusted him, because I completely trusted him that I loved him. The most important thing required in
love was trust. If there was even a thread of doubt in this trust, one could like, but not love. Rudra had written, Am I such an
unfortunate person, that I have to appropriate everything by force? I have to pay for everything I take? What little can be taken
by force I have, what little to take is proper, I have. But what I am entitled to, what I alone should get, even if I never get it, I
will never take it by force, I will not earn it. I never question trust and love. What I meant by complete trust was something else,
there is no reason for you not to understand that.
Almost a year and a half after this episode, Rudra wrote, Beloved wife, do you know what has happened this time? Seeing you
wearing a sari for the first time, I felt I was seeing you for the very first time today. As though you were someone else, a
completely different person, a new human being. In the past long years I have liked different things about you, but this time is
different. An entirely unknown kind of joy. I felt that our love was born only this time. As though all these days were only a
rehearsal. Today we were performing on stage.
In a year and a half, Rudra had visited Mymensingh at two or three month intervals. Because I did not address him, in anger he
had written letters without addressing me for quite a few months. Our time had passed in the Press Club canteen. When we had
to leave the canteen, we had searched for places here and there, where we could talk. As usual finding a place had proved
beyond me. At Rudras request I went to meet him wearing a sari. I didnt know how to wear a sari very well. Taking help from
Yasmin I wore one of Mas saris and left the house saying I was going for a friends birthday. That day Rudra took advantage of
some seclusion, and used the opportunity to kiss me twice or thrice, and touch my breasts. Back home, he had written that
letter.
You are laughing to yourself, arent you?
Actually, I really felt that finally our love affair had begun. As though all these days we had merely touched each other; today
we could feel the heat of each others bodies. We could understand the beats of our hearts. Today it feels as though on no
occasion earlier had we felt so satisfied. You are slowly becoming informal, and easier to read. I seem now to be able to
recognize a strange world. All these days, I have been waiting for you to lose your inhibitions. You will now become more
informal and natural. You will now grow more liberated. No one will have such a beautiful home of love as we will you just
watch. Now, love me a little please Laxmi, my good girl. No, no, dont turn your face away. Look, look at my eyes. What is
there to be so shy about? I am someone you have known for so long. These eyes, these brows, this forehead, this face and body
you have touched so many times. So, why are you feeling shy? Kiss me. Come on kiss me.
Little by little I will control myself. If, in this way you give me a little love, you will see I will become just what your heart
desires. Or you will become mine. In reality, love must mean making two hearts one. I feel like standing on the roads and
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shouting out to everyone, Listen you all, I have found the one I love; we have been able to become one. Stay good, my
beloved. Stay well, my life. Love, love, love, Your Rudra.
CHAPTER XVI
Changes
Aubokash had completely changed. Yasmin had passed her SSC and had secured a first class, distinction in Chemistry. Thanks
to the distinction, Yasmin was treated better at home than I was. Baba dreamt of making her a doctor. Baba had not objected
to her joining Anandamohan either. Yasmin seemed to have suddenly grown up. She was no more the little child she had been.
When we two sisters went out together, those who didnt know Yasmin, assumed she was my elder sister. This was because she
looked bigger than me. At whatever age I started wearing an odhna, though only outside, Yasmin had to start wearing one much
earlier. As the shape of her chest changed and became awkward, she had like me, begun to walk with a hunch. After all, this
was the price one paid for not wearing an odhna. Boxing her on her hunched back, Ma said Stand straight. Go and wear your
odhna, at least you can walk straight. Why are you ashamed to wear an odhna now that you are grown up? Even though she
looked older than me, when the question arose regarding who was the prettier of the two of us, the scales were tipped on my
side. Yasmin privately suffered because of her poor looks and physically overdeveloped body. Yet if our eyes were compared,
she would be a deer and I an elephant. Next to her thick black hair, mine was extremely fine. But Yasmin never stopped
grumbling about her small nose, her small chin and her full lips. Within her a jealousy was born secretly. I did not feel any
jealousy; instead I wanted to keep her away from all the temptations, mistakes and untruths of the world. I definitely didnt
want Yasmin to cause Baba the kind of sorrow that I was going to be responsible for. An imaginary butterfly alighted on my
eyes and said Yasmin would study in medical college, and become a greater doctor than I would be. She would marry some
handsome doctor boy like Habibullah. Maybe this would reduce Baba-Mas unhappiness to some extent. Yasmins jealousy
pained and distressed me a lot. I noticed she was moving away from me. That Yasmin who had remained stuck to me, now
attached herself to Dadas wife. She went to college and the rest of the time she swam along with Dadas wife in a spate of
humour and mirth. If I tried to find out about her studies, she looked at me as though I was her worst enemy. Chhotda was not
in Aubokash anymore. I did not need to hide from Baba for going to cultural functions with him or get Ma to reluctantly give
her permission. Chhotda too had changed from being a spoilt, uneducated, prematurely married boy who would roam around
aimlessly to some one different. He was no longer the bohemian. He was now given the big piri, a low stool, to sit on. He no
longer kept up with what was happening in town and where, whether a play, dance or song was being performed. Dada was
there, but as good as non-existent. Of all the people at home, Dada had changed the most. He did not bother himself with
literature or culture anymore. When the topic of Shenjuti came up, he never again offered, Go, I will get it printed. He did not
bother about anyone else in the household. He had no more interest in listening to songs, taking photographs, buying clothes
and shoes for himself, or even applying expensive perfumes. He was now busy buying saris and jewellery for his wife. Very
often he bought a sari and came home, showed us the sari, we admired it, saying it was very nice, and would suit his wife very
well. Dada was also busy attending invitations for meals at the homes of his in-laws. Now guests at home were mostly
Haseenas sister, brother-in-law, brother, sister-in-law etc. He liked more to discuss the merits or otherwise of the various
relatives. Who was nice, who not so, who spoke too much, who little, who was beautiful to look at, who wasnt, who had the
most wealth, who was poverty stricken. Haseenas figure was like a bamboo pole. Ma would cook tasty dishes everyday and
feed her. Almost every evening Haseena went out with Dada. The rest of the time she spent the afternoon sitting in the
verandah, raw Halud, turmeric, paste applied to her face. She took long baths, ate five or six times a day, and slept. But still she
was a novelty at home, and our enthusiasm did not wane, especially not Yasmins. Yasmin clung to Haseena, slept next to her a
hand cupping Haseenas breasts like a nursing baby. Seeing this I moved away in shame and standing at a distance told
Haseena, Dont you have any shame? She replied, Once you are married, are you left with any?" Ma too was married, but
she never left her breasts uncovered. Geeta too never did. Geeta, of course, had very small breasts, and had to stuff her
brassieres with cotton wool. Since Haseena neither knew how to wear saris properly, or dress up nicely before going out,
Yasmin made her wear her sari, something she had learnt to do, having often watched Geeta. She made up Haseenas face; this
too she had learnt from Geeta. Initially, I called Haseena by her name. She, however, was not pleased at this and ordered me to
call her Boudi. Yasmin happily called her Boudi. She went with her Boudi and visited Boudis sisters house, or brothers
house. When Boudi went to buy saris, Yasmin went with her to help her choose. If she had to buy shoes, Yasmin would tell
Dada to buy the most expensive shoes in the market for her. It was not possible for me to call a college mate of mine Boudi.
After Haseena objected to being called by her name, what happened to me was that I stopped calling her even Haseena. Hey
listen, Ayee Dadas wife, listen to me, was the way I made do. Dada disliked the name Haseena a lot. He dropped the
Haseena from Haseena Mumtaz, and taking the Mum from Mumtaz, made Mum into Mumu, and began calling Haseena,
Mumu. Dada now never thought of buying anything for Ma, or for Yasmin and me. When Id came, he bought the most
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expensive saris in the market for Haseena. After repeated requests to buy Ma a sari, he would, possibly just out of a sheer
feeling of obligation , the night before Id, buy her a cheap cotton sari. Ma could detect in this gift, the lack of love he had for
her earlier. We, too, could feel it. That he was not giving anything to Yasmin and me even out of the sheer propriety of things
was also something we never questioned or complained about. This was because we thought that this was the system. Now that
Dada had a wife, he would give her everything. Seeing his wife happy, made us happy. If she smiled, Dada smiled, too. We
didnt pick Dadas pockets any more. After Chhotda left, Yasmin and I had, for a long time, taken up the task on our own steam.
But now there was a wife guarding his room. Haseena didnt like it if Dada spent even two paise on anyone else at home.
Dadas money, Dadas belongings were considered by Haseena as her own. While removing the glassware bought by Dada
from our collection, she remarked, I have to remove mine and keep mine separate. These shouldnt get used! Anus mother
went to keep the water bottles, in the fridge bought by Dada, as she had always done. Haseena now stopped her and said, If
you have to touch my fridge, you must first ask for my permission. Then, wiping the fridge with her own hands, she added,
Actually a fridge should be handled by a single person. If so many people handle this fridge, then my fridge will stop working
in a few days. Hearing Haseena using the word my made me feel as though there were two groups of people in the house. In
one group were Baba, Ma, me and Yasmin, and in the other, Dada and Haseena. Riazzuddins son, Joynal, stayed in the tin
shed, and studied in the town school. Whenever Haseena saw Joynal she would say, Ayee boy, get me a glass of water or
Ayee boy, run and get me a rickshaw. Joynal brought water for her. Ran to call her a rickshaw. Haseena would be wearing a
sari, and Joynal may have been close by. Ayee boy, just polish my shoes, will you? Joynal, sitting at her feet, would wipe
Haseenas shoes with a soft cloth. Ma said one day, Dont order Joynal around like this, Bouma. Joynal is not a servant of the
house. He is Nomans own first cousin, his Chachas son. Haseena, in her grating voice, said, If I dont tell him, whom do I
ask? The one maid there is, is always in the kitchen. She is never available.
Anus mother works the whole day.
What work does she do the whole day that she has no time to do anything for me?
Ask Anus Ma for whatever you want. Has she ever said she wont do what you ask her to do?
After this, Haseena got a maid from Arjunkhila, called Phulera. She was to wipe her shoes, draw her bath water, keep her towel
and soap in the bathroom before she entered, and if Haseena was lying down she was to pick lice from her hair. Even though it
was one house and everyones food was cooked on one stove, gradually two households began to emerge. We all began to
notice that Haseenas voice was not only coarse, it was also very loud. In this house only Babas voice had the authority to rise
to this level.
Not being able to tolerate Haseenas sitting idle any longer Baba got her admitted to the Teacher Training College. Books,
copies, stationery, whatever was required he bought for her, and arranged a table for her in the room. Haseena was enjoying not
having to study after marriage. Dada too didnt care. But Baba did. He advised his daughter-in-law to pay attention to her
studies just like he had advised his own daughters. The wise mens sayings were showered on Haseena now, as though she was
another daughter of Baba. However she had one advantage. She did not have to face Babas slaps and boxes, canings and
whipping. Ma, too, took more care to feed Haseena, than she took to feed us. Haseena had an advantage here, too. She never
got scolded or abused by Ma as we were. The people of the house were all engaged in serving Haseena, the most devoted was
Dada. To observe their honeymoon, Dada had taken his wife for a trip to Coxbazar. Not by train, but by aeroplane. They had
stayed, at a big hotel on the sea shore, slept on soft beds, and were served all their meals in their room. Haseena was living in
the lap of luxury, I was aware. I didnt think she could have imagined such luxury before her marriage.
Life was changing. At one time I used to eat my meals sitting on a piri next to the stove. Later on, there was a mat on the
bedroom floor, then an ordinary table in the dining room. Gradually the table became bigger, more sleek, and the chair backs
rose higher than peoples heads. The cane sofas were replaced by wooden ones. The hurricane lights changed to electric lights,
the hand fans to electric ones, the tin plates to bone china ones. I used to grind coal into powder and brush my teeth, picking up
the coal powder on my fingers, then with the twigs of the neem tree, softening the edges of the twigs by crushing them with my
teeth, then came toothpaste, Colgate from the Tibbot company. Now instead of old sari pieces or soft rags, I was using cotton
pads bought from the market during my menstrual periods. During the Id-ul-Azha, a whole cow was sacrificed. All this meat
was boiled with salt and halud and kept in big vessels. Whenever the meat needed to be cooked, the boiled meat pieces were
sauted in oil and spices, and a lot of it was put in the sun to be preserved as dried and seasoned meat. The meat pieces were
pierced in the center and strung up on lines in the sun. Just before dusk, just like dried clothes were collected from lines, the sun
dried meat too was collected. The next morning they were put in the sun again. With the arrival of the fridge, this ritual was
abandoned. Now the meat was not boiled with salt and turmeric and kept, nor was dried meat prepared that much, the meat now
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went into the freezer compartment of the refrigerator. Various devices had come into the house. Earlier the radio was the only
thing we could rely on, now there was the television, first black and white, then colour. Earlier there was only the audio player,
now there was both audio and visual. One did not have to go outside the home to see theatre or cinema; one could sit at home
and watch. Even songs and dances were available at the press of a button. To watch any major cricket or football match one did
not have to run to the play grounds, that too was available at the press of a button. Even to take a photograph, it was not
necessary to go to a studio. By purchasing a camera, one could take as many photographs, in as many poses, as one wanted.
Life had changed a lot. There were many things which were not the same as before. As I moved on I did not look back too
much, as though the life I had left behind was a forgettable one. Only one thing remained the same as before. Rice was cooked
at home thrice a day, it still was. Collecting the leaves and twigs falling in the courtyard the earthen chullah had to be lit. The
fire would repeatedly get extinguished. Every time it did, you had to blow air into it, and with every puff, smoke would make
your eyes water, your hair float and Ma would totally disappear in the cloud of smoke. Once the fire was lit the smoke would
float away, and once it had cleared, Ma could be seen again, black grime on her cheeks, hands and forehead. Seeing this
begrimed horrible Ma did not surprise anyone at home. Ma was this way in any case, thats how everyone had seen her all
along. Next to the chullah, this soot covered Ma would cook. Before anyone could feel hungry she would serve a plate to each
one. That was why she was Ma. Life was changing, but Mas earthen chullah did not. Since my birth, I had watched Ma sitting
next to the chullah, enkindling the dried leaves and blowing into the stove to light the fire. There was no change in this.
Chhotda informed us of Geetas date of delivery, and asked that Ma should reach Dhaka in time. Ma went to Dhaka by bus,
carrying small kantha sheets, and little dresses made of fine cloth. Geeta gave birth to a nine pound baby boy at T.A.
Chowdhurys Clinic in Chamelibagh, on 17
th
June. After her return from the clinic, she continued to rest the whole day, and
used ointment to remove the stretch marks on her stomach. Ma cooked and fed Geeta, heated her bath water, massaged her
sluggish body. Placing the baby in Geetas lap, she begged her, Try and feed the baby with your own breast milk, Afroza.
Mothers milk is very beneficial to a child. Geeta had tried before, but no beneficial milk had emerged from her breasts for the
baby. Apart from all this, Ma with great enthusiasm worked away feeding the baby, bathing him, putting him to sleep, and
changing his kanthas. Geetas mother, mashi, sister and brother came to see the baby and stayed on for a week. Ma laughed and
talked to the dark red vermilion, sindhur and conch-shell bangle wearing mother of Geeta, telling herself that, so what if she
was a Hindu, she was after all the babys Nani. She, too, had the right to see the baby. Ma single handedly looked after and
cared for the baby, the babys mother, the babys grand mother, mama and mashi. This carried on for three months, after which
explaining and handing over the care of the baby to his parents, Ma said, Now bring up your son yourselves, I am going to
Mymensingh. When Ma was packing her clothes into a bag, Geeta plucked herself out of her long rest, and announced that she
would be going back to work; she did not like sitting at home.
Then who will look after the baby? Chhotda asked.
In an indifferent manner, Geeta said, How do I know! Hes your baby, you should know!
Chhotda sat with a gloomy face in the room. If Geeta went off to work, then who would the baby stay with?
Keep a maid. Let her look after the baby, Geetas voice was detached.
Chhotda sat by Geetas head and stroked her hair and sang Geeta, Geeta, Geeta, O, Geeta the whole afternoon. Then he put his
mouth close to her ears and whispered. For a long time he tried to turn her face and kiss her. In the evening Geeta wore a sari,
and went out with Chhotda. They came back with a sari for Ma. Putting the sari in Mas hands, she said, You have worked a
lot for your son, take this sari.
Chhotda said, Geeta has chosen the sari. It is the best Tangail sari.
Ma took the sari in her hands and said, Yes, it is a very nice sari, and kept it on the bed. Moving away the straggly hair on her
forehead, Ma said, Baba Kamaal, can you put me into the bus tomorrow?
Where will you go?
Mymensingh.
If you go to Mymensingh, who will the baby stay with? Geeta will be going to office from tomorrow.
Drooping with exhaustion, Ma said in a broken voice, I have stayed for a long time. Let me go now.
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Then take the baby with you, Ma. Take him to Mymensingh.
Ma was shocked to hear the proposal. How could this be done? For how long was this going to be! Neither Chhotda nor Geeta
specified the time period. Geeta was clear she was going to work, come what may, she was not going to give up her work for
the baby. Now, if Ma stayed in this house and looked after the baby, fine, otherwise let her take him to Mymensingh and do so.
The next day Ma returned to Mymensingh with the baby in her arms. A smile appeared on Geetas gloomy face.
When Ma returned to Aubokash with the baby, no one noticed her tired face after all the sleepless nights. Everyone only noticed
the lovely baby adorned with a black dot to ward off the evil eye. Such a small baby had never lived in Aubokash. Yasmin and I
jumped to take the baby in our laps. One could not easily touch the baby. One had to bathe and wear clean clothes, only then
could one carry the baby. This baby was not fated to be brought up in the dust and slush like us. Everything he used, even the
toys which he had in advance of his age, were bought from abroad. Chhotda puffing up his chest, nose and whatever else he
could, added, I get the Johnsons baby lotion and powder from Londons Mother Care, the milk food from Singapore, and
baby clothes from Dubai.
The baby was given Babas room, Babas bed. Baba placed another cot for himself in the corner of the room. The windows of
the room were opened. Even if Babas body didnt require it, the baby required light and air. Babas room was washed, cleaned
and shining. On a table Ma arranged all paraphernalia required to feed the baby. A juicer to squeeze oranges, a mixer to
liquidate greens, vegetables, fish and meat, a tin of imported milk powder, along with other cereals from abroad, an imported
feeder, bowl and spoon. The babys clothes and toys were put into the cupboard. The baby required to be fed chicken soup
everyday. Baba bought twelve chicks and sent them across. For his first grandson, Baba became the fabled Benevolent Harish
Chandra.
Dadas beloved Mumu looked at all the imported baby things with wide eyes. Ma was not enthusiastic about imported things.
Ma had no idea how far one had to go to reach abroad. Foreign countries maybe some major places, which were way across
seven seas and thirteen rivers. But Ma kept aside the imported silk clothes, made the baby wear local cotton ones. In a warm
country, was there anything as comfortable as cotton! Removing all the Ceralac, Feralac and all other varieties of imported
powdered foods, Ma herself cooked fresh tomatoes, carrots, greens into a soft mass and fed the child. Throwing away the
packets of fruit juices, she squeezed juice out of fresh fruits bought in the market, for the baby. Ma believed that powdered milk
caused stomach upsets in babies. She personally went to the other bank of the Brahmaputra and told Bhagirathis mother that
she would need pure cows milk for her grandson from now on. Bhagirathis Ma began delivering half-a-ser of milk everyday.
The baby was growing up at home like a prince. Ma had no sleep, nor did Baba to a great extent. Yasmin and I, even though we
didnt lose sleep, began to spend most of our time with the baby. Everything was running smoothly, but the baby did need a
name. Could one continue to call the baby Monita, Shonata, Babuta and such like! Baba made arrangements for Akika, the
babys naming ceremony. We each called our friends; Chhotda and Geeta, too, were invited. On the day of the Akika ceremony,
a gigantic bull was sacrificed. Cooks were brought, and after digging a huge hole under the wood apple tree, huge vessels of
pulao and meat were cooked. The Akika ceremony was conducted with great pomp. Baba took out a paper from his panjabi
pocket, and read out the name of the baby.
The pet name is Suhrid, and the proper name Alimul Reza.
What? Alimul Reza? Yasmin and I looked at each others faces. My lips, nose and eyebrows became distorted.
What is this Alimul Reza? What kind of a name is this? Does anyone have Arabic names nowadays?
Baba in a hard voice said, They do.
I had hoped for a lovely Bengali name. I had wanted to name him Hriday, Hriday Samudra, Heart of the Sea. My wishes had no
value especially in such an important field as name keeping. Ma said, He got this Alimul Reza name from some Peer.
Which Peer?
Razia Begums Peer. He got the tabeez for your head also from her.
After about two months, Chhotda and Geeta came to see Suhrid. Leaving a whole pile of imported things, and taking various
snaps carrying the baby in different poses, they left for Dhaka that very evening. Of course, they returned via Peonpara. Suhrid
was growing up in the tender care of Ma. She was busy day and night. She had no time to eat or bathe. Her sari was always
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shabby and hair uncombed. For Suhrids care a maid called Nargis had been employed. She washed Suhrids crockery, boiled
his drinking water, washed his nappies and clothes and yet Ma did not get rest even for a minute. A healthy and glowing Suhrid
was growing up in Mas care. The baby advertised in the Glaxo Company calendar was not as lovely as Suhrid was growing up
to be. Before he learnt to call Ma, he learnt to say Da Da, Dadu. Haseena looked askance at the love and care given to
Suhrid. Dada, too. Even though Suhrid was growing up with so much love and care, he seemed to be suffering from an illness.
When he urinated he screamed at the top of his voice. The doctor examined him and said surgery was required. Baba and I took
Suhrid to the hospital. At home Ma loudly wailed in anxiety. The operation theatre resounded with Suhrids screams. Standing
outside, even my eyes had tears pouring down them. When Chhotda and Geeta came next month, I thought they, too, would cry
on hearing of Suhrids agony. But when they came, just as I began to give a detailed description of how this tiny mite had been
writhing in agony, Chhotda stopped me midway and said, Hes become a true Mussalman; thats a good thing. I didnt have
the privilege of hearing even a tiny commiserating sound of Aha. In a heavy voice, I said, This was not a circumcision. This
was phymesis that requires this operation.
Lets play cards, said Chhotda pulling me with one hand and Geeta with the other, towards the bedroom.
While we were playing cards in this room, Ma was putting Suhrid to sleep in the other, singing lullabies. He was unable to
sleep, and was restless, with the onset of a fever. Ma was putting cold compresses on him. Hearing about the fever, Yasmin and
I ran out abandoning the game. A message was sent to Baba. He came and checked Suhrids fever. He went back speedily to the
Pharmacy to get the medicines. I told Geeta and Chhotda, Suhrids body is burning with fever. Wrinkling her forehead, Geeta
asked, How did he get this fever? Did you feed him something stale?
Stale? Are you mad? Ma washes the feeding bottles seven times in boiling water.
Raising her eyes to her forehead, Geeta asked in a tone which implied that she was hearing for the first time that anything could
be washed seven times, She washes them seven times? Ma actually did so. She was so scared the baby would get a stomach
upset or fever. Suhrid very easily fell sick.
Go, why dont you go to Suhrid for a while? Go, and see him, I told Geeta. Having no alternative, Geeta left the cards and
went to sit by Suhrid. But within two minutes, she lay down, and went to sleep. Finally she had to come to another bed and
sleep. Ma stayed awake the whole night with the feverish Suhrid.
After Suhrid had spent three months at Aubokash, Haseena had to go to the hospital. She was to have a baby. Dadas friends
were doctors and Babas friends were professors, so it was very convenient. After the delivery, Dada fed all the doctors not just
sweets, but Biryani in the hospital cabin, for the mouse-like little boy. I took my classmates and went and ate the Biryani. The
mouse was brought back to Aubokash. Haseena made arrangements for her own baby to be cared for in exactly the same away
as Suhrid was taken care of. A maid was brought from Arjunkhila to look after the baby. The new maid carried the baby
around, and washed the nappies and clothes of the new baby. There were now four maids in the house. Nargis and Jharna were
there for Suhrid and the new baby Shubho. To do the work for the elders, the cooking, the washing, the cleaning of the house
there was Anus Ma and Sufi. Another called Phulera, brought from Arjunkhila, was there to attend to Haseenas personal
chores. One day Baba sat down to count the maids. After finishing his count he said, One man has to provide meals for so
many people! Get rid of them.
Who is your father asking to get rid of? Is it Jharna? Haseena asked insinuatingly.
Dada said, He did not mean Jharna.
Before Jharna came, no head count was done!
Baba does a head count quite often.
Did he count after Nargis joined?
Thats a point! He didnt.
Try to understand the ways of this world a little.
You think I dont understand?
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No, you certainly dont. If you did, you could have said something. Suhrid, it appears is their only grandson. What percentage
of what is done for Suhrid is done for Shubho? Have you ever bothered to calculate?
Dada kept quiet. Maybe he was trying to gauge the ways of this world.
The rough voice was rising in pitch. Go, the babys powder is required, go get it.
What are you saying Mumu? I just got powder yesterday!
Its rubbish. It makes the face become rough. Get Johnsons.
The Johnsons baby powder available in the market is a duplicate. They stuff the containers with flour. The Tibbot powder is
good.
This is really surprising! Am I going to use local stuff for Shubho now? Are you absolutely mad? Dont you see what care is
being given to another child before your very eyes? Are any local products being used in that room?
If I went abroad like Kamaal, maybe I too could have got foreign goods like him. The other day I bought Poison scent, Made
in France, but the dirty fellows, had filled the bottle with Noorani Attar. Do you know what these hawkers who buy empty
bottles do? They take the bottles, and sell them at Jinjirae. You know, everything available at Jinjirae is imitation.
Giving Haseena a half-used container of Johnsons Baby powder, Ma said, My four children have grown up on local talcum
powders, people in the locality seeing their skins have asked what do I apply that they have such beautiful complexions.
Haseena did not take the talc. There was no container that was full. Ma promised to ask Chhotda the next time he came, to get
foreign talc for Shubho. On the day of the powder incident, Yasmin returned from college and finding Jharna near by said, Get
me a glass of water, will you Jharna?
Jharna walked around here and there, but did not get the water.
Kire, arent you getting some water?
I am employed for the babys work. Mami has asked me not to do any other work. You have Nargis, tell her.
For the elders, instead of two maids there was now only one. This had not happened because of Babas making a noise about
reducing the staff. Anus Ma had left on her own. This kind of disappearance was not a very uncommon event. If one
disappeared, another appeared. Now Nargis, after finishing the babys work, had to do the elders work as well. From dawn to
dusk Nargis was mopping the floors. She was only thirteen years of age. Her lips and skin were dry as wood, a horrid stink
emanated from her body. Leaving the mopping, horrid stink ran to the tap, filled a glass of water and gave it to Yasmin.
Horrid stink returned to the room.
Kire, Nargis, dont you have a bath?
I do.
Any questions about food or bathing made her bend her head in shame.
Kire, have you eaten, Nargis?
Ill just finish mopping the rooms and go to eat.
It is almost dusk, havent you had your lunch as yet?
Arent you hungry? I asked.
No, Im not. I have eaten!
When did you eat?
I had breakfast in the morning.
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Do you every day have your lunch in the evening?
No, no. What are you saying, Apa? I washed the clothes. Thats why Ive got a little late today.
My eyes filled with sympathy, my mind became distressed.
My anger only served to increase the heat which was making Ma sweat, who was sitting next to the stove, boiling the milk.
Dont you even give Nargis time to bathe and eat?
Ma exploded, saying, Are you keeping track of when she eats and has a bath! She is such a slow girl; she takes ten minutes to
wash one bottle. She herself said she would eat after mopping the floors.
That evening Nargis never managed to eat her meal. By the time she did it was twelve oclock at night. I felt pity for the girl.
The very next morning she was rolling out rotis in the kitchen. As soon as she heard my call for tea, she came and stood before
me with a cup. I jumped up in shock when I saw her face, which was covered with red boils.
Kire whats wrong with you, do you have measles?
No, nothing is wrong!
What are all these marks on your face?
Nothing, said Nargis, laughing and covering her face with her hands.
Removing her hands, I examined the marks on her face. There were a few hundred eruptions on the face, making it look
hideous. There were boils on her arms and legs as well.
You have measles.
No, why should I get measles? What are you saying, Apa? Just a couple of mosquito bites.
Mosquitoes have bitten you in this way?
Ma had come to give Suhrids soiled sheets to Nargis. She had to go and wash them at the taps. Sufi would now roll out the
rotis.
Cant you give Nargis a mosquito net, Ma? Her face is in a terrible shape!
She has a net. Why doesnt she use it? said Ma in an unconcerned voice.
I do hang up the net. The mosquitoes enter through the one or two holes in it. Nothing much, Nargis kept her cheeks hidden,
her two hands piled with clothes.
I have told her to mend the torn net, but shes the laziest of the lazy, said Ma.
That night when Nargis had laid out a torn kantha on which to lie down, it was very late. I pulled her up and said, Go and hang
the net and sleep. Sleepy-eyed, she went to the kitchen and got the net from a shelf. Nargis started putting up the torn net, one
loop on a chair, another on a bolt. I counted and found ninety-eight holes in the net. There was no difference between using
such a net and not using one at all.
There were more new pimples on Nargis face. The next day I again took up the question of the net.
Ma was feeding Suhrid milk, while he was lying on her legs. Going close, I told her while fondling Suhrids cheeks, Ma, are
there no other nets except that torn one? Have you seen Nargis face?
Wouldnt I have given another net if there had been one? Does your father buy anything? I manage by mending all the torn
mosquito nets. If I were to say the maid needs a net, he would turn around and say awful things to me. He has bought a new
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mosquito net for Suhrids bed. Otherwise I would have had to make do with a torn one.
Then tell him I need a new net for my bed. Then I will use the new one, and give the old one to the maids. Even Sufi is being
bitten by mosquitoes.
You dont know your father! He will never buy anything. He sends all his money away. Even yesterday Riazzuddin came and
took money.
Suhrid suddenly burped, and vomited.
Mas temper flared. This boy cant stomach anything, whatever I feed him he vomits it out.
Ma threw the bottle away. Nargis brought some soup and said softly, Khala, will you give him soup now?
Throw it away. What is the point of feeding him? He throws up everything.
I knew that whatever Ma might say, she would again enthusiastically start feeding either soup or milk to the baby. Again he
would throw up, and again she would feed him. In Mas extreme care the boy was growing nice and roly-poly.
Chhotda brought Geeta to see roly-poly one day. After roaming all over town the whole day and visiting Peonpara, he
returned home in the evening and happily said, We will have to leave tomorrow. I have a flight day after.
As soon as you come, you say you are leaving, said Ma. You didnt even take Suhrid in your lap once.
He doesnt come to me, how can I pet him?
Suhrid did not like going to anyone except Ma, Baba, Yasmin and me. He turned his face away, even when his own parents
visited. Even if Chhotda didnt mind this, Geeta did.
My own son and he doesnt even look at me!
Ma laughed and said, He sees us before his eyes all the time, thats why. You must come more frequently. Then he will
recognise you.
In the morning, Ma ran to the kitchen to make breakfast for Chhotda goat meat and paranthas fried in ghee. Whenever
Chhotda and all visited, fancy food was cooked. The Chhotda whom Baba had wanted to disinherit, was now lovingly made to
sit next to him and fondly called, My Baba, my son. The Chhotda who used to steal Dadas clothes and wear them, now wore
clothes which made Dadas eyes shine. He would say, Bah! Thats a lovely shirt! Get me a shirt like this, will you! The
Chhotda who used to beg one or two takas from me, now said Kire, what news of your Shenjuti!
What news can there be! No money to print it.
Give me your manuscript. I will get it printed from Dhaka.
Chhotda took the manuscript of Shenjuti and went to Dhaka to have it printed. The manuscript was already prepared. This
Shenjuti not only had Rudras poems, along with them, it also had Those who are young now, this is the best time for them to
go to war, a poem written by the quiet, solitary poet Helal Hafeez, and also other poems written by poets from West Bengal. A
friend of Rudra called Moinul Ahsan Saheb, had lately begun writing stories. He wrote wonderful stories. A story of his, and
one of my own, my first in Shenjuti, along with an essay on the past and present poetry of Sharafuddin Ahmed, Professor of
Bangla at Anandamohan College appeared in Shenjuti. This time I had not designed the cover. I had got it done by an artist.
Before handing the manuscript over to Chhotda, I hurriedly wrote an editorial. I was absolutely dejected. There is such a
dearth of truth and beauty in the country, that if you take one step forward to create something you have to take two steps back.
My father says that by harping on Shenjuti I am destroying my future. Ma sadly says the girl has ruined herself. I was so
desolate, when one person held out his hand in co-operation. My beloved from the days of my childhood and adolescence.
From whose writings I secretly got the inspiration for my poetry. Into his hands I have bestowed the wealth of my hard work
and dedication Shenjuti, along with my utmost trust.
Chhotda upheld the pride of my trust in him. He got Shenjuti printed and brought it back. Of course it took all of three months
for it to reach me. Chhotda said, Ive omitted that bearded fellows poetry.
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Seeing Shenjuti minus Rudras poems made me very unhappy. My first job was to send ten copies to Rudras address. On
receipt, he asked for twenty-five more copies. After the twenty-five, he asked for more. Shenjuti was distributed in
Mymensingh. Giving it for sale in the magazine shop on Station Road, also sold many copies. I was keen to put together
another manuscript for Shenjuti. But where was the time? The pressure of studies was increasing. Baba said, If you dont start
preparing for the finals from now, then you wont be able to pass. Baba was not saying anything wrong. Every year students
got stuck in the finals. They were unable to clear their papers in two chances, sometimes not even in four. Baba had asked
Rajib, a year senior to me, to give me his notes. Rajib was a student who had come first in every medical exam, a favourite of
all the Professors. What could be said in one word in medical studies was written in a hundred words, in every detail, in the pile
of copies that he came and gave me. My days began to pass pouring over these details of veins and arteries.
Nana was coming over almost every afternoon. Sitting on a chair in the verandah, he stared at the sun in the courtyard. He
continued to stare till Ma came and called him to sit on a stool either in the sun in the verandah or courtyard. She then
proceeded to scrub and bathe his fair body. Ma was exhausted with looking after the household and Suhrid. In spite of that,
whenever Nana came she would make him sit in the sun and scrub and bathe him, dress him in a washed lungi of Babas and
make him lie down. Nana would go to sleep like a baby. When he woke up, Ma would bring rice for him to eat, followed by
payesh, rice pudding in milk. While Nana was partaking of his payesh, Baba would return. Embarrassed, Ma would say,
Bajaan hardly ever comes home, and even when he does, he does not eat anything, I have finally persuaded him to take some
payesh.
In a cold voice Baba would say, You are feeding payesh to your father who has diabetes.
Nothing will happen if he eats a little. Bajaan loves sweets.
I would be immersed in my details. When I rose up from them and went to dispose of the sherbet Ma gave me in the toilet, I
would find Ma sitting holding on to the door.
Ki? Have you passed blood due to piles?
Yes.
With her bloodless body Ma would rise to begin sterilizing Suhrids feeding bottles in boiling water. Filling the bottle with
milk, Ma would feed him, while telling him the story of a handsome prince. Once he finished the milk, she would put him to
sleep singing a lullaby about a prince exiled to a forest. At night, when Baba returned she would say, Isnt there any treatment
for piles? Whatever blood I have in my body, is almost all gone!
Baba would not reply. Once he would peep into my room to check whether I was studying the veins and arteries or not, or was I
either writing poetry or love letters!
In a plaintive voice Ma would keep saying, I should be drinking some milk. At least one banana a day. One egg. If I pass so
much blood, there will be nothing left in me. Should I ask Bhagis mother to deliver a quarter kilo of milk for me?
Baba never replied to any of this.
Suhrid had learnt to crawl. He had learnt to play with all the variety of toys surrounding him. At every stage of Suhrids
progress, Yasmin and I were overjoyed. We snatched him from each others arms, to take him out, to rock him around. We took
Suhrid in our laps and sat in the swing on the verandah to swing with him.
Dada sat in the verandah and sang with full-throated ease, A house of bones is joined together by a covering of skin. He had
learnt this song from a beggar singing on the streets of Tangail.
Haseena came out of her room and barked, Singing wont do! Go get chicken for Shubho.
Dada stopped singing and asked, Isnt there any chicken?
No, there isnt. There is no chicken for Shubho.
Nothing will happen, Mumu, if he doesnt eat chicken for one day.
Haseenas voice rose, the harshness of her tone like a ravens, Nothing will happen, meaning? There is another baby in the
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house, dont you see with what care he is being brought up! Why is there so much neglect regarding your child! Is there only
one grandson? Isnt Shubho a grandson?
Why do you say there is no chicken? There they are walking about in the courtyard.
Haseenas eyes spewed sparks of fire. There are no baby-chicks.
See there, Mumu, there is the cage; there are the baby-chicks. Tell them to slaughter one.
Those are for Suhrid, you know that very well. Baba hasnt bought any chicken for your son, has he?
Hearing the noise, Ma came and poked her nose. Bouma, what is this you are saying? Your father-in-law always buys chicken
for both the babies. Isnt soup always made of two chickens? One for Suhrid, and one for Shubho. Your father-in-law buys
milk, eggs and everything else for both the babies. Shubho and Suhrid are both his grandsons.
Both are grandsons; that even I know. But everyones attention is focused only on one grandson. Who turns to look at
Shubho? Haseena harshly retorted.
What do you mean by turns to look? You are talking such nonsense. Suhrids parents are not here. That is why he has to be
looked after. Shubho has his parents with him.
Haseena went to her room and changed her sari. I am going to Parveen Apas house. Ma, look after Shubho, will you? Saying
which, she strutted out without glancing back once. Ma was then left holding Suhrid in one arm and Shubho in the other.
Dada sang the rest of the song.
Haseena very often visited her so-called cousin, who was actually her own sister, Parveen. She went to Kusums house as well.
Kusum had left her own husband, the Railway School Headmaster, and had married a married man called Karim, who also had
children. Karim looked a lot like a watermelon, all round. So did Kusum. This round watermelon visited this house very often
after Dadas wedding, and said, Do come, you all can visit the Botanical Gardens. Karim was in a way in charge of looking
after the Botanical Gardens of the Agricultural University. In a way, because neither was he a botanist, nor a gardener. While
visiting one day, I had got saplings of a variety of flowers. I dug the field and planted them. Thousands of roses had bloomed.
The cherry tree was growing rapidly, and had almost touched the roof. At sudden intervals I felt a desire for gardening. Once in
the garden bordering the tin shed, I planted coriander saplings. Every morning I would feel the earth with my fingers and feel
disappointed; the plants took so long to grow! After planting the rose trees, I went every hour to see whether the flowers were
blooming or not. A week passed by, but there was no sign of a rose. Bas, my enthusiasm was extinguished. Like all the other
weeds, the rose trees too continued to grow tall. One day, on returning from college, I was surprised to find one red rose
blooming. The joy of getting something wished for was not as much as the joy of getting something unexpectedly!
When Haseena returned, Ma handed over Shubho to his mother. Then dressing Suhrid up, Ma took him to Nanibari. She had
not been there in a long time. My room was alongside the verandah. Since even whispers in the verandah were audible to me, I
could clearly hear Yasmin walking on the verandah and saying, Kire, Shubhos soiled potty is lying in the verandah since
morning, why doesnt someone remove it!
Haseena, who was sitting with her feet up in a chair on the verandah, said, Why dont you remove it?
What did you say?
I said, why dont you remove it? Since you can see that it is lying around.
Why should I remove it?
Dont you remove Suhrids pot?
Yes, I do.
Then why cant you remove Shubhos pot?
Why should I remove Shubhos pot?
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Why, cant you remove Shubhos pot?
No, I cant.
You think you can say you cant? You will have to.
I wont.
You will.
Why will I have to? Doesnt Shubho have a maid? What is Jharna doing?
Suhrid too has Nargis. Yet you all still remove Suhrids pot. You all are Suhrids servants.
Yes, servants. We are Suhrids servants, good for us.
You will be Shubhos servants as well.
Why should we?
You will have to.
Just because you say so?
Yes, just because I say so.
What did you say?
Exactly what I said.
Say it again.
If you can eat Suhrids potty, you have to eat Shubhos as well.
Yasmin now kicked Shubhos potty into the courtyard. Haseena flew at her and pulling Yasmins hair said, Go pick up the
pot. Yasmin too giving a yank to Haseenas hair, said, You pick it up.
Hearing the noise, I left my veins and arteries and came and stood at the door. Seeing the mutual hair pulling, I insinuated
between them and tried to free Yasmin. The three of us struggled with each other. From somewhere, in the middle of all this, a
suited-booted Dada flew in and descended over Yasmin and me. Holding Yasmins hair strongly by the fist, he pulled her all the
way to the courtyard and threw her down in the center where the soiled pot was lying upturned. Haseena ran towards the
flattened Yasmin, and scratching her face and chest, she began to thrash her on her back. Yasmin, lying face down on the
macadam, was keener to throw Haseena on the pot than free herself. Haseena pushed her face into the pot with both hands.
Moving away her face, Yasmin caught hold of Haseenas leg with her claws, wanting to pull her down, but in vain. Dada now
kicked Yasmin on her shoulders, continuously kicked her shoulders, back, buttocks and thighs. Yasmins hands jerked off
Haseenas legs. Haseena held the pot over Yasmins face, who had wound herself into a coil in face of the kicking. Her face was
smeared with Shubhos excrement. I stood open-mouthed with shock at this cruel incident. I couldnt believe this was our own
Dada! In the meanwhile, from Arogya Bitaan, Baba had sent ten chickens separately for Shubho with Salaam. Standing on the
verandah, Salaam too looked at this inhuman scene absolutely thunderstruck. He saw. But it became impossible for me to keep
standing open-mouthed and watch. I ran to free Yasmin, I couldnt. I too had boxes raining down on my back, and had my hair
severely pulled. Dada and Haseena were then kicking Yasmin hard all over her body. Yasmin did not cry. Her jaw-bone became
stronger by the minute. Helpless, I continued to sit next to Yasmin. Both our bodies were rolling in the dust.
After this incident, I stopped talking to Dada and Haseena.
When Ma returned and heard everything, she paced from one room to the other; she paced uselessly, muttering, Her body is
filled with jealousy. She cant stand Suhrid. One day she will poison and kill the boy.
Baba heard about the incident and did not react.
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On observing Babas silence, Ma screamed and said, After hearing how your son and his wife beat your daughters almost to
death, you still arent doing anything about it! Yasmin cant even move her body; her bones are all broken with the beating! I
will give Suhrid back to Kamaal. He is their enemy. The boy is being brought up in this house. That is what they just cant
stand. You stay with your son and his wife. I will go away someplace. Khuda, what a son I gave birth to! He not only beats his
own sisters, he does so along with his wife.
Faced with Babas silence, Ma screamed, Nasreen, Yasmin, look for boys, get married and leave this house quickly. Your
father, too, will encourage his son to beat you into cripples.
No one answered Mas statements.
Seven days later, Dada informed this stuffy house that he had been transferred to Bongura. Baba called Dada, made him sit next
to him and asked, Why Bongura?
How do I know? The company has transferred me, Dada replied unhappily.
Is Bongura a place to go? What is there in Bongura?
A formidable fortress is there.
What will you do with a formidable fortress?
They get very good curd in Bongura.
Are you going there out of greed for that curd?
I am going because I have been transferred.
Where will you stay so far away, leaving your own home? What will you eat?
Dada rose and went away, Baba continued to sit. Ma hurried him up, Rice has been served; have your food.
That night, Baba had no wish to eat. Holding on to his hair with his two hands, he kept sitting.
The person who was the happiest at Dadas transfer was Haseena. She counted the crockery and the cutlery, and packed them in
boxes. Sitting in front of the black gate in a chair, swinging her feet, Haseena made an inventory of all Dadas furniture and
packed them into trunks. Even the television.
****
After Dada and all left, the rooms suddenly looked bare. In one corner lay the old, faded, cane sofa and a few peeling chairs.
There were some square marks on the wall and a few hooks.
I noticed, quite often, that Ma sat alone in the verandah, towards dusk. I couldnt understand whether the sound of Mas deep
sighs floated into the room along with the breeze. The evening lamps lit every room. Ma continued to sit alone in the dark, the
tasbih, rosary, hanging from her hands, moving. Leaving my room, shaking off my stiffness, I paced up and down the courtyard
uselessly, one evening.
Ma, why are you sitting outside? Come in.
Heaving a loud sigh, Ma said, Noman left the house in anger! If the son of the house doesnt stay at home, who wants to stay
then?
Why do you keep saying Noman, Noman? Arent we there? Or is it that we are no one to you!
Girls, you see, leave home when they get married.
In a bitter tone I said, It is your sons who have gone to other homes. It is your daughters who have remained.
Daughters are here today, gone tomorrow, said Ma.
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Your sons arent here even today. Theres no question of tomorrow.
Ma became silent.
Leaning with my two hands and swinging back and forth on the clothes line in the verandah, staring towards the darkness of the
courtyard, I said, You keep saying sons, sons. But both yours have moved away.
Yes, theyve all gone. Now their wives are dearest to them. Father, mother, brothers and sisters are of no consequence, said
Ma in a faint voice.
I went inside. I sat with peaceful silence surrounding me. Yasmin just slept all day. She was attending Anandamohan everyday.
But at home she was not interested in her books at all. Baba had asked Debnath Pandit to come home and teach Yasmin, but he
had refused. He had refused because the number of students had increased to such an extent that it was difficult for him to take
time out for a single student. He could only teach in groups. Yasmin joined these groups at Debnath Pandits house. On her
return, she would throw her books away saying, I dont understand a word of what he teaches! At home she never sat down
with her books. Startling the stillness of the house, I screamed, Yasmin, sit down to study. Yasmin turned over and slept. I
yelled again, Get up, sit down to study. Yasmin shouted me down. She was aware of what she had to do, she knew better and
no one needed to give her any advice. She kept me at a distance. A white cat was now my companion. One cat. A cat was a
better option. A hundred times better than a human being. I sat hugging the cat close. In this house, cats entered either through
the gap in the drain or by jumping over the wall. They lay in wait for an opportunity to enter the kitchen and put their mouths
into the vessels. Whenever one came, Ma shooed it away. It seems all cats were thieving cats. They went away when shooed,
but came back again. This white cat, when it came, had been shooed away as well. It had been taken to the drain on the other
side of the black gate and thrown over. The cat had cleaned itself and returned to the house again. Finally the cat had been left
in the confusion of the perishable raw foods at Notun Bazar. The next day I found the cat sunning herself in the courtyard. This
time Baba ordered that it should be tied up in a sack and thrown on the other side of the river. That was also done. Salaam put
the cat into a sack, tied the open end tightly with a rope, hired a boat and went and threw it on the other bank of the
Brahmaputra in the midst of thorny bushes. Everyone at home knew the cat would not return; there was no reason for it to.
Seven days had passed, everyone had forgotten about the cat completely. Yet suddenly, one evening I saw the cat standing in
front of the black gate, its eyes shining. The minute I called it, it ran and came to me. Taking it to the kitchen, I gave it whatever
rice remained at the bottom of the pan. It wolfed down the food, and followed me wherever I went after that. I did not allow it
to be thrown out anymore. It remained at home, and slept at my feet on my bed at night. If I sat on a chair it leapt into my lap.
The cat was spending its life in this house eating fish-bones. I left a little of my food on the plate for the cat. Unknown to Ma, I
would take a portion of my share of fish and mix it with the rice for the cat. I would sit hugging the cat in my room. Yasmin
would be asleep in the other room which at one time had been Chhotdas room. Waking up from sleep, she would have her meal
and go back to sleep again, as though there was no such bliss in life as sleep. There was pain in the bones of her shoulder, her
back and her knees. Dada and Haseenas inhumanity had given her these disabilities. I had taken Yasmin to the hospital doctors.
I had taken her to the Professor of Medicine, Prabhakar Purkayastha. Whenever he placed the stethoscope on her chest, he
pressed her breasts. She came out of Prabhakars room with an irritated look on her face. Afterwards the pain in her knees
became so acute that she could neither sit nor stand. To test her knees, I took her to the bearded Harunur Rashid Khan. He was
an orthopaedic surgeon. Not just a doctor, but actually the Head of the Orthopaedic Department. He had a long beard, wore a
cap, and was dressed in pyjama-panjabi. I was not used to seeing my Professor in this dress. Whatever his dress, he was a good
doctor. When Baba was in the hospital, he had given Baba an amulet to keep under his pillow. It seems it was a medicine to
cure illness. I took Yasmin to this tall, fair, bearded, good, number one orthopaedic doctor, who believed in amulets, talismans
and Allah-Rasool. He made Yasmin lie down on the patient examination table in his chambers. Drawing the curtains, he began
to press her knees. From her knees his hands rose to press her under belly, then the stomach and finally her chest. Did he press
her breast in order to check the existence of her lungs or heart! On coming out, all Yasmin said was, Dont ever take me to any
doctor again. There is no need for my illness to be cured. I had wanted many times to go to Harunur Rashid Khan and ask him,
You were supposed to examine my sisters knees, not her chest. What was there to examine in her chest? I had wanted to tell
Prabhakar Purkayastha, You do not suffer from Parkinsons, then how come your hands keep moving away from the
stethoscope when you place it on someones chest! I had wanted to, but couldnt. The words got stuck inside my throat, and
were never uttered.
***
Ma was still outside in the dark; the Tasbih in her hands did not move.
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CHAPTER XVII
The Bridal Bed of Flowers
I had seen lakes and rivers, but had never yet seen the sea. After Dada returned with his bride from their honeymoon at
the sea-side beach resort of Coxbazar, I had asked, Dada dear, what does the sea look like? Dada had said only one
thing that you had to see it to believe it. What the sea is like, can never be described in words, one has to stand before
the sea to appreciate it. Dada was more enthusiastic about the aeroplane than the sea. He had flown in a plane for the
first time. So far, whenever Chhotda had told us stories about planes, Dadas eyes had been full of desire. That hunger in
his eyes had finally been quenched. None of mine was quenched however. I was keener about the sea rather than the
plane.
Without having seen the sea, just on the basis of the photographs of Dada and Haseena taken at the sea-side, I wrote
three poems about the sea. When my heart was full of this unseen sea, Lets go and visit the sea, pack your clothes was
the cry that arose. In the fourth year this wonderful event took place. A whole class of students with the Professors of
Community Medicine went far away, far in the sense anywhere between the north of the country and its southern most
tip. At the tip was a mass of silvery water, in which you could drown or float. Of course it was said that we were being
taken to observe a humid climate, but actually it was to give us a change of atmosphere. Like patients needed a change
of air to recuperate, doctors-to-be too needed a change of scene. They got a small break from the hospital and its air,
filled night and day with the smell of pus.
We were to go from Mymensingh to Dhaka, from Dhaka by train to Chattagram, and from Chattagram to Coxbazar by
bus. There was turmoil at home, real turmoil, something like this had never happened before; going alone to some far
away town without any relative in tow. Ma repeatedly asked, The Professors will be there, wont they! Two hours
journey to Dhaka was okay, there were relatives there as well. But in Chattagram no Mama or Kaka of mine lived.
Maybe because I was going beyond the reach of the Mamas and Kakas, in my heart danced a hundred peacocks with
their feathers on display. Baba had generously given money, not just the fee for the hygiene tour, but some thing extra
as well. The group left for Dhaka by train. Chhotda had now left Segun Gardens and had rented a house in Nayapaltan.
After spending the night at Nayapaltan, I had to reach Kamalapur Rail Station by eight the next morning. At night, as
soon as I asked Geeta for a sari to wear, she immediately opened her almirah and spread out red, blue, green, yellow,
kataan silks, in fact even muslins for me to choose, not just one, as many as I liked. I even got a camera, in which a light
came on as soon as the button was pressed. What else could I want! I had got much more than I had hoped for.
Next day on the train, sometimes joining in the fun and games, and sometimes sitting gloomy eyed at the window, I
reached Chattagram. From Chattagram, we drove through a forest along a winding path which had rows of rubber
plantations. By the time we crossed these and reached Chattagram, my excitement was at its peak. The bus was moving
towards a sound, a tremendous sound, different, earth-shaking, water-rippling sound. I tried to make out where exactly
the sound was coming from. My eyes just wouldnt leave the windows of the bus. Far away something white was rising
and falling. Safinaz, with whom from a casual friendship, I had now graduated to a close one, hung out of the window
and said Is that the sea? Being a girl who had never been to the sea-side, I wanted to get off the bus and run to see if
this really was the sea or not, but who would allow me to do that? First we had to go to the motel, only after that could
we go to see the sea. At the motel, instead of two, four people were put into one room. After keeping my suitcase in the
room assigned, the first thing I did was to run towards that sound. No bath, no food, no rest. I had to visit the sea first,
before I did anything else. Safinaz was a methodical girl, a girl who ate at meal times, studied at study-time, slept at
sleep time. But she had to accompany me in my excitement. I did not walk towards that loud roar, I ran. When I
reached it, surprise and enchantment rendered me inert, numb and stupefied. I could not utter a single word. Something
so vast, so wondrously beautiful, so amazingly delightful to the heart, I had never seen in my life. I had grown up next to
the small pond at Nanibari. The three cornered lake in town was twice the size of the pond at Nanibari. I had had to
wait for a few years to see it. I had seen the Brahmaputra when I grew up. Seeing the then thin stream of the
Brahmaputra, I had thought there couldnt be anything bigger than this in the world. I had imagined the sea. But that
image could not come even close to the beauty of the reality. My unbounded imagination had not been able to picture
anything as vast as this, as wonderfully beautiful and as absolutely limitless as this. I did not notice that my eyes were
wet with tears. The sun was setting on the sea. I listened raptly to the sea, and watched the sight of the setting sun with
my misty eyes. I had seen the sun setting many times before, but had never seen such a sight. The inexhaustible beauty
of nature left me overwhelmed, enamoured and bewitched. Gradually groups of students began to come, and stared
unblinkingly at the setting sun. I didnt feel like turning away from this beauty. When night fell, Safinaz pulled me back
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to the motel, as the beach was not safe at night. The girls all went back to the motel, the boys stayed on till late at night
on the beach, to watch the full moon. I wanted to be a boy. I wished I could soak all night in the sea and moonlight. In
the verandah of the motel room, I sat alone listening to the call of the sea in the moonlight. It was calling me come,
come, come. Before sunrise, I woke up and ran to see the sun rise over the sea. I was wearing a red sari. My feet were
bare, my hair loose. The waves in the sea washed me and drowned me. The rays of the rising sun kissed the beads of
water on my body. Flocks of girls came, I told them to play with the waves. What rises and floods the body like a tidal
wave is called love. I call it intoxication, an acute desire. This enchanting killer inundates the heart, makes life drift, calls
come, come, even though it is calling to disaster, this is called love, I call it happiness, a dream. I played the whole day in
the waters of the sea. I was intoxicated, in love. In the evening, sipping cinnamon tea in the shanty shops, I waited for
the sun to set.
Touching its lips to the salty water, I saw that the full moon in the sky had fallen over. My body danced in joy, the raw
autumnal scents brought on the tempests. The sea, putting to sleep the princess on her magic bedstead, with a golden wand
at its head, called come, come, yet again come!
From the sea, we were brought back to Chattagram. Arrangements were made for the girls to stay in the Chattagram
Medical College Girls Hostel, and for the boys in the Boys Hostel. Along with Halida, Safinaz, Shipra and a few other
friends, I wandered around under a green hillock, along the meandering blue waters of the Fayez Lake. Sitting on the
grass I watched the swans flying around with their wings outspread. I enjoyed everything very much, so much so that
Rudras absence began to sadden me a little. If Rudra had been here, we could have walked hand in hand around the
waters of this lake, around this mountain. We could have soaked our hearts in the beauty of this incomparable greenery.
Before leaving Mymensingh I had written to Rudra, informing him that I was going to the sea-side, and that he should
come there. I had given him every detail of when I would be returning to Chattagram from Coxbazar, where I would be
staying, and again when I would be leaving Chattagram for Dhaka. I had never had such a wonderful time ever before
in my life, and that he should try somehow to come. He had been at Mithekhali for a long time. However many promises
he made to come out of Mithekhali in a week or two, this was one place he could never leave before two-three months.
The village had chains; whenever he went, whether he liked it or not, he got entangled in those chains.
The night before we were to leave Chattagram for Dhaka, Rudra arrived. Saiful, Rudras younger brother was at the
students hostel with him. Saiful had just joined the first year of Chattagram Medical College. I saw Saiful for the first
time that night. A small built cheerful boy. He had the same large eyes like Rudras. A neat and clean boy. The boy was
great; he was talking as though he had known me for a lifetime. I easily became informal with him. That night the three
of us took a rickshaw to a restaurant. While eating dinner my eyes kept straying to Rudras red eyes, overgrown hair
and beard. He looked as though he hadnt bathed for seven days, hadnt slept, and had this minute emerged from some
cave. It was seven days since I had left Mymensingh. Why hadnt he come before, why had he come only for such a short
time, the day before we were to return? The two of us could have played in the sea, in the waves. We could have sat side
by side and watched the sunrise and sunset. In the moonlight, we could have sat on the sands late into the night, our legs
stretched out, watching the moon swimming in the waters of the sea. I could have peacefully roamed around
Chattagram in a hooded rickshaw with him, without the fear of Babas blood-shot eyes and other restrictions. My pique
clouded over me like smoke. Rudras heavy voice pulled aside the smoke screen and touched me. From Chattagram
tomorrow, I did not have to go to Dhaka, but to Mongla. Although I was always very keen to see a new town, on hearing
about the proposal to see Mongla, I said No. I said no, because the Professors would not allow me to leave the group.
It could not happen. There was more touring left in Dhaka, and I had to return to Mymensingh with the group. Rudra
frowned with his eyes and mouth, when I said no. Saiful said, Arrey, go Boudi, go and visit Mongla for a little while.
On being called Boudi by Saiful, I suddenly became aware that I was someones sister-in-law, and if I was a sister-in-law
that meant I was also someones wife. In the student hostel at night, lying next to Safinaz, I tossed from side to side. My
thoughts climbed, via a rope from this closed room to the terrace on top. From the terrace they climbed higher into
space, spreading my two arms I floated. What joy! What joy! When would I ever again enjoy such a holiday! Would a
better opportunity ever come again in my life? Why should I let go this chance to disappear into the blue! Swallowing
and gulping nervously, the next day I took Rudra along with me and told the less smart Professor of the two, that I had
to go that very day to Khulna. I would return tomorrow itself to Dhaka from Khulna, and would be there for the Dhaka
tour. But whether a simpleton or not, why should the Professor let me go? Since he had the responsibility of taking so
many Doctors on a tour, he would want to return with them, and complete his duty.
Who will you go with? he asked.
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Who was I going with?
The simple answer to this would have been to point out the bearded gentleman and say with him. The next question
that would arise would then be Who is he, what is he? That answer could possibly be, He is Rudra, a poet. The next
question to be expected, and a very natural one because the professor was a simpleton would be Who is he to you?
Seeing my unhappy face, Shaukat and Madira came to my rescue. Both had had a love marriage, they knew the joy of
breaking away from the party. Shaukat whispered in my ear, First tell me if you are married or not. Sir will have to be
told you are going with your husband, otherwise he will not let you go.
No, this fact could not be disclosed. If this Sir went and informed my Baba Sir, it would be disastrous. Shaukat, laughing
at the sight of my undecided stance, said, Tell Sir that it is a secret and is not to be disclosed to anyone!
Suppose he does?
Arrey, you come back to Dhaka after two days, and return to Mymensingh with the group, what problem can there
be!
Shaukat cleared the way for me to go to Khulna. That this was not a case of running away with an improper man, in
fact it was very much a disappearance with a lawful husband was what he hinted at to the Professor-cum-bodyguard,
and got me through. I took to the road with Rudra. From the road to a train to Khulna, and from Khulna by launch to
Mongla. I felt very lonely, separated from the group. With the group there had been a lot of jubilation. Suddenly
everything was muted. Out of the blue, the ties of a relationship seemed to have enveloped me. It was as though I had
been dropped like a frog into a well of duties and responsibilities.
****
The launch was plying over the Rupsha River towards Mongla. I was seeing a new river, new kinds of people. I began to
enjoy myself. Boarding the launch, Rudra said, Change your sari.
Why? This one is fine.
I was wearing a white sari. Although not used to wearing them, all the girls had worn saris for the sea-side excursion. At
this chance to wear saris I too had been quite delighted.
Do as I say.
Why, am I looking bad in this sari?
Yes. Change it. Hurry up. The ghat is approaching.
Is it really necessary to change the sari?
Yes, very necessary.
Rudra obviously did not have ideas only about poetry, he thought about saris as well. He would not accept me wearing a
cotton sari. I had to wear a kataan silk.
I dont feel like wearing a kataan.
Why not?
I dont.
How surprising!
None of them are ironed.
Doesnt matter, wear one anyway.
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I had to wear a kataan. It couldnt be green or blue in colour. I had to wear red. All my saris were wet and crumpled
with sea-water. I had to wear one of these perforce. Reaching the ghat in the afternoon, I saw a deserted port. A few
empty sampans were tied to the docks. The place looked like a village, and yet was really not one. Misgivings arose in
my heart. After crossing endless rows of slums, Rudra stopped the rickshaw in front of a double-storeyed house and said
Now, like a good girl, please cover your head with the end of your sari, ghomta!
I started with shock at Rudras words.
Ghomta on my head? Why?
Arrey, put it on.
I never do these things.
I know you dont, but do it now.
Why?
Cant you understand, you are the daughter-in-law of this house?
My whole body shook on hearing this. I got all mixed up with feelings of great joy, shame and fear, and was not really
sure what to do. Rudra said, You will have to touch peoples feet and salaam.
No.
Why?
I have never done it.
You will have to.
I will not be able to do it. Impossible.
Why cant you understand? It will look bad if you dont salaam.
Why should it look bad?
It would.
Why? What does it mean, to touch peoples feet?
You must do so of elders. Why dont you realize? You are after all the Bou of the house.
Let it look bad. I cant do all this.
Ish, what a pain you are!
Wont it do if I say salaam verbally, without touching their feet?
No, it wont do.
My joy had evaporated, and my whole body was consumed with discomfort. I just could not touch peoples feet. When I
wore new clothes at Id, Ma would tell me, Go and salaam your Baba.
I would stand stiffly at the door. As Ma pushed me, my stiffness would turn into heavy stone. At the time of Id one
should salaam ones elders. I understood the should salaam part, but not why one had to do it. I treat you as an elder,
respect and love you, but why do I have to show it by touching your feet! Is there no other way to demonstrate this! I
stared in surprise at Rudra. This man who did not believe in religion and scoffed at rituals and ceremonies was actually
supporting this feet-touching business! In this far away deserted port, it was as if Rudra had caught me by the scruff of
my neck and pushed me towards his parents feet. Here I had no relatives, no friends, no one I knew except for Rudra.
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Yet this Rudra appeared a stranger to me. My head was covered with my aanchal, and my back was being poked by
Rudra. One poke, two pokes, after the third, I bent towards his mothers feet. I wasnt even sure how exactly this
salaam thing was done. It was a puzzle to me whether after touching the feet one had to take ones hands to ones chest,
or forehead, or lips. In my uncertainty, my hands remained in their place after touching the feet. Rudra had a whole
crowd of brothers and sisters. Each one came to be introduced. I felt even more isolated in the crowd, as though I was
some unnatural creature who had come amidst a crowd of humans. Bithi, Rudras younger sister said, Ki Dada, is your
wife dumb, why doesnt she speak! I didnt know what to say. I didnt know what would be appropriate. I remained
withdrawn.
Rudras father was shorter than Rudra. If he stood next to me he would have come barely up to my shoulders. A
bearded man, he entered the house wearing a cap, pyjama and panjabi. I asked Rudra in a whisper, He is a doctor, isnt
he?
Yes.
Then how come this dress!
He is religious.
He believes in religion as a doctor!
I stared in surprise. Sitting on a stool in the verandah he performed the ritualistic ablutions with water from a pitcher.
Rudras Ma held out a towel for him to wipe his wet hands and face. The Jainamaz was spread out in the room, for him
to offer his namaz. Only after he had completed his prayers, would Rudra take me to meet him. My heart fluttered. I
began to think this Baba category was something to be feared. After pacing up and down restlessly, Rudra finally
entered the room with me. His father was now reclining on a chair after his namaz, and telling the beads of a tasbih. I
was twisting the aanchal of my sari around my fingers.
Abba, this is my wife, Rudra said and told me, Go, Salaam Abba. Overcoming my embarrassment, I bent over.
Stroking his beard with his fingers, he said, Sit down.
Are your Baba and Ma in good health?
I couldnt understand why he wanted to know about the health of my parents, whom he did not know at all. In a
moment their faces floated in front of me. If they knew where their daughter, supposedly on a hygiene tour, was at this
moment, their well being would evaporate in seconds!
In which year are you studying?
Fourth year.
Oh. You dont have too long to become a doctor. Your home is in Mymensingh, isnt it?
Yes, Mymensingh.
Is it North of Dhaka or South?
North.
You will stay in Mongla for sometime, wont you?
Rudra said, She will.
So Shahidullah, will you be taking her to Mithekhali?
Lets see.
Go and visit Mithekhali. Have you eaten?
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No.
Go and eat and rest; you have had a long journey.
Rudra took me upstairs. The place had been freshly white-washed. The first floor was being constructed; it was yet to be
completed. Rudra said this new construction was rubbish. One day these rooms upstairs would crumble and fall
down, because the foundation of the house was not deep enough. Hearing this, like the bricks, wood and iron along with
limestone and sand I, too, crumbled and collapsed. One room upstairs had been tidied for Rudra and me. Rudra stayed
in this room whenever he came to Mongla. In the room was a medium sized cot, a table, next to which were two chairs.
There were white walls around, with only one window. Through it nothing was visible but the rear portion of a double-
storeyed house and a few Golpata trees, whose leaves were used for thatching.
In the evening Rudra went out on his own. When I wanted to accompany him, he said it was not seemly for the
housewives of this port to come out in this way. Then was I not going to see this port of Mongla, this new place? No,
there was nothing to see, except for the slums of labourers. Then I would go and see the slums. No, the labourers would
stare at me and swallow me whole. It would be better for me to sit and chat with Rudras siblings. But what was I
supposed to chat with them about! I knew none of them. I felt very lonely. Standing on the verandah, I saw only water in
front of me, only water. The river ran on the other side of the courtyard. I told Bithi, I would go along the river and see
it. River? There was nothing to see! There was only water! I would see only the water then. Bithi laughed. What would I
do by looking at water? When we went close to the water, she told me that it was dirty water and that I was not to touch
it with my hands, or dip my feet in it. I was like a duck out of water, swimming in air. My address was the bank of a
river, on the bank was my house, the house of my in-laws. There was water everywhere, wherever one looked, floods
everywhere, yet there was a shortage of water in the house itself. A boy brought a couple of buckets of river water
everyday from outside. With this the cooking had to be done, the toilets, the bathing, everything. The body would feel
salty, the hair sticky, but there was nothing to be done, there was no water. Living on the banks of a river, that there
could be such a scarcity of water was a shock I could not recover from. Even drinking water came from outside. They
called it sweet water, though it was not at all sweet to taste. One had to use it sparingly, drinking only when ones
throat was cracking with thirst. Sweet water was not available in this port. It came by boat from Khulna. All the people
of the port had to quench their thirst with this supply. Bithi said, Water from Khulna has only been coming recently.
Earlier one had to drink rainwater.
Rainwater?
At Mithekhali that is what we drink. We place big pitchers in the courtyard, the rainwater collects in them, and thats
what we drink.
Can you drink that water?
Why not?
Bitthi unexpectedly moved away from the topic of drinking water and asked Achcha Boudi, havent you brought any
jewellery? You are the daughter-in-law of the house, what will people say! Tomorrow evening there will be people
coming home, it is Seemus birthday. I will give you some jewellery, just wear it.
The evening got over, and night fell. I looked at the clock repeatedly, restlessly. Your Dada hasnt returned as yet, I
asked.
Hell come. Dont worry so much. Hes a man. They have friends outside, they have to meet them.
Does that mean he has to be so late?
Hell come, hell come. His wife is at home. However late it gets he will return home. Bithi laughed, her laugh was like
a shower of pearls.
Rudra returned very late at night. While he changed from his shirt and pant to a lungi, my heart trembled on looking
askance at the bed. Lawfully we would be sharing this bed. Finally the day had arrived when we would sleep together.
For ages now, Rudra had been dying to spend one night with me. Tonight his wish would be fulfilled. As though we were
a couple used to married life for years, Rudra casually said, Lets go to sleep, and covering the bed with the mosquito
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net he lay down.
Come on, he said.
Coming.
I am coming, let the shaking of my heart steady a little, I will come. I am dying of thirst. I will drink a glass of water and
come. Dont get impatient. I am coming. Do I have any other option but to come?
Whats wrong, why are you still sitting? Will you spend the whole night over there?
I had to go to bed, but my body moved towards the wall. Rudra pulled my body which was stuck to the wall towards his
chest. He held me with both his arms, very strongly, so that I couldnt run away. Where could I possibly go, anyway! I
had nowhere to go. I had been preparing myself to come to Rudra. Hundreds of times I had told myself Rudra is your
husband. Do not waste this opportunity to spend the night with him. You are a young woman of twenty-two, not a little
girl anymore. If everyone else can sleep with their husbands, why cant you! Secretly, I too wanted to taste the
forbidden fruit. Rudra wanted to possess me fully. I had already given him my heart and soul ages ago, only my body
recoiled like a snail. Hadnt the time come for me to break out of all my modesty and fear! If I did not uncoil my body
tonight, if I didnt break the chains and free my physical self, if I deprived the man I loved today, it would actually be
depriving myself. Rudra had not demanded anything wrongfully. Surrendering oneself to ones husband was not a
crime. Someday you would have to surrender what little you had kept back, so why not tonight!
Rudra kissed me. He kissed my mouth deeply. Freeing myself from his kiss, I said, The light is on. That meant the
light had to be switched off. Switch off the light, darken the room and then do whatever you want to do, I will not
prevent you. Rudra switched off the light, darkened the room and moistened my shut eyes, dry lips and the fold of my
chin. Opening the buttons of my blouse he buried his face inside. He didnt just wet the nipples he bit them with his
teeth. He gripped my breasts in his hands and squeezed so hard, it felt as though he would melt them into water, like the
muddy waters of the Rupsha River. Rudra was lifting my sari upwards. I didnt want to, but unknowingly my hands
traveled to stop his. Rudra lifted himself on top of my body. I didnt want to, yet my hands tried to move him off my
body. His legs tried to separate mine. I had shut my eyes tight. Let not my eyes open, let not a sight come before my eyes
which would make me die of shame. I gritted my teeth, and joined my lips together tightly, so that no sound emerged
from my mouth. However, a sudden assault made me scream. Rudra closing my screaming mouth with both his hands,
said, just bear it a little longer, its almost done. Good girl, just bear with me a little longer. Just a little. Rudra failed to
remove the obstacle in spite of systematic assaults. Lifting himself off my body, he used his fingers to dislodge the
invisible obstacle. My thighs were shaking terribly, and the shaking spread from my thighs to my whole body. I felt as
though I was dying. Rudra had begun to sweat, but was not giving up. Why would he accept any obstacle in his path, by
hook or by crook he had to clear his path and forge ahead, before him was a gold mine, he had to conquer it. I had
clasped my mouth shut with my own two hands. Whenever any sound breached the covering hands, Rudra stuffed my
sari aanchal into my mouth. No, nothing was happening. I was not in any pain; this lower half of the body was not mine;
it was no part of my body at all. This was some unconscious body lying on the table in the operation theatre. Let it be
thought I had been administered Pathedine. Thaopental Sodium had been injected into my blood and I had been
rendered unconscious. All my bodily agony had vanished. The ceiling fan was whirring over my head at great speed, yet
my unconscious body was breaking out in sweat. My sari aanchal, hands and lips, had been torn to shreds by my teeth.
Rudra removed whatever barriers and obstacles there were and finally entered the gold mine, smashing my body into
smithereens, from both inside and out.
Rudra got off my body. On one side was the wall, on the other side Rudra. I did not have the strength to move even an
inch in any direction. I remained still. Gradually opening my eyes, I felt as though I was out of the operation theatre, in
the post-operative room. I was coming back to consciousness. On regaining my senses I realized that this was no
post-operative room, I was lying on the muddy waters of the Rupsha River. I was floating on water. There was no one
around, I was alone. I had never felt so alone ever before. As though I had no one, and never did have. I had no father,
no mother. I had no sisters or brothers. I had no friends, no lovers, no husband. I had nowhere to go to. I was floating
like a raft on the Rupsha River, not knowing where I was headed. When I got the strength to lift myself, I tried to get off
the bed, but found my way completely blocked by a mountainous object, that was Rudra. I said, Let me go. This was
the first time I had addressed Rudra. When Rudra made way, I got off the bed groping for the toilet in the darkness.
The lower half of my body was splitting. I walked like a duck, in the darkness of the waterless banks. In the toilet, not
urine, but blood flowed, flowed towards the waters of the Rupsha River. I did not have the strength to wail. I groaned in
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unbearable agony.
The next day when Rudra left me alone and went out, I again felt very lonely. I couldnt quite make out what my duties
were. Was I to massage my father-in-laws feet, pick lice off my mother-in-law, offer water when thirsty, proffer the
gamchcha, towel, when going for a bath, and the Jainamaz at the time of prayers! Was I supposed to cover my head with
a ghomta and go and cook in the kitchen, just because I was the Bou of this house! Was I to sit on the kitchen stool and
chop the onions and garlic! I walked like a duck into the kitchen. The kitchen had a roof of golpata leaves, a clay floor
and a clay oven. Smoke emanated from the fire in the oven, as though it was the smoke from Aladdins lamp. I wished a
genie would emerge immediately from the smoke and tell me what I should do. Should I cook rice and vegetables, or
teach Rudras siblings. What exactly would please the inmates of this house, what would make them say I was a
Lakshmi, a very good bou. I moved towards the smoke hoping to see the genie. The minute I poked my head into the
kitchen, Bithi said Why are you entering here? You will not be able to stand the smoke.
Let me see what you all are doing. Instead of waiting for the genie to appear, I said, Can I do something?
Bithi laughed, all Rudras brothers and sisters also laughed. I felt very uncomfortable. I had no idea where I should
stand, where I should sit, whom to talk to and if I did, what to say. I felt very isolated. I wished night would fall soon,
then at least I knew what I had to do. I had to lie down, and I had to sleep.
Bithi told me while I stood at the kitchen door, Go and have a bath! There will be no water left later on. Feeling
reassured about what I had to do now, I entered the bathroom and found that there was a door, but the door had no
bolts. Hesitantly I came out. Seeing this Bithi laughingly told me, Go and have a bath without any fears, no one will
enter. I had a bath, but not without my fears.
Firmly pulling my constantly slipping aanchal over my head, I went fearlessly before my ailing mother-in-law. In a weak
voice, she told one of her nine children, one of the seven present at home, Give your Boudi place to sit. Making sure I
was removed from before her eyes, she closed her own. I was asked to sit in a room next to my mother-in-laws room. I
sat on the edge of the bed. So that no one could make remarks like the Bou doesnt speak, the Bou is very haughty, I
talked to whoever I could find close to me, the little brothers and sisters. I asked them their names, which schools they
went to, which classes they attended. Having got their answers, I sat quiet. I could find no other questions to ask them,
nor could they find any for me. The siblings were amazingly quiet; there was no yelling or screaming in the house. If
there had been so many brothers and sisters at Aubokash, it would have turned into a fish market. A warm breeze blew
into the rooms from the river. You could hear the sounds. I felt lonely. In the evening Bithi gave me gold ornaments to
wear. If I didnt wear gold ornaments, the family honour would be lost. So to preserve that, I wore the heavy ornaments
and sat down, looking ugly to myself. So much jewellery on my ears, neck and hands did not suit me at all. I couldnt get
used to it somehow. Baba had bought me long dangling earrings at the inauguration feast of the Matri Jewellers
showroom; they were lost. I was unable to keep rings in my ears for too long whether gold or silver, my ears itched. If I
wore anything on my fingers, they itched. I would take them off, leave them here and there, and of course it didnt take
long for them to disappear. Ma regretted this, She has no care for gold jewellery. She doesnt even know where she
takes them off and leaves them. Once the guests had left, I took off Bithis jewellery. I felt like an inanimate object, as
though I was a puppet. I was being made to wear saris, jewellery, and was not saying anything. If I was told to stand up
I did, if told to sit, I did so, and yes, when asked to sleep I did that too.
***
That night too, Rudra came home and cajoled me by saying, Good girl, dear Lakshmi, unwind a little, dont keep yourself so
stiff, soften your body a little, and entered the path he had opened up. In that dark room, made darker by my shut eyes, when I
was openly bearing the agony Rudra inflicted on my body, bearing the pain suddenly like lightning a sharp pleasure spread
through my body from head to toe. With the shock of that bolt of lightning I dug the ten nails of my hands into Rudras back. I
gasped for breath. Panting, I asked What happened!
Rudra did not tell me what happened. Murmuring endearments like Shona, dear Manik, precious jewel, Lakshmi bou he
collapsed on top of me. That night, not once, but several times he brought me to orgasm. With this pleasure the nerves of agony
gradually grew inert and inactive. I continued to moan, but this time with pleasure. I was now experiencing the pinnacle of
pleasure.
At one point while I was still moaning, I noticed that Rudra was no longer beside me. He had not been there by my side for
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quite a while.
Where are you?
In the darkness a single point of red fire glowed. The fire was moving.
Arent you going to sleep?
Im coming.
The red glow went out, the cigarette smoking was over, yet Rudra did not return to bed. My unruly, obsessive body wanted him
intimately close, I kept one of my hands on his pillow, wanting to hold him in my arms when he returned, and sleep for the rest
of the night, imbibing the scents of his body. I called again, Where have you gone!
There was a smell of Dettol in the room.
Whats wrong, what is this Dettol smell!
I am applying Dettol, came Rudras voice out of the darkness.
Why, what happened?
I have an itch.
Do you have to apply Dettol for that?
I am applying an ointment as well.
What ointment?
I dont know.
Switch on the light, will you? Let me see where you are itching, and what ointment you are applying.
Rudra switched on the light and saying, Coming, took the ointment and went off to the toilet. Under the lights I tidied my
dishevelled sari, and sat waiting. When Rudra came, I examined his hands and legs and; there were no signs of scabies.
Where are you itching?
Without replying Rudra switched the light off, and lay down. Lying next to him, I placed a hand on his chest and said, I cant
find any scabies.
There is.
Where?
It is in that area.
That area, which area?
On the penis.
Where?
On the penis.
Why are you applying Dettol?
It will help.
Has any Doctor told you so?
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No.
Who gave you the ointment? Some Doctor?
No. I bought it myself.
Will this ointment work?
I dont know.
Then why are you applying it? Parmethrin ointment has to be applied for scabies. Is it itching a lot?
Yes, it is. Even a boil has appeared.
Small?
Not so small.
It shouldnt be big. Why should it grow big?
Quite big.
In my enthusiasm as a doctor, I sat up, switched on the lights and said, Let me see what kind it is!
Rudra kept lowering his lungi. The hair on his body grew gradually denser as they moved downwards, till they reached the cold
sexual organ. At the base of the genitals was a red flower. No one had laid out my bridal chamber, on this my first night, with
flowers. No roses, no marigolds, no hibiscus or jasmine. This flower on Rudras manhood had bedecked my first bridal bed of
flowers. Yet, I had seen many penises like this one. This sore on the penis was a very familiar one. At the hospital, in the sexual
diseases out-patients ward, the male patients lowered their lungis and showed sores exactly like this one. These sores were
identified by the Doctors dealing with sexual diseases as Syphilis sores, and were the sores we had seen many times from a
safe distance. Although Rudras sore looked like a Syphilis sore, one sore could surely resemble another one! There must be
many harmless sores, which looked like other ugly sores. There must be, my heart said, there was.
When did this appear?
Just ten or twelve days ago.
Does it bleed?
No.
Whatever other disease Rudra may have contracted, there was no reason for him to be afflicted by Syphilis! I thought of all the
other diseases it could be. Was this Eczema or Soriosis? Or maybe it was Penile Papiullus! Or Reitars syndrome! Or even
Pemfigas!
Do you have any pain?
Rudra shook his head. No.
This denial destroyed the possibility of all the other diseases. The Syphilis sore also caused no pain.
Doesnt it pain even a little?
Rudra was thinking. Think Rudra, think some more, if you just think a little more you will surely realise that it did pain.
But Rudra again shook his head. No.
Achcha, have you slept on any strangers dirty bed? Or used anyones towel?
He again shook his head. No.
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A writer called Razia Begum had spent three months at a tea-garden in Sylhet in order to write a novel about the tea-garden
workers. Was it possible that Rudra had visited a brothel for writing poetry or a novel, and had used something there, like a
towel? Had touched something in a toilet, and from these places the Syphilis virus, Triponema Pelidam, had travelled to his
hands. Although I knew Syphilis did not spread like that I still asked, just in case it had! By chance if the virus had entered
through some gap or hole!
Have you been to prostitutes for some reason? For the purposes of your writings or something?
Why, no I havent!
Never?
No.
I was looking for other reasons, reasons for sores that looked like this. Searching. Searching. This was Rudras first intercourse
with someone, just like mine. That is how it was supposed to be. That was what love was all about. One saved oneself, for the
person one loved. All the deep secrets, physical pleasures were reserved. I stared at Rudras sore. Then how come this sore!
This sore did not look like any other! Even if it was Harpes Simplex or genital warts, these too were sexually transmitted
diseases! Suppose this was Syphilis, from where did it enter into Rudras body if he had never been to a brothel! I was absorbed
in deep thought. I touched the sore, and examined it from the left and right side. I looked at the form and shape of the sore. I
looked at its colour.
It looked exactly like a Syphilis sore. My eyes confirmed it, but my mind couldnt. But there was no reason to contract Syphilis.
Then, how could it be that! A crease appeared between my eyebrows.
Achcha, have you had any relationship with a girl?
What nonsense are you talking?
Rudra pulled up his lungi. His sore got covered.
Go to sleep, will you. It is very late.
It may have been late, but my sleep had vanished. I was anxious to know the cause of this sore. Without any intercourse why
should such a sore have appeared!
Have you shown it your father?
No.
You have it for over two weeks. Why havent you shown it to a Doctor?
I havent.
If you apply ointments without a test, the sore will not heal.
Rudra kept scratching his beard. He did this when he was very worried about something.
I abruptly said, Do you know these sores appear if you have relations with prostitutes? You couldnt possibly have gone to a
prostitute! I asked.
No. Rudras voice was icy.
You really havent been? This is the first time you have ever had intercourse isnt it with me?
Rudras face suddenly changed. His two black brows joined together. As though somewhere inside his body there was some
agony. He looked at my eyes for a long time. Even though I tried, I was unable to read the language of his eyes.
For a long time the two of us sat silently. Suddenly Rudra said, Actually you know, I have been to the area.
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Area meaning?
The red-light areas.
You have? Why?
For the same reason other people go.
What reason?
Rudra said nothing. Was my head throbbing? Did a tightness suddenly hurtle into my chest,making it difficult for me to
breathe? My subsequent words were spoken much more slowly than before. The voice was breaking, trembling.
Have you slept with a prostitute?
He did not say anything. His eyes had turned stony.
Speak, why arent you saying something? Speak.
My eyes were full of anxiety. Say No, say No Rudra. Please say No. In the hope of hearing the one word No, I sat
waiting, like one bewitched.
Yes, said Rudra.
Ki, you had sexual relations?
I couldnt recognize my own voice, as though it wasnt mine at all, but someone elses. As though a button had been pressed on
a machine, and the machine was speaking.
Yes.
The light was on in the room, yet darkness was deepening before my eyes. I was unable to breathe. For a long time I couldnt
breathe at all. Was this a sexually-diseased patient before me, or was it Rudra! My lover, my husband! I couldnt believe this
was Rudra. I couldnt believe he was someone I had loved for years.
When did you go?
Just two weeks ago.
Have you been just once?
Yes.
You have never been before?
No.
But your sore is two weeks old!
Yes.
The sore couldnt have appeared the very day you had intercourse. It takes sometime to form. Try and recall if you have been
more than once.
Staring at my eyes without blinking for a long time, he said slowly, I have.
I couldnt believe my ears. I didnt want to believe that I was not the first woman in Rudras life! For a long time I sat
benumbed.
You never told me about all this.
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No, I didnt.
Why not?
Rudra heaved a deep sigh. Staring at the white wall, looking at what only he knew, he did not reply.
The red light area, right? Where is that?
At Banishanta.
Where is Banishanta?
In this port only.
Why do you go? Dont you love me?
I do love you.
If you do, how did you touch anyone else? You lied to me all these days. You told me you had not touched anyone but me
ever. Do you know, I cant believe any of this?
***
I found it painful to believe that Rudra had slept with another woman the way he had slept with me. That he had kissed
someone else in the same way as he had kissed my face and breasts. It was painful to believe that Rudra had entered anyone
else as deeply as he had me. I felt as though my boat had sunk in mid-ocean. I too was sinking, as far as the eye could see there
was no one, nothing at all. I was alone, I was drowning. My sky had fallen apart, my world had disintegrated and scattered to
bits. The bits were now rolling into the bottom of the sea. In the boundless, billowy sea there was not even a dry piece of straw.
I was drowning. It was as if I was not myself, I was someone else. I felt sorry for that someone else. The pain circulated in my
nervous system and finally descended to my chest. It was as though all the rocks in the world were pressing down on my chest.
I did not have the ability to utter a single word. Losing all my senses I wept copiously, through the night. The pillow, sari and
bed sheets got soaked with my tears. I clung to Rudras hands and feet and cried, Please tell me you are not speaking the truth.
Tell me, you have not been to anyone else. You have not slept with anyone else. Please.
Rudras silence was like that of a stone. With a pale face he watched me crying through the night.
He watched me crying in the morning, afternoon and evening. He watched me crying the whole day going without any food or
bath. He himself ate and bathed. He spent the day like any other day. I wanted to sleep. To forget everything and sleep. But
sleep would not come. When I asked for sleeping tablets, Rudra fetched two strips of Sidaxin from his fathers chambers. He
had searched and found two strips, and those two strips he had given me. From the twenty tablets in the two strips, I was to take
only one. I was to take one, so that I could take a tablet daily and sleep for the next twenty days. But hidden from Rudra, I
swallowed all the twenty tablets at one go, that very day, that very evening, I will go far away, but not let you forget me was
not the tune playing within me. I really wanted to go far away, wanted Rudra to forget me, never to remember that anyone by
my name had been part of his life. I didnt feel as though I could have borne my own existence any longer, or that my life had
any value left any more. I didnt think I could live a minute more with these intolerable pains and unbearable insults. Just when
I was rushing towards this longed-for death, someone grabbed me from behind and stopped me. When I was brought back from
that path, I found a hard pipe in my nose and beside me was standing Rudras Doctor father. The poison was taken out of my
body, but from my mind not a drop of poison came out, my heart was dying. Before my eyes my heart moaned in its death-
throes. I spent the whole night sleeplessly with my dead heart lying next to me.
When the first rays of dawn appeared, I said, I will go immediately.
Rudra got ready. Not once did he say, Stay a day or two more. Everyone at home was shocked. What has happened, why are
you leaving so abruptly? They asked.
Rudra told them, She has to go. Why I had to go, he never told them. They asked me to have breakfast, I refused.
Standing on the decks, the pungent smell of urine and the strong smell of fish scales inside the launch, along with the
intermittent bho sound of the engines letting off steam, made my insides churn. After staying up the whole night crying, when
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I went up at dawn to get a breath of fresh air, I flooded the decks of the launch with vomit. Rudra was sitting amongst a crowd
of people with his head thrown back in sleep, his mouth wide open. This man did not look like anyone I knew. I did not feel that
he was related to me in any way.
The long launch ride and the equally long train journey was covered in silence. Not a word was spoken. Even knowing
everything, I kept telling my heart, It is actually another disease. A different sore.
So many kinds of sores could appear in the sexual organs. Did I know everything? There was still a long time for me to qualify
as a doctor. Why didnt I test the sore once! It may happen that this was some new viral disease. It may even be that Rudra was
joking with me by telling me he had gone to a brothel, that too, many times. He would surely one day surprise me by saying
that all these were lies that he had told me. He had been testing me. It was a test of how much I trusted him. He had spent the
night, the kind of night he had repeatedly wanted to spend with me.
Alighting at Dhaka, I found the city swamped in darkness. This city so beloved to me, this lively city appeared so lack luster. At
night we went to Rudras rented house at Muhammedpur. A dilapidated three storeyed house, Rudra had taken two rooms on
the second floor. It had a balcony and a small kitchenette outside the room. Across the corridor was a toilet and bath, which the
landlord and Rudra shared. He had not rented it for too long. Of the two rooms, one was a bedroom, the other a study. The
study had a table, chair and a bookshelf, from which books were spilling out. Even though the space was limited, there were no
books on the floor or scattered about, everything was tidy. Even the cot in the bedroom was neatly made up. Rudra was a very
tidy, ordered person. My bed and table were never so neat and tidy. Therefore, I said my life was disorganised. Rudra too called
himself disorganised, but when he was so neat and clean, how could he be disorganised? Did he then mean his unrestrained life
style when he used the word disorganised! What a contrast in meaning the same word had in our two lives! Leaving me at
home, Rudra went out to buy some food for us both. Lying on the floor, I flipped through some books on the shelf. Two thick
notebooks of poetry were arranged at the bottom of the shelf. Turning the pages I realised what a volume of poetry he had
written in his lifetime! All of them were serious love poems. Rudra obviously loved someone very, very deeply. Who was this,
to whom he had dedicated all his songs and poems? When Rudra returned with the food, I asked, Who is this beautiful woman
you have devoted your life to?
I had.
Who is she?
Do you really need to know?
Come on, lets hear.
Nellie.
The poems were written while you were at Lalbagh.
My mamas house is at Lalbagh. I was there. Nellie is my mamis sister. She used to stay in that house.
If she is your mamis sister, she would be your khala.
Yes, khala.
You were romancing your khala?
Rudra nodded in agreement. That the khala was much older than him, Rudra acknowledged.
Did you only romance her? Or was there something more as well?
Something more.
You mean you slept with your khala?
Yes.
When you lived in that house you were in school. You mean you slept with her as a schoolboy?
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Yes, Rudra had completed all his lifes experiences while studying in school itself. He had learnt copulation in his childhood.
That means the Yellow House, Fifty Lal Bagh, the dedication in the name of the Bakul flower, Sorrow, all those poems in
Upodruto Upokool were written about Nellie?
Yes.
I laughed and said, Do you know, I fell in love with you after reading the poems in that book? Now it makes me laugh to think
of it. Well then, where is your lover Nellie now?
She got married to a schoolmaster. There was a talaq. Now she is in Lalbagh.
Dont you go to her? Dont you spend nights with her? With your khala?
Dont talk rubbish.
This is rubbish, is it?
Of course it is rubbish.
Rudras eyes were bloodshot, with greenish flecks in them. Once when I had asked him what these were, he had said that it was
moss that had accumulated. Rudra stared at me for a long time with those mossy eyes, and said, She did propose, I did not
agree.
Why? You have no obstacles in the path of this relationship! Why shouldnt you agree?
I dont have any emotional relationship with her, that relationship I have with you.
Bah, you have a good policy. You only sleep with those you have an emotional relationship with, meaning those you love.
Laughing, I said, Then what do you do with the prostitutes? Do you love them and then go to sleep with them?
Rudra got up without replying. He brought water in two cups. Lets eat. The food is going cold, he urged.
Why didnt you marry your khala? Of course, you still can. My voice was calm.
Why are you raking up the past?
Past! All this was there only in your past. At present you are the purest of men, isnt that so?
Rudra did not make any reply. I watched him as I ate. Everything was so familiar his eating, his washing his hands, wiping his
mouth, so well-known his manner of lighting his cigarette, smoking!
Rudra changed the topic by reading poetry. On the 14
th
of February, a police truck had run over a student procession on
government orders. Innumerable people had been crushed under the wheels of the truck. The protests against tyranny were
increasing, and the police were aiming their guns at the hearts of innocent people on government orders.
I do not want to loathe you anymore
I want to spit on the faces of the olive-green forces
Who have caused a bloodbath in the Childrens Academy, Neelkhet,
Who have sent bullet-ridden bodies to the University
Who have slaughtered people by crushing them under their boots,
Today I want the blood of those olive-green forces
Rudra was reading one poem after another in a deep voice, and clear pronunciation.
Once upon a time, the way we killed gigantic animals in the forests,
And brought back peace to jungle life,
Today lets eradicate these gigantic, ugly wild savages
And recreate a world of equality,
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Recreate a world of wealth and happiness. Create a world of industry and tranquility.
Lying on the floor and listening to the poetry, I began to forget the incident that took place in the Mongla Port. As though I had
come to Dhaka straight from Chattagram, and I loved Rudra as I had done before, and had never seen the ugly, dirty reality of
his life. I became enchanted and absorbed totally in his forceful voice and animated use of words. I kept thinking Rudra was
only a friend, not my lover, not my husband. Keeping the poetry book next to him, Rudra looked steadily at the window and
said, Should I tell you one of my greatest dreams. I want to die after being shot in a procession. His two eyes mirrored his
dream. His two eyes were like two stars in the night sky. I had never before come across anyone who dreamt so much of death.
Why did Rudra want to die in a procession? Was it to give rise to a procession for himself, so that the movement became more
active, and so that he remained immortal forever! Thoughts of death continued to touch me. Moving them away, Rudra kissed
me. His kisses gradually benumbed my body. Becoming numb, I began to forget who I was, from where I had come, what was
my relationship with Rudra, as though this was not me, it was someone else, was Rudras beloved, the lover about whom he had
written in so many poems. He was caressing that beloved, and she was accepting his caresses all over her body. Rudra was
taking off the cloth covering her chest. He was loving her whole body with his own. Each limb was crying out for the others.
One body was losing itself in the other. Pleasure, intense pleasure was making the beloved hold her lovers body in her arms.
When it was all over, and consciousness returned, the beloved walked like a duck with the agony in her sexual organs to the
bathroom to urinate. Drops of blood fell on the way; there were more spots in the bathroom. Then she was no more Rudras
lover. Then she was me, who was Rudras wife. How did this happen! This was not supposed to happen. How could I have had
intercourse with Rudra again, how could I have let him touch my body again? He did not have that right any more. Hadnt our
relationship ended after that fatal night? It must have. Then, knowingly, why had I again taken the disease from his body? Why
this mistake? Why was I involving myself in this sin again! Why was I taking in the virus into my body and making myself
diseased! Chhi Chhi! Didnt I love myself at all? How could one wish to actually make oneself sick! To infect ones own blood
with a dirty disease! Or was the sexual pleasure such an overwhelming one that I forgot the contagious disease he carried in his
body! I didnt know. I knew nothing! I felt anger at myself and hatred. Yet I also thought that the virus of the disease had
already entered my blood! My body had already lost its purity, so what was the point in preventing it now! If the virus was
already dancing in my blood from the time of our first conjugation, what was the harm in accepting it a second time! Rudra had
already destroyed me, so what obstacle prevented me from being newly destroyed again! I felt like a spoilt, rotten worm who
should not find place even in a sewer. I was not the I, I used to be. My former self had died. This me was a new one. This me
was a rotten me. This me was like Rudra, wayward, and uncontrolled. The reins had slipped from my own hands. Now anyone
could do what they pleased with me. I felt like I was a prostitute. I had the disease of the prostitutes. So I was one. What else!
The whole night I tossed this way and that between heaving deep sighs. The next day I left that claustrophobic little room and
went back to Mymensingh. The cool, pure dawn breeze wiped out the fatigue from my body in a second. Rudra came running.
He, too, wanted to go to Mymensingh with me.
Why should you go? To protect me from trouble on the way? Because after all, you wish only the best for me, dont you?
Nobody should assault my body, no man should raise his eyes and look at me? These are the reasons, arent they?
Rudra didnt say anything.
Okay, come along. Not for my sake. For your sake, come to Mymensingh. I will arrange for your treatment there.
It took two hours for the bus to reach Mymensingh from the Mahakhali bus stand. During the entire bus journey, the only sound
I could hear emerging from myself were long, deep sighs. Sitting next to me, Rudra silently slept. In sleep Rudras mouth
remained open. How was this man able to sleep? I could not figure out from where he got his capacity to feel so carefree.
Alighting at Mymensingh, Rudra went somewhere, to some hotel. I returned to Aubokash. Ma came running to hug me close to
her heart saying, Ahare, how long my girl has been away from home! Yasmin came shouting, Bubus come, Bubus come,
to meet me. From Yasmins arms, Suhrid leapt into mine. I tried to hide the tears in my eyes, and couldnt. I wished I could cry
loudly. Cry, wail if possible without restraint. I wanted to roll on the floor and cry. Baba said, Ma, how did you like the sea? I
havent yet seen the sea, and my daughter has already done so. Ma ran to the kitchen, to quickly make me something good to
eat. Sufi laughed and said, Ish, after how long you have returned! How did you like being so far away from your parents!
Mami has every day been saying, Lord knows, what my girl must be doing! Giving Suhrid back to Yasmin, I ran to the
toilet, I just had to urinate immediately. Sitting in the bathroom I poured water on my face, so that my tears would flow out
along with the water. I poured pitcher after pitcher of water, the water in the bucket finished, but not my tears. With great will
power I could stop myself from screaming, but I couldnt stop my tears. It would have been better, if as soon as I entered the
house Baba had cursed me, given me two tight slaps on my cheeks and said, The Hygiene Tour group returned this morning to
Mymensingh, how did you get delayed Haramzadi? If Ma had said, Instead of going to the sea as you told us, tell us where
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you actually went! You didnt go and spend the time with that fellow who wrote letters addressing you as Bou, did you? If
Yasmin had not come close, if my coming home or not had made no difference to her, if Suhrid had turned his face away and
not wanted to come to me, I would have felt better. I did not want anyones love any more. Let everyone loathe me. Loathe me
terribly.
The next day, without attending any classes in college, I picked up Rudra from the canteen, and walked along the Chorpara
Road, past innumerable chemist shops, Doctors chambers and laboratories. Where was I to go, to which Doctor? Any doctor
would know me, would know my name, my face, or would know me as Babas daughter. Any Doctor would be shocked to see
me bringing in a patient suffering from Syphilis, and would definitely want to know who this patient was. How was he
connected to me? I thought maybe it would be better not to go to a Doctor at all, but first get a blood test done. On second
thoughts, I entered, not a Doctors chambers, but a Pathology lab for the test. I told a squarejawed black man, his eyes bulging
out of their sockets, who I gauged would be a technician, He needs a VDRL test. My voice shook as I spoke. The man looked
at me sharply. The question in his eyes was, How is this man related to you? I lowered my eyes, as though I had not read the
unspoken question, had not noticed the penetrating look. After all, medical students did bring in patients known to them, in fact
even patients lying in pain on the roadside, and arranged for their treatment out of pity. Maybe this was a similar case. A man
was walking in the corridors of the hospital, and asked me to help in treating his disease. So, because I had time, and right now
there were no classes, I had brought the man to find out what needed to be done, where he needed to go. Whatever excuse I
gave with whatever expression, a crooked smile continued to play on the mans lips. I could make out that he had seen the two
of us many times before. The man knew me very well, and even if he wasnt aware that Rudra was my husband, he certainly
knew he was my lover.
Rudras test report came to hand. VDRL Positive.
Looking at the paper, the last thin ray of hope that I had nurtured, was trampled over by a pair of strong feet. There was nothing
left but despair. That was all I was left with for life.
The blood test was done in the Medical College compound. The square man kept looking at me on his way to and from the
hospital. Was he telling all the doctors that there was a bearded man with me always, who had Syphilis! In that compound itself
in the evening I took the Pathology report into the chambers of the sexual diseases specialist. Rudra was behind me. The
specialist frowned at the paper, at Rudra, and looking frequently at me wrote out the treatment on a paper, asking me, Is this
patient known to you?
Yes, Sir. My voice was calm.
Oh!
The specialist would never have thought this patient could be related to me. Even if he let his imagination run riot, there was no
way he would have pictured that the man could be my lover, or husband. That is why, instead of asking if the patient was
related to me or not, he had wanted to know if the patient was known to me or not. Of course, he was known. Rudra was
someone I had known for ages. Without giving him an opportunity for more conversation, we left his chambers. Coming out, I
breathed in the scent of fresh air deeply and said in a calm voice, Now? Its all done. Go and get yourself Penicillin injections
in Dhaka. Go to any pharmacy and tell them; the compounder will push it for you.
What about you?
What about me?
Yes, you.
You, what?
What will you do?
What else will I do, I will study, become a doctor and treat patients.
This relationship?
Which relationship? With whom?
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With me.
I began to laugh. Hasnt my relationship ended with you as yet, Rudra?
After remaining silent for a long time, Rudra said in a broken voice, Cant you forgive me?
Forgive? Of course I have forgiven you. Without caring for my own reputation, I brought you to this city which has known me
from birth, and arranged for your treatment. I could have abandoned you in that Mongla Port itself, couldnt I have?
Yes, you could have.
Rudras eyes were greyish as always.
What is left in my life, tell me? After having loved you for so many years, I married you and this was my first union. After
long years of waiting the day finally arrived. This was a time of great happiness for me, great joy. Isnt that so? Freeing myself
of all my fears and shame, I gave myself entirely to you, the complete me that you had always asked for. You had wanted me
fully. You did get me finally, didnt you! All your desires were fulfilled, werent they! At my wedding I did not wear a red
Benarasi sari, or any jewellery, no music played at my wedding, no guests came; only you and I celebrated. I gifted you my full
love and trust, you gifted me a disease. From you, this is my only wedding gift. What do you say?
You too have to take injections. Come on lets go to Dhaka.
You dont have to worry about me anymore. You have worried enough. Now worry about something else. Worry about your
own life. If you can, stay away from diseases and other harms.
You are leaving me?
My tone was detached. Yes, I am leaving you. Dont think I am abandoning you because you have Syphilis. It is sheer bad
luck that you have contracted this disease. Even if you go to brothels and stay with prostitutes, this disease may not have
infected you. It doesnt happen to everyone. I am leaving you because you have cheated and deceived me.
Rudras eyes were bright with unshed tears.
What would you have done in my place, Rudra?
You are really leaving me and going?
Really.
You wont give me even one opportunity to improve?
I smiled sadly. I was someone who was utterly ruined, empty, one who had lost everything. Who was I to give opportunities?
Was I human? I felt ashamed of myself. I loathed myself. Rudra kept standing on the Chorpara Road, all by himself. I came
away, not once wishing to look back. Not once did I feel like telling Rudra to come again, or to write letters. I didnt feel like it.
I knew this was the last time I would see him. And if I ever did see him again, it would be suddenly on the streets of Dhaka,
maybe someday at a book fair. I didnt at all feel Rudra was my lover, let alone my husband. He was like an acquaintance. An
acquaintance who wrote poetry. Because this acquaintance was sick, and I had the means to get him treated, I had arranged for
his treatment out of pity. The known person was returning to his known place. I was returning to the place familiar to me. I had
no dreams which involved this familiar man. He would never come to me again, to my life, to my body, to my mind. No more
love letters. No more going to bed either. No family and household anymore. No ties at all. To erase the lie, someday I would
sign some paper. The familiar person would gradually grow unfamiliar. Only the mans poetry would remain familiar. Nothing
more. I might read this known mans poetry, some greyish memories might distract me for moments. That would be all.
Nothing more than this.
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CHAPTER XVIII
The Darkness of Remorse
Seeing my photographs taken at the sea, Ma said that it seemed as though I was a mermaid. Sometimes I was being
washed up in the white waves, sometimes I was drowning, my wet body shining in the rays of the sun I was walking
barefoot towards the sunset, very often with a whole group of girls. Ma said, None of the others look as beautiful as
you. Only you look as though you have emerged from the sea. If Ma knew what had happened in my life, that my body
was no longer as pure as a mermaids, she would surely not have called me by this name. If only Ma knew that I had
not returned after taking the sea air alone, but had disappeared into thin air as well for a few days. In that air there had
been the heat of fire. I laughed dryly. To whom was I to tell this story of self-defeat! There was no one on whose
shoulders I could weep. I sat all by myself on the terrace, resting my head in the lap of silence. This mermaid had to hide
her tears. Shaukat teased, Ki, has your hymen been ruptured?
I smiled cheerlessly.
Ki, mermaid, arent you going to write a poem on the sea! Yasmin kept asking.
No, my mind was no more on poetry, it was on my body. I had not written poetry for ages. There was no inspiration. In
my mind I put the mermaid to sleep on a magic bed. I understood mentally that there was no sleep in her eyes and
covered in a blanket of anxieties, she remained awake, all alone. The mermaid received a letter, I have taken it
immediately on arrival. It did not hurt so much. The wound still remains unchanged. I have brought my life under
much more regulation than you would ever believe. However the pain of repentance is very acute Do not worry. We
have not lost anything. My dearest jewel, the dark sun of erotic folly will never touch me again. I am keeping well. I will
stay well. I will remain good like your dream. The scent of your body lingers all over the room I play with that scent.
The sunshine in your heart keeps my life shining. I will rise like the morning sun, the rising sun.
In my letters I used to address Rudra as Sunshine. And Rudra called me Dawn. All that unbridled love now seemed
so meaningless. Rudra wanted to emerge as the rising sun. He now wanted to become my Rudra. But why now? Why
wasnt he mine from the very beginning! Why had he constantly told me he was mine! Why had he cheated on me! Why
had he lied to me! How could I now believe that he would rise as the morning sun! Why was he writing letters to me? I
was not going to involve him in my life any more. I had shaken off the name of the cheat, Rudra, from my heart. Let the
grey skies shower rain ceaselessly, let the waterfalls cascade and flood the banks, exile is better. A few rays of sunshine
suddenly bring happiness to the threshold of the room, secretly destroying the dreams awash in the bridal chamber, termites
nibble and eat the beautiful sanctity of the human body, drink the hearts blood, and consume the nutty intelligence. The
limitless future is burnt to cinders in that sunshine. The flames of the fire dance on the burnt body. Even if my courtyard is
full of crumbling earth and broken bits of straw, and a terrible storm brings down darkness in this world, exile is still
preferable, even a dismal sunless morning. The pure sun retreats leaving the world in darkness, the fresh beauty leaves
behind disrepute, the sly jackal grabs and eats its prey and leaves, the debauched gambler leaves, as does the inhuman,
drunk vulture. Please leave in the same way, sunshine of my life, leave the deep black darkness of the night and go into
exile, go my golden wings of the sun, fly away to another abode. There is not a drop of moonlight, but thats alright. Pure
darkness! Let me drown in the moonless Amavasya, yet this dawn will not search for her sunshine. Yet the sun
continues to search for this dawn. Whatever else he may have lost, he does not want to lose his dawn.
Not just letters, Rudra sent poems along with his letters. In the poems were thoughts of that night, the night of our first
union, the night I had stayed awake.
On a heap of destruction sits a myna,
Next to it is a lightning-struck tree in its death throes,
The grey sky looks on with empty eyes.
My sad one, your dreamless eyes remain awake.
The arrows in your eyes fall into the river that has flooded its banks,
Close by your heart lies awake a solitary stone.
Some festivities create a noise all around
My melancholic one, you lie awake, a defeated bird.
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Finding the perfect opportunity, a snake entered the iron bridal bed,
The poisonous sting caused a cold darkness to descend on the blue body,
In the river water floats a black raft of pain.
My unhappy one, you remain awake on a river of sand.
The universe has gone to sleep at the end of the day, wrapped in the blanket of night,
Sleep rests its chin on the delicate eyes of charming women,
The light of fireflies has burned out listening to the dreams of the world
You are awake, only you are awake my sorrowful one.
Had Rudra really experienced my pain? If he had anything called a heart, then why had he touched other women?
Because I had a heart, I could never imagine any other man but Rudra. Everyday, I had seen the handsome, intelligent
jewels of boys in college. I had never even looked back at them.
Not just Habibullah, many more studs as precious as diamonds had sent me love letters, but I had unhesitatingly thrown
them away. Why couldnt Rudra have done the same! I too had a body, but this body had never desired anyone. This
body had slowly, but surely prepared itself each day for Rudra. This ripe body had been putrefied by Rudras
dishonourably promiscuous character.
I can hear the sounds of breakage, as though there is no other sound.
Inside my head logs seem to go on crashing forever
The sound of sawing awakens me,
The blood in my veins and arteries feels the felling of trees all night.
Why are so many trees being felled, why are there so many sounds of breakage?
Is there no other sound on earth, in the world, in the entire universe?
Where is the disintegration taking place? Where? Or is it deep
Within my own self the secret breaking of trust!
From a sorrowful distance, I call dawn, dawn
Then does dawn break my dawn on this earth!
Does this town disintegrate, this beloved solitary town of mine?
Then does hope break, the ultimate dream of desire?
The signs of damage in a flood are wiped out by manmade silt deposits
When does a house remember the grief of a scorching fire?
After the night of danger ended, I built a house again
Will I then all my life, still have to hear this breaking sound?
Yes, you will have to hear the sounds of breakage all your life. I will never return to this ruined life of yours. I sighed
deeply on reading the poem. The poem made me weep, but no, poetry and life were not the same. If to become a poet,
one had to sleep with a prostitute from Banishanta and contract a disease, then I could love the poetry of that poet, but I
could not join my life to his. You have hoodwinked me enough, how much more Rudra! Taking advantage of my
stupidity, do you now want to draw me close and ruin what little I have left un-spoilt! How much more will you deceive
me, do you think I dont understand your trickery! Hiding the hell within you, how you make excuses like a good little boy!
The sting of a poisonous snake lay behind the taste of your kiss, as soon as I unmasked you. I saw the reality of your
hideous similarity. How much more treachery is there? Is this cruel game of destroying so merciless! The moon, deprived of
its fullness, invites the inauspicious Amavasya, the moonless night, calling out come, come Mistaking fireflies for
moonlight, I had enjoyed the festivities of the pure darkness of night, that was my fault, this was how I got enmeshed in a
web of sin. Now I want to be free, want to tear away the ties with my teeth, now I want to live, I desperately want to breathe
pure air. How much more will you trick me, do you think I do not understand your cunning? Your lips offer a scented smile
hiding the mess in your life. Your past is full of disgrace; your body is full of filth, a hateful life. Thinking it was like
ambrosia, I touched the poisonous fire. Was this my love, the beautifully arranged and decorated treasure trove to which I
had devoted myself? This is my house, a false home built with neither clay nor wood. I want to save myself from sure death,
I want unblemished freedom, I want beautiful dreams, and the scent of my heart should be pure white. But I cannot get
this beautiful freedom. I cannot get a pure, unblemished life. Rudra was writing The Darkness of Remorse while being
treated for his sickness. But his penitence did not save me from the disease. I was alone with all my agonies. Suddenly
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one day I noticed sores appearing in my private parts. So I had been infected! I had nursed a tiny hope, that maybe I
hadnt been. Only hope dwells eternally. In this familiar town it was not possible for me to get myself tested, or to go to
any chemist shop and ask for penicillin injections. It was not possible for me to inject myself. Not possible to ask anyone
else to push the needle. Seeing the high dose of the penicillin, everyone would get to know for which disease such a high
dose was being given. While Rudra was gradually regaining his health and his scars were healing, my sores were
increasing slowly, and I was falling sick. I hid this disease in the deep cave of my body. Nobody should see it, nobody
should know about it. A fear clung to me all the time, wherever I went, whatever I did, this fear did not leave me. In the
nurses room in the hospital, there were heaps of penicillin. I was writing innumerable prescriptions for the various
illnesses of the uncountable patients admitted in the hospital. I was prescribing the names of different kinds of penicillin
and the relations of the patients were bringing the medicines. I was telling the nurses to administer injections to the
patients, in front of my eyes the nurses were pushing in the needles. But I was unable to take even one injection for
myself. I was unable, to ask any doctor or nurse to give me an injection, to give me a high dose of penicillin. If instead I
had got cancer, or any other incurable disease, I would have been more relieved, at least I would have been able to name
the illness I was suffering from, I would not have been ashamed to seek treatment. Who would I tell now what disease I
was suffering from? The thin blade of diffidence was slicing me into pieces. Fear and shame had tied me up with strong
ropes. My boundaries were now reduced, and finally limited to a spot. But how long could I hide this illness! Even
though I knew that the Canestan ointment would not help, I still purchased it. As I could not buy the correct medicine
for my problem, I bought another. This medicine reduced the fungal infection it could not destroy such a deadly bacteria
like Triponema Palledum. Even then, I hid the tube in my clothes and entered the bathroom everyday, as though I was
going for a bath or to the toilet. No one noticed anything, except Ma. I had hidden the ointment under the lower most
mattress on my bed. No one put their hands under this mattress. Even then, Ma said, Whats wrong with you, why do
you constantly go to the bathroom?
Nothing is wrong! I said, hiding my pale face.
Are you sick or something?
What are you saying? Why should I be sick?
I think there is something wrong with you.
I could not look her in the eye. I let my palpitating heart remain concealed within me.
The exams were ahead. The students were studying day and night. I went to college, attended classes. My eyes were on
the professors and their lectures, but my mind was elsewhere, my mind was on my body. At home I sat with my books
before me, but my mind moved away from the letters in my books towards my body. Something terrible was about to
happen to my body. Treatment was required immediately. But how was I to get that treatment? Where could I get it?
Rudra was sitting in Mongla writing poetry. I could not even go to Dhaka and get myself treated. High doses of
penicillin were used not just for Syphilis, but also for heart diseases. I would have been saved even if I had some heart
disease. At least for that reason I could have taken an injection nonchalantly. But I could not wish disease on my heart.
Once in a while I felt pain in my elbows, a pain that leapt from one elbow to another. In the case of rheumatoid arthritis,
it could cause Mitral Stenosis of the heart. Mitral Stenosis could cause breathlessness. Very often I would suddenly feel
breathless at night, as though I was locked inside a small trunk, and there was no air to breathe. I would sit up and take
air into my lungs, or I would stand, if that did not work then I would open the windows and breathe. This was called
Occasional Nocturnal Disnea. If that was so, then I did have the condition which needed high doses of penicillin. Taking
advantage of this condition, I told one of the simple, good students of the class, Naseema, I get Nocturnal Disnea. I fear
it might develop into Mitral Stenosis. Im thinking of taking a penicillin injection. At least, I can prevent Mitral Stenosis
this way. What do you say? If Naseema were to say I should take penicillin, only then could I take the injection with
Naseema herself as witness. Only Naseema could help me save my heart. But on hearing of my great illness, Naseema
only laughed. She said, Why should you take the injection in advance? Check your heart first. Is there a murmur? I
was in a predicament. I had never examined my own heart with the stethoscope. Busy with other peoples hearts, who
had the time for ones own? It was just a conjecture. Of course, no one would allow me to take a penicillin injection on
the basis of such conjecture, no one would secretly give me such an injection either, not even Naseema. A good student,
with a good ear, but no untoward sound travelled up the stetho tube to her ear from my heart. There was no murmur.
So there was no need for me to take penicillin. I knew I had no way out but to take this injection.
Once Rudra returned from Mongla, I boarded the bus to Dhaka without telling anyone at home. If I waited for
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permission from someone at home, it would not do. Rudra took me to a chemists shop at Shahbagh where he bought his
injections. I could clearly see the crooked smile on the lips of the man who pushed the long needle into the flesh of my
buttocks. Clenching my teeth, I suffered both the needle and the smile. Next to the chemists was a tea-shop. Sitting
there, Rudra said in a very gentle tone, Stay back today. Surprisingly, even now if I looked into Rudras eyes, I still
got the same feelings I had felt before. Back in his room, Rudra stroked my hands with his fingers. Looking at the
fingers I thought of them stroking another womans body similarly. Rudra kissed me. He must have kissed other women
in the same way. Rudra touched my breasts, just as he would have touched another womans. Rudra lay me down on the
bed. He caressed my body, the way he did other womens. In this way he would have slept with other women.
Somewhere I felt acute pain. Inside my heart. I kept telling myself, no, not such a life again. I would return to
Mymensingh today itself, and would think of a man called Rudra no more. Rudra, lying next to me, played with my
hair, and in a choked voice told me how he had been addicted to wine and women from the beginning. He had hinted to
me about this, but I had not understood. He had really wanted to tell me everything about his life openly, but had never
actually done so. After marrying me, it was not that he had really wanted to continue his former lifestyle. It was because
I had denied him intercourse that he had had to turn to prostitutes. However his love for me had not been spoilt by his
visits to brothels.
****
The penicillin that was supposed to cure me was making me worse. In the place of one boil, another five had erupted.
The boils were no more boils, their mouths had burst open, and pus was now traveling down my pyjamas from the open
sores. The pus thickened, from white it turned black. The smelly pus began to stick. From white it turned to nutty
brown. From nutty to deep brown, from deep brown to reddish, and from red to a blackish colour. From blackish to
black. From black to black as tar. I moved my body away from other people. I bought attar and kept applying it to my
body so that no one would get the smell. I kept bright lights on in my room the whole night apparently to study for my
exams. The exams were around the corner. Not just on the table, my books and copies were scattered in such a way all
over my bed that with me and the books there was no place for Yasmin to lie down. I didnt want her to find place. I
didnt want this virus from my body to travel through my pyjamas, to the bedsheets and pillow-slips, and touch Yasmin.
I had a bath not just once, but twice, sometimes even thrice a day. I said I felt warm. So hot in fact that I couldnt stay
without bathing repeatedly. The real reason for bathing was to wash my pyjamas. My pyjamas would get wet with the
smelly secretions. Finally I had to use cotton wool. Even that had to be done secretly. This was because even if I did not
keep track of my periods, Ma did. Every month I suffered lower abdominal cramps and landed up rolling with pain in
bed. So to have my periods minus the usual accompanying cramps would raise many questions. Yasmin and I were used
to throwing our blood-soaked cloth and cotton wool pads in a closed verandah, behind the bathroom. Baba would clean
that verandah once in a while. He picked up our bloody pads with his own hands. If any cotton wool minus the blood
was found in this verandah, then Ma would become suspicious. This thought made me recoil. If I dropped the cotton
wool in the toilet, then even several pitchers of water would not be able to wash it away. It would get stuck midway, and
all the dirty excreta would rise up like a fountain. From my head, surgery, medicine, gynaecology had all disappeared.
In it there now was only one disease, and how to save myself from it. A disease was emerging out of my head and
spreading in my body, hidden from the public eye.
Everyday I was treating diseases in the hospital, yet I had a disease myself. I could go to no known doctor with this
disease. The disease was no longer in its first stage; it had already reached the second. The penicillin injection I had
taken had no effect. In the third stage, this illness would incapacitate the nervous system. To be infected with neuro-
syphilis meant death. I waited for death to come. At night I slept with death beside me. I woke with death in the
morning. I went to college and a little bit of death accompanied me. I returned from college, so did death. In the evening
I sat on the verandah alone, with my face towards the courtyard. A little of death sat beside me. In this condition one
day I bought penicillin tablets which could be taken orally. I knew even these would not work, but I still bought them.
Maybe if I took a higher dose, I would get some relief, however minor. I hid the medicine under the mattress, so that no
one would see. There was a time when if I had fever, I used to secretly throw my medicines away. I was so scared of
taking them and swallowing tablets. Now I secretly took medicines. Now instead of twelve I had to take seventy-two. But
even then there was no effect. I looked for sleeping tablets in the medicine chest Dada had left behind, and swallowed
them. At least while sleeping one could set death aside.
But one had to wake up sometime. I had to face Ma, too. Even if no one else at home noticed, Ma definitely took note of
the fact that I was not my former self. I was lying down with my eyes on the beams, when Ma came and stopped near
the door, What are you thinking of?
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No, I am not thinking! Im just lying down.
Why are you hiding from me?
I told myself silently, what option do I have Ma, but to hide?
Something has happened to you. Something really bad has happened to you. Something really awful.
I turned on my side so that I didnt have to see Mas face. Or so that Ma couldnt see mine.
Rudra had gone to Mongla again. He was keeping accounts there of the grains of rice. He counted money. Wrote poetry.
And intermittently worried about me. I wrote back an answer to his anxiety.
Aubokash
16.8.83
Sunshine,
I am returning home with your tiny letter in my hand, written on the 11
th
. You do not like anything, you do not get
peace thinking of me reading all this makes me laugh. Please dont make such statements, a second time over at least
not to me. Believe me, whatever else I can stand, such affectation only makes me burn inside. How many more fires will
you light? I have been on fire ever since and am now reduced to ashes. Dont you realise that even a little? Dont you
understand that at all?
You used to complain that I didnt talk. But now I talk endlessly, laugh a lot, in fact lately I have been laughing so much that
tears come out of my eyes. There is a sea hiding within my eyes, I have brought salty sea water with me. This disease that is
constantly eating into me, is a disease which afflicts ruined women who sell themselves cheaply in the bazar. I thought I was
good, I thought I was as beautiful and pure as a flower, that I had never committed even the smallest sin. Maybe thats why I am
being punished, for my inordinate pride. A flower too, when a worm eats up its petals, loses its beauty. After living with
mankinds dislike and negligence, one day unnoticed by everyone, it just drops dead. No one even feels sad about it.
I had too many dreams. No one could have seen so many. The dreams were built on too much trust and love. In front of my
eyes I can see the abode of my desires burning down. Reduced to ashes. Now I am an ordinary person, with no dreams. There
are no expectations in my heart, no hopes, no desires. I only have the body of a human being. Everything is empty inside, a
vacuum. I feel myself to be quite light. I have no one, nothing, no worries about the future. Because I want to forget where I
am, what I am doing, I take a Dyzipan. I feel I am floating in the sky, the night sky. There is no moon, no moonlight, only a
deep dark sky.
Trampling over my parents high expectations of me, crumbling to bits all the ideas my relatives had had of me, disregarding
those who criticised me, I came to you. What you gave me in return was the greatest thing I have ever got in my life. I will
always treasure this gift of yours.
There is no deliverance from this. That is why I am neither getting better, nor will I get better. I am full of big sores all over.
Their constant discharge rapidly changes its character. The black waste-like discharge leaves the body steeped in a terrible
odour. A very complicated, a very big disaster is taking place. That is very clear.
Now I have begun to suffer from an inferiority complex. Suddenly I have become very quiet. I do not speak to anyone.
Everyone is studying hard. The exams are approaching. I am unable to study anything. I do not feel like touching my books.
There is only that sky. The still night sky. I have no one, nothing, no sorrow, no happiness. I want to forget. I want oblivion. I
want to live without any memories. You have no idea of my trauma. You cannot understand. Sometimes I am surprised. Am I
human?
Humans at least have pride, anger, desire for revenge. A human being feels hatred, contempt, distrust. Can one be left only with
a sea of salty waters?
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I want to go away somewhere far. Where there is no one, nothing, no sorrow, no happiness. Where I can forget everything and
live, where my pains dont torment me so much. You have no idea what fire you have ignited in me. I know what is about to
happen to my body. You will not understand all this at all. These are terrible things. These dont happen to good people; they
happen only to fallen women who sell themselves for a few takas in the bazar.
Dawn.
Aubokash
20.8.83
Sunshine,
I had a great desire to address you as Sunshine. Actually this name does not suit you. You are a man of darkness. You invite a
black curse on a brightly lit life. You paint nightmares over beautiful dreams. You are like the fire in an inferno; you burn one to
ashes. You do not know how to love; you only know how to cheat. It is a sin to trust you, a sin to love you. This sin has entered
my body. I am burning to death, constantly suffering in agony and pain. I am being destroyed, you know that at least. How
much more destruction is required for death? How much more? You were the treasure found after a lot of dedication. After a
lifetime of worship I was given a ruined man. Dont you feel like laughing at my fate, Sunshine? You must surely be laughing
aloud in your mind.
You know, Sunshine, when you are close to me, it is amazing how I actually want to forget everything. I have no other shelter,
nowhere to go, no place on which I can turn around and stand maybe that is why I want to forget I want to think of the
dreams I had pictured, I want to deny your depraved past. Actually it doesnt work that way; it would be playacting with
myself. The hurt suppressed in my breast spreads out like fire. You do not know how to love, that is why you do not understand
what agony this is, how scorching it is.
This whole evening I have cried my heart out. Even now pain chokes my throat. I cant take this. I cant take this any more. I
only see nightmares now, nightmares of being completely ruined. No more dreams of creation, I only see nightmares of
destruction and breakage. People drown their sorrows in liquor, I need gallons of it. I need tranquilisers to sleep, I need
sedatives. Later maybe just a little higher dose will do, to kill me.
I have not an iota of attachment to life, no love; I want to turn to stone, but cant. In my eyes, lies a whole sea of salty water.
That night when you gradually brought your excitement to a tumultuous high-tide, my body was numb. In these situations, the
normal stimulation that sexual organs undergo did not affect mine. All I could feel was the throbbing ache in my head. Severe
pain. Intense pain.
Why didnt you sleep? Because I bothered you? Because you didnt sleep, did you try all morning to do so!
Dont you feel repentant, Sunshine? Not even a little contrition? Dont you want to die? Cant you take poison and die? Please
die, so that I can save myself. Please die, so that I can get some peace.
Dawn
***
Neither the injections worked, nor the tablets. There was no other medication mentioned in the books. I couldnt go to a doctor
even though the medicines were not working. Let the illness remain; let it worsen as it ultimately would. Such tough studies
were not possible at home, saying which, I packed my clothes and books and moved into a hostel. I was displaying the courage
required to flout the strictures made by all at home. It was my wish to go. It was not that group study helped me; not really. I
got into Safinazs room, which she shared with three other room mates. In the place for four, there were now five. No one had
any objections. They knew I was a lively person. They knew I could laugh, have fun. I said wonderful things. My melancholy
was as beautiful as my passion. They knew everything, but no one knew that I was secretly nursing a disease as well. Living in
the world of a medical college, a hospital, where diseases, medicines and treatment abounded, it was my fate to nurse a disease
secretly. The secretions from the sores would gradually dry up, slowly changing their hideous appearance, and would swell up
yet again with pus without notice. The disease was playing the game of hide-and-seek with me. So was Rudra. He said hed
return to Dhaka, but he did not. He had said he would return in a week. Two months passed without any signs of his return.
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There was now no need that Rudras letters come to Dalias address. His letters now came to the hospitals post office address.
The Post Master took care to keep my letters aside. I picked them up towards afternoon. In the envelope there was again a
poem.
I do not know when I handed you a cup of poison
Which you accepted as water for your thirst.
When I delivered death, wrapped in an envelope of life.
I do not know when I gave you the forbidden fruit mistaking it for grapes.
Night falls, in the dwelling of the body descends the darkness of death,
In this night there is no moonlight, not even fireflies.
Only darkness, the deep darkness of disintegration
Only the shadow of death, hovers in two dreamy eyes.
I dont know how I mistook the bloody oleander in my memory for a rose
When I handed over the responsibility for my hemlock-life
When I pulled you into my worm-eaten barren past .
Today only the cheerless light of lamentation adorns the evening lamp.
Darkness does not die in this diseased,
disintegrating dark world of ours.
Yet with the hope in ones heart of finding the sun, one takes to the road amidst the desolate fields.
The deep desire for life spins its web in the pure heart
The night sky still brings with it the dawn of the sun.
Hostel life was different. There was a time for study, a time for talk, and time for sleep. There was no way Safinaz would break
any of these regulations. I created chaos as soon as I arrived. My life was one of indiscipline. Watching so many girls at close
quarters, so many girls collectively in their personal domestic lives, was such a new experience for me, that I would often leave
my books, and chat at sleep time, laugh loudly at study time, and of course chat again at adda time. I had seen these girls in
aprons all these years at the college or hospital. Now instead of my studies, I was more interested in watching them without
their aprons. Out of aprons, these girls looked like ordinary girls; they laughed, cried, threw tantrums, ate, slept, sang songs,
danced and read outbook kind of things like all girls. They, too, fell in love and had dreams of their own. I wanted a
Rudra-less life now. A life which would allow me to forget my past! I did not want to be alone. The minute I was alone, a
disease left my body and traveled to my brain. I dreamt of suicide. However, even in the hostel, one had to be alone sometimes.
When this happened, this disease crawled over my nerves like a caterpillar. Again the nightmare called Rudra returned. Again
the tears rolled down on the words in my letters, wiping them out.
Hostel
15. 9. 83
Sunshine,
Since morning I have been in the hostel, chatting. After eating, everyone has now gone to sleep for a while. I am writing
because I cant sleep. It seems you are going to write everything to me about yourself, in great detail. Why? At the end of
everything, after having completely destroyed my life, why do you now need to explain yourself? Couldnt you have done so
earlier? Why did you take a cover of words? I did not know then the meaning of the words ruined, darkness, wild, disorganised.
Why didnt you explain them to me clearly? Why did you play with me for so long hiding behind an array of words?
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What else is left for me to know! What else do I need to know? What else do you want me to know? Tell me, after all this time,
is there any need for me to know? In how many different ways do you want me to know about your dissolute life? Believe me, I
want to die. As long as Im chatting with the girls, I am cheerful, I am well. At home I am alone, my pain increases. If I had one
room to myself in this hostel, I would never go back home.
Have you expressed doubts about whether you are really an unforgivable darkness or not? How surprising! Dont you have any
shame? Dont you feel even a little ashamed? Are you a human being or an animal? How come you dont want to die? If you
are not an unforgivable darkness, then what are you? What else do you want to be? Tell the most benevolent persons in this
world, tell them of your deeds, who will forgive you? Bring one person to me bring even one person in this whole country
before me, who will say you deserve to be forgiven, who will say you are not a dissolute darkness. Can you?
I know you are an aesthete. That you write good poetry is also well known to me. So what? What do you mean by saying I
should judge you differently? How do you think I should observe you? Yes, if you were no one to me, if you had remained only
an artist, then maybe I would have seen you differently. You could have had affairs with a hundred and eight women, gone to
brothels, had Syphilis, got drunk, taken ganja, drugs it would not have bothered me in the least. I would not have been
concerned about your personal life at all. You are an artist. Whatever you create, whatever you write, I would have only thought
about them. But you are my husband. Whether you are artistic or not, you are my husband. If you think of other women or write
poetry about them, it breaks my heart. You take drugs, you drink, I cry in sorrow. How much more? You have had love affairs
with thousands of women before marriage; there is no harm in that. But you have spent nights with women as if they are your
wives and you have enjoyed other womens bodies. Believe me, this cannot be tolerated. My heart breaks when I hear you
saying your ecstatic love for a girl made you madly want to marry her. You have married me yet you drink and frequent
brothels, things that I had never even imagined. Girls cannot accept such things, no girl can tolerate this, believe me. If you get
excited, thats fine, there is nothing unusual about that, you can masturbate. But why should you go to a prostitute? Why should
you insult me so greatly?
After deceiving me and bringing me along so far, you have now revealed your true character. This is an insult to my
womanhood. No woman will stand for this. No wife can tolerate this. You have very often lied to me even on being caught
red-handed. Telling lies is something I detest extremely. Yet you did so easily, you can conceal your true self beautifully! What
any other woman would have done at such a time I do not know. Here the question of tolerance does not arise. But one thing is
definite no one would stay with a fraud, in the name of a husband, for even a moment. Either they would have poisoned you
to death, or killed themselves. Or, they would have got out and regained their original status by some other method. Yet, why I
cant free myself even now is something I find surprising. What do I lack? Without you my life will not change by even a jot.
Then? Maybe I am actually a coward. I am worried about what others will say. Yet ironically denying both these things I loved
you. I did not look at your appearance, only your art, I did not look at your wealth. I only saw your art. I made you completely
my own.
Now in our deeply passionate moments when we reminiscence, you dig out from the past your rotten, putrefied, dissolute life,
and I cant bear it. What a wonderful disease you have infected me with! It has developed strong roots and dwells within me.
What else do you want to give me? Hasnt my life already ended? Where is my future? My dreams are all over, my desires
dead.
You have written, I will write everything, everything.
What will you write? What will you let me know? What will I gain by learning about your life? Your life has no single minded
devotion for me, there is no desire for my well-being, no love. You can, after all, never again become that beautiful person of
my dreams!
What will learning about you do for me? What will I get back? You have never loved me. Only I have stubbornly and
obstinately loved you. You have not been able to love me and turn human. Do you want to give me respect as your wife only by
writing poetry? Do you want to gratify my womanhood only through your poetry? Could any woman want it in this way?
You dont understand, because you have never been a woman, a wife. These things destroy, burn to cinders the mind and heart.
I did not get your love. I did not ensure your well-being for my sake. Then how can trust remain? Do you want to build a home
on distrust and deception?
That is why I tell you, you are wonderful as a friend. But no woman will tolerate you as a husband. They cant. Search all over
the world and find me one woman who will tell you you are an artist, and so should be judged differently.
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If you are so keen to seek the generosity of others, then how come you didnt show some generosity yourself? Why didnt you
marry some heroic woman raped in the war? Why didnt you marry and rescue a prostitute? Why didnt you marry a homeless
unfortunate woman abandoned by her husband, and help society and the country? Show me, marry a dark, ugly spinster, marry
an orphaned beggar girl and show me! Nothing affects me anymore. Nothing at all about you has any effect on me anymore.
But, before you expect me to be liberal and open hearted, why dont you show me a little of your own benevolence?
Dawn.
***
I will not return, Rudra, I told myself mentally. I will never return. I have bound myself to dwell in silence. Do not, please,
remind me anymore of your dissolute past. Leave me alone. However, Rudra would not leave me alone. His poetry kept coming
and depressing me.
Silence is the name of some melancholy stone .
Life for her will never I know return to its pristine glory.
Never will it become a heavenly flower, never will there be another dawn,
I know life will always remain suspended at the conjunction of day and night
She will remain always a virgin in flesh and blood.
No more will she join the procession of disgraced and distressed humanity,
She will never more take upon herself the wounds, blood and filth of afflicted persons,
I know she will never again go into youthful retreat.
No more will her hand touch her chin trembling with hurtful anger,
That hand will never again touch her sorrowing hair.
Her two moist eyes will no more open with the scent of a breath,
The memory of stars will live only in the dark interiors of her veins.
She will no more, I know, be fascinated by the river water
Her raft will float no more, no more will float even her courageous dreams,
This fascinating dream-raft will never float on water
Whose name is silence? In whose name does she burn in exile?
When Rudra returned from Mongla, I left for Dhaka from the hostel. No one at home needed to be told I was going to Dhaka.
There was no one to ask why I was going. I was going, it was my wish. There was no need for me to explain this either. It was
necessary to check how far the disease I was harbouring had affected me. I needed a doctor, an unknown one. Rudra took me to
a doctors chambers at the corner of Shahbagh. He told the doctor, She is sick. She has a sore. It isnt healing.
The doctor asked, Wheres the sore?
Rudra turned to me and said, Tell him where the sore is.
You tell him. I said.
Rudra turned back to the doctor and said, In her private parts.
When did it appear? What kind of sore is it? asked the doctor.
Rudra tried to count the days on his fingertips. Stopping him and without showing any temper I said, He is my husband, he
had Syphilis, he has infected me. I had taken penicillin. But I am not getting well.
Oh, thats the problem.
The doctor looked stupidly at us for a long time. That he had seen us earlier in this area, was evident from his eyes. The doctor
prescribed a blood test. After giving blood; back to Tajmahal Road, Muhammedpur. Sit waiting there. Read poetry there. Dream
of a home with Rudra there. Rudra would buy the utensils and crockery. He would set up a home in this house. A small home!
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A happy home! Rudra would turn pure from head to toe. I would never be hurt again. Never again would I feel pain. I had to
forgive him once at least. I had already spoken to him about forgiveness. Rudra was a womanizer; he enjoyed playing with the
flesh of women. This was not an accidental mistake on his part. If he had openly told me earlier about his lifestyle, I would
never have involved my life with his. But he had not. Here was the mistake. The mistake was not in his habits. He was addicted
to all these. People had these addictions. I was not objecting to these. I was blaming his deception. Such deception could have
only one answer; that was to abandon him. Very simple.
VDRL positive.
Again I had to take the injections. Not just on one day. On three days.
I returned after three days to Mymensingh. To the hostel. I did not have to answer anyones queries regarding where I had been,
and with whom. In a way a free life. I had desired a free life so much. With it I would actively participate in the literary and
cultural world of Dhaka. But where! I didnt at all wish to any more. I returned. After my departure, Rudra sat and wrote in that
room of his:
Her heart is on fire, ignited by the flame of her exile.
Engulfing her life in flames today, dawn is going into exile
Igniting her body today, dawn is going into exile
Engulfing the world in darkness, dawn is going into exile
The secret plunderer has torn out the essence of the flower.
Termites have taken over the blue starry skies,
The colourful kite has been torn by a hamlet in the sky,
The useless string drifts back, as does the heartful of broken dreams.
The killer time is standing holding the cup of poison
In these two naked eyes burns the harmful waste,
Time has placed in these hands limitless filth,
In lifes blood and flesh, seething darkness
.
A deep moonless night, she still dared to touch,
In darkness today her lonely city of dreams has burned,
In darkness has burned her blue sky of trust.
To this dreamless, burnt homestead, burnt room who will bring her back?
Not just poetry. I sat down to reply to Rudras many letters written in quick succession. His sores having healed, Rudra was
now a man desperately dreaming again of home and family. As soon as his sores healed, he had forgotten that between us now
there may not be a disease, but there was the memory of the disease. Between us remained a burning distrust. Something I
could not forget.
Aubokash
8.10.83
Sunshine,
I came home this afternoon. It is not possible for me to stay anywhere but at home. I can stay away, at the most, only for a day
or two. Ultimately I couldnt stay even in the hostel. In reality, the atmosphere I have been accustomed to all my life, I find
difficult to change in a hurry. Lying on a bed, and studying my texts at a table, did not allow me to progress in life. There was
so much of adda, so much of fun. But still my life did not seem to move on. I need to spread myself out or recoil into myself
when and how I want to. I have a lot to read outside of academic texts, a lot to do. I have to write. Inside my head two lakh
ideas and thoughts dance around chaotically, I have to be left alone in absolute silence.
Leaving all the hassles and troubles and the hundred and eight odd jobs aside I have to turn melancholic this has been an
eternal habit of mine. That is why I could never adjust myself to any place except home. Here I have my own personal tangled,
untidy lifestyle. I alone am its lord and master. On this bed covered untidily with my varied books, paper and dust, I make place
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for myself to sleep on the edge, and the night passes in deep slumber. Yet on other beautifully decorated, neat, tidy beds, I did
not get even a moment of sleep. Uncomfortable, I would toss and turn to get through the painful nights.
There is no surety of my finding books and copies, I can never find anything. One would be in the sky the other in the
underworld. One at this end, the other at that. And yet I can study. I can study with great concentration for a short period of
time.
It is not that everyone at home loves me greatly, is very fond of me, and favourably considers my requirements, my
conveniences and inconveniences. No one does that. I possibly exist as an unaccountable, un-required person in this house. It is
true that if I died now, no one in this house would drop a tear, and it would not bother anyone. At home I am thought of as
someone who has sinned excessively. Lately I have not allowed myself to be affected by all this. Now I do not ask for any
favours from anyone as I had done earlier, the beloved daughter of the family. I do not complain about anything. I am grateful
to everyone that I have now got time to myself and that I now also have the unbridled freedom to explore the world of my
rambling thoughts for a greater length of time. Actually the simple disciplined life of the hostel gave me claustrophobia. I was
like a wild bird in a cage, who wanted to escape back to the wilds.
I feel exactly the same about your room. Maximum two days, after that I find everything intolerable. In fact even you, your
behaviour, your conversation, everything.
The way you are able to control yourself after taking me to the ultimate heights, is something I am unable to do. That is why in
ignorance the ultimate of mistakes was committed by me. Of course by this I have also gained one thing. That is, I now feel
immense disgust for these things. I can now quite easily control all my other normal desires. This has proved very beneficial for
me. However, apart from the benefits, I have also incurred loss, the consequences of which I will experience in my very bones,
in a few days. Kindly at least save me from those in whatever way you possibly can. If I can rely on you even a little I will be at
peace.
Bas, I do not want anything else. There is no point running between Dhaka and Mymensingh trying to cure a disease which will
not go. Because this disease is incurable. This disease has attached itself to me stubbornly. It will only be satisfied when I am
destroyed.
I had told you long ago that in my excitement I did things rashly for which I have to repent all my life. That is true. If you want
an example I will tell you. I wrote letters to you, I fell in love with you, I married you, I went to your home, I surrendered
myself sometimes I question myself, to whom did I surrender? Should I answer this question? From all around arise loud
signs of laughter, ha ha
I dont know the correct answer to this. People say when the straightforward people turn crooked, there is no escape. I
sometimes feel like turning crooked for once. I feel like messing up, breaking into bits your beautifully constructed dream once.
For once, I feel like burning up your household. As much as you have broken me, and made me cry, I wish to make you cry. I
want to burn you in this agonizing fire. Why shouldnt I want to, tell me? I am a human being, not a God. And because Im not
a God, I will not go to your room. Beautifully arranged life, tidy and orderly affairs, going home, the marriage ceremony, social
obligations, long stays, resting after meals, work at the Dhaka press, buying utensils, cooking, eating at home, coming home
routinely, going to sleep with your wife at night all this I will not allow to happen. I do not want that a bird of happiness
should so easily fall prey into the hands of a man like you. Why should I hoodwink everyone at home, all my friends and
relatives, for you? Why should I leave my favourite carefree lifestyle of so many years and go away like a mad woman in love?
What have you given me and what will you give me in exchange for which I can dare to go away with you? What reason will
you give? That one signed marriage document! Exactly the same kind of document can be obtained for a talaqnama. You must
know that. If you say we have had a long association, I will say it was a mistake. From the beginning the whole thing was a
mistake on my part. It was something done rashly in excitement.
I am a human being, not a God. And so I made a mistake. But I have the courage also to free myself from that mistake. Let a
little courage remain with me. Forget all your plans and ideas. I have accepted my adverse circumstances as best as I can. I like
being on my own now. There is great pleasure in saving oneself from all the enmity around. Here I am not beholden to anyone.
No one worries about me, and nor do I worry about any one. Bas, life is passing by beautifully.
You have not been able to become the lover for whom this beloved would leave home. You have not even gained the stature of
a husband, for whom this obedient wife would keep home devotedly. You have not even become the kind of human being for
whom I would put my life at stake.
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In my own room, more than in yours, there may not be happiness, but there is peace. I still sleep well. Staying away from you, I
can forget my mistakes. In whatever way I live, I will be okay. I can give you at least this assurance. I do not need to go
anywhere. I have come back home. I have come back to my parents, brothers and sister but that is not it. I have come back to
myself. And for the rest of my life, I will remain with myself. In this world no one can love me more than I can love myself. No
one is as close to me as I am to myself.
You will please forget me. Many unfortunate incidents have taken place, dont try to create anymore. Kindly forget me and let
me save myself.
I am human. And because I am human I want to live long.
Dawn.
***
When I was concentrating on living, Rudra came to Mymensingh. He came, but nothing was as before. Our earlier meetings,
our swaying in the breeze of love, our looking into each others eyes without speaking, without words, nothing of this kind
happened. The poem which he wrote sitting in Masoods house, he posted to me while returning to Dhaka. When I read the
poem, sitting on the terrace of the house, in the gradually fading light of the sunset, waves of dejection arose in my breast. His
every word touched me. I sat and cried alone. I cried for a very long time. I cried for myself, I cried for Rudra.
Love will make you return, the dew in your eyes at midnight,
The deep wound in your heart, the burnt moon will bring you back.
The gloomy clouds of Ashwin will call for love,
Dreams will make you return, heavenly flower, flower of the earth.
Your life will make you return, this life, the forbidden fruit of heaven,
These eyes will make you return, the eyes whetted by fire,
Your hands will make you return, these hands, with their skilful creations,
Your graceful body will make you return, your pure body of sterling gold.
The sleepless owl of the night will make you return,
To the left of your breast lies a black coffin stuffed with pain,
The frothy foam will make you return,
The longing for the limitless sea,
The eyes fragrantly moist, the blue fly will make you return.
This poison-ivy will lovingly guide your path,
The dead flowers of the horsinghar will lie strewn on your path,
A solitary burning ember will always make you return,
After touching death, repentant darkness will bring back the dawn.
Exile was not for me. Triponema Palledum, however strong it was, did not have the strength to diminish even a little of my love
for Rudra. Possibly in ones life one can only love once, not several times. For no one else did so much pain gather in my
breast, for no one else did tears fall so readily from my eyes! It was only my love for Rudra that brought me back, nothing else.
I could only be defeated by my love for him. I wished desperately to hate Rudra, but I couldnt. Every word in his poems blew
away that wish into the wind far and wide. Watching the sun set with wet eyes, I thought of a new day. The day which would
dawn tomorrow, wiping out all the darkness, surely that day would be very different.
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CHAPTER XIX
Forbidden Fences
Why were things forbidden! Just so that one could stay safe, right? My connection to such matters had now been snapped for
life. Why then were orders forbidding me given? For what reasons was I to obey these orders that my parents passed? I had
nothing to fear from them anymore. Something had happened in my life that was much greater than those reasons for fear.
There was nothing left for me to remain alert. What benefit was there in imposing those prohibitions! I had crossed the
forbidden fences. Not to eat grass but to take Rudra to Aubokash. Let everyone see the man I loved. After all, let them know,
now what they would ultimately have to know one day. The day my medical studies would be over I would have to spend the
rest of my life with him. Rudra was taken home not for any introductions to be made. My classmates constantly visited me at
Aubokash. Not just friends, senior class brothers too dropped in to give advice, and juniors to take advice. Aubokash was not
out of bounds for anyone anymore. Possibly, Baba did grit his teeth secretly on seeing some of them, but never in their
presence. He displayed disinterest, but had never been able to tell anyone on their face to leave, the teacher-student relationship
creating a formidable barrier. Some of the credit for this went to me as well. From my first year of Medical itself, I had little by
little made the presence of students in the house a normal practice. Only for Rudra there was an unwritten ban. I was especially
fearful regarding Rudra. This fear of mine suddenly diminished, that was why my heart did not tremble while flouting the ban.
Yasmin was at home. So was Ma, but none of them got the time to meet Rudra. He did not even get to drink a cup of tea. He did
not get the chance other boys did, to sit and chat with me over a cup of tea. This was because Baba arrived. At this hour of
noon, completely unscheduled, with no reason to return home, Baba walked in. The two of us had just entered the house; the
entrance door was still wide open. Rudra had hardly seated himself on the sofa. I had just about crossed the drawing room and
was standing on the inner verandah about to call Lily, Nargis, Sufi or Ma to send some tea, when on hearing the sounds of the
black gate opening, I turned around to see Baba crossing the field, passing the staircase, the verandah room and heading
towards the drawing room. He saw Rudra. Looking at him with his two eyes widened, he raised his forefinger towards the black
gate and in a voice that shook the whole house, said Get out! Ma came running from the kitchen on hearing Baba shout, and
Yasmin from the bedroom. As soon as Rudra disappeared through the black gate, stunning everyone, I too began to walk
towards the gate. Behind me lay Babas bloodshot eyes, his forefinger, Mas wailing scream Nasreen dont go, come back,
behind me remained Yasmins call Bubu, Bubu.
The tar was melting on the roads. I caught up with Rudra walking in the direction of Golpukur Par. Rudra was fuming with
anger. That I had come to him flouting a ban, that I had chosen him out of the painful choice between my family and Rudra,
that this choice was such a big step for me to take, was possibly something he had no idea of. That I had forcefully rejected the
one person that I respected the most, the one person who had helped in shaping my life, that I had dared to disobey an order
from that person, for the first time in my life that I had ignored his bloodshot eyes, and had dashed his pride with one blow
from its peak to the ground, that I had reduced his honour to dust and shattered his dreams into pieces, were obviously facts
beyond Rudras comprehension, for he said, Did you take me home to be insulted! No I had not done so. I had no idea Baba
would come home so suddenly and unexpectedly! You are the one who wanted to visit Aubokash, and meet Baba! You did,
didnt you! Of course, you did! Taking a rickshaw from the melting streets of Golpukur Par, the two of us headed towards the
bus stand. I was not prepared at all to go to Dhaka, but I boarded the bus. I had not taken permission from home. In fact I
boarded the bus without informing anyone that we were leaving for Dhaka. In spite of knowing that everyone would wonder
where I was, why I did not return home, that their anxieties would increase as evening turned to night, I still boarded the bus.
The bus was moving towards Dhaka. Scorching winds raised fiery dust particles and spattered our faces and eyes. With cold
eyes I stared at the swirling dust particles, with cold eyes I looked at the crows, dogs and people hurrying about on the streets.
With cold eyes I watched bullock-carts, motor-cars, rickshaws, buses and trucks. With cold eyes I saw the empty fields
harvested of their crops, and I looked at myself.
Right at the back of the bus, on the seat next to Rudras, a man was discussing politics with the passenger sitting next to him.
Gradually, Rudra too entered into this discussion. That the Ershad government would fall, he was sure, all the bus passengers
too were sure of this. The discussion moved from politics to the market prices. From the price of rice, daal, oil, salt to the price
of fish and meat, and how at this rate of inflation, all the food stuff would soon be out of the reach of the common man. Only
after people had expressed their agitation and distress did this discussion end. After this, they started a discussion about the
character of man. Honesty and dishonesty. Some time was spent on this too. Since the man sitting next to him agreed almost
hundred percent with Rudras opinions, he kept looking at him with great delight. Now the kind of questions normally asked
while traveling in buses and trains were directed towards Rudra, Well, brother, where do you stay?
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My home is in Khulna.
Do you stay in Mymensingh?
No. I stay in Dhaka.
Oh. Then how is she related to you?
She is my wife.
Is your in-laws home in Mymensingh?
Yes.
Well, brother, what do you do? I mean what kind of job, service
I write.
Meaning?
I write.
You write?
I write poetry.
You write poetry? The man laughed, very amused. By turns his eyes narrowed with curiosity and widened in great
astonishment. The alternately small and big eyes were fixed on Rudras eyes, on Rudras peaceful eyes, on his moss covered
eyes.
This time the man maintained eye contact, pronounced each word separately, but made sure both his voice and mind were being
expressed loud and clear, and that not a single word escaped through any gap, and said, I have understood that you write
poetry, so does my son, but what is your profession?
My profession is writing poetry, Rudra replied in very calm tones.
The man had possibly heard such a reply for the first time. Without continuing the conversation any further, he looked out of
the window for the rest of the journey.
Rudra had told me also ages ago that he was not interested in working anywhere. He wanted to make poetry his profession.
Why a poets profession was not given importance in this country even today, was beyond his comprehension.
It isnt considered as a good profession because you cant earn money with it. Tell me, how much do you get for one poem?
Twenty taka, twenty five taka, at the most fifty taka, thats it, right? Can you manage board and lodging within this?
The respect due to poets has to grow.
Who will help it grow?
The publishers.
If they dont, what will you do?
I will agitate. I will not give them my poems.
If you dont, theyll merely take them from those who charge less or write for free.
No one would write for free.
I too wrote, but I had never thought of earning money through my writing. I felt ashamed to think of my poems existing in
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exchange for something. You give me poems, I will give you love. That was fine. But give me money, only then I will write for
you, poems were an item of barter! If that was so then I felt poems would be no different from onions and garlic. Money was
something that always slipped through my fingers, if I gave away my poetry for money, the same would happen to them; they
would slip away.
Even if I was unable to persuade Rudra to become a lover in spite of hundreds of pleas, I was able to make him take the MA
exam. Initially he was not allowed to take the exam, but finally after major requests and solicitations to the V.C. he was able to
do so. Though there was no future in this country even if you qualified as an M.A. I cajoled him saying that as he had entered
the University, he now should exit it, as whenever one got into something, one had to also get out of it. Since it was not seemly
to get out through a window, it would be better to exit through the main door. He did so undoubtedly, but his dream of taking up
poetry as a profession did not wane either.
When the bus stopped at Mahakhali, we took a rickshaw to Muhammedpur. Late in the evening we went out. Standing in the
Chitrashashi compound, Rudra looked out for friends to adda with. In the darkness of dusk, while standing in the grounds
drinking tea, we met friends. Writer friends, poet friends, journalist friends, actor friends, politician friends, singers, and friends
with no occupation. One invariably met someone or the other. Rudra now introduced me as his wife, and I did not object. We
were living in the same house, we had flouted Babas commands, what need was there for any more diffidence! At the end of
our adda, while returning home, we purchased two plates, four tea cups, two glasses, two small pans, rice, daal, oil, eggs, salt,
tea-leaves, sugar etc. Rudra laughed and said, Our first household shopping. He was sick of eating in restaurants. From now
on, meals would be cooked at home, and eaten at home. But who was going to do the cooking! I had never cooked before, but
even if I hadnt I would now have to do it. He wanted to be a family man from now on. No more for him the outside, the
roaming around, and the undisciplined life. I was unable to tell him that I didnt know how to cook, that the very next
morning I would have to return to Mymensingh. I had classes, very important classes and that there were exams, very difficult
ones. In order to inaugurate our domestic life, the rice I made remained undercooked, the daal I prepared with spices borrowed
from the neighbours was placed on the stove to cook, but turned into something else. Finally I fried eggs to save face. Rudra
delighted with even this meal, caressed me at night. Whenever Rudra touched me, my body went numb. All self-control,
resistance, will-power, reason everything got destroyed. I flowed like water into the vessel called Rudra. Was this love or
custom and tradition, I questioned myself. Just because gradually people were getting to know of my marriage, whether on
paper or in my mind, and because once married you could never reverse it, and because people said one should spend the rest of
ones life with ones husband, whatever compromises it entailed, like ten other good girls did, was that it! Was that why I was
unable to move away from Rudra, in spite of knowing everything? Or was there a very simple, straightforward reason, that I
loved him. Did I really follow traditions so much? If I did, I would not have made friends with Habibullah, because friendships
between boys and girls were not customary. If I did, then my relationship with Rudra also would not have withstood the test.
After all, Rudra was neither a doctor nor an engineer, something the husband of a doctor girl was bound to be, in fact, should
be, according to everyone, meaning my relatives, neighbours, people whom I knew and didnt know. Instead I had ignored that
custom and had declared my love for a man like Rudra, who could provide neither food nor shelter. Seeing his sexual pleasure
and satisfaction after intercourse, I wondered whether Rudra really loved me. If he did, how could he touch the bodies of other
women? I couldnt do it. When Habibullah stared at me continuously with eyes full of love, I didnt feel the need to touch him
and see. Even if a handsome man like Habibullah were to stand naked before me, I would not feel any desire for him. The body
was not very far from the mind. These thoughts were exclusively mine, even if I wished to push them far away, they did not
move even an inch.
I returned to Mymensingh. Ma asked, Where were you? I did not reply.
Where I went, or didnt, where I stayed or didnt, was no business of anybodys, I declared. I made it very clear.
Why dont you get out of the house? Go and stay with the man you spent the night with.
When it is time, I will. No one has to tell me to do so.
Ma was cursing, but she was at least talking to me. Baba did not speak. He deliberately did not cross even my shadow. He did
not pay my rickshaw fare for college. Seven days passed by, but Baba did not relent. That I was a person living in the house,
Baba pretended not to know or else he had forgotten. After seven days, Ma mumbled to him in the morning, Is she to give up
going to college and sit at home. At least leave the rickshaw fare for her.
Throwing a look at Ma which could kill, he said angrily, Tell her to get out of the house. She has no right to live in my house
any more.
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Directed at me, Baba continued to shoot one poisonous arrow after another. Who has told her to stay in my house? Who is that
man? Where is he from? What does he do? How dare the girl bring this man home? How dare she walk out of the house with
him, in front of my eyes! What is she doing in my house? Should I kick her out of the house or will she go herself?
Once Baba had left, Ma told me, Now look what you have done, now face the music. See how you have destroyed your life.
Your father will never again pay for your education. Your medical studies are over. Your father had a great dream that at least
one of his daughters would become a doctor. Its all over.
I sat and heard the lamentations because, It was all over.
Sitting next to me at night, Ma said softly, What is the name of the man with whom you went? Is it Rudra? Have you married
him?
I got up and left without answering. Ma followed me and said, If you havent married him then say so. I will tell your father.
He might soften a bit.
I began to feel claustrophobic in the atmosphere at home. Everyones eyes were watching me. Eyes of hatred! Eyes of
suspicion, distrust. It was as though I was not the same person, I was crazy, and was sitting at home having lost my mental
balance. Purposely I left the house and went out. I went wherever my two eyes took me. I was turning blue with attacks of
anxiety and uncertainty. At that time, Ma temporarily found a solution to my problem. Ma personally went to Notun Bazar and
caught hold of a green coconut-seller. Not Rashid, someone else. Selling the coconuts on her two trees, she gave me the money
to go to college. She gave me the money, but she also asked me to ask forgiveness of Baba for my wrong doings, to promise
him never to do anything wrong ever again, and then ask for money to regularly attend college and hospital. No, I didnt do
that. I wrote to Rudra explaining the circumstances at home. I also asked him to send me some money. Rudra sent a money
order on receiving my letter. One thousand taka. This money removed every worry surrounding me to distances far away. The
money was not spent on transport alone. As soon as it was evening, I took Yasmin and sat in a hooded rickshaw, dropped our
mandatory odhnas from over our heads, and roamed all over town. There was a strange joy in this roaming around. We were
like two free birds that had just that moment broken free of our restrictions. If we wanted to eat malaikari, we would stop
immediately at the Sri Krishna sweet shop, and even ate rasgollas floating on top of curd. Baba had not sent biscuits in a long
time. Going to the store, I picked up a pound of biscuits and went home. Ma wanted to go to Peerbari, she didnt have the
rickshaw fare. I generously gave her five taka. When there was nothing but daal and rice at home, I would take Yasmin and go
to a restaurant at Ganginar Par and eat meat and rice, sometimes even visit the new Chinese restaurant.
Baba noticed that I was going to college, and yet was not asking him for money. He also noticed that even if he did not arrange
for any food at home beyond daal and rice, yet no one was still handing him a list of groceries to be bought. All this caused his
pride and arrogance to take a beating. He called Ma and asked her Who gives that girl money to go to college? Do you?
Where do I have the money to give her? Do you give me any money to spend?
Then where has she got it from?
How do I know?
What do you mean you dont know? Dont you need to know?
How will it help to know? You have stopped giving her money. So she has to arrange for it herself! She must have done so.
How did she arrange it? From whom?
Why dont you ask her yourself? Why have you stopped talking to her? Can all problems be solved by not talking?
I told her to leave my house, why hasnt she done so?
Where would she go?
Let her go to the guy shes taking money from.
You will be happy if she does that, right? Now you dont have to give any money to Noman and Kamaal. You dont ever give
me anything, anyway. Now you cant even bear to give the little you were giving the two girls. You want to enjoy all your
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money yourself, sure, go ahead. If not today, someday the girls will leave this house. So why do you want to shoo them away
right now? If you want the house to be vacated, say so, well all leave. Stay by yourself.
Baba did not make any reply. He looked at the courtyard with vacant eyes. Baba could have called Yasmin and said, Now you
alone are my dream. You must now uphold my honour. But that possibility was also dim at that moment. Yasmin, the
scholarship student, the first class SSC with star-studded marks in chemistry, had secured only a second class in her
intermediate. After extinguishing Babas lamp of hope, and treating it triflingly, Yasmin had started saying, after her results
were declared, Actually it was Debnath sir who is responsible for my poor results.
Debnath Pandit had not come home and tutored Yasmin, as he had done for me. He had taught her in a group. If you had to
tutor a hundred students, there was no option but to teach in groups. Left on the edge of one such group, Yasmin had not
understood a word of Math. I, of course, felt that the two new members of the house, Haseena and Suhrid, had excited her so
much that she had not concentrated on her books at all. When I had asked her to sit down and study, she had scolded and
brushed me aside. Baba said she had studied but not seriously. With a second class, there was no way she could get admission
in Medical College. In a grave voice, Baba said, You have ruined your life. Now see if you can take the improvement exam
and secure a first class. See if you can get admission in a Medical College. Otherwise like those dumb donkeys, go and take
admission in Anandamohan with B.Sc. What else can you do?
At home, affection for Yasmin lessened. Of course, not as far as Ma was concerned. Ma said, No education is bad. If you
studied hard, all education was good.
Baba turned up his nose on hearing this and said, What is this illiterate woman talking about!
Ma turned around and said, Why, Sulekha did not study medicine. She passed her MA, and is now working as the G.M. of a
bank.
Baba laughed sarcastically. Trying to move away from Babas scorn, Ma proceeded towards the kitchen, but he stopped her and
said, Tell me, what does G. M. stand for?
A big officer.
I, too, laughed mockingly.
Ma went away to the kitchen. That room was Mas only salvation, she knew that, and so did we. I advised Yasmin to take up
Honours in some good branch of life sciences. She sat swaying in her chair, her feet on the table.
Physics?
Impossible.
Why impossible?
Its tough.
Then chemistry. You got a letter in your SSC.
No. Chemistry is also tough.
Then Math?
The question does not arise.
Take Zoology.
No.
Then do one thing.
What?
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Give up studies.
Yasmins studies were in a way almost over. She didnt look as though she had any desire to take up books ever again. When
she returned, after filling up her form for the improvement exam, Dada had come on a two-day visit from Bongura. He said,
Come along and visit Bongura. Yasmin excitedly went off to Bongura for a holiday. The pain in Yasmins shoulders and
knees thanks to Dada and Haseenas bounty had not yet healed. After that incident in the courtyard, we had stopped talking to
both Dada and Haseena. I still didnt, but Yasmin had begun to talk to them, though only in the abstract. When Dada returned
with Yasmin to Mymensingh, Baba called his eldest son, and sat close to him.
How do you like it in Bongura?
Good.
How good?
The company pays the house rent.
What kind of house do you have?
Not bad. There are three rooms. Drawing, bed, dining.
Do you have a courtyard?
No, there is none, why should there be? It is an apartment building, after all.
Do you do your own shopping? How are the prices of goods there?
Well, the prices are a little high there.
Does all your money get spent in household expenses?
Well, there are expenses, some of it does go.
How much could you be possibly earning as a representative?
I am not a representative anymore, I became a supervisor ages ago.
Whats the difference?
The touring is less.
Are you saving any money for the future?
A little.
You go around spraying perfume all over your body like an aristocrat; you are spending as much money as you wish. How can
you save?
Wheres the perfume? I dont buy any, nowadays.
Why do you stay away, leaving your own home?
I have to work.
Leave that job and return to Mymensingh. I am giving Arogya Bitaan to you. Work in the medicine business. If you work hard
in your business, you will earn much more money than you are getting in your job.
After a long four-hour meeting, decision was taken that Dada would leave his job at the Fisons company and look after his
fathers business. He went back to Bongura. After a month or so, he returned with wife, child, belongings, everything except
the job of his choice. After Dada had left for Bongura with his job, Baba had purchased new furniture, a TV, fridge, and other
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stuff. Dadas room was not vacant any more for him to land all his own furniture in it. The huge dining table and the locked
glass almirah for keeping crockery was kept in Dadas earlier bedroom. On Babas direction, their huge bed, almirah, dressing
table, clothes stand etc. were arranged in one of the two tin sheds in the courtyard, and he began to stay there with his wife and
son. After their return, I had nothing to say to Dada and Haseena, except to reply Yes or No to their questions. Only if
absolutely necessary, two or three words were exchanged, but only in the abstract. An expert in talking without addressing
anyone, this was not too difficult for me. Baba had rented two rooms next to Arogya Bitaan. He had in turn rented out one of
them to a businessman selling beddings, and he had converted the other into separate chambers for himself. Dada was in charge
of Arogya Bitaan, the pharmacy. In Babas hands were the patients to be treated; in Dadas was the business. To develop the
business, Baba generously put a few lakhs into Dadas hands.
My expenses were met with Rudras money. Baba did not even look back to see if I required anything or not. He had no
enthusiasm regarding me anymore. I had gone to the dogs, I had torn my way out of all restraints, I had crossed all forbidden
fences, I was not myself anymore, I was ruined. He had no more hopes for me. This Baba, I used to think, had dedicated his life
to making me a doctor. Yet, because I had walked out in protest, against his insulting Rudra and throwing him out of the house
and had not returned home one night he had almost turned me into a forsaken daughter! His castle of dreams for me had
disintegrated! How easily it had collapsed! What a fragile dream he had lived with! It was not as if I had told anyone I had any
relationship with Rudra, or that I had married him, or that I did not care for them all! If I had told them, I could understand him
losing his sense of good and evil and doing what he had done. I was very upset with Babas attitude. I felt that in this whole
world, the only person close to me was Rudra.
Rudra came to Mymensingh. We roamed around the whole town in a hooded rickshaw. Let people see us. If the news reached
Baba, let it, what more was I scared of! Rudra demanded that I spend the night with him at a hotel. In a dingy area of
Mymensingh, he had rented a room in a hotel called Shastaneer, in Chhotobazar. It was fearful climbing the dark staircase. In a
damp small room on the fourth floor, in which only a single cot fitted, I entered looking for a breath of fresh air, I did not get it.
The air was heavy, laden with the stench of urine and the smell of mucous and spit. There was no window in the room that I
could open. The bed sheet, pillow cases and even the tiny toilet, appeared to be crawling with the Syphilis virus, which if
touched, would climb up ones body like a scorpion. My body revolted. Tell them to change the sheets on the bed. To change
the pillows. Im feeling sick. Lets go to some other better hotel, I said. No, Rudra would do no such thing. He pulled me to
the bed. He pulled my clothes off me. He climbed onto me naked. My mind was on the dirty sheets, dirty pillows. Rudra
enjoyed my body which was cringing with fear. He lit a cigarette after it was over. In the stuffy room the cigarette smell mixed
with all the other existent smells. Nausea rose up from my intestines to my throat. My head spun. Rudra said, Lets go to
Dhaka tomorrow.
My ward-ending exams are two days away.
Forget the ward-ending. Nothing will happen if you do not appear for them.
That something would happen, I knew. Knowing this, I still packed two extra dresses in my bag, and went out to catch the
afternoon bus. Ma called from behind, Where are you going? To Dhaka. To whom in Dhaka? Without replying I walked
away like a deaf and dumb creature. Behind me lay Mas worries about my crossing the forbidden fences, behind me were my
important classes. As were my all important ward-ending exams. On reaching Dhaka, there was my sitting around and sleeping
in Rudras two rooms, reading his new poems, cooking dishes I had never cooked in my life, going out to enjoy the evening air
in a hooded rickshaw, at dusk sitting at Ashim Saha and other printers, discussing politics, literature society-culture with
Nirmalendu Goon and Mahadeb Saha and returning home at night. Rudra played with my body at night. Entering deep into my
body, he would say, I seem to be going over stone chips. So many stone-chips! So many stone-chips! After racing over the
stone-chips in the deeper and darker, more inaccessible parts of my body, he collapsed with fatigue, saying Oof, your teeth are
so sharp, you bite so deeply that I just cant escape.
As soon as dawn appeared, I became restless to return to Mymensingh. What is there to get so impatient about? Stay on for
another two days. I stayed two more days. After two days, Rudras stay in Dhaka too came to an end. He had to return to
Mongla.
I need some money.
Is the money I sent you over?
Yes.
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How?
I didnt keep accounts.
How can you afford to be such a spendthrift?
My head automatically bent. The way it did when asking Baba for money, exactly in the same way. My eyes were lowered. In
front of Baba, too, my eyes remained lowered.
How much do you need now? How much will suffice?
I picked at my nails. The nails of my fingers. The nails of my toes.
Will three hundred do?
Yes, it will.
I took the money though I felt very ashamed to do so. I felt I was an irritation. I could not stand tall. I was spineless. I felt like I
was a parasite. My shame would not go. I wished I did not have to take money from anyone. If only I could earn my own keep!
I wished I could raise my head lowered in shame even a little!
When I returned to Mymensingh, Ma said, Who were you staying with in Dhaka, with Kamaal? With your Boro mama? At
Jhunus house?
No.
Then in whose house?
I didnt say anything.
Ma said, I dont know which path you are treading! What is in your fate! You dont believe in Allah Khuda. You do what you
wish. The guy who is enticing you into leaving the house, will you be happy with him? Leave him even now. Spare a thought
for everyone. Think of your parents, your brothers and sister. There are so many doctor-boys who want to marry you. You dont
give any of them any attention. Who you are going around with now, only you know. Dont ruin your life. Go and tell your
father, you will reform and mend your ways. You will listen to him. Your father will pay for all your expenses. You still have
time to talk to him, speak to him.
Passing Ma by, I took my apron from the clothes stand, and left for the hospital.
****
I couldnt be a spendthrift from now. I could not now leave money in the bathroom, on windows, tables and beds like I left my
gold ornaments. I made a book into an accounts register, and made the entries two days rickshaw fare twelve taka, nuts
one taka, tea three taka, comb one taka, pen two taka, paper five taka after which I never wrote in it again. The
accounts register could also never be found again. Almost every evening, when the heat of the sun would go down, I would
leave my study table and tell Yasmin, Lets go, lets spend sometime outside. Yasmin would leap up at the thought of going
out. Ma kept saying, She has ruined herself, now she will ruin Yasmin.
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Chapter XX
Woman
In the fifth year, there was only one thing to be done from morning to night, and that was study. I was unable to escape
from that. The whole day was spent at the hospital and now there were classes at night as well. The Professors taught
during the day, they taught even at night. Not just the Professors, even seniors who had just qualified as doctors, came to
teach. Rajib Ahmed came to teach in the Medicine Department. Rajib Ahmed had come first this time as well; he had
stood first in the fifth year, from amongst all the medical colleges affiliated to Dhaka university. I was absolutely
bewildered, how did he pack so much knowledge into that small head of his! My table was full of Rajibs surgery,
medicine, gynae notebooks. If printed, I believed his notes would surely be better than the books written by the sahibs. I
was the only grateful recipient of Rajibs compassion, to whom he endlessly supplied his gems. Yet, he hardly ever
looked at me. I doubted whether he had any other interests apart from medicine. Standing at the head of a patients bed,
he would give us all the details of various diseases, and teach us how to make a diagnosis, and treat the disease. After
the night classes, I was scared to return home alone. I was very afraid of the dark. Very often I requested my classmates
to escort me home. The day there was no one, I would ask one of the boys living in town to follow my rickshaw with his
own, through most of the dark streets, even if he couldnt take me all the way home. Was there any end to the darkness!
Even if the escorting rickshaw followed me through most of the dark patches, pockets of darkness remained for me to
cross alone. The right turn in front of Vidyamoyee School that I had to take to enter the road for my house, was always
very dark and eerie my heart thudded, and I would tell the rickshaw-wala to hurry up, so that this path could be
crossed as fast as possible I kept thinking that any moment a gang of boys would stop my rickshaw, take me down and
rape me behind some bush, and afterwards stab me in the chest. Even the rickshaw-wala might stop his rickshaw and
pull me to some place. It was not as if nothing happened during the day, so far whatever had happened had occurred in
the daytime. While sitting in a rickshaw, someone would deliberately spit at me, or spit paan juice in my direction, laugh
loudly or cough suggestively. A stone would be thrown, which would by pass my ear and land on my chest or head. The
culprit would laugh loudly, cough deliberately, displaying all his thirty-two pleased teeth. Someone would extinguish his
burning cigarette on my arm while I would be riding in a rickshaw, and enjoy the fun. Someone else would pull my
odhna, another would bar my path, or someone would press my breast, laugh loudly and cough. Still I felt that the
nights were more dangerous than the days, something worse could take place. The night could drown me for life in the
darkness of a well. I was able to breathe again only after reaching home. Every time I came home safely, it was like
another day of survival.
I was on duty in the Gynaecology Department, all night. From eight in the night to eight in the morning. For this eight
p.m. duty I reached the hospital at 6 oclock, before darkness fell. There was no problem in reaching early for duty, but
one could not leave early without causing trouble. These night class-duties gave me my fears about darkness no doubt,
but they revealed something wonderful to me as well. On the stretch of road between Chhayabani and Ajanta Cinema
hall, women of different ages from the villages, sat with small oil lamps lit, selling rice, daal, vegetables, beaten and
puffed rice etc. The sight really stirred me, and I told Ma about them. She said, If I could be like them, I would have
been safe. I felt Ma was right. The courage and grit displayed by these women on the footpath, I noticed, Ma did not
have. For that matter, did I? Women inspired me, inspired me to take up my pen, take up a couple of blank pages, to
write. I couldnt help but write.
Today women spread out their wares over a wide space, not their bodies, not their beauty, before them laid out in the
dust are their merchandise, the pumpkin, parwals, gourds, greens, and aubergines from the fields. Someone in the
distance plays a sad, discordant tune on his pipe. Someones wife, someones sister, or even someone elses mother, you
know very well, have doffed their ghomtas from their heads, and have wiped the traditional lime off the customary paan.
Famine has descended on the nation, the devilish strength in our bodies is treacherous, it has a huge shark like mouth, it
pulls out the roots of the mustard plants. The unlucky scarcity sucks up the favourite scent of rice, and militant animals
grab with two hands the shades of tranquillity. Snatching sleep from the nights, destroying any dreams of the future in a
flaming house, having lost ones ancestral land, a handicapped soul only cries within a burnt body. At the door of this
dark life knocks illuminated hunger. Misshapen, shameless hunger dances madly shaking its odd hands and legs. These
destitute women who work hard physically for a meal, aim an arrow at the body of hunger. Not dressed in multi-
coloured saris with paint on their faces, but extremely simply, they stand with courage on the footpaths of the city, these
virtuous beauties, selling not their bodies cheaply, but these proud women are selling milk, bananas and beaten-rice.
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The life of a woman beckoned me. Women made me think constantly. I perpetually experienced the sorrows and pains
of women. The pain that I had suffered in my life was the pain of a woman. Was the pain mine alone? I knew it had to
be the pain of thousands of other women.
A gentle virgin, her face lowered modestly on her wedding day, trembles in fear of an unknown happiness, her body
blue with uncertainty of the future. The shehnai stops playing, the night deepens, the brides voice faints, what will the
man come and say in this silent, empty room! The husband in place of God locks the door and looks with slanted eyes at
the desirable, untouched flesh of the young modest girls body. He who had uncovered many times, many such bodies in
the prohibited areas, now wrote the fate of this woman with the ink of his practiced hand. The unknowing innocent
virgins dreams and desires shatter, her heart is filled with sorrow, was this how it happened, was this the way of the
world? A ghoulish exultation beats into dust the body, and kills desire and the bride accepts her greatest marital gift by
contracting a secret disease. Within a year, the woman gives birth to a physically handicapped child. The poison of the
complicated disease announces its arrival in her body by lighting a fire! The name of the disease is Syphilis, it comes
through the blood and lodges itself within, tearing the soft purity, and its poisonous talons tear the flesh and bones. The
cruelty of the night eats into the sun of life and extinguishes the dawn. The incurable black sin consumes the woman
untimely, snatching away years of her life. The lifeless muscles of the legs and arms lie spread out, both deaf and dumb,
some demon has struck her that is what people are always told.
I was obsessed with women. I was obsessed with their distress.
The girl had no father, no property, she was very young. The whole village was full of talk that her mother would give
her a stake in the old house. No one took the girl, I hear even the flute-player was interested in a dowry, then who would
come forth? A senile old man wore the bridegrooms attire. He suffered from asthma, four wives slept in his house freely.
The girl looked around in distress searching only for a safe shelter. Where was the bridal chamber? All her dreams
shattered into pieces. Her youth was wasted, defeated in her battle with fate.
Ma too was a woman. For the first time I felt her pains and sorrows.
She had tried verbally, she had even resorted to Tabiz and Kabaj in order to get him to return, but the husband did not
come back. One was not enough for him, how strange was such a character. In great joy the amorous Nawab danced.
Alone in her room the womans tears flowed like a river, she offered money endlessly at the Mazaars, she became a
Peers disciple and turned away from the world, within her heart a mountain of pain gathered, her mind was disturbed.
With an imaginary trust, the twisted nerves tried to display an appearance of happiness. Visiting the Peer, prostrating
herself at the Mazaar, the sad woman searched for her next life, not having been fated to attain happiness in this one. In
order to fill her empty life, she immersed herself in Khuda and Namaz. Finding her dreams unattainable in this world,
the woman finally closed her two eyes on this distasteful life.
One day, late in the evening, I was returning from the hospital with Safinaz on a rickshaw. As soon as we turned right
from Ganginar Par, she said in a hushed voice, There goes a prostitute. What are you saying? I protested. Thats an
ordinary girl. Safinaz laughed on hearing me. I saw them very often on the streets, I had never thought of them as
fallen women. Poor girls, wearing cheap saris, they may have painted their face out of some fancy. Such fancies any girl
could have. I did not feel any hatred for these girls, called prostitutes, on the street. Instead a strange kind of sympathy
was born in me.
With no one in her family, the girl experiences as soon as she grows up, how the ferocious hand of scarcity digs into life
and tears it apart. Housewives seeing her young figure do not invite danger by employing her. With hunger gnawing at
her entrails, fate directs woman to the wrong path. If a woman is able to beg at doors she can still survive, if she finds
stations or courts she can sleep, hidden amidst the crowds. Wicked men wink and laugh at these women. Enticing them
with the promise of food, they trick them under the cover of darkness. No family, no one anywhere, with only dreams of
food, the woman forgets her shame and joins hands with the pimp.
Everyday, women made me think. I didnt think even one woman was happy. Not even those who were dancing, singing
and wearing wonderful clothes.
****
The father has cancer, and is at deaths door. All near and dear ones have turned their eyes away, and pulled back their
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helping hands. There was no working member; the tiny siblings were starving morn and night. The woman stepped out
on her tender feet in search of work. In such a big capital city, where office buildings touched the sky, the woman was
unable to reap a harvest in the fields of this city in her hour of need. Wherever an offer was made, her body was asked
for in exchange. In this crowded life of duality, there were no human beings; everyone was fake. The scent of flesh made
the foxes and vultures attack. Hanging on to a straw, the woman saved her life in the high tide. There was no ground for
her to stand on, the river broke its banks in the tumultuous storm.
Tying a handkerchief around his neck, the city Romeo makes the woman forget. Under the cover of bushes, the woman
passes sleepless nights, learning to love. Mistaking the flames of destruction for love, she melts like wax. The innocent
virgin takes her lovers hand and leaves behind her community. Having no idea of the wicked world, she is shocked!
After having run far away, she discovers an ugly face under the mask of the lover. With no well-wisher around, she is
caught in a clever trap. Blinded by love the young woman had not learnt to recognise reality. In a dark alley, the boy
sold beautiful bodies at high prices. All the high minded scholars of our society blame fate. All night the flesh trade goes
on, bargains are made. They are our sisters. In exchange for money, they gratify a little. The bodies of my country
women float in the sewers. The dangerous grip of the night chews away desire and leaves poison. Who are those who
have forcibly poured poison into these mouths? Are they born to experience the pain of death throughout their lives?
Many more faces of women floated before my eyes, many more women continued to make me cry.
The baby in arms cries, her body is covered with pus and sores, there is no milk in her breasts, the jobless woman asks
for affection at every door. She asks for work, in exchange for a meal at night. She wants education for her child, and
wants the security of health care at hand. Are not children dying yearly of hunger and disease? Every month husbands
appear, and raise their fangs, like cobras. They pour the poison of children into the grown bodies and secretly escape.
Every woman is keen to taste the security of a safe haven. Not alone, but in a gang one must break down these citadels.
***
I wanted to write everyday about womens traumas. However, the complicated study of medicine took up most of my
time. By the time I came home from college after classes in the evening and rested a little, it was time to go back to the
hospital. It was not possible to remain involved with women everyday. This was not like studying at a desk, where one
could once in a while move ones eyes away and look at something else. I had to run to the hospital in the day and at
night. One had to examine patients, and test them in order to study. One could not become a doctor by only reading
books; one had to read ones patients. Just as in medicine, Rajib took our extra classes, in the gynae department Hira
took them. Hira had been in this department of female diseases and obstetrics for a very long time. She had not herself
obtained any great degrees, but was number one in Gynaecology. Many of the professors were not as expert in surgery
as she was. Hira got innumerable patients as well. Many said Hiras practice was better than Zobayed Hussains. That
might have been an exaggeration, but that Hira earned more than the college assistant professors, associate professors,
registrar and clinical assistants, of this, there was no doubt. In medicine there was a Prabhakar Purkayastha, whatever
else he was, at least he was no tiger. The sight of Zobayed Hussain made both tigers and goats drink from the same
stream; he was so scary. Just like Enayet Kabir in surgery. These two did not need to scold or grit their teeth while
speaking; their presence was enough to chill the bones of students. Zobayed Hussain was six feet tall, bespectacled, he
wore loose shirts and pants, a long apron, and spoke in the Khulna accent. When he went on his rounds from ward to
ward, followed by a whole lot of doctors and students, it was as if God was walking. Trailing behind Him would be His
messengers, prophets (doctors) along with his disciples (students). But when I had to walk behind Zobayed Hussain, I
did not feel like a disciple. It was as though I was an accused awaiting judgement. The Day of Judgement was
approaching; the exams were round the corner. I dont know for what reason, but he kept an eye on me. Professors had
two kinds of eyes, one good, one bad. Once I felt his eye on me, I was not sure which kind it was. He knew exactly for
which class I had reached late and how many births I had supervised in the delivery room. Suddenly he would ask
complicated questions on female diseases just anywhere, in the ward, corridor, operation theatre or delivery room. I had
to remain alert. After class I religiously avoided the path taken by Zobayed Hussain. If I saw him even at a distance, I
quickly changed both my speed and direction, so that I did not have to face him. There was a great danger in coming
face to face with him; of course, there was equal danger is not doing so. Face to face, he could suddenly ask a question,
the answer to which, I was not sure I had in my basket of knowledge. And not facing him might lead to the danger of
him one day declaring my face was not very visible in the hospital, which meant I was neglecting my studies. However
beneficial it might be to be recognised, I still avoided even his shadow. Other students when they saw him at distance,
pulled their aprons in place, in fact even opened their books and going over the pages, advanced towards him with slow
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steps. As soon as they came close to Zobayed Hussain, they raised their hands in salaam. The reason for doing this was
to drill into the memory compartment of Zobayed Hussains head, that his students not only studied in his class, they
even studied in the corridors, and also knew their manners well. Hopefully during the exams his memory would be
jogged. Just by studying hard one could not pass ones medical exams. If you did not arouse the pity of your teachers
you could lose everything. To save oneself from the clutches of the external examiners, one had to rely on the internal
examiners. If one fell under the eagle eyes of the internal as well, then in between the clutches of both, there was no way
out but to sacrifice oneself. Just because Baba was a professor of the college, I had no reason to think I would escape the
clutches of such ferocious tigers as Enayet Kabir and Zobayed Hussain. This was something Baba himself had told me.
All those students, who were nearly doctors and yet unable to pass out as doctors from the medical college, were victims
of this final exam syndrome. In my class itself there were students who were two, three or even five years senior to me,
who had got stuck at this stage. Seeing their gloomy faces, I thought of my future. Was I about to become one of them!
As a result, it was not that I became serious because of Babas advice or out of fear of Zobayed Hussain, I had to
become serious for my own sake. If I spent two years in the same class, the problems in my own life would certainly not
get solved, in fact would get more complicated. The faster I got over this bother and went to live with Rudra, and was
able to regulate his undisciplined life, the better! He was desperate to start family life a domesticity which he believed
would give his life stability. He had vowed that the mistake he had made would never be repeated in future. With this
hope, the years of waiting too were going to get over. Rudra had already planned to permanently shift to Dhaka, and
start a printing business. These efforts of Rudra were like a sprinkling of water showered on my scorching and burning
house of dreams.
***
Into the obstetrics departments delivery room flowed a continuous stream of mothers of different ages. Some for the
first child, some for the second, some even for the seventh child to be born. The mothers screamed in pain and agony. I
advised them to bear down in a particular way. This pressure would cause the water bag to come down, once the bag
was pierced, the baby would begin its journey into this world. I prayed that this journey was auspicious, and kept my
ears and eyes open, to detect the sound of the heartbeat regarding which there should be no doubts. I cleared all
obstacles in the babys journey. However, whenever, whether the first, second or third arrival of a baby occurred, if it
was a girl-child, the babys mother invariably began to wail. Outside the room, when I informed the waiting relatives of
the arrival of a girl, in front of my eyes the faces were transformed with gloom. How undesirable was the arrival of a
girl-child, was something I witnessed almost everyday. Only after giving birth to seven sons, someone might want a
daughter, but such people could be counted on ones fingers. Relatives of the mother crowded outside the delivery room
fervently praying and hoping that it would not be a girl, not a girl, they wanted a boy, a boy. To stop the young wails of a
twenty-one year old woman who had given birth to a girl-child, I had said, Being a woman yourself, you do not desire
a girl-child, chchi, what a shame!
The woman told me in a low tone, I will be given talaq, if that happens, where will I go?
Why should you be given talaq? You have given birth to a beautiful, healthy baby. You should be happy. Distribute
sweets to everyone.
I have given birth to a girl, Apa. I am unlucky.
The girl was crying cry her heart out. The walls of the delivery room seemed to echo her words I am unlucky, I am
unlucky. Pressing my hands to my ears, I came out.
For doctors, to-be-doctors, nurses, baskets of sweets would arrive outside the delivery room. This would happen always
to celebrate the birth of a boy-child. I waited to see the contentment of a couple after the birth of a girl-child. I never
saw it.
So what if its a girl. Girls are better than boys. They are the ones who look after their parents. Educate your daughter,
send her to school and college, your daughter will become a doctor like me. Please do not feel unhappy. No matter how
often I tried to say all this to prevent the distressed women from crying, they cried even more. They cried their hearts
out in the delivery room. The flower of the womb had been shed, but innumerable thorns remained embedded within.
Only when a son was born, did the face clear up from the birth pangs and express a peaceful smile and there was
laughter in the delivery room, and outside it. Everyday I left the delivery room with more agony in my heart than was
experienced at the time of delivery. The ugly face of society was slowly becoming clear to me as my awareness
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increased. Who was I, why was I, were questions which began to rotate in my head like one rotated the beads of the
tasbih. I could not find any difference between an unwanted girl-child, an unhappy woman bewailing the birth of a
girl-child in the delivery room, and myself.
Just when my hands were itching to tear up the customs of society, I dealt Lily a strong blow on her cheek. I slapped her
because she had not come to ask me what I wanted, even after I had called her four times. I then pushed Lily, who was
embarrassed by the slap out of the door saying, Go and get me tea immediately. Silently weeping, Lily, who was a ten
year old girl, went towards her mother who was carrying a pile of dirty vessels from the kitchen to the tap area, to tell
her I wanted tea. Lilys mother lowered the pile, and put the water for tea on the stove. Walking slowly, so that the
smoking tea did not spill, Lily came and left the cup on my table. A soiled half-pant was covering her; she was naked
chest upwards, with dust uptill her knees, on her nose was a two paise worth tin nose-ring. While drinking my tea, I was
trying to write a poem on the birth of a girl-child, and did not want anyone to enter the room and break my
concentration at that time. Ma, however, not only entered, but in a bitter tone said, Just because you are becoming a
doctor, dont you think of people as human beings? You have such a temper!
Why, what has happened? I asked in irritation.
You hit this little girl. Was it right beat her like this? The girls cheek is still red.
I called her many times. Why didnt she come?
Maybe she didnt hear. May be she was too far away. Just because of that, youll beat her? A poor child, she has no
father. Her mother works in peoples houses to fill her stomach. The kid is sent on errands, she runs and does them.
What she does is already too much. Her mother is working day and night. Do not beat poor people. Do not make Allah
unhappy. Allah will punish you for it. You dont believe in religion. You dont believe in Allah. I dont know what is in
your fate!
Ma moved away. After a couple of minutes she returned, pushing the poems on women towards me, from amidst the
scattered papers on my table. She said, On one hand you write poems about girls, on the other, you raise your hand on
them! What is the use of writing all this then?
My hands were on the white paper. On it were two lines of poetry with several scratches. My eyes were on the two lines.
My mind elsewhere.
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CHAPTER XXI
Another Day at Peerbari
I had another occasion to visit Peerbari. Not with Ma this time, but with three friends. The hostel girls had expressed their
desire to organize a Milad, celebrating the birth anniversary of the Holy Prophet. Theirs was a strange desire, considering girls
studying medicine hardly had the time to sing Allahumma Salillulah, and would find no reason to sing thus. Strange though it
was, since the desire was there, the need for a learned Maulvi had arisen. The girls looked everywhere for a Maulvi but in vain.
Finally they came to me, I was the local girl, I might know someone. I gave my word I would find a Maulvi, and in my zeal
even said that I would find a Lady-Maulvi for them. In the girls hostel, a Lady-Maulvi would come and recite the Milad for
them. What could be a better proposal? However, since I did not believe in Allah Rasool, Milad and Masjids, I would not
participate in it, except to partake of the Milad sweets. To join in that Allahumma Salillulah Sayednay was not my cup of tea.
Well if that was my stand, so be it. Safinaz, Halida and Parul set off with me. In two rickshaws, the four of us reached
Naumahal. I was visiting Peerbari after many years. On this visit as an adult the place gave me the same creeps it did when I
was a child. It was as though I was entering not some place on earth, but some world beyond it. In this world everyone stared
wide-eyed at us. Ignoring the looks, we entered the inner apartments looking for Fajli khala. I noticed that Fajli khala was not
very surprised to see me. It was as though one day I would have had to come anyway. I told Fajli khala, because she was my
khala, and also because although everyone else was crazy in this house, she was a little less, that we needed a Lady-Maulvi, this
very evening. She would have to recite the Milad in the hostel for the girls. This invitation should have evoked a smile on Fajli
khalas face, because in the whole town, this was the one place, in this Peerbari, where Lady-Maulvis were bred, and there was
a demand for them in the market. Many came to request for a Lady-Maulvi and others might also come. Standing before Fajli
khalas unsurprised, displeased face, I hurried her on; we needed someone immediately, we had no time. Any woman would do,
Humaira or Sufaira or any one at all. Fajli khala was not surprised even by this proposal of mine, but she did laugh. Maybe she
laughed because I had mentioned the names of her two daughters. Fajli khala was as beautiful as ever before. Her laugh, too,
was as unadulterated. Even before her smile faded away, Humaira arrived. The layers of fat on Humairas stomach seemed
about to burst out of the light dress she was wearing. Her head was covered with a big odhna. Humairas odhna-covered head
nodded when we said we needed a Lady-Maulvi. This Humaira had made sure she married her own excellent lover, a first
cousin, even though it entailed bringing him from Medinipur. She achieved this when all the young girls in Peerbari were
sacrificing their marriages, family life, children etc. in order to dedicate themselves to the path of Allah, as the Peer had himself
announced that there was no point in marriage at the end of ones life. But this Humaira, being the grand-daughter of the Peer,
had been the first to disobey the Peers announcement, and had done so just when she had reached a marriageable age. On the
other hand, in order to obey the Peers orders, a whole group of young women older than Humaira, remained unmarried.
Thanks to Humaira, Allahs instructions changed overnight for all those coming to the Peer, and stood at the point where Allah
now wanted everyone at the end of their lives to choose their partners as fast as possible. If the followers married at the end of
their lives, Allahtala would be very pleased. Allahtala obviously changed His decrees rather often. The decisions were taken
according to the conveniences of the members of the household at Peerbari. Hearing our wish Humaira said, Thats okay, Ill
arrange for it; youll get what you want. Instructing us to wait, she went into the inner wing of the female quarters. Fajli khala,
too, disappeared. Maybe Humaira herself was going to wear a burkha and come with us. But after we had been waiting for
almost twenty-five minutes, she did not arrive in a burkha to accompany us, instead, she took us with her to Peer Amirullah
himself, and entered his own room. Peer Amirullah was sitting on the bed wearing a loose white garment and a white cap. His
henna covered beard shook as he used his head to welcome us into the room. Humaira remained standing at one side. Apart
from the Peer there was also the Peers daughter, Zohra, and some other unmarried girls in the room. The reason for pushing us
into this room was not very clear to me. I guessed that to get a Lady-Maulvi, just Fajli khala and Humairas permission was not
enough, I had to personally request Peer Amirullah himself. Once we got his permission our job would be done. However, once
we entered the room, Peer Amirullah did not want to know why we had come. I had doubts whether he knew at all the purpose
of our visit to this house. Speaking completely out of context, if no one else, he shocked me, Safinaz, Halida and Parul, and
said, Well, have you realized that it is not so easy to follow Allahs path? Those who have been able to give up the material
pleasures, for them Allahtala has arranged for the highest honour in the next world. From the mouths of others in the room, the
cries, Aah Aah arose. The desire for that highest honour was in that Aah word. Worldly studies, temporary families, the web
of illusion only those who could tear themselves out of this net, could expect this kind of honour in their next life. Every
detail of this was described, and he did not forget to describe in frightening, horrifying detail Allahs punishments reserved for
those who were sunk in worldly pleasures. The delineation was lengthy; the explanation even more so. Safinaz, Halida and
Parul were looking at me with questioning eyes, not being able to understand what was happening. They kept whispering,
Lets go, lets go. Its getting late. Even I was unable to understand why we were being made to stand here, and being given
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knowledge about the whole saga of Allahs punishments and rewards. I tried to indicate to Humaira that we had no time to
spare for all this. We had come for a Lady-Maulvi, not to hear a sermon. Humaira did not even notice my hints and gestures. I
felt really embarrassed before my friends. I had brought them to this house tempting them with the hope of getting a
Lady-Maulvi, but now I could clearly see we were stuck. Peer Amirullah glanced at us once in a while, the rest of the time he
looked at the floor, or the ceiling, at the trees in the courtyard or at the unmarried girls and continued singing Allahtalas
praises. It was as though the words were not coming out of a human mouth, but out of the mouth of a robot. Every word in the
Quran Hadith had been memorized by Amirullah, internalized and was on his lips at all times, the way an examinee would
study the texts in his syllabus before an examination. The words were spewing out of Amirullahs mouth like sparks of fire
touching our bodies. Suddenly it felt as though the man was not Amirullah, but Allahtala himself. As if this room was not a
room at all, it was the congregation on Doomsday, where four sinners were being judged by Allahtala. When the endless speech
caused the Peer Amirullah to foam at the mouth, Humaira played a cassette. In the cassette, too, could be heard the words of the
Quran Hadith in the voice of Amirullah. The same words, the same language, the same tune. I had meanwhile glanced several
times at my watch. I had many times asked permission to leave. Humaira had scolded in a subdued tone, Why are you so
impatient when listening to the words of Allah? You must listen with extreme patience to the words of Allahtala. You have
come to Allahs path. Now you must shake off the devil from your mind. It is the devil who turns your mind away from Allah.
This statement clarified what she was thinking. All eyes in the house were directed at us, the eyes knew we had left the worldly
life and joined the path of Allah. Even if we hadnt, since we had entered this house, every effort was being made to
brainwash us with holy water into joining this path. The hours were passing, one hour passed, and another. I could see the
astonishment, irritation and immense despair on the faces of Safinaz and Halida. I felt creepy. I felt the way I did when at one
time I was scared of ghosts. I kept thinking that none of the people in this house were really human. I looked desperately for a
way to leave this ghostly house and run. But until the explanation of Amirullah regarding the Quran Hadith on the cassette
ended, Humaira would not let me get up. We were tied by invisible chains. I could make out that the day would pass like this, as
would the night. When one cassette finished, another one was played. Every exit out of this damp, blind alley of Allahtala had
been closed. We were dying of hunger. The evening was passing, as was the time for the Milad in the hostel. We had our backs
to the wall for a long time. Our breathing was becoming faster. This time in the middle of the mechanical discourse, I got up
suddenly and moved towards the door. The quicker one could escape this ghostly world the better. This was something which I
knew well, and so did my two fast feet. Many in the courtyard stared wide-eyed and whispered, Hamima Apas daughter has
joined Allahs path. She does not want to pursue her worldly studies anymore. She will now regularly come here to listen to the
Quran Hadith. I listened to these weird statements. How sensible girls have become. They are leaving medicine. All those
who leave the ways of the world, are never sent away by Huzoor. Not heeding Humairas orders and advice, we ran out of the
room. Behind us Humaira screamed, They came to the path of Allah, yet the devil sits on their shoulders. This was all
hoodwinking. In the courtyard, we encountered Fajli khala. She was amazed, Why are you going away? she asked.
I came to take some lady who could read the Milad to us. Why dont you tell us whether someone is available or not!
There was no reply. It was as if Fajli khala was hearing for the first time that the hostel girls desired to have a Milad read by a
Lady-Maulvi, or that even if she had heard she hadnt understood, or that she didnt think the true reason for entering that house
was a Lady-Maulvi. After getting out of the female-quarters, I breathed easy. I realized very acutely my stupidity in having
expected to enter the tigers den and to take its own milk.
The small rooms that had been made after clearing the jungle were rented by people who had joined Allahs path to stay in. One
of these rooms had been rented by Runu khala. I didnt initially recognise the woman who was standing, holding on to the door,
as Runu khala. She had now given up wearing saris, and was wearing the pyjama-dress worn by the inmates of this house. A
huge odhna covered Runu khalas head and chest. I could not believe this was the same Runu khala who used to wear anklets
and sing and dance all over the place, the B.A. pass woman, who had had a love affair and had run away to get married. I
couldnt believe that this woman within Peerbari, standing with an empty, vacant appearance, was the same Runu khala. This
Runu khala looked as if she had spent her whole life in the dark alleys of Allah and was someone who did not have a very
colourful past. Rashu khalu had worked as an accountant for the Mymensingh Municipal Corporation. Against that sharply
pointed pant and pumpshoe wearing Rashu khalu, were charges of financial bungling, and embezzlement of huge funds from
the office. Rashu khalu lost his job. After that, he had joined Allahs path along with his wife and daughter. Now he looked for
jobs, but didnt get any. He now brought his share of money from the Begunbari harvest sales, and stayed in town, joining
Allahs path. He offered namaz five times. He had a big black mark on his forehead. The mark had developed as a result of him
beating his head on the floor while offering namaz. Runu khalas daughter Moli, had had her name changed to Motia in this
Peerbari. Changing names was an old ritual in this house. Mas name, Idulwara was swept aside and changed to Hamima
Rahman. Ma was known as Hamima in this Peerbari. Runu khalas tiny frock-wearing daughter was now covered from head to
toe. Taken away from school, Moli was now placed in the Madrassa in Peerbari to read the Quran. Runu khala had had a son as
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well. His stomach swelled up like a drum, and one day he died. The incantations and blowings of the Peer did not work nor did
any worldly medicines. When Runu Khala pulled me into her tin shed and urged, Will you eat something? Eat some vermicelli
pudding? Ill make some, I said no. I felt great sympathy for Runu khala. I looked at Fajli khalas in-laws house behind me.
The pond in front of the house had been filled up with earth. The lychee tree was also not there anymore. There was no jungle
now, no fear of ghosts and spooks, but I felt the house was even more haunted than before. Humaira was now the right-hand
person for the Peer. Sufaira had married one of the Peers disciples and become a housewife. Mobashera was of course not
there. Mobasheras younger sister, Attia had measles and died unexpectedly one day. Attia was very beautiful to look at. Ma
had brought five year old Attia to Aubokash for two days. In those two days Dada had taught her to dance the twist, saying my
name is Attia Gilbert. All wickedness had been removed from Attias head after she was brought back to this house. Attia had
many younger sisters. I had only heard their names from Ma though I did not recognize them. In spite of being so closely
related, we were unable to meet because of one reason: we were worldly people, and they were people following the Path of
Allah. I felt great pity for all the inhabitants of this house. In Allahs path there was a lot of delusion and deceit. We had been
deceived into waiting a whole afternoon. We were hoodwinked into hearing the message of Allah-Rasool. We were promised a
Lady-Maulvi, but the promise was not kept. This path of Allah was rather full of lies. Not only did we not get a Lady-Maulvi,
we had wasted so much time. If we had been told at the outset that we could not get a Lady-Maulvi, we would have returned.
Instead we were given the hope and made to wait, only to be brainwashed. I didnt know about others, but was sure myself that
where my head was concerned, it would never again get brainwashed. Safinaz, Halida and Parul could not comprehend what
my connection was to this world. I felt ashamed in front of them. They had had no idea about this towns weird Peerbari and the
strange world within it.
I told Ma about the incident. Ma said, Why did you go to that house looking for a Lady-Maulvi to read the Milad? None of
them go outside that area. Whatever they do they do it within their compound area. That was true. They had no contact with
any Masjid or Madrassa even, beyond the Peerbari area. Even people outside the Peerbari who believed in Allah Rasool, did not
have any contact with them. Nana was himself a Haji. He had gone all the way to Mecca for the Haj, had kissed the black stone
within the Holy Kabah and had visited the Holy Rowja Sharif of the Prophet in Medina. He had never needed to recite the
Namaz Kaza as he had never missed a namaz or skipped a Roja. Every day, early in the morning, he woke up and read the
Quran even that Nana did not get any respect in this Peerbari. That was because unless you were Peer Amirullahs disciple, no
one was given any attention in that house, no one in Peerbari thought anyone else was truly faithful. Nana had never given any
importance to the Peerbari. He had practiced his own religion. He had even told Ma about her going to Peerbari, Call Allah
sitting in your own home, Allah will hear you. You dont have to run around.
***
The fact that four doctors-to-be in search of a Lady-Maulvi had failed to have been successfully initiated into following Allahs
path was not news that had been publicly disseminated. But in that area at least, people had had the opportunity to say that
nowadays even the eyes of doctors and engineers had opened, they had understood that being involved in worldly affairs would
not give them any reward in their afterlife. Hence they were now trying to adopt Allahs path. I did not listen to all this
meaningless talk. But the news that I heard at Peerbari which shocked me was that Peer Amirullah had got married. He had
married a girl forty years younger than him. One of the unmarried girls.
Ki Ma, doesnt he already have a wife? Why did he marry again? There was a crooked smile on my lips.
Ma hesitated to reply, haltingly she said, My sisters mother-in-law has become old, and she cant look after the father-in-law
any more.
There is a houseful of people to look after him. Do you have to get married to be cared for?
The father-in-law now has to be helped to the toilet. At night too he has to be taken out of his room. You do need someone to
clean up all this!
Why, there is no dearth of maids in that house; they can do all this. The house is also full of his grandchildren. They too can
help.
Dont they have their own work?
What is all this you are saying! The work of the Peer is their main task. By working for the Peer, they actually work for
Allah.
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At night they all sleep.
Does your Huzoor go to the toilet all through the night?
Dont talk nonsense.
They both stay in the same room. They sleep on the same bed, dont they? It is not that his new bride only cleans his excreta.
Ma was embarrassed. I was sure Ma, too, had not found any justification for the Peers marriage so late in life. Even though she
hadnt, taking the Peers side was kind of Mas duty.
Dont speak so sourly about a renowned follower of Allah. It will be a sin, said Ma.
Sin, sin, sin. I had been hearing this word sin for years. At one time the word sin frightened me a lot, later I felt angry over the
word, now I felt neither fear nor anger.
Let it be a sin, if it is a sin that will be good. I will go to dozakh, hell, if I sin. If I go to dozakh, I will be able to meet your
favourites Dilip Kumar, Madhubala, your Uttam Kumar and Suchitra Sen. Your Chhabi Biswas and Pahari Sanyal. And you,
who will go to behesht, you will get to see all the Muslim fanatics. You will meet the wicked scoundrel Mollahs, four-times
married. They are hunting people, creating jealousy, backbiting and killing people. They are committing 108 rapes, troubling
their wives, beating them, but because they are chanting Allah, Allah the whole day, they go to behesht. What happiness will
you get living with these devils! Its better to commit sins and put your name down in the list for dozakh. There you will find
world famous scientists like Einstein, you will find Nelson Mandela, great singers, actors, and you will enjoy their company. In
heaven you will find Baba romancing seventy-two virgins of paradise. And you have got this one Baba, who has never looked
back at you all your life. You are unable to stand Babas relationship with one Razia Begum, how will you stand Babas
relationships with seventy-two of them in heaven? What happiness are you seeking in your wish to go to Heaven? For what do
you observe Rozas and Namaz?
Ma looked at me with helpless eyes. Thinking of my future, her two eyes were full of fear.
Dont you fear Allah even a little? Ma asked in a petrified voice.
I laughed aloud. Laughing I said, What is the good work Allah is doing, that I should fear Him? Womens status is way below
the mens; this is Allahs own statement. Just because men earn money, women have to live in subjugation to them. Allah hasnt
said that if today women earn money, men will have to live in subjugation!
What is all this you are saying, Nasreen? You have lost your faith! Mas eyes were wide.
In front of the bursting eyes, I also burst. In a voice of sarcasm and hatred I continued to speak.
I do not know, how being a woman yourself, you accept so many insults to women. Men can follow the Quran Hadith, and
they are given respect. As a woman how do you accept it? How can you accept that you are of lesser status? Why do you accept
that your husband has the right to beat you up, that your brother will get all your fathers property, while you have no right to it.
How do you accept that a man just by saying talaq can divorce his wife? Why do you not have the right to say talaq. How can
you accept you will not get the seventy-two nymphs in heaven, only your husband will, just because hes a man! If you are a
witness in court, your sole witness will not do, two women witnesses are required. Yet a single mans witness is acceptable, two
men are not required. Men as a race will live happily in this life and in the next as well. For you, for me, for all women, Allah
reserves suffering in this world and the next. This is the justice of your Allah. What makes you prostrate yourself before this
Allah?
Sobbing and sniveling, Ma stopped me. She held me in both arms and said, Whatever you have said, thats enough, dont say
anymore. Now go and do your ablutions, and ask Allah to pardon you.
Why should I ask pardon? I have not done anything wrong.
***
Ma was sure I would burn in the fires of dozakh. Ma did not see me anymore when she looked at me; she only saw the blazing
inferno in which I was burning. I was drinking rotten pus and blood. I was being bitten all over by snakes and scorpions. The
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sun had come down to within an arms length from my head. I was being immersed in boiling water. Imagining this heart
rending sight, Ma in her fear not only sobbed, she wailed like a two-and-a-half year old baby.
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Chapter XXII
Awakening
Just before the exams, Baba himself came and spoke to me, Study really hard. There is no way out.
That there was no way out even I knew. I had taken a holiday from poetry ages ago. Now disease and patients filled my days,
not just my days, but nights as well. From hospital to home, from home to hospital, that was how most of the days passed, and
the nights passed, without sleep. Ma would bring hot milk for me. The milk remained untouched and got spoilt. Ma would say,
Drink the milk, you will understand your books better if you do. I would be racking my brains over my books and Ma would
come pussy-footed so that no sound may break my concentration and apply cold oil to my head. She would whisper, Your
head will remain cool.
Living with all the disease and illness, I would think, so much must be happening in the world outside, only I have no news of
it. Once in a while I would push my chair away and get up, and stretch myself standing in the fresh air in the courtyard. Life in
Aubokash carried on the way it always had. There were highs and lows. Good and bad. Happiness and sorrow. Suhrid had learnt
to walk, run and talk. He had learnt to love all members of the house. Of course, one thing he had not learnt, even though he
was taught, was to think of his parents as his own. He had not learnt to go to them, or to go to Dhaka when they wanted to take
him. The other boy was more Haseenas son than Dadas. He was just as skinny as Haseena. He looked like a stick in spite of
eating six meals a day. To put some flesh on these two sticks, Baba bought bags full of meat and fish. Most of the meat and fish
was served on the plates of the two sticks. And yet, the sticks remained sticks. Ma said, Actually its their constitution.
Thanks to Babas insistence, Haseena had qualified for her B.Ed. Now she was B.A. B.Ed, and could get a school teachers job
at anytime. However, Babas pressurising, heat and smoke, did not succeed in compelling Yasmin to take her Improvement
exams. Finally, she took admission in the Botany Department of Anandamohan itself.
What will you do studying Botany?
I will become a Botanist, was Yasmins imaginative reply.
Yes I suppose you will become a gardener. Ha Ha.
Even though Yasmin did not actually become a gardener, she became something very similar. The plants in the house would be
growing well, but seeing their leaves she would say, this plant has this disease, that plant has that one.
What are the medicines for these diseases? Will you feed them antibiotics?
I was no less than Baba in humiliating Yasmin. However, it was not clear how humiliated she really felt because the exuberance
she had shown the first few days after joining the Botany classes, had slowly begun to ebb. Everyday her friends circle
increased like water-hyacinths. She was always visiting her friends. She was very popular in the colony as well. She had
invitations all the year round for Bhaiphota, the special day for all brothers, weddings, birthdays, all the thirteen festivals over
the twelve months. I was never invited.
Why dont they call me?
You dont know how to mix with people, so they dont invite, pat would come the reply.
My boundaries were much more restricted than Yasmins. For Suhrids birthday, Chhotda bought a twelve pound cake from
Dhakas Purbani Hotel and arranged a party. Friends from my class came, six of them. From Yasmins own world came
eighteen. Yasmin was very much like a tiger capable of creating uproar and also striking out.
***
Haseena still carried on like she did earlier with her Why does Suhrid have this, why doesnt Shubho have it, why is Suhrid
getting more love and care, why is Shubho getting less , constantly complaining, moaning and groaning. For Id, Baba gave
everyone at home money to buy their own clothes. He gave the same amount to Suhrid and Shubho. Yasmin and I got the same.
Geeta and Haseena got equal amounts. As did Dada and Chhotda. Lily, Lilys mother, Nargis and Jharna also got the same sum
each. Ma was given nothing. Chhotda would give Ma, one or two cotton saris a year as she was looking after his son. Almost
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like giving wages for labour. I did not celebrate Id as I used to earlier. In fact, on Id I didnt even wear new clothes. I somehow
found all the rituals of Id rather meaningless the cow sacrifice, the new clothes, the pulao, meat, saffron vermicelli. The only
thing I liked was sitting outside with a bucket full of meat, and distributing it to the hundreds of beggars who crowded the black
gate. Dada was the most enthusiastic about cutting and dividing the meat sitting in the inner verandah. That was what he did the
whole day long. After keeping the best meat for ourselves, our rich neighbours, and relatives, the lean, boney leftovers were
given to the beggars. There was nothing which could be called bad for the beggars; Saying Shukurallahmadulillah, they
pounced on whatever they could get.
***
Rozas came and went. Since I did not believe in them, I never kept the fasts. At sunset, I would partake of the Iftar snacks and
drinks served to break the days fast, because I liked them. Of course I didnt have the patience to wait for the siren. Very tasty
savouries like onion pakoras, aubergine pakoras and fried gram were arranged on the table. So I didnt resist the temptation. I
was amazed at Baba. Known as a kafir, non-believer at Peerbari, someone who did not offer the namaz, and showed no interest
in the Quran Hadith etc. he actually kept roza for the whole month of Ramadan. I never got to ask Baba why he kept the roza, I
believed Baba did so in order to become one of the community. Since everyone of his age kept the roza, he did, too. He
observed this ritual in order to carry on life free of questions and problems. Dada, too, kept rozas, although like Baba he too
offered only the namaz for Id. Chhotda went for the Id namaz, but the rest of the year there was no mention of namaz, or of
rozas. Haseena believed in Allah, in namaz and rozas, but did not keep any fasts, because she had yet to put on any weight. She
was scared that if she kept rozas, then the skin on her bones might disintegrate in a shower. The Ershad government had started
a new system, whereby all food stalls would remain shut during the daytime for roza. This was quite crazy, did everyone
observe rozas! There were so many coolies, porters and labourers who if they got no food in the afternoon, would not be able to
work. What would they do if they were hungry? One had to think of the Hindus, Christians and Buddhists as well! Also about
the atheists. The country was not only for the Muslims. Even the Muslims here did not all observe the rozas. How could one
close down the eating places! I of course kept a chewing gum in my mouth during the rozas as a mark of protest. I chewed gum
the whole day. I went frequently to the college canteen and drank cups of tea. Since the canteen was within the college
premises, the police did not come and check; a blessing, indeed. The Jamait-e-Islam party was very happy with Ershads new
rule, but some who were secular, voiced their objections. Ershad was however not one to listen to anyones objections. He
wanted to stay in power at all costs. Believing that if he showed humility in the face of the Muslim religious majority, the
majority would applaud him, and he governed the country accordingly. I had never felt that Ershad was a religious man.
Although he put on a serious face and talked of religion, introduced something called national religion in the constitution,
declared that national religion to be Islam and destroyed the secular constitution, I felt he was deceiving his countrymen, and
wanted to make fools of them. He only wanted the votes of the illiterate, unlettered, god-fearing masses; he had no other
motive.
***
Baba told me that I could not afford to get involved in religion and politics. When the exams came close, he shook me awake at
three or four at night to study. I would also scramble out of bed and sit at my study table. Even at that time of night, Ma made
tea for me in a flask, and came and left it on the table. As soon as the written exams were over, Baba got busy finding out who
were coming from other medical colleges as examiners for the viva. He found out whether he knew them, whether they were
his students, or whether they were his classmates. His enquiries got him the information that some of them were at some time
his students. To only these people, he went with a hesitant, embarrassed face and wringing hands, to tell them his daughter was
taking the exam, to please look after her. Looking after meant please dont willfully give her low marks. Actually no one
could make one pass. They couldnt because the responsibility of making one pass was not in one persons hands. The request
to look after was so that one didnt willfully fail you. It was not that all the Internal Examiners were happy with me. Because I
did not Salaam and greet them, most of the professors knew me as disrespectful. Whatever the case, the exams carried on for
a long time. Baba remained anxious for this whole length of time. Having feared for ages that I wouldnt pass, with a trembling
heart, dry throat, feeling constantly thirsty and wanting to go to the toilet, I finally took my viva voce. The viva voce did not
seem like an exam. It felt as though I was crossing a bridge. As though I was walking on a slender rope. If I tilted a little I
would tumble amidst snakes, scorpions and a blazing fire. Studying from a good student like Rajib Ahmeds copious notes on
medical science could help one take a written exam, but my anxiety about the viva kept taking away the words from my mouth.
Whatever little I knew, too seemed to evaporate like camphor from my brain. That was how I faced the viva. Inside the ward,
the professors sat at a huge table amidst rows of patients. The professors did not seem like professors, each one appeared like
Ajrael, the angel of death. Whose throat was being cut, it was difficult for anyone to fathom. The exams were over, but I still
didnt know whether my head was still on my shoulders or not.
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***
I was wild about going to Dhaka as soon as the exams were over. However, Rudra was not in Dhaka. He had not returned from
Mithekhali. I sat in Mymensingh awaiting Rudras return to Dhaka. Waiting was a very disturbing experience. Even though it
was irritating that was a great relief for me. At least I didnt have to sit with my books anymore. After Haseena passed her
B.Ed, Baba got her admitted into the M.Ed. course. Leaving Shubho in Mas charge, she left for college everyday wearing
garish saris, and various kinds of makeup on her face. Ma was now burdened with the care of both her grandsons. With one
hand she managed Shubho, with the other, Suhrid. The first thing Haseena did on her return from college was to check whether
there had been any lapses in the care of Shubho. No, Ma did not leave any thing out in taking care of Shubho. It was because if
even a single mistake in Shubhos care was committed, Haseena would create a big rumpus. To keep the house free of
disturbance, Ma did not make any mistake even by chance. Ma would bathe both Suhrid and Shubho, apply powder to their
bodies, feed them and put them to sleep. Haseena would come and immediately swoop down on Shubho saying, Ish, the boy is
sweating. Suhrid is lying under the fan, how come Shubho has been made to sleep away from it? There was only one ceiling
fan in the room. Both Shubho and Suhrid had been sleeping under it, but it seems Suhrid was closer to the fan. Ma said, What
is this you are saying! Shubho has rolled away to that corner. Ma did not like the way her daughter-in-law shouted and
screamed. This was basically because whenever Haseena screamed, Dada would arrive, and would readily accept anything
Haseena said, however unjustified and illogical. Dada declared that, Ma had purposely put Shubho away from the fan to make
him suffer. Ma secretly wiped her tears. Soon she would again begin to look after Shubho with four times as much care as
Suhrid. After bathing him, while combing his hair, she even made sure that the parting was absolutely straight. That was
because once it had happened that Shubhos parting was crooked by a hairs-breadth and Haseena had said, Suhrids parting
isnt crooked, how come only Shubhos is? Ma had no answers to such questions. And that was the reason why she was filled
with fear, physical and mental. Haseena returned from her M.Ed. classes, her high heels tapping on the floor. Immediately she
shouted for Jharna. Jharna ran to inquire what her orders were. Haseena checked on everybodys welfare at home. Jharna took a
long time to relate all the news about the household that which she knew and that which she didnt. Once Shubhos clothes had
been washed, his bottles cleaned, bed tidied up, toys arranged neatly, Jharna sat in the verandah with her legs spread out.
Haseena had given her strict instructions not to do anyone elses chores in the house, except Shubhos. All the other work had to
be done by Lilys mother, Lily, and when even they couldnt cope up, by Nargis. This work included washing Haseenas
clothes, ironing them, cooking and feeding her, washing her used utensils, and many other chores. Lily and Lilys mother went
to their village for two days. Then Nargis had to stop looking after Suhrid and take over the cooking, sweeping, mopping,
washing of the entire household. Jharna just sat on the verandah.
Jharna, wheres Shubho?
Shubhos playing.
Why is he playing? It is now time for Shubho to sleep! Why hasnt Ma put Shubho to sleep?
Instead of 1.30 in the afternoon, it was quarter to two, and Shubho had not slept. What happened? Shubho was supposed to
sleep at 1.30, by the clock, he was to drink milk at twelve, chicken soup at one, and after eating rice, fish and vegetables at 1.10,
he was to sleep at 1.30. Shubho had been fed his milk, soup, rice everything, but instead of sleeping he had begun to play.
Haseenas voice was harsh, If this is the state of affairs, I will not be able to go to college. I will have to stay at home and bring
up the baby.
Haseena did not go to college the next day.
Ki Shubhos mother, wont you go to college? Ma asked.
Nah! I am not feeling well today, saying which, Haseena spent the whole day lying down. In the evening she took Shubho
from Mas lap sat with him in her room sporting a sad face.
Those days Baba would return home and call Haseena, Bouma, Bouma, and find out how her classes were progressing, and
whether she was studying well or not.
That evening, with a gloomy face Haseena told Baba, I wasnt able to go to college.
What do you mean by you couldnt go? Why couldnt you? Excitedly, Baba took off his spectacles.
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I have to look after Shubho, thats why. Jharna cant, after all, bathe and feed Shubho as well.
Isnt Shubhos Dadi there to do all that?
Haseena heaved a deep sigh, No, Ma doesnt get anytime. Ma has to look after Suhrid.
Go and call that hussy.
Which hussy? Lilys mother?
Baba barked, Why should you call Lilys mother? Dont you have any brains? Call Nomans mother.
Haseena called Ma. There was a lustrous smile on her lips.
Gritting his teeth, Baba told Ma, The boys mother goes to college, if you dont look after him, who will?
I do look after him, said Ma in a quiet voice. What can I do if Shubhos mother does not like the way I bathe and feed him?
What do you mean by what can you do?
Get someone to care for Shubho. I cant cope with two babies anymore.
The boy will have to grow up in the care of maids when his Dadi is there?
Send for Kamaal. Let him take Suhrid away. I am very sick. I get no rest at all, no sleep. I cant manage so much anymore.
Look at the way she speaks, Baba looked at Haseena, indicating Ma with slanted eyes and lips.
The glittering smile clung for a long time to Haseenas lips, like a newly born scorpion.
***
Suhrid was not sent to Chhotda either. Nor was another maid hired for Shubho. Ma alone continued to look after both the
grandsons. Haseena would leave buckets full of clothes. Lilys mother would take the whole day to wash them. Ma would have
to run to the kitchen to cook for the entire household. Ma was unable to get Lilys mother to leave Haseenas clothes. I got the
feeling that Ma was scared of Haseena. Ma possibly did not fear even Baba as much. Mas fears concerned Dada. Suppose
Dada again left home, suppose he was displeased at seeing Haseenas unhappy face, suppose he stopped calling her Ma! Mas
bleeding body became weaker by the day. Even with her weak health, Ma carried on with household work from early morning
to the middle of the night. She would plead with Baba, I dont have any blood left in my body. I will have to eat some
nutritious food. Will you please get me some milk, two bananas and two eggs? Baba looked with anger at Mas gumption. Ma
demanded of Dada, because she was caring for Shubho. Kire Noman, your father doesnt give me anything. Will you be able
to arrange for some milk and bananas for me? My health has broken down completely.
Dada laughed. Sticking his tongue out and pressing it bashfully between his teeth, he said, What are you saying Ma? How
come your health has broken down! In fact you are becoming excessively fat. You better control your diet. Start eating less
now.
Do you have any medicine for piles in your shop?
No. There is no medicine for piles.
There was no medicine, was the straightforward reply. Dada was now the head of Babas medicine business. The business was
doing extremely well. He had done up the shop marvelously. He supplied medicines to hospitals and to the big clinics. Baba,
too, had extended the area of his chambers. He had installed an x-ray machine. Purchasing a microscope he had set up a
pathology laboratory. Baba had asked Abdullah, Professor in the Department of Jurisprudence, to man the laboratory in his
spare time. Abdullah came there in the greed for extra money. If one went to Babas chambers for any reason, one had to push
through a huge crowd of patients in order to get in. The crowd consisted mostly of poor patients from the village. Even if
someone came complaining of pain in the stomach, I found Baba asking him to take a chest x-ray and get urine and stool tests.
An old man who came from Dhobaura was coughing up blood along with phlegm. Baba took an x-ray and said it was
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tuberculosis. I asked the old man, Since when have you been coughing blood? His sunken eyes were drooping with
exhaustion. Breathless, gasping he said, Its a year and a half today.
Why didnt you come when the bleeding started?
Where do we have the money, sister? I have taken a loan to come to the city.
Isnt there a doctor in your village?
No.
Even if there were doctors in the village, patients came to Baba. He had a very high reputation as a good doctor. Even now the
old residents of the town called for Baba whenever they were sick. Baba had no fixed fee. He took whatever anyone could give.
Some gave five takas and left, others two taka. Baba only made one request to his patients, that before they left they should buy
their medicines from the shop next door called Arogya Bitaan. After getting all their tests and x-rays done, many patients had
no money left for medicines. They went back. This tuberculosis patient who was about to return, but I held him back and took
him to Arogya Bitaan. I told Dada, to give him the medicines free of cost. Dada said contemptuously, Are you mad? I took
out money from my own pocket. Dada counted it and gave him the medicine. Nowadays, he loved counting money. Whenever
he was free, he would count his money arranged in the drawer over and over again. From this money nothing was spent on
household expenses. Whatever was spent was to fulfill all Haseenas desires her saris, jewellery, cosmetics, check-ups once in
a while. Yasmin would stop at Arogya Bitaan to take two taka for the rickshaw fare. Dada would lock his drawer, keep the key
in his pocket and sit glumly holding his cheeks with his two hands. He would tell Yasmin, There have been no sales. I havent
even made my first sale as yet.
The tuberculosis patient was overwhelmed with gratitude on getting the medicines. He would now not return immediately to
Dhobaura, and would stay the night at the back and side hotel. The hotel bedding was laid in a long continuous row. The tariff
was not much. If you lay on your back you had to pay eight annas, and if you lay on your side, four annas. The hotels were
swarming with people. Villagers who came to the city to see doctors, or lawyers, if they had come from very far, did not cross
the rivers back again at the end of the day. They spent the night at the hotels on the wharf, and took a boat home in the morning.
Ma never got any treatment for piles. Lately, an idea had taken root in Mas mind, that her illness was not an ordinary disease
like piles, but an incurable one. Ma lived with her suspicions. No one had the time to listen to worthless talk about illnesses.
Before my wails of agony became worthless, too, I took steps to save myself. When I began to suffer the agony of an anal
fissure and the use of the pain relieving ointment Neoparkinol did not work, and it was not possible for me to show my private
parts to any of the known doctors in the hospital, I went to Dhaka to get treatment from some unknown doctor. After seeing a
well-known surgeon, Chhotda made arrangements for me to be admitted to Dhaka Medical. It was difficult to get a cabin. The
Minister Amanullah Choudhary had to be approached to get one. The operation was two days later. Just when I was about to be
admitted, Rudra returning from Mongla, found my letter telling him I was in Dhaka, and pounced on me at Nayapaltan and took
me away. Chhotda was not home at the time of the raid. Geeta was taken aback. Rudras cousin was working as a doctor in
Dhaka Medical. Rudra took me to 50 Lalbagh, to tell that Doctor-cousin of his to be there at the time of my operation. There,
sitting on the drawing roam sofa was Nellie, with her hair spread out. This was the first time I had seen Nellie. I noticed
Rudras eyes repeatedly went towards Nellies loose hair and dishevelled sari. They chatted together about the olden days. They
laughed. Taking a journal in my hand, I buried my face in it, as though I saw nothing, I noticed nothing, I did not notice the
memories shimmering in their eyes as they conversed, all those memories of tumultuous love, all those kisses, that sinking of
ones body into the others amidst the scent of roses I did not see any of this, I did not notice how both of them were dying to
touch each other again, wanting to ignore all relationships and jump into the depthless waters of romance, wanting to arouse
every fibre in their bodies with kisses like before, and to plumb the depths of their bodies while talking of their dreams I
saw, nothing. My eyes were on the words in the journal, they could talk about anything they liked without hesitation. They
could talk of all those dreams, all that great excitement, those passions with which Rudra had gone to break up Nellies
wedding. I was concentrating on the words, I wasnt listening. I stared at the words; they were getting wet in the rain. The wet
words stared at me, the wet words felt sorry for me.
I was anaesthetized on the operation table in the hospital. While I was falling asleep, someone was asking me my name and
address. Even though I wanted to, I was unable to answer. From somewhere a bird came and placing me on its wings flew away
in the sky. I began to float like a cloud, it felt very nice. I felt happy. When I came back to consciousness, I found myself on a
different bed. Next to me were Chhotda, Geeta and Jhunu khala. Geeta was stroking my hair. Chhotda and Jhunu khala were
asking if it hurt. I couldnt make out if there was any pain. Even if there was, these beloved faces had reduced it considerably.
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Rudra entered the room suddenly embarrassing everyone. Chhotda left the room. Who was this Rudra and what relationship I
had with him, I had never told anybody. Everyone, of course, understood. Even Chhotda who left, understood. I had to stay two
days in the hospital. Geeta brought all my meals for me on both days. She made me sit in hot water basins. On the day I was to
be discharged from hospital, on my one side stood Chhotda, on the other, Rudra. Chhotda said, Lets go home.
I shook my head, No.
What do you mean?
I was silent. Chhotda pulled me by the hand. If you wont come home, where will you go? I slowly loosened the grip of
Chhotdas hand. I looked calmly, without regret at his pained eyes. Tears brimmed over from the corners of his eyes, he bit his
lips secretly. I left with Rudra without replying.
After returning to the Muhammedpur house, I sat silently nursing a fear. Suppose Rudras cousin was not aware of our
marriage! Rudra said, You dont want to tell anyone about your marriage. After I was rendered unconscious, my private parts
had obviously not remained private for any of the doctors. It also meant that they would know that I was not a virgin! At least
let the cousin know that we are married. Otherwise he might think Id lost my virginity before marriage, chhi, chhi. I kept my
face lowered in shame. Rudra loved my blushing bashful face. Turning my face towards himself with his two hands, he kissed
me. He promised that he would inform his cousin about our marriage the very next day. That night when we were in deep sleep,
dead to the world, Rudras friend Minar banged on the door and stormed into our room. Minar had come to sleep there with his
beautiful wife, Kabita, as he had not been able to find any other place to sleep in the whole town. We gave them the bedroom,
and Rudra and I spread a mat on the floor of the other room for ourselves. Early in the morning I found Rudra missing from my
side. He was sleeping next to Minar and Kabita on the bed! What had happened? How come! Rudras simple explanation was
that he wasnt getting any sleep on the mat. He had sensibly slept next to Minar. If Minar had found him next to Kabita, he
would surely not have laughingly left with his wife, after his friends doings. That day, I found our marriage document, while
looking for some letter paper in the drawer. The document said that I had signed it, in front of the Magistrate. Surprising, but
this was a lie! The minute I said this, Rudra snatched the certificate from my hand and put it back into the drawer. After
spending two days, sitting around, lying down, tidying the room, eating out, gossiping, attending poetry meets, I began to miss
everyone at Aubokash. I missed Ma, Yasmin, Suhrid, and Minu the cat. How were they! Ma must be talking about me everyday,
as would be Baba, Yasmin, and even Suhrid would be saying, Why doesnt Dolphupu come? I had taught Suhrid to call me
Dolphupu. One day while pushing him to and fro on the swing, he learnt to say it as I kept repeating, Swing (dol) me, swing
me phupu, swing me, swing me. My heart remained at Aubokash, in my disorderly yet disciplined life. I felt really sorry for
Minu. She must be walking all over the room and verandah searching for me with hunger in her stomach. She must be feeling
very lonely at night! I did not feel at home in Dhaka. Dhaka was a place to visit for a short while. Even today I am unable to
accept Dhaka as a city for permanent residence. When I wanted to return to Mymensingh, Rudra requested me to stay for one
more day. In that one evening of one day, he took me with him to Mogbazaar, to the Kazis office. Rudras two friends also
accompanied us. The marriage contract would be signed in his presence and the two friends would be witnesses. Surprise!
Would I have objected if you had given me some warning Rudra?
For what sum will the contract be made? he asked.
Does the amount have to be mentioned?
Yes, it has to be.
Cant one write zero?
No.
Then what about one taka?
Dhoot, how can it be one taka!
Write whatever you like, none of this has any meaning. Do you think we will ever have a talaq? And even if we do, that I will
demand money from you? I laughed. Loudly and silently. What is the need for a marriage contract Rudra?
There is a need.
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What for?
All this was meaningless. Could any marriage contract make two people live together? Could love? I believed in love, not in a
contract. I dont know to what extent Rudra believed in love, but he obviously did in a contract, so he made the marriage
contract. I returned the next day to Mymensingh. Learning of my operation, Ma took care of me. She made me sit in basins of
hot water mixed with dettol four times a day. I gave Ma my old Neoparkinol ointment, the ointment which reduced the pain of
an anal fissure. Ma thought it would stop her bleeding. Ma did not stop passing blood. She thought, it would surely stop
someday. Mas wish for a quart of milk, two bananas and two eggs was never fulfilled. Ma possibly hoped that her daughter
was becoming a doctor and she would earn and would treat her, and buy milk and bananas for her. This daughter did pass her
medical exams. Her internship commenced. She began to earn money. Whatever else happened with the money she earned, it
never bought her mothers long time wish for some milk and eggs. Bhagirathis Ma came and delivered milk for the two babies.
Sitting on the verandah and measuring out the milk for the two babies, she would very often ask, O Mashi, didnt you say
youd be taking an extra quart of milk! Heaving a long sigh, Ma would say, No Bhagis Ma, I am not fated to drink milk.
***
Spreading her two legs out on the bed, Ma would painfully crack her knees, rocking Suhrid to sleep, reciting rhymes. Ma was
staring sadly out of the window. Suhrid had fallen asleep, but Ma did not pick him up and put him down on the bed. There were
dark circles under her eyes, which were both puffy and swollen. Turning her eyes away from the window she said, Nomans
wife calls me by the name of hussy.
How do you know?
I went to the kitchen and heard her telling Lilys Ma, That hussy cant bear the sight of my son.
Oh!
She dares to do so because of your father. He calls me hussy in front of everyone.
Again looking towards the window sorrowfully, Ma said, I am her mother-in-law, and she has no respect for me at all.
I looked at Suhrids sleeping face. I had seen many beautiful babies, but none like Suhrid. Asleep, he did not look the extremely
mischievous imp that he was. Everyday he would fall down from the bed, table or the staircase, trying to run before the wind.
He was not bothered in the least. Shubho always looked before he placed even one foot anywhere. He was a very careful boy,
he never jumped around. On Shubhos body there were no signs of any cuts or bruises. If Suhrid grazed his knees today, then
tomorrow his elbows were darkened by blood clots. His whole body was covered with signs of his antics. Suhrid babbled
half-words. Shubho never spoke in baby-talk till the time he learned to speak correctly. He was always clear and distinct.
Shubho never said no to any food item. Suhrid was always refusing to eat. Mas sufferings increased. The older the boy grew,
the more difficult he became to control. He would run to the terrace. Ma had to chase him, as he just might decide he was the
six million dollar man and leap off the roof! If he found the gate open he would go out onto the streets, and Ma had to run and
bring him back. But Mas worries were double than all this work. Chhotda sensed the atmosphere when he came to Aubokash.
Haseenas displeasure was palpable. Haseena was convinced that Suhrid was being given more love than Shubho. Ma had told
Chhotda, If you get anything for Suhrid, you must get the same for Shubho. To satisfy Haseena, baby clothes and toys bought
abroad were given to Shubho. In spite of this, Haseena thought that whatever Shubho may have, Suhrid had much more.
Chhotda had brought a tricycle for Suhrid. The boy rode this cycle at a thunderous speed all over the house, verandah, field and
courtyard. At short intervals, Ma took Suhrid off, and let Shubho ride the cycle saying, Shubho is your brother, let him ride.
Ma had even given Shubho, Suhrids perambulator. Shubho was six months younger than Suhrid. Suhrid had no need for the
perambulator when Shubho needed one. Yet Haseena told Dada, Buy a new one for Shubho.
These things are not available in Mymensingh.
So what? Go to Dhaka; go and buy it from there.
What are you saying Mumu! I have to go to Dhaka just to buy this?
Yes, you must go to Dhaka just to buy it. And if you do not get it in Dhaka, then even if you have to go to London to get it you
must go.
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When Suhrid got his cycle, Haseena again caught hold of Dada to buy a duplicate one for Shubho. After searching the whole
town, when Dada returned home with a tricycle, Haseena threw it away saying You picked it up off the streets or what?
There is no better cycle in the market. If you want, you can go and see for yourself.
Ma said, It seems Kamaal bought Suhrids cycle from Singapore. Obviously such a cycle wont be found in the country.
The problem was solved by Suhrid himself. Attracted by the new cycle for Shubho, he rode it around, while Shubho rode the
one from Singapore. Seeing this Haseena should have been pleased. But she wasnt. There was never a smile on her face. Ma
worked hard to bring a smile to her face. Ma gave her the apples, grapes and oranges brought by Chhotda. If meat or fish was
cooked, Haseena was given most of it and that, too, the choicest pieces. If Ma got a little money in hand she bought presents for
Haseena and Shubho from the market. Haseena still did not smile. She kept telling Dada day and night, Ki, why dont you do
anything! Will it do if you keep sleeping like the dead? For how long will you continue to live in this tin shed like a fakir? Take
a separate house. I have to remove my son far away from this family of yours.
Suhrid did not understand the politics of domesticity. He had a lot of affection for Shubho. He was even willing to give
whatever possessions he had to Shubho. Shubho was adept at slapping, boxing and scratching Suhrid. Once he had pushed
Suhrid from the railing of his cot, and Suhrid was unconscious for a full twenty-four hours because of a head injury. Ma had
almost gone mad. Ma feared all kinds of disasters. She told Chhotda, I cant take care of Suhrid in this environment. Please
take him to Dhaka. Chhotda was not prepared for Mas proposal. With an unhappy face he said, Yes, I will have to take him. I
will have to take him to Dhaka and get him admission into school. Suhrid was taken to Dhaka subsequently. Ma went with
him. After two weeks Ma returned, but kept weeping for him. Not just tears. She literally wailed. After crying herself into a
demented state she herself left for Dhaka, and returned with Suhrid. Suhrid happily continued to stay at Aubokash. I took him
out almost every evening, sometimes for an aimless rickshaw ride, at other times to visit my friends. I bought him the toys he
wanted. If today he wanted a wound-up car, then tomorrow he wanted a wound-up aeroplane. I bought ready-made two-piece,
three-piece outfits for myself. Two dresses, one to be washed and the other to be worn. This regime under which Baba had kept
us was flouted and the number of my outfits now stood at more than ten. Fancifully I bought some blue jeans material and also
got a pant made by the tailor. This time I told the tailor, Put the buttons or zip in front, not on the side. Put loops. If I want to
wear a belt, I will. If I bought dress-material, I took the measuring tape from the tailor and measured my chest myself for the
dress to be made. I told Yasmin, From now on, give your measurements yourself. What I didnt tell her was why she had to
do it and not the tailor. Possibly she understood. As soon as I returned from the hospital, I sought her company. I talked about
everything with her, except for secrets connected with the body. It was as though we were still children. We laughed and
enjoyed ourselves, read poems and sang songs. We roamed around. The day I wore the jeans, Baba saw me and said, What is
this you are wearing? Take it off immediately. Take it off and wear pyjamas. I said, Everyone wears jeans. Even the girls.
No, girls do not wear these. These are boys clothes.
I didnt oppose Baba, and moved away from his sight. But I didnt take off the jeans. I continued to wear them. I wore them the
next day as well. My clothes fit Yasmin. She also happily used my clothes. I did not stop her. Baba snarled at Yasmin too, when
he saw her wearing jeans. What are you up to? The elder ones wickedness is rubbing off on the younger. The day I catch you
though, I will beat you till your bones turn to dust. Let your bones be broken, I told Yasmin, Dont take them off. I said so
because I found no justification for considering jeans to be an improper dress for girls. Wearing jeans did not mean I would
become a boy. The body within remained untouched after all, if that was what Babas orders were all about. I bought an old
harmonium for Yasmin, from Sur Taranga in Chhotobazaar. I employed a music teacher for her as well. I made one condition;
she had to sing Rabindra Sangeet. I got her admitted to Mymensinghs music school, situated in an old house on Ishan
Chakrabarty Road, which had a banyan sapling growing out of its walls. She went, but before seven days were over she said she
did not like it there. Okay, if she didnt like the school, then a master could come and teach her at home. But I couldnt decide
whom to approach, Sunil Dhar or Mithun De! Whom to ask? Finally, I decided on Badal Chandra, a master at the music school.
Finding out his address, I took Yasmin with me to request him to teach her. Badal Chandra Des younger brother, Sameer
Chandra De, alias Cotton, used to teach Chhotda to play the guitar at one time. He was the best guitarist in town. Badal Chandra
De had not married. In his room were all kinds of musical instruments like the tanpura, harmonium, tabla, sitar and veena. In
one corner of the room was a wooden settee. How did one live life with so little! There was not a single sign of comfort or
luxury in the house. Around a courtyard were a number of small tinsheds. This was the ancestral home. The brothers stayed in
different rooms, their children too had grown up. All of them had dedicated their lives to music. Badal Chandra made us both
sit on the settee, and seating himself on a mura, he began to talk seriously about music. I understood some of what he said, and
some I didnt. He did not want to teach anyone for whom music was just a hobby. Only if the person wanted to dedicate his
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whole life to the study of music, would he take that student. I dont know why, but we liked Badal Chandra. He began to come
home twice a week to teach Yasmin. Badal Chandra was tall and fair. He wore spotless white dhoti-panjabis. Holding the
pleated end of his dhoti with one hand, he would enter Aubokash. The whole evening, strains of Sa Re Ga Ma Pa Dha Ni Sa
could be heard from the drawing room. I would enter the room carrying a tray of tea and biscuits. On seeing me, Ustad Badal
would not only discuss music, he would also talk about literature. He could recite by heart, Rabindranaths poems. I did not
have the memory required for reciting poetry. My role was that of an enchanted listener. Yasmin was not learning Sa Re Ga Ma
for the first time from Badal Chandra. When she was five or six years old, Baba used to take her to the Rajbari school teacher
Rokeyas house to learn singing. That house too was a house of music and dance. Her son Baki sang. Rokeyas sister Ayesha
stayed with her in the same house. She too was a teacher. She sang herself and also taught her daughter Dolon to sing. About
taking Yasmin to that house Ma would say, Your father does not take Yasmin there with the intention of teaching her music
alone. His real intention is to flirt with Ayesha. Taking Yasmin to that house, Baba would leave her with the children and go to
the other room to talk with the curly haired, slant-eyed, fair skinned, almost pink-lipped, full-breasted young woman, Ayesha.
Baba had never been satisfied with even Razia Begum. He had always had some casual love affairs on the side. He had been
even seen roaming around with one of Yasmins friends khalas, a very lean-looking lawyer. After Yasmin began Sa Re Ga Ma
classes with Badal Chandra De, she came to know from some newly made singer friends at college, that there was a music
school in town called Anandadhwani where many girls were going. This music school held classes in Mahakali School on
holidays. Anandadhwani was the Rabindrasangeet exponent Wahid-ul-Haqs school. Wahid-ul-Haqs students in Mymensingh,
Tapan Baidya, Nilotpal Sadhya and Nurul Anwar, taught the students singing at Anandadhwani. The students could be of any
age. There were five year olds, as well as fifty year olds. They all sat together and sang in rhythm and tune. Rabindrasangeet in
a way kept me alive. I had been addicted to Rabindrasangeet for quite sometime now, having graduated, from Dadas Sandhya,
Phiroza, Hemanta, Manna Dey etc. towards Kanika and Subinoy Ray. In between I had become quite devoted to folk music.
But setting it aside I was back to Rabindrasangeet. This was one form of music, which if one dedicated oneself to, could make
life quite beautiful. There was no experience in life that this sangeet did not touch upon. Not just happiness, even sadness gave
a kind of pleasure. I enrolled Yasmin at Anandadhwani. I continued to pay for Badal Chandras fees every month, and that of
Anandadhwani. Once Yasmin began going to Anandadhwani, she was noticed by Nilotpal Sadhya. He was sure she would
some day become a great artist. Hence he began to teach her with extra care. One day, because Yasmin expressed a desire for
the tabla, I looked for a good set at Promod Biharis tabla shop at Golpukur Par, and bought it for her. Badal Chandra De was
eager to teach Yasmin classical music. So at home she learnt classical, and outside, it was Rabindrasangeet. Turning my eyes
away from the mean, narrow minded and selfish people surrounding us, I created a wonderful world with Yasmin. When
Yasmin sang the songs learnt at Anandadhwani at home, I would look at her, enchanted. On one melancholic evening she sang.
I will not ask you for peace, even if I have sorrowful thoughts The song made tears fall drop by drop from my eyes.
Yasmin once in a while brought Nilotpal Sadhya home with her. A handsome youth, Nilotpal Sadhya would sport a
Shantiniketan shoulder bag and Shantipur chappals and the smile on his lips spread peace all around. I got the feeling that
Nilotpal was secretly in love with Yasmin. I felt afraid. One of her friends brothers came over once in a while to play the tabla;
I had seen him staring adoringly at Yasmin. I was afraid. From Kolkata, came letters in the beautifully formed handwriting of
Kaushik Majumdar. Who was this Kaushik Majumdar? Yasmin said, it was that Dhruba, the dark boy with kohl black eyes in a
sweet face, who used to come walking here in halfpants, every evening from the side of Mritunjoy School, that Dhruba. Yasmin
too wrote letters to Kaushik. Kaushik one day stopped addressing her as Yasmin, and called her Moumi instead. From then
onwards Yasmin too began signing herself Moumi. I feared for her. I was extremely afraid. Whenever Kaushiks letters came I
read them. I scrutinized them carefully to detect any signs of love. Actually I was trying to protect her from all disasters, so that
she did not fall in love with anyone, so that no infatuation tarnished her honesty and simplicity or dimmed her beauty even
slightly. What had happened to me was over. I wanted to save her from all that was ugly. Before leaving for college,
Anandadhwani or a friends house, Yasmin stood in front of the mirror dressing up. She would apply kohl to her eyes and
lipstick to her mouth. I would scold her, Why are you always dressed up?
Just like that.
No one dresses up just like that. There is always a reason.
Cant one dress up without any reason?
There is always a reason behind it. You want to attract people with your beauty. Right?
I dress up because I like doing so.
Then how come you dont dress up while at home? Why do you colour your brown lips red only when you need to go out?
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Yasmin did not reply. In a mocking tone I told her, Do you think by painting your face you look beautiful? Not at all. Its best
to stay with what you have naturally. Dont spoil your real appearance with a mask of paint. Why do you need to take the help
of cosmetics! What do you lack? You must be suffering from an inferiority complex!
Yasmin did not agree, she continued to make up her face. A chilling fear stung my breast.
***
Rudras letter came to the hospital postmasters address. Come to Dhaka as soon as you get this letter. I was on duty in the
Medicine Department. Forget about a day, one couldnt take leave even for an hour. From the very next day I tried my best to
get leave. Even after three days I couldnt get leave. At this end, Baba too had received a letter. It was from Rudras father,
Sheikh Wali-ullah. I had no idea what he had written. Rudra had told me nothing about this. I heard about the letter from Ma.
Letting out a howl, Baba had called for Ma and shown her the letter. My wayward son, Shahidullah has finally married your
daughter and pledged to follow the right path. By accepting their marriage, you will oblige me greatly in allowing them to live
together in peace and happiness etc. Baba had clutched his inky black hair and sat motionless for a long time. Later in the
evening instead of seeing his patients, he had remained in bed. His eyes were on the roof beams. Ma sat at the head-board, and
stroked his hair with her fingers. In a thin voice Baba said, Pull my hair strongly. Pulling them strongly brought away tufts of
hair into Mas hands, and yet the pain in Babas head remained. Sleeping pills also did not bring him sleep.
How did she get married? When did she? Why did she?
You think she told me anything about all this! She does what she likes.
How did she get so much courage?
It is not courage. Finding her simple and straightforward he must have duped her. Is he eligible to stand before such a beautiful
doctor girl? Nasreen has destroyed her own self.
Baba while still staring unblinkingly at the beams, kept saying, His own father has called him a wayward boy. Just think how
bad a son has to be to be called wayward by his own father. Kamaal has already said the boy smokes and drinks.
Taking away Babas hands from his head, and rubbing them on her enflamed breast, Mas eyes grew wet. Her tears traveled
down her cheeks towards her chest, and yet were unable to extinguish the fire within. I brought up this girl carrying her at my
breast. You were busy running behind women. I have shed tears carrying her in my arms. She would lie on my chest day and
night. My daughter has grown up, she has become a doctor. With what pomp and show we would have celebrated had she
married a carefully chosen eligible groom. The whole town should have known that she was getting married. And look how she
has got married? Whom has she married, who knows anything about this boy?
Mas tears did not cease. Baba too was unable to sleep. In the next room I packed my clothes into a bag. I was going to Dhaka.
Without telling Baba or Ma where I was going, why I was going, to whom I was going, when I was going to return, I left for
Dhaka. I didnt even think anymore about what would happen to my duty in the Medicine Department. Ma had tried to stop me.
I ignored her and went out. I reached Dhaka in the afternoon. Taking a rickshaw from the bus-stand, I reached the Taj Mahal
Road house only to find a lock on the door. Rudra was not at home. However, I knew he was in Dhaka, so I had no option but to
wait for him. The second door was closed from inside. After half-an-hour of effort I was able to insert my hand between the two
doors and lift the horizontal bolt. As soon as I did that the door opened. Everything was inside, only Rudra was missing. On the
table were the notes he had written while waiting for me. Why havent you come as yet? I am waiting for you. Waiting. Your
absence is all around the room. I am not feeling well. When will you reach? I walked around the room and verandah the whole
day, the walk of waiting. The evening passed by, Rudra did not return. I had to sit in the room itself and wait. I could hardly
leave the place unlocked and go to search for him. Waiting for him the evening turned to night. It turned seven, eight, nine, and
ten oclock, but Rudra did not come back. A plate of food arrived from the landlords house. When it passed twelve oclock, I
told the landlords wife, I feel scared in this room. Will you please send your maid Batasi to sleep in my room? The woman
was a nice person. She sent Batasi with her bedding to my room. I was on the bed, Batasi made her bed on the floor. The night
passed by. Batasi woke up, I did not need to do so. I was awake in any case. Sprinkling water on my face I got ready again to
start another day. A day of waiting. The unbearable waiting. I had never liked waiting. I tried to concentrate on some poems but
couldnt. My eyes were on the words, my mind on the door. I spent the whole evening standing in the balcony. I checked every
rickshaw passenger who came down Taj Mahal Road that evening, to see if it was Rudra. If Rudra could have once known I had
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come, he would have run back with joy! Why wasnt he thinking I was back, why hadnt he thought so even once! Where
Rudra could have spent the night was completely beyond my imagination to guess. Dusk descended. I kept waiting, expecting
Rudra to return soon. Rats ran around inside the house, people walked outside, I kept mistaking each and every noise for the
sound of Rudras return. Any rickshaws bell I mistook for Rudras rickshaw. The day passed. Again night fell. At 10.30 at
night, Batasi had spread her bedclothes in the room and gone to sleep. I remained awake. At 12.30, I jumped up with joy on
hearing a sound at the door. My heart beat like a drum with excitement. The door opened and Rudra entered. Batasi quietly left
the room with her bedding. Who went out? Who was it? Rudra yelled. That was Batasi. Why Batasi? What did she want? She
didnt want anything. She came to sleep. Why? I called her. Why? Because I felt scared at night. Scared? Of what? What is
there to be scared of? Rudra closed the door with a bang and turned around. Now he would hug me and kiss me. But he neither
hugged me, nor kissed me. I advanced towards Rudra, so that I was close to him, he could touch me, and holding me in his
warm embrace could calm my heart. My lips moved towards his, so that after ages they could take his lips inside my mouth to
get the pleasure out of melting his lips with saliva and making them bloodless by sucking on them like one sucks on tamarind.
My smooth neck advanced, so that it could experience the pleasure of his marauding teeth, lips and tongue, so that the pain of
waiting could slowly leave my body and mind like the shedding of an outer coat of plaster. Here I am, Rudra. Your days of
waiting are over, take me. But this man face-to-face with me, was he really Rudra! A disgusting smell was emanating from his
mouth. A strong smell of spirits. As though he had bathed himself in gallons of nail-polish remover. He was swaying and trying
to say something. But his words got all entangled in his mouth. I stood taken aback, the drum beat of excitement in my heart
had suddenly ceased. A terrible fear was bursting forth. Instead of moving forward, I began to take steps backward. Two steps
back at a time. Away from the smell, away from the bloodshot eyes. Rudra held out his hands to hold me. As though he was
playing catch me if you can, and wanted to win by grabbing hold of me. I kept moving away further. Rudra didnt appear like
anyone I knew. I had never before in my life encountered a drunkard. Seeing one for the first time made me shake awfully in
fear. Seeing me backing off, he laughed loudly; the laugh itself was hideous. I felt as though I had been trapped by a hyena in a
dense jungle. I had never seen Rudra laugh in this way. I kept retreating. The palpitations of my heart increased. Rudras words
were collapsing one over the other. With his befuddled tongue he shouted, Why did you take so long to come? Because I was
delayed, was he looking at me with these strange, unfamiliar eyes, and shouting in this harsh, ugly manner? He advanced
towards me. I thought of ways to escape. I thought of running to the landlords house and asking for shelter. Pushing myself
close to the wall, I tried to save myself from the grip of catch me if you can. Cautiously I tried to move towards the door but
Rudra caught me with his claw-like fingers and clutching my hair, brought me close to him with a jerk. Drowning me in that
same awful smell he said, Why were you late? Why didnt you come the very day you received my letter? My voice shook as
I said, I didnt get leave. Why didnt you? The same scream. Hideous. Freeing myself from Rudras clutches and retreating
I found myself stuck against the wall. He searched for something on the edge of the window, making a disarray of the utensils
kept there. Looking under the mattress, under the bench he finally found the knife. Rudra raised the knife to the sky and made it
dance in the same way people blinded by religious fervour did in a Muharrum procession, shouting Hai Hasan, hai Hossain.
Seeing the knife my eyes began to close. I kept my tears in check. My breath in check. Was he going to murder me now! Yes.
He danced with his arms raised high in his lust for murder. I would die this night in the Taj Mahal Road house. This was the end
of my life. No one would know; neither Baba, Ma, brother nor sister, no one would ever know how I died in this house. No one
would possibly even know I was dead. Who would give them the news? Rudra might stuff me into a sack and drop me into the
Buriganga River! Why wasnt someone coming to rescue me from the landlords house? Rudra aiming the knife, moved
purposefully towards me stuck against the wall. At that moment I had no option of escape but to open the door close to me and
jump down to the road below from the balcony. Death was before me, death was behind me. I stood helplessly by myself. I did
not have the strength to speak or cry, in fact not even to breathe. I did not have the capacity to wrest the knife from Rudras
hand. He now had the strength of an Asura, the demon god. In one hand he held the knife, in the other my hand. Pulling my
hand he brought me to the door of the second room and pushed me down on the bed. The same question was asked again, why
did I come late to Dhaka? In a thick voice I gave the same reply, I didnt get leave. Again the same question, why not. I looked
for a chance to make him sit, calm him down and quietly tell him the reasons for not getting leave, so that the desire to kill
would leave his drunken brain. I did not know of any ways to rescue myself from a drunkard, nor had I learnt the method of
saving oneself from inevitable death. I looked helplessly at the knife. Its sharp blade was glinting. Was Rudra going to stab me
in the neck or the chest? I closed my eyes, so that I would not have to see my lover killing me. Suddenly dropping the knife,
Rudra ran towards the toilet. From lord knows where, the bird of life flew into my breast. Taking the knife from the settee, I ran
to the verandah, to throw it on the road. But one thought stopped me, suppose he got so angry at my throwing away the knife
that he strangled me to death! I hid the knife in a rice container kept under the bed. I would give it back to him if he promised
he would not kill me. At that moment, where could I run? If I banged on the landlords door, Rudra would most probably catch
me before they could open up. The punishment for this attempt to escape would surely be death. It was better I stayed there,
explained things, calmed him down, and try to remove the poison of liquor from his brain. By hook or by crook I had to keep
the bird of life locked up within its cage. Man had just one life, however much one may want it back, it never returns. Rudra
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returned to the room and searched for the knife. Where was the knife? Where was his knife? His shouts brought down the
plaster from the walls. They could be heard by every inmate of the landlords house. I started crying and said the knife was not
there. Why was he asking for it? Did he want to kill me? Why should he? What had I done? I told him I had thrown away the
knife. I couldnt control my tears any more. Rudra then tried to strangle his weeping wife with his hands. Using all my strength
to remove those two hands, I ran to the other room and bolted myself inside. He kicked the door for a long time. He awoke the
silent nights sleep with his loud screams of open up. He went around making a mess in the night. Finally he fell silent.
Looking through the peep-hole in the door, I saw Rudra lying on the bed just the way he was, with his shirt, pant and shoes still
on. There was no noise. My tears spoke in whispers with the silence. I prayed for dawn to come. Let this unbearably dark night
pass. I had never experienced such a long night ever before. Early morning, I picked up my bag and before gently opening the
door and leaving, I wrote, Sunshine, I waited for you for two days. You never came. Last night a strange man came to the
room, I did not recognize him. I am leaving. Wherever you are, stay well. Your Dawn. I left it next to Rudras daily notes
about waiting.
So early in the morning, there was hardly any traffic on the road. One or two rickshaws were moving along sluggishly. Taking
one such sluggish rickshaw I reached the bus-stand. The first bus of the morning was standing sleepy-eyed. As soon as I
stepped through the door of the bus, the conductor asked, Dont you have a man with you?
No.
One ladies. One ladies, the conductor shouted. To whom he shouted who knew? One ladies was meant to warn everyone
that I had to be seated in a safe place. The safety of ladies was in the ladies seat. All the seats next to the driver were called
ladies seats. If girls traveled by bus alone, they were to sit there. It was assumed that if a lady didnt sit next to another lady,
her journey would not be safe. If the ladies seats were full, then any unaccompanied lady who might materialize, was given a
non-ladies seat, and the seat next to her was kept vacant by the conductor, so that a second lady could be made to sit there.
That day there were no ladies seats vacant. Even after waiting, no second lady seemed to be buying a ticket. What was to be
done now? A middle-aged couple was sitting side-by-side. The conductor told the husband, Bhaijan, brother, please sit on
another seat; let me seat this lady with yours. I said, No, let it be, do not disturb them. The bus conductors knew other ways
of solving the problem. If no lady could be found to sit next to another one, then the solution was to make her sit next to the
oldest man in the bus or the youngest boy, still a child, whose beard and moustaches were yet to appear. No way was she to be
made to sit next to a young man.
No ladies seat is vacant, the junior conductor told his senior. The senior searched for an old, aged man and asked him,
Chacha, are you alone?
Yes.
Go sit next to that Chacha, were the instructions given to me.
Since I was a woman, the responsibility of choosing my seat was theirs. By making me sit next to an old chacha, the
conductor thought he had ensured my safety. Whenever a single man boarded a bus, he chose his own place to sit. But if a
single woman boarded, she had to wait for the conductor to make arrangements for her. After arranging for a safe seat for me,
both junior and senior conductors were able to relax. Leaning my head against the bus window, I thought it was not safe to sit
next to a strange man, hence the buses had begun this arrangement. The safest men for women, everyone knew, were their own
menfolk. The most secure place was the house of ones own menfolk. Ones husbands home. If only the conductor knew how
unsafe that very home had been for me!
Back at Aubokash, I felt safe. All around Aubokash were high walls, on which were mounted broken glass pieces. On top of
that was an even higher barrier of barbed wire. Secluded from the outside world, at one time I had felt this house to be like a
prison. Now I felt that only here were pockets of peace hiding. Even if Ma threw me a sharp look, I knew lurking behind that
look was love. No matter how many disasters I caused, that love would always be showered over me. Ma sent rice to my room
with Nargis. With the rice was my favourite fried aubergine, and goat meat. The food was served with great care. How did Ma
know that this morning my stomach hungered for rice! Was this what a Ma meant, someone who would understand everything,
who did not need to be told anything! Sitting on the bed, Yasmin was singing one of the new songs she had picked up. Suhrid
was painting a butterfly with water colours, and saying, Butterfly, butterfly, where did you get such colourful wings!
Listening to Yasmin, Suman said, Yasmin Apa, I didnt know before that you could sing so beautifully. Suman was Hashem
mamas son, his only son, the rest were all daughters. Yesterday, Hashem mama had left Suman in this house. A few days back,
a fourteen-fifteen year old boy had been murdered by his peers on the Akua rail tracks. No pistol or gun had been required to
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kill the boy, a knife was enough. Sumans name was included in the list of the accused. After returning from Muktijuddho, the
war of liberation, Hashem mama had become the President of the Awami League, Akua Union Branch. After independence,
many Muktijoddhas had stolen numerous privileges on the strength of their names. They had made money by various means.
Many had become ministers, or had got jobs as envoys to foreign countries. Hashem mama had got nothing. He had not run
after all this. For the sake of survival he had, with great difficulty, bought a small shop in Notun Bazar, to sell fish and rice.
With this, he was living cramped up in one tiny room with his wife Parul, five daughters and one son. The same room he had
been staying in since he got married. So many children had been born, they had grown up, but he was in the same room even
today. He had no love for money, property, cars and possessions. Having never been educated, Hashem mama was educating his
children. The girls did well in their exams, only the boy caused problems. The boy had too many friends in the locality, and was
not interested in studies. When you made friends, you made enemies as well. One such enemy had inserted Sumans name into
the list of accused. Hashem mama did not consider his son to be the light of the family. He did not believe that the boy needed
to be brought up on special foodstuffs. He had never thought of getting his daughters married as soon as they turned fifteen or
sixteen. He was not of the opinion that his son should get more importance than his daughters. Inspite of living in this society,
Hashem mama was very different from most others. I was very fond of this different Hashem mama. I wanted to ask him about
his experiences as a Muktijoddha. How he had gone to India, how he had undergone training there in guerrilla warfare, how he
had, as a group-commander for the Muktijuddho, crossed jungles and swam across rivers in order to go from one place to
another risking his life! How he had shot at the Pak army, and how many he had killed were questions I had never been able to
ask him. Hashem mama was trying desperately to save Suman from danger. Hashem mama had survived so far by the means of
a surprising honesty. He could not however save his son from this false case. This prison like house would save his son
temporarily, if not from the police, then at least from the local enemies. Hence he had requested Baba to let Suman stay in this
house for a few days. Baba had agreed. However within two days of my return from Dhaka, I wanted Suman out of Aubokash.
This was inspite of the fun Yasmin, Suman and I were having, involved as we were in singing songs, reciting poetry, laughing,
joking, chatting and playing games. The reason was that I had seen a helpless girl trembling in the middle of the night. I had
woken up on hearing the sound of Nargis running feet. I opened my eyes and heard sounds of her tearful breathing. Standing at
my door, holding her bedclothes, she was shaking. Her whole body shook. Her eyes opened wide.
What has happened to you?
I was sleeping. Suman Bhaiyya came and caught hold of me.
Leaping up from my bed in a trice, I held Nargis in my arms to stop her body from shaking. Bringing her into the room, I
locked it from inside. Nargis spent that night on the floor of my room, curled into a tight ball under her kantha. I asked him
why he had come here. As soon as I did, he clasped my mouth shut. He told me not to make any noise. No one will know. No
one will realise. I wanted to scream and call for you all. I freed myself with great difficulty and came here Apa, she said.
***
How old would Nargis be? Thirteen. As her father was poor, she had been sent to work in a house. She worked from dawn till
midnight and only then went to sleep. This was the only time she could call her own. This short sleep-time. May be not even
that. She was possibly given this time to sleep only so that she could be fresh and energetic enough to do the house work the
next day. Nargis should have been going to school at her age. Yet she still could not read her alphabets. When Suhrid opened
his book to read his alphabets, Nargis stared at him overwhelmed. She must be wishing that she, too, could open a book and
read like him. Nargis father came to Aubokash once in a while to meet his daughter. Ma would then instantly make her change
her dirty clothes to clean ones; she was made to rub oil on her hands and feet to hide their roughness and comb her hair before
going to her father. Her father was to see her and assume his daughter was very happy here. Well fed, well clothed and cared
for. If it was afternoon, Ma even made her father sit in the verandah and have a meal. While he ate, Ma would stand at the door
holding the curtain and say, Your daughter is very happy here, you neednt worry about her at all.
After finishing his meal, Nargis father would pat his daughters head and say, Listen to everyone Ma, in this house they all
care for you so much! You must obey them all.
Nargis would hold on to the door and watch her father leaving, tears flooding her eyes.
If I ever asked her, Kire Nargis, why are you crying? Nargis would hurriedly wipe her tears and laugh and say, No Apa, Im
not crying. I was cleaning the cobwebs, and some dirt fell into my eyes.
All Nargiss replies were similar. No, Apa, Im not crying, I was slicing the onions, and the zing made my eyes water.
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***
In the morning I told Ma about the incident. Ma became silent as she heard. Ma was very fond of Hashem mama. She said very
often, This is one brother of mine, who is really good. He never says anything bad to anyone. He helps everyone in every way
he can. People have so many enemies. Hashem has none.
***
Ma had been very happy that by allowing her good brothers good son to stay here, she had been able to rid him of some of his
worries, even though only slightly. Mas relatives were never invited by Baba to Aubokash. That Baba had agreed to allow
Suman to stay at Aubokash for a short while, that he had shown this benevolence for Suman, was only because of Hashem
mamas own personality. I had sunk Mas first boat of joy of being able to give Suman shelter, in her river of unhappiness. Ma
asked Suman whether he had gone to Nargis bed at night. Suman appeared to fall from the skies. He shouted, The girl is
telling lies.
In a calm voice Ma said, No, she is not telling lies.
That very day, Ma called Hashem mama and ordered, not requested, that he take Suman away form Aubokash.
***
Telling Ma that it was better to put the boy in jail, Hashem mama took Suman away from Aubokash. The very next day, I went
to Nargis home in Kushtopur behind the Hospital, and gave her mother five hundred takas. I told her that she was to get
Bilkees admitted to a school, and not send her to work as a maid in any house. Small, pretty, round-faced Bilkees, wearing a
nose-ring, was sitting in the dust of the courtyard, playing a make believe cooking game. Nargis mother had decided to send
this six year old child to a businessmans house in Kushtopur, to work for her meals.
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Chapter XXIII
Doctoring
The duties for the one year of internship had been divided. One had to do a fixed duty in any one subject. In the subject that
one thought was the most important. Most of the girls had taken fixed duty in the gynaecology and maternity department.
Even if you did one month in the medicine or surgery departments, you had to do four months in gynaecology. Messing with
sexual organs had not been my favourite subject as a student, but choosing this subject as my main subject, I took fixed duty in
this department. In the four months, there was no chance of even four minutes of tom-foolery. Any hoodwinking would mean
hoodwinking oneself. Every year qualified doctors from foreign medical colleges joined in to take training in medicine. If you
had to work in this country, you had to take training here; that was the system. The very first day I was introduced to Divalok
Singh who had qualified from Moscow. Divalok was Comrade Mani Singhs son. The Susanga Durgapurs Mani Singh. The
Hajong uprisings Mani Singh. The Mani Singh who had dedicated his whole life to the poor and needy people. Normally, no
one thought the doctors who had qualified abroad were outstanding. This was because even if they had brains, they did not have
surgical skills. After all, in countries abroad, unlike in our country, there werent that many unidentified corpses available to
dissect and learn the skills and gain expertise. There wasnt even a crowd of poor patients in those countries, who could be
physically roughened up for examination without a thought, and who would, moreover, remain silent and unprotesting. These
doctors did not get the opportunities in their hospitals that we got from the fourth year itself, to assist the surgeons in the
operation theatres. A woman doctor qualified from London, was asked by Professor Zobayed Hussain, Ki, young lady, will
you be able to assist in a Caesarian? The girl shook her head in denial. She had never done so before. Laughing, Zobayed
Hussain called for a local doctor. The foreigners had theoretical knowledge, visual knowledge, but no practical experience.
Divalok Singh may also have had theoretical and visual knowledge, but I still patronised him. With my own hands I taught him
how to stitch up a patients torn sexual organs in the delivery room. Mymensingh Medical College was a reputed one. The
students of this college always fared better in their exams than students of other medical colleges. Our previous years Rajib
Ahmed had come first. In our year, in the M-16 batch, in every professional exam, Mansoor Khalil had come first. However,
even though this was a good college, and academic sessions in the Dhaka Medical College were always getting disrupted by
student unrest, while the Dhaka Medical College had got accreditation from the British Inspectors, this college had not. Before
the team of observers was to visit, both the college and hospital had been washed and cleaned to look spic and span. The
students and doctors, too, had worn neat and clean clothes and followed all rules and regulations on that day. And yet, the very
valuable accreditation had not been awarded. This was because the team of inspectors had seen a stray dog sitting in the
verandah of the hospital. Getting the accreditation meant one had the permission to pass out of this college and go on to one in
London for higher studies. We were not too crestfallen at not having got the accreditation. Especially not Mansoor Khalil. For a
boy who did not want to go anywhere beyond his college and home, London was not a sought after dream. Mansoor Khalil
looked like a solid mountain. He weighed approximately 200 kg. He ate and studied. He never went out anywhere out of shame
for his physique, nor did he speak to any girl. Sometimes, I purposely spoke to Mansoor. Of course, it was mostly to pull his
leg, especially if Safinaz was with me. We loved watching Mansoors fair face turn red like a ripe mango when he talked to us.
I was the most comfortable about my identity within the hospital compound. Here there was no difference between me and a
male doctor. If I had better knowledge and skills than a boy here, I would be given more importance than him. Here we were
used to speaking freely about male and female sexual organs, used to inspecting them. It did not cause us even an iota of shame
or hesitation to utter words which would be banned outside this compound. As soon as I became an intern, I started frequenting
the hospital doctors canteen. In between duties, whenever I felt hungry, I had tea with shingara. If there was time, then adda
and table-tennis both carried on. Here if my body touched a male doctors body, or our hands touched, then I was not thought to
be a ruined woman. My biceps had touched his triceps, would be all that was mentioned. My identity here was that I was a
doctor. Sometimes if the patients in the ward mistakenly addressed me as Sister, I had to correct them, and tell them that I was
not a nurse. Whatever regrets I had at not having been able to study architecture, blew away with the steam rising from the tea
cups in the doctors canteen. That I had not made a mistake in becoming a doctor, was a belief that had strangely rooted itself in
the soil of my mind, even though my study of medicine had completely wiped out my literary interests and my poetry writing
fancies were also at a standstill. By writing poetry I gave joy only to myself, but by treating others I was able to give joy to
thousands of patients. All kinds of patients came to the hospital. The wealthy hired cabins, the middle-class hired them if they
could afford it, the poor stayed in the wards. There was a shortage of medicines in the hospital; the government did not provide
all the medicines. These had to be bought from outside by the patients. However, the poor patients could not afford to do so.
When I wrote prescriptions for the rich or middle-class patients, if they required one medicine, I wrote five. If five were
required, I wrote ten. I did this so that, once the rich had used what they needed, I could keep the rest for the poor patients. No
patient was ever told that we doctors secretly did this to save the poor. I even ran to Sandhani for poor patients. The poor
couldnt afford to buy blood from the blood banks with money, so when they needed blood, I got it from Sandhani. College
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students had started this institution called Sandhani to help the poor. One day I went to the Sandhani office and donated my
eyes so that after my death, some blind person could benefit from my eyes. I told them I wanted to donate my body, too. After
my death, my body should be sent to the college corpse dissection room. At Sandhani there were no forms for body donation.
Maybe because there was such an abundance of unidentified corpses, the members had not felt the need to make provisions for
donating bodies. My apron pockets jingled with the sound of plenty of ampoules. Medicines bought with the money of the
wealthy collected in my pockets. All the samples left with me by medical company representatives were also collecting there.
On one side medicines were collecting, on the other, they were being distributed to the poor patients. Every doctors pocket had
some medicines to help the poor patients. Some, if they didnt have the medicines, took out money from their pockets so that
medicines could be bought. In the midst of so much generosity and integrity my medical training continued. Some of course did
crazy things while immersed in medicine. A classmate of mine called Rizwan, who appeared very intelligent, brought Pathedin
from the government chemist shop for a patient, and one day injected himself with it just for a lark. The fun he got out of it,
made him repeat the exercise innumerable times. He finally entrapped himself in a web of drug addiction. Other doctors had
trapped themselves in their own personal webs. I had duty in the surgery ward at that time. The Professor was undertaking brain
surgery. The cranium or skull was open. Leaving it open, the professor began to wash his hands. Why? He had to offer namaz.
He never missed a single one. If he heard the azaan while an operation was underway, he kept the patient unconscious for an
extra fifteen minutes and completed his namaz. I could not understand how one could be a doctor and still be so religious
minded. If something as complicated as the brain could be so clearly understood by the doctors mind, then how come his brain
did not realise that religion was an illogical business. How could he believe that there was someone called Allah sitting in the
Seventh Heaven, that He had created this world, and that He would one day destroy with His own hands the very world He had
created. And that on the Day of Judgement, He would bring all mankind to life again. They would look like twenty year olds,
and both demons and humans would be judged at the Doomsday Meet. After which for eternity the people would live either in
behesht or dozakh. Those who had not followed Allah would go to dozakh, and those who had, would go to behesht, and other
such amazing fairy tales! Actually the fairy tales did not appear as unreal to me as religion did. A prince could emerge out of a
frog, a witch could have a house on top of a chicken leg, but there could not possibly be another life after this one. Some
doctors would talk of attending big religious meets while performing intricate surgical operations. The number of cap wearing
doctors could of course be counted on ones fingers. But, why should even that be! Why should even one doctor wear a cap on
his head! The illiterate and uneducated who had no scientific knowledge,could believe in religion. But I could find no reasons
for doctors to believe in such things. I had asked one of them, Babul, Why do you believe in Allah?
For what reason should I not?
From a simple logical point of view. You have worked your brain tirelessly in the case of medical science, why dont you do
the same for religion. You try to understand everything in this world logically. Have you ever tried to analyze the writings of the
Quran Hadith logically?
Babul admitted that he never had. He did not want to. Because he believed that faith was one thing and logic another. He did
not want to mix the two. Babul, I believed, knew that religion was a completely illogical business. He knew very well that this
huge wide world had not been created in six days. He knew that the sun did not move round the earth. That this belief was false,
that Allah held up the mountains just like nails would and hence the earth did not lean either to the left or right. That it was
untrue that the first man on earth was Adam, and that the second human Hauwa was created from Adam as his companion. That
it was also untrue that the forbidden fruit of heaven was eaten by them and that was the reason why Allah had punished them by
exiling them to earth. Babul knew that for crores of years, crores of planets and constellations were moving around in outer
space. He knew from where the creature called man had come, and was aware of the theory of evolution. Yet he observed his
namaz and roza, and went on pilgrimage. The reason for that was his greed. And because he was greedy he wanted both this
world and the next. In this world, as a doctor he had established himself at a high level in society; there was great happiness in
that. And if there was someone called Allah, something called after-life then by offering the namaz five times a day, and
observing one month of rozas, and once in a year going on pilgrimmage, if one could get heaven, then what was the harm!
There was no point arguing with boys like Babul. Babul in fact was not keen either, to enter into any discussions. He wanted to
live with his beliefs.
***
Nowadays, if one questioned Ma on any topic in the Quran-Hadith, she had no logical answers. When Ma sat before the Quran
Sharif and swayed back and forth reading from it, I sat before her. While reading the Quran, Mas face turned pale, thinking of
the fires of dozakh. My sitting and listening to her reading the Quran, brought back some colour to her face, she assumed it to
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be a sign of my good sense. Ma laughed warmly saying, Ki, will you read the Quran Sharif?
I laughed and said, I am reading it. How many times must one re-read the same book?
That I was not learning good sense at all, Ma kind of guessed.
Achcha Ma, this cap that the boys wear, why do they do so?
They observe Sunnat. This dress was worn by Hazrat Muhammed Salallah Alayhesalaam, by wearing the same they observe
Sunnat. Keeping a beard too is Sunnat.
Why do they want to copy the Nabiji?
Bah! Why shouldnt they? He was the last prophet. The greatest prophet. Allahs beloved Rasool.
There is no end to the qualities of Nabiji, is there?
No one has the kind of qualities he had. He was the greatest amongst the humans.
Sitting with a pillow on my lap, and leaning with my two elbows on top of it, I laughed out.
You say he is Allahs beloved Rasool, the greatest Nabi, the greatest human being. Then was it correct of him to marry the six
year old Ayesha?
He married many girls to deliver them from poverty. He provided protection to many a helpless girl.
What protection did he provide for the six year old Ayesha, let me hear? If he had really wanted to protect Ayesha, then at that
age he could have adopted her as a daughter and brought her up instead of marrying her. If he had wanted to help poor girls, he
could have provided them with monetary assistance. If marriage was so essential, he could have married them off to his
unmarried friends. Was there any need for him to marry them himself? Were there no other men in the country?
Girls liked Him thats why they married him
Liked Him? Was he concerned about anyones likes? Did his own daughter-in-law Joynab like him? Or did he go to his sons
place, saw his wife and turning mad, married her? Just tell me, how can anyone marry their own daughter-in-law? Suppose
Baba were now to tell Dada, give talaq to Haseena, I want to marry her. How would that be? Dada on Babas orders would give
Haseena talaq. And Baba would then marry her. Chhi Chhi Chhi.
Nabiji did not have any sons of his own. Zayed was adopted.
Let him be adopted. Just because he was adopted, does that mean he was not his son? When people adopt children, they bring
them up as their own. Suppose you were to bring up a girl till she grows up, would you then later be able to say she is not your
daughter? Would you be able to marry the husband of that adopted daughter? Would you be able to, would you? It was after he
married his daughter-in-law that the law changed. Adopted children were not real offspring. Therefore, deprive them of their
inheritance. For ones own selfish purposes, can anyone be so heartless?
Not selfish interest. Not selfish motives. Dont speak unless you understand.
Because he had selfish interests he married the wealthy Khadija. He did business with Khadijas money. Then he didnt take
notice of any other girl. The minute Khadija died, he began to marry at regular intervals. One after another. Why? While
Khadija was alive he didnt have the courage to do so! What is this but selfishness? In war he captured enemy property no
doubt, but he even enjoyed the enemy womenfolk. Didnt he keep the pretty ones for himself, distributing the rest amongst his
friends? Even in the Quran it is written, let Nabi enjoy all these women! Chhi! Can anyone with a conscience do such
disgusting things? Does any healthy man marry fourteen times?
Not fourteen, thirteen.
Whats the difference? If he had married thirteen instead of fourteen, that would make him good in your eyes? Baba has
married twice and you call him inhuman since the day you got to know. Why dont you curse your Nabiji?
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Those times were different from the present times. Then the state of society was different.
In what state is society today? Now a man can marry four times! If Baba brings three more wives into the house, what will you
do? Will you be able to live with three co-wives?
With a bitter look on her face, Ma closed the Quran and said, Nabiji did not keep anyone in the same house.
So what if he didnt, he did visit the others, didnt he? He even lusted after the maids of his wives! He enjoyed even them. He
did not spare anyone for his enjoyment!
Whatever He did, He did on orders from Allah.
Then why does Allah give such awful commands? Apostle! Prophet! Someone to be revered by all! Allah could have at least
given such a person a better character.
Nasreen, you are talking nonsense about Nabiji. You will not even find a place in dozakh. What will happen to you? What can
possibly be in your fate?
***
When I talked to Ma like this, she would sit alone in the verandah, afterwards or would lie down quietly, looking out of the
window. I guessed Ma was thinking of the Divine Messenger, and wondering why wasnt Allahs Apostle an ideal character!
Why could he not have been someone above all controversy! After such conversations, Ma would come near me after a long
time, and reading the Surah over my breast and face would blow air on them, to exorcise all evil. In a soft tone she would say,
Ask Tauba, pardon, from Allah. Say you have made a mistake. You have committed a fault. Allah will pardon you.
Allah can pardon only if He exists.
If Allah exists! If Allah exists! If He does? What will you do then? Then what will happen to you, have you ever thought of
that?
When Ma would be very seriously reading the Farz, Sunnat, Nafal and all other parts of namaz, I would say, Why you read all
this, I have no idea! What is the use? You will find you are not reborn after death. All false. There is no dozakh. Nor is there
any behesht. Then?
Ma would say, Okay, if I see there is nothing, its fine. All my worship will have been wasted. But suppose there is? If
everything is there?
Ma fearing this if, offered her namaz and observed the roza. If there was something called the last Day of Judgement, then she
hoped for good results. I felt, not just Ma, many others too, followed Allah Rasool, because of this if. My arguments with Ma
did not progress beyond a point.
I was a little stern with the patients in the hospital, because to them, after Allah, the next person they trusted was their doctor.
They followed every letter of a doctors advice and orders. But to what purpose! They would still keep roots of a plant over
which the Maulana had blown air, to remove all illness, under their pillows, and believe that if they got well, it was not because
of the doctors treatment, but because of the roots. There was an anaemic patient, for whom I arranged four bags of blood from
Sandhani, and medicines, and revived his failing heart. I told him to sit up on recovery. In doing so, his pillow moved. Under it
was a root.
What is that?
A root on which dua prayer has been pronounced.
Why do you keep this with you?
The patient laughed and said, If you keep this, then illnesses go away.
What do you think? Did you get better because of the doctors medicines or because of those roots?
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The patient again laughed and said, You tried to cure me with medicines. But it was Allah who made me better. Can anyone
save another without Allah? The roots had Allahs writings read on them, and all evil has been exorcised with a prayer breathed
on them.
After this, whenever a patient came, I first checked whether there were any tabiz tied on their hands, legs or waist, and whether
there were any roots on them. If there were, I threw them away, before I started any treatment. I told them, If you keep any
tabiz or kabaz on you, you will not get any treatment. If you think those will make your illness go, then you can go home. Go
home, put the roots under your pillow, and lie down. Tie the tabiz and kabaz on your body. Get prayers blown upon yourself
from every Maulvi you can find. I will see how you get well from your illness.
Each ward had a different date for admission. On those days patients flowed in continuously. The beds got filled up, even the
floors sometimes. One was kept busy writing each patients history, examining each of them from top to toe, diagnosing the
disease, prescribing preliminary medication for each of them, if the patients were critical, and one was unable to handle them,
one had to send for the senior doctors. There were many other duties. There were less female patients than male ones in the
hospital. No one brought a woman to the hospital before she was on the road to death. A girl who had poisoned herself, another,
a tiny polyp in whose body had developed cancer because it had not been treated for ages. Every girls body was anaemic, and
undernourished. From them I was keen to know much more than what a doctor would need to know for treatment. After feeding
the entire household well, these women would live on leftovers. They secretly harboured all kinds of diseases in their bodies.
The reason, women couldnt afford to fall ill if a household had to subsist. Even if they revealed their illnesses, the men of the
house did not really pay much attention. The men of the house did not like the idea of their women going to doctors and being
touched by them for examination purposes. Therefore, women had no option but to suffer their ailments silently. They did not
have the courage to come by themselves to the hospital. When ailing married girls left their husbands home to visit their
parents, then they came to hospital from there, brought by their relatives.
It was not me alone who had duty in the wards, other doctors were also there. Outlining the history of a critically injured
patient, one of my doctor friends had written, She was beaten. I cut this out, and on a new paper wrote out the whole incident
after getting the details from the patient. She was brutally hit by her husband. The cruel man used an axe and cane on her body.
He wanted to kill her. He even said talaq to her. Her crime was that her father could not pay the dowry money on time. To the
list of medicines I added an anti-depressant. My doctor friend reading the history written by me declared, Who beat her, with
what he beat her, why he beat her are not details we need to know! Our job is to treat her. That is true. I knew all doctors
would tell me the same thing. However, writing the details in the history, gave me a certain satisfaction and I told the girl, I
have recorded that your husband is responsible for your condition. By writing about the pathetic condition of the girl on the
hospital papers, I knew I would not be able to change her life. But what was the harm in putting it down on paper? It was not as
if doctors had absolutely no social responsibilities. Post-operative patients were given Pathedin to decrease their pain. One felt
so good with a shot of Pathedin that patients would pretend to moan to get another shot even when their pains had disappeared.
To prevent patients from getting addicted to Pathedin, doctors called the nurses to administer D-W injections. The nurse would
fill the syringe with distilled water and push it into the buttocks of the patient. The constant moaning and calling for either the
nurse or the doctor gradually would come to an end. In this way doctors saved the patients from getting addicted to Pathedin.
This was surely an act of social responsibility.
I was a doctor no doubt, and spent nights and days in the ward treating patients, but I did not still have the authority to treat all
ailments. In the Gynae ward, I had duty not only during the day, but at night as well. In a week I had to spend between three and
four nights in the hospital. In the course of one night duty itself, two different incidents resulted in my being served summons.
At 12 oclock that night a patient arrived with a retained placenta. The baby had been born two days ago and the placenta had
not been ejected as yet. If a case of retained placenta came, the rule was to call either the senior clinical assistant or the
registrar. Without calling anyone, I tried taking out the placenta myself. Slowly I tried to open the closed uterus with my hands.
I finally succeeded after about an hour, and the placenta came out. That night at 2.30 am, another patient came. The baby was
not coming out, even though the water-bag had burst in the afternoon. The head of the baby had been stuck at the mouth of the
uterus for quite a few hours. The babys condition was becoming critical in the womb. If I called the senior doctors, then I
feared that by the time they came from the doctors quarters, the baby may not be alive. I took the forceps into my own hands.
All these years I had seen the use of forceps, but had never used them myself. The doctors who were on duty with me, watched
my antics from a safe distance. While the incident was happening, one of them had run to make a call to the C.A. By the time
the C.A. came, the baby had been given oxygen and was breathing normally. I was then stitching up the opening of the uterus
which had been widened for the forceps procedure. At eight in the morning the professor arrived. Within two minutes of his
arrival, he was informed of the incident. After freshening myself up with a cup of tea in the canteen, I had come to accompany
the professor on his ward round, after which I planned to go home and sleep. Although I had qualified as a doctor, I remained a
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student as before in front of Zobayed Hussain. I had to follow him around the wards every morning. As a student my heart had
trembled during these rounds, now even as a doctor, it did the same. There was no difference between standing before a tiger
and standing before Zobayed Hussain. Professor Zobayed Hussain had begun his rounds. As soon as I tried to join the rounds,
he came towards me. Behind the glasses was the hungry look of the tiger. Before I could gauge what had happened for him to
want to eat me up, he said, You manually removed a retained placenta?
Yes, Sir.
Behind Zobayed Hussain, twenty-five pairs of eyes were directed at me. The eyes were as keen as those of spectators sitting on
a shooting platform on a tree in the Sunderbans, waiting to see a deer about to be eaten by a tiger. Again Zobayed Hussains
voice roared, You did a forceps delivery?
Yes, Sir.
Why did you?
The babys condition was critical.
Why did you remove the retained placenta manually?
The patients condition was serious, so
Suppose there had been an accident?
The patient is well. I just went and saw her a little while ago. The baby too is well.
That the patient is well is not an excuse.
I had to lower my head before fifty-two eyes. That very morning, Zobayed Hussain hung up a big notice in the labour room,
Intern doctors are not allowed to do anything with forceps delivery and retained placenta.
That same Zobayed Hussain, the very next day, found a patient waiting in the labour room for an episiotomy, but there was no
doctor, none at all! Where were the doctors! The minute he found one, he grabbed him and asked, Why is a patient lying in the
labour room? When the doctor looking here and there, and swallowing several times said, Sir, Taslima was supposed to do
the episiotomy, he snarled at him saying, You want to blame Taslima, right! Listen, she is the only one who dares to take
action. A courageous girl. She is the one who will be a successful doctor not a mouse like you.
***
I was busy with my fixed duties when Ma said one day, Bajaans health is not good.
Why, what has happened?
He cant move around. He is speaking nonsense.
Why, didnt he bring a jumper only the other day?
Nana always brought something, however small, whenever he came, whether in his pocket or in a packet. Even if it was only a
biscuit, he would put it in his daughters hands saying, Ma, you eat it. He had given us a whole pile of second hand jumpers,
with which we would be able to weather quite a few winters. Why should Nana now be ill! Only two weeks ago, when I had
visited Nanibari, he was absolutely fit. Eating. While serving him fish curry Nani had been saying, The shop is not doing so
well now. Whoever else may have a liking for Nanas Benevolent Hatimtai character, Nani certainly did not.
There is no need for it to do well, whatever we have is good enough. Hey, give me a little salt! said Nana, sitting on a mat,
and mixing his rice and curry. Nani pushed the salt jar towards Nana and said, How can you manage without any income!
What will the children eat?
Do the children ever go hungry?
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The cooks at your shop have started big shops of their own and are taking home thousands of taka. You have earned nothing in
business.
If they are stealing, should I do the same?
I am not telling you to steal. Only to pay more attention to the business.
Nani knew very well that Nana had very little interest in the business. Just the other day she made a sudden entry into the shop
and found three mad vagabonds from the streets wolfing down food, their feet on top of the chairs. Nana was sitting next to the
mad men and serving them big pieces of meat. Nani said, There are no signs of any customers, and you are feeding these
madmen in the shop? Nana scowled and said, It is my shop, I will feed any one I please. What is it to you? Go, go home.
Hardly had he had a bite or two, when Nani went to the tap. Right behind her he followed, carrying his full plate, and upturned
it in the courtyard.
Whats wrong, why did you throw away the rice? yelled Nani from the taps.
There are the dogs and the cats, theyll eat it up!
This was nothing new for Nani. She very often saw Nana throwing pieces of bread out of the window.
Whats wrong, why are you throwing out the bread?
Nana would say, There are ants and other such, theyll eat it up.
The children dont get bread, and you give it away to the ants!
Khairunnissa, they also wait in hope, Nana would smile sweetly and say.
He even threw the sugar drops kept in his pocket into the pond when he passed by it.
Why?
The fish will eat them. They too expect something.
Even at Aubokash this would happen. Ma after serving him the rice, and a big piece of Rahu fish, would go to get daal in a
bowl. On her return she would find no fish on the plate, only dry white rice. The Rahu fish would be under the table, being
eaten by the cat.
Ki Bajaan, why is the cat eating the fish?
Nana would laugh and say, Lets see your daal. Lets see how you have cooked it.
I am giving you the daal, but why have you thrown away the fish?
Arrey, why should I throw it? You think cats dont have likes and dislikes! You think they like eating only bones! They too
expect to eat some fish!
Returning from the taps, while wiping her mouth with a towel, Nani would say, He has nothing to do with human beings, he
spends his time with dogs and cats. He has ruined the shop by feeding the madmen from the streets. I have no chance of peace
in this life at least.
By that time, Nana would be under the embroidered quilt. In bed. Sleeping. After lunch he took a long nap. After which he got
up and went again to the shop. The minute he reached the entrance of Notun Bazar, all the madmen and beggars of the area
would begin to follow Nana. Distributing money, bread and sugar drops he would walk up to the shop, by which time there
would be nothing left in the pocket. Then he would put his hand in the cashbox, and give a fistful to mad Dabir. Dabir was a
great favourite of Nana. Thanks to this mad Dabir, Nana had once returned home bare-chested.
What happened, where is your panjabi?
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That Dabir did not have anything to wear. He was standing half-naked on the road.
Does that mean you had to take off your own and give it to him?
If I didnt, how would he survive in this cold?
And how can you stay bare chested in this cold?
Arrey, wheres the cold! I have walked and come. When you walk your whole body stays warm, Khairunnisa.
Nani did not argue further. She didnt because she knew there was no point. She had known Nana for four decades. In this
narrow tin shed she had started her married life so many years ago. Her children were born, they got married, her grandchildren
were born, great-grandchildren, but the tin shed remained unchanged. Not one thing had changed. In front of their eyes,
overnight, even the servants of this house had become wealthy, and had actually built proper houses in their slums. Nani of
course did not have any great greed for a house. If they could just somehow get enough food and clothing to survive, she
thought that would be sufficient. Nanis worries were with Tutu mama and Sharaf mama. These two had left their studies and
had joined Peerbari. Even though they did not have the means to support a family, they had both got married in a trice. Now
they came on and off to Nani for help. Finally, fed up with having both sons begging from her, Nani had herself gone to
Amirullah, father-in-law of her daughter and requested, Please do something. Tutu and Sharaf came to the path of Allah, after
leaving their worldly life and studies. Now they have no chances of getting a job. If they have no money, what will they eat!
You had better make some arrangement for them.
Amirullah laughed, exposing his paan stained brown teeth and said, The lord master who arranges every thing is Allahtalah. I
am only his humble servant. Have faith in Allah. He will make everything alright.
I have faith in Allah, sir. But both my sons have got into trouble by getting married. Will you please help them both to get
jobs? If you want, you can easily do so.
Amirullah said, The lord master of jobs and things is also the same one. The Lord of sustenance is also Allah. He will provide
the jobs.
Nani offered her namaz, observed rozas, but was a thoroughly worldly, practical person. She knew that by sitting on the
Jainamaz, holding up ones hands in supplication to Allah and even tearfully imploring Him would not get anyone a job. There
was possibly a better chance of getting something if one cried in front of Amirullah instead. The steel industry of Abu Bakr was
now under Amirullahs charge. Only followers of the Peer were being given jobs there, the faithful could even be absolutely
illiterate. Things worked with necessary endeavour. After laying all problems at Allahs door for a solution for a long time,
Amirullah finally got the dogged Nani to leave by saying, Okay, tell them also to join work in the Akbaria Industry factory.
But on one condition, they have to observe all religious Sunnat, have to grow a beard, leave their worldly clothes and wear
pyjama/panjabi, and a cap on their heads.
Nani returned from Peerbari and said, They can not get even a clerical job in an office with only an I.A. certificate. If by
changing their dress, and growing a beard they can work in a factory and earn money, then let them do that.
Tutu and Sharaf mama happily changed their dress and started working in the factory. Chhotku had left the Peerbari dress code
ages ago. After leaving the Madarasa, he had studied for sometime at the Nasirabad School. However, before passing his SSC,
he left school and began to sit at Nanas food shop. When Nana went here and there, Chhotku looked after the shop. After Tutu
mama and Sharaf mamas weddings, a spate of weddings began at Nanibari. One day I heard that even Felu mama was getting
married. He liked a pretty girl in the neighbourhood. When the wedding proposal was sent, the parents agreed, and from the
in-laws house three yards away, he brought home his bride in a rickshaw. Soon after Felu mamas wedding, Chhotku said he
wanted to marry as well. In the double-storeyed house opposite the Zilla School, he had seen and met a beautiful young girl
with whom he had exchanged smiles and little notes in his desperate efforts to attract her. When that failed to move her, he
came very often to Aubokash, to get letters written. He would tell whoever he could get hold of, either Yasmin or me, Write a
letter for me in real flowery and impressive language, will you! To fulfil his fancy, we wrote love letters on his behalf. Stuffing
the letters in his breast-pocket, he would leave, and would try and pass them to the girl whenever he got the chance. Receiving
those letters, the girl not only melted, at the age of fourteen she flung herself at Chhotku and clung to his neck. Faqrool mamas
wedding did not happen as easily as had his brothers. He was himself the leader of the Youth Union. In his childhood he had
been initiated into becoming a communist by Boro mama. Faqrul mama had unlimited access to all the other leaders houses. In
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this process, he came to be romantically involved with one of the leaders wives. The wife was not only older than Faqrul
mama, she was also the mother of two children. Their relationship had gone rather far. The day the leader caught them both
red-handed, he threw his wife out of the house, and sent the talaq papers to her parents home. Faqrul mama decided he would
marry the lady, since he was responsible for her condition. But Boro mama did not agree. By hook or by crook he got Faqrul
mama to come to Mymensingh, and tied him up with various advice and orders. Within two days, Faqrul mama had broken his
bonds and got out. He married that mother of two children and brought them home. No relatives attended his wedding. Faqrul
mama, a slim, six feet tall handsome young man was marrying an old dark woman. Why would any relative go to this wedding!
When Chhotkus wife came home, Nana fell sick. He could not figure out anything. He forgot the road to Notun Bazar. He
would get lost. He began to wet his bed. He could not control his urine or stools. He would pass both in bed. He would pick up
his stools with his own hands and throw them out of the window. Nani would press her sari aanchal to her nose and say, Why
does he throw that? Is he distributing that also to the cats and dogs? Baba went one day to see Nana, and prescribed some
medicines. They did not work. What was wrong with Nana? Baba said, Diabetes. He had never had medicines for diabetes.
He only knew that he was not to eat sweets. He of course had never followed that ban. I had just become a doctor. Pinching
Nanas skin and lifting it up, I detected dehydration. There was no water in his body. With great pomp and show I arranged for
him to be given saline. He had stared blankly, and recoiling at the pain of the syringe had said, Ish, what pain I am being
given! Nana died on the night of the very day he was given saline.
If anyone asked Baba the cause of Nanas death, he said, respiratory failure. Hearing this I feared that the dosage of saline
had been excessive, and had filled his lungs with water, so he had not been able to breathe.
Was it wrong to have given him the saline?
Baba nodded his head, Yes, it was a mistake, he said. Yet he showed no anger at my mistake, no sorrow at Nanas death, nor
did he seem to have any regrets at never having given Nana medication for diabetes. There was not even a tiny sigh of Ah
uttered by him. Would Nana have survived if the saline hadnt been administered? I had asked and with an impossibly
disinterested air he had replied, No. I still thought Nana had died because of my mistake. A fear made my body motionless,
and would not loosen its grip on my mind. I kept thinking of myself as a murderer. So far no patient in the hospital had come to
any harm because of me, and was I now the reason for my own Nanas death! My simple Nana, my good Nana, my
non-interfering Nana, a Nana whose heart was vast in dimensions. There was no pardon for this offence, no pardon at all. I
spent the whole day sitting sadly silent, the whole night I faced the darkness, confused. I could not forgive myself. I was so
angry with myself that I did not feel like going to Nanibari and seeing Nanis and all the Mama and Khalas bitter, wailing,
and weeping faces. Rolling on the floor Ma had wailed, Bajaan, my Bajaan where has he gone? Ma was possibly the one who
cried the most at Nanas passing away, and the one who did not have a single tear in her eyes, was Fajli khala. Fajli khala knew,
Allahs possession had been taken back by Allah himself, there was no point in crying over it. If you had to cry then cry before
Allah, and beg Allah, ask Allah for forgiveness. For what was one to beg, for what offence to ask forgiveness I never really
understood. Had Fajli khala sinned so much in her life that she had to beg forgiveness everyday from Allah!
Nana should not have been given saline I was not able to confess this to Ma when I saw her swollen eyes. I told Yasmin
secretly. I told myself repeatedly, I screamed silently. I saw Mas afternoons, burning in the heat, lonely and gloomy. No one
came anymore with a peaceful, affectionate smile on his face, to cool those afternoons for her.
For a long time after that, I did not go to Nanibari. Ma had implored me to go, but I had used some work or the other as an
excuse to avoid going. Sometimes in the evening I longed to go to Nanibari, I hanged that desire by a rope from the beams. But
Ma said Your Nani has asked you to come, shes been repeatedly saying that Nasreen took so much trouble for her Nana, she
came running from the hospital so often, gave him saline. Come, come lets go and console Nani a little, and finally cajoled
and took me to that house one afternoon. However, Nanibari was not at all like I had imagined it would be quiet, everyone
crying, sitting around sorrowfully. Nani was cooking Hilsa fish. The kids in the house were making a shindig. Games were
being played in the courtyard. The Mamas were in their rooms with their new wives. From the rooms, sounds of laughter
floated out. In this house there had been a person, who was not there now, but no one was crying because of his absence, no one
was thinking of Nanas not being there any more. I gauged that with Nanas death some kind of release had taken place. The
mentally unbalanced, unworldly man was no more. The stupid man who gave away all he had to others was not there any more.
Nani served us rice, with a piece of Hilsa fish placed at the corners of our plates. Bajaan loved Hilsa fish, said Ma, and wept
copiously, her tears falling in drops on the rice. Nani was eating. There was not a tear in her eyes. She did not have the time to
cry over thoughts of someone who was part of the past now. The fish bones stuck in my throat. With a bone stuck in my throat I
went and upturned my plate of rice before the hungry dog in the courtyard, and washed my hands.
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***
I saw many more deaths in the hospital. I kept asking myself what was the meaning of this life. Death restlessly danced all
around me. Death continually played its loud song in my ears. What was the meaning of this life, I questioned myself.
Repeatedly. So many attachments, so much love, so many dreams in this life, and yet any moment this life could be over. So
what was the use of living! Fifteen billion years ago something happened and something got thrown into space. From that
something billions of stars and constellations were born. In that galaxy of stars, coiled up like a snail in a collection, four
hundred million years ago a planet called earth was born. On this earth, at one time, life was created. From one cell to many
cells, slowly with many evolutions man was created. This living creature called man, too, like the dinosaurs that had become
extinct six hundred eighty lakh years ago, would possibly one day also completely disappear. Maybe even before that. Or would
not disappear, but evolve into something else. But earth would remain like the earth. The sun and stars, like suns and stars. One
day, this sun of ours might lose its heat and become like a black ball. One day these planets and stars which were constantly
becoming larger might shrink in outer space. Maybe not. May be they would keep spreading out forever. In the game plan of
this vast universe, was man only a minor event? In this huge solar system, this tiny creature called man and his world possibly
had no role to play. In this endless stellar system, I could not see my insignificant existence anywhere for even an instant. Fajli
khala said that she had seen Nanas spirit wafting away. It seems his soul had flown away into the sky, to Allah. These souls
would remain collected with Allah, who would then convert all these spirits into human beings. Then would be the Day of
Judgement. Allah would take the seat of Judge and decide everyones fate. On every mans shoulders sat two angels, Munkar
and Nakir, who kept the score of good and bad deeds. On the basis of that score, Allah would send some under the blessed
fountains of behesht, and others to the half-fires of dozakh. Life was such an easy sum of numbers for them. Two and two made
four. Fajli khala believed she would meet Nana again. Since Nana had chanted the name of Allah, and sat up nights on his
Jainamaz reciting, There is no one to be worshipped but Allah, la illaha illalah, it was certain that he would go to behesht.
Since Fajli khala was also definitely going to behesht, so they were bound to meet. Therefore, Fajli khala did not feel sad at any
ones death. She knew the meaning of life. Ma, too, knew it. Life was Allahs way of testing man. Allah gave life to man and
sent him on earth, watched him with an eagle eye to see what he was doing or not doing after death. He would reward everyone
according to their deeds. Those who believed in this simple formula lived with some kind of surety and satisfaction. I was the
one who had all the restlessness and awkwardness. My belief was the opposite. Death meant the end of everything, not getting
the fruits of anything, no re-birth, nothing, a big emptiness. Life had no meaning, no value. This belief gave me a frightening
despondency, made me look at life unfavourably. If I asked Baba what was the meaning of life, he would say life meant
struggle. To struggle in life and finally stand on ones own feet was the fulfilment of life. He was able to divide life easily into
childhood, adolescence, youth and old age. If there was any laxity in the pursuit of education and in ones work then one would
face the consequences in this life itself. In freedom and comfort he found the success of life. Life became meaningful with
success. But if life were to end one day, whether you were successful or not, how would it matter! The definition of success and
failure too was different for different people. A philosopher had said, life has no meaning, but we had to give life meaning. I
didnt think we could do anything really to give life a valuable meaning. Wasnt this fooling oneself? One was creating meaning
so that one could think of life as meaningful and important. Those who could write, had to write well, those who played, they
had to play well to give life meaning. Actually were we giving meaning or experiencing pleasure? A temporary happiness for
oneself. My mind told me man did not have the ability to give meaning to this meaningless life. The maximum that man could
do would be to enjoy this short life to its fullest. Instead of worrying about where they came from and where they would go.
But was there any benefit in drinking of life to the full? If I didnt, what would happen? If I was alive today how did it matter, if
I died, would that matter either! A deep melancholy pervaded my being.
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Chapter XXIV
Domestic Life
I had to undergo internship at the hospital for exactly a year, neither a day less nor a day more. Once the year was over, I would
return permanently to Dhaka and domesticity, was what I had tentatively told Rudra. Rudra, too, would wind up his work in
Mongla and Mithekali, and return to Dhaka. Our family life would then commence in right earnest. With no stoppages or
pauses. Of course, before I shifted permanently, I kept going to Dhaka on some excuse or the other. If we had village routine, I
went to Dhaka; I fell and broke my arm, I went to Dhaka. The elbow joint of the right arm had cracked slightly, the bone had
not even broken, but the orthopaedic surgeon put a plaster and told me I had to keep it for a full month. My duties in the
womens diseases and maternity department were still not over. Seeing my elbow suspended in a sling at a ninety degree angle
from my neck Professor Zobayed Hussain said, Youve broken it? Hmm, you now have a very good reason to play truant,
right? No, Zobayed Hussain had not spoken correctly. I had no secret wish to bunk my duties.
Breaking ones arm was not like feeling feverish or having a persistent cough; it was quite a big event. After such an accident
one could unhesitatingly bunk ones training, even the tiger Zobayed Hussain had acknowledged that, so who was I not to? For
two days Ma fed me with her own hands, gave me a bath and dressed me. Pushing Ma aside one day I left for Dhaka. I would
have had no desire to go to Dhaka if Rudra had not come to Mymensingh and acknowledged that, that night he had been drunk,
and whatever he had done he had not done while in his senses. Nowadays when I went to Dhaka I did not give any excuse at
home, like I had to pick up my certificates, or had to have an operation, or any other major reason for which it was imperative
to go to Dhaka. I happily said I was going to Dhaka and left. Where I was going to stay, in whose house, also I did not inform
anyone, I didnt because everyone at home knew where I was going and to whom. No one sat down to discuss this fact with me.
Whenever the question of my going to Dhaka arose, the noisy house would suddenly become quiet. From that silence, I quietly
melted away. Taking a rickshaw from the house, I went to the bus stand. There was a bus to Dhaka every hour.
Rudra fed me with his hands, as my right hand was useless. He took me to the bathroom, undressed me, and gave me a bath.
While giving me a bath, the touch of my body aroused him. Drying my hair and body with a soft towel, he brought me back to
the room and laid me down on the bed. The top half of my body may have become useless, but not the lower half. In the storm
that Rudra roused that night, our cot broke and I fell down from it along with the bed clothes. My unbroken hand just about
remained in one piece. The next storm was on the floor. So that this strong floor didnt collapse and fall on the ground floor, we
bought a sturdy bed, which would not crack up in storms. I was used to sleeping on big beds. I couldnt sleep well unless I
could spread my limbs. Then there was the matter of bolsters. I now slept after the storms using my pillow as a bolster. After
buying the bed, mattresses and pillows, we had no money left. As usual when the money got over, Rudra left for Mongla. This
time he was going to take me with him. I did not stop him. I desired Rudras company. If required I would cross seven seas and
thirteen rivers to be with him, and this after all was my in-laws home.
***
Since my arm was broken, I was thankfully spared having to wear a red kataan. I wore a long loose garment, something easy to
wear and take off. From Dhaka after a long journey by rail, and launch, I was back at Mongla, at the silent house on the banks
of the muddy Rupsha River, back again in the room on the second floor. There were many people in the house, but it appeared
as though there was no one, and never was! To find someone, I had to peep into every room. In one room Rudras Ma lay on her
bedstead with her heavy body. In the rest of the rooms were the others. Whatever the others did, they did so, silently. There
were siblings very close to each other in age, and yet there were no fights, fisti-cuffs, pinching, slapping or hair-pulling. They
had their baths on time, ate their meals on time and slept on schedule. They were like clock-work machines, everything
happened on time, nothing was delayed, nothing went astray; such was the system. There was no question of following such a
system. I felt claustrophobic just observing it. I could never follow any routine. When I felt hungry I ate, I could never put
myself into a routine where I had to eat only after having a bath. If I had a bath today, I didnt have one tomorrow. If I had
breakfast today, then I didnt tomorrow. Some days I slept in the afternoon, on others I didnt. Just because it was nine or ten
oclock at night did not mean I had to go to bed. Sometimes I slept at eight, sometimes at ten, and there were nights I didnt
sleep at all. My presence in the house did not result in even a tiny change in their lifes slow-moving rhythm. In Aubokash,
festivities started as soon as someone new arrived. Nothing like that happened in this house. Even conversations were so cool;
one would think these people saw me day and night, and that I had been living in this house for ages. I felt like violently
pushing open the rusty doors of this house, and removing the cobwebs. Let the people shout a little, let them sing with
full-throated ease, let them slip and fall by chance in the slush in the courtyard, let someone scold another, let someone argue
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about something, let something happen, let someone do something, let them laugh aloud, if they couldnt laugh then let them do
something else, may be even cry. But at least let them do it. I tried to remove the mustiness from their bodies and said, Lets
chat, lets play cards. I tried getting them to sit in a circle on the bed and have a session, it didnt work. No one had anything to
say. They hid themselves behind a veil of impenetrable indifference. Even though I had a broken arm, I didnt feel like just
sitting or lying around. The keen desire to do something was in every atom of blood flowing in my body from head to toe.
There was not a single book in the house that I could read. Time pricked every pore of my being like the thorns of the Babla
tree. Time became my worst enemy; it lashed me till I was bloodied all over. Every day, Rudra went out either in the morning
or afternoon, while I spent unbearable hours alone waiting for him. In the middle of the night my drunken husband would
return. The days began to pass in this fashion. As did the nights. Every time I wanted to leave my room, I was rendered
immobile by an ugly No! Stubbornly insisting one night that I would go, whether he liked it or not, I went out with him. He
went to a hotel, to one adda, a liquor den. Rudra said respectable people had only this one hotel to go to in this port. I had
wanted to leave my stuffy room and come out and fill my lungs with fresh air, I did get air, but air filled with the smell of
liquor.
Life came back to my body when arrangements were made for us to leave the port. Even though we were not going to Dhaka,
but to a village deeper in the interior, I left with great eagerness, wanting to end the idle period spent in this house. Hopefully
the village would not have the problems that labourers created in the port. I would be able to hold Rudras hand and walk on the
paths through the green mustard fields, the fields he had repeatedly mentioned in his poetry. Mithekhali was surely a village as
pretty as a picture, so beautiful that it made Rudra return to it very often. I would have my hearts fill of the place where he sat
and wrote his poetry, of the tree under which he sat sadly thinking of me and of the moonlit field which he ran out to by
himself. From Mongla I had to take a straw-covered boat, sit with my face hidden along with the other ladies, and cross the
canal to Mithekali. In this village in the interior, there were crop fields all around. Some Golpata-covered rooms lay here and
there; in the centre was a big, two-storeyed house, surrounded by trees and bushes. In front of the house was a pond, which had
a stone-bound landing stage. As soon as it was dusk, numerous hurricane lamps were lit all over the house, verandah and
staircase. If there had been chandeliers, this house could have definitely been called a Zamindars home. I was surprised. Who
had brought bricks and stones, to this deep, inaccessible village to build such a house! This was Rudras Nanas house. His
Nana had a lot of power in this area, and even more power had been wielded by his Boro mama. He and many powerful people
in the village had been Chairmen of the Peace Committees in 1971. Rudras Mejo mama too had not been on the side of the
freedom struggle. Having been brought up in such a household, Rudra was very different. He had named himself Rudra. If he
hadnt, then he would have had to spend his life with the name Muhammed Shahidullah, given to him by his father. He wrote
poetry dedicated to freedom. On the return to power of the Razzakars, he had said in great anger, The national flag has again
been grabbed by those old vultures. Even though he cursed them as vultures in his poetry, I found that Rudra had deep
respect for his Mamas. I felt proud of this Lotus on a Dungheap, and yet I didnt. When he stayed in the village, he stayed
with his Boro mama. There were two big bedsteads, big wooden almirahs and big chairs in the rooms. Everything was huge.
Everything reeked of Zamindari. Boro mama had passed away, but his wife was there, who was both his Boro mami and his
Boro phupu, his fathers sister. Rudra called her Kaku. He had written a lot about this Kaku, in his letters. Kaku had no
children of her own. She had brought up and cared for Rudra like her own son. Here, sitting at his Boro mamas old table next
to the window, Rudra wrote his poetry, and on the soft mattress on his Boro mamas bedstead he slept. He slept, and the
servants, orderlies and cooks waited to obey his orders. He spent month after month in this house. When I stared wide-eyed at
this Zamindari style of furnishings, Rudra said, Now the style is on its downward swing! Possibly, he would have been
happier if it had been on the upward instead of being on the downward swing! There is very little left, there was much more, a
lot more, earlier! he said. The more of earlier, the countless of before, gave Rudra a lot of pride, I could detect. His pride
in wealth and property was something he couldnt hide even if he wanted to. But could anyone have amassed so much wealth
without exploiting the poor? They couldnt, my heart said, they couldnt. Rudra wrote in support of that eighty-percent, who
could never reach his second-floor room, who were turned away from the staircase itself, by the footmen and liveried staff.
Those who burnt in the sun and cultivated the fields, those farm labourers who were leased the land, and the fruits of their hard
work was collected in the granaries of this house! Between them and Rudra there was a lot of difference. I could not match the
two. Rudra recited poetry aloud about equality, but did he really want equality from his heart! Slowly, step-by-step the four
walls of the room began to hem me in. I told Rudra, Lets go out.
Where will you go?
To see the village.
Theres nothing to see in the village.
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Why isnt there anything to see?
Theres nothing, only fields.
Ill see the fields then.
What will you do seeing fields? Is there any point in looking at fields of paddy?
Lets both of us walk on the village paths. Didnt you write so many times in your letters that you wished you could show me
these green paddy fields which stretched till the sky? Show me the amazing beauty of the village!
Theres no need to go out without reason. Sit at home and chat with Kaku. Bithi and the others are there; spend your time with
them.
I had wanted to spend time with Rudra. I had imagined that afternoons would pass talking to him, the evenings would pass, and
I wouldnt even notice. The black curtain of the night would hide our faces but we would never know that we were not able to
see each other. We would talk about small things in life, spend hours talking about lifes small incidents, or even about nothing
at all, or about whatever came to mind, about the bird that just came and sat atop the betelnut tree, or about the boy who just ran
and dived into the pond. Yet, even if I wanted it, I noticed Rudras lack of interest. He preferred to lie by himself on the
bedstead. He did not want me to ruffle the hair on his chest with my fingers, while telling him all that I wished for in life, and
all that I didnt. He did not want us to recite poems from memory, to whatever extent we could recall, while lying together, his
head near my knees and my head near his. He wanted me to spend the whole day with the women of the house, and come to his
bed only to sleep. Even with the best of efforts I was unable to match the Rudra in Dhaka with the Rudra in Mithekhali.
If I went to chat with Kaku, she opened her almirah and took out saris for me, and opened her jewellery case and made me wear
heavy sets of ornaments. She only wanted that I should do whatever a wife could do to make her husband happy. I should
continue doing everything with great dedication and there should be no shortcomings in the performance of my duties. In the
sea of Kakus advice, I floated like a piece of straw. Kaku was, after all, from an older generation, who knew "hundreds of
duties wives had towards their husbands, but from the modern Bithi, it was impossible to get knowledge regarding even one
duty that husbands had towards their wives. I waited in vain for the beautiful Bithis beautiful forehead to smoothen out, and
returned without success. Bithi, busy with various domestic problems, spent the whole day talking with one person or other. If I
stood before her, she would say, Sit down, Boudi, but she was not very keen that I sat too close to the problem. There was no
end to Bithis problems. Her complaints were also endless. She had piles of complaints against Baba, Ma, Mejo mama, Kaku,
everyone. She had to look after the household at Mongla and this household as well. Bithi was married to Mejo mamas son,
Moni. The people of Mongla and Mithekhali were strongly tied together by a chain of relationships. Bithis own Mejo mama
was her father-in-law; the relationships were linked together like a chain! Rudras Ma was not worried about the chain at all.
She never worried about any domestic matters either, yet even at Mithekhali, she spent her days in bed with innumerable
anxieties. Whenever I entered her room to ask if I could help in any way in her care, she would quickly call someone and say,
Go and see if Shahidullahs wife needs something!
No, I dont need anything. I have come just like that, said this bride standing before her, head covered with her sari-ghomta,
as embarrassed as her disconcerted mother-in-law.
I could clearly make out that if anyone came and just sat in her room, she felt uneasy. I didnt want to embarrass her further by
saying that I had long wanted to come and talk to her.
In the evening Rudra would go out alone. There was no end to his work. Why are you going? Dont go, please, stay, I would
say. All my meaningless requests were thrown into the pond like little pebbles, and he would go to Mongla port, and come
back late at night, his body reeking of spirits.
Why is there this smell?
I just drank a little liquor.
Why did you drink?
I wanted to, thats why.
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How many more times do I have to tell you not to drink? Will you never listen to anything I say?
Kaku was in the room, on another bed. Rudra was not bothered, however late it was at night, he had to have sex.
Rudra, do you only understand the body? Dont you understand the mind and heart?
No, Rudra did not understand the mind. He believed that, the body controlled the flight of the mind. If the bodies met the mind
was revealed.
Rudra had to have sex. He had to have it every night, in whatever way, whatever the circumstances, he had to have it. When the
village was flooded by the full moon, and my heart was illuminated with its light, I took Rudra to the terrace to see the full
moon. Lying on a mat under the sparkling moon, my heart danced in the light. With one of his hands in mine I trembled,
soaking in the cold moonlight. Lets bathe the whole night like this in the light of the moon, the whole night. My heart was
floating in the light. Rudra did not want to float in the light; he wanted to sink into my body. On that terrace two fingers away
from the danger of someone arriving, he enjoyed my body. Slept deeply. The moon and I stayed awake by ourselves, all night,
all alone.
***
To sit in your room, and have food served there may be a great luxury, but I was hesitant to become part of all the comforts and
luxuries of this household. This may not be my father-in-laws house it still was my mother-in-laws. Trying to make myself
useful in the kitchen of this house, I found I was a superfluous person. There was no dearth of people to take orders in this
house. This was normal in a Zamindars household. I was not easily able to comprehend some of the big things of this house.
When Rudra discussed land, property, crops, wealth and possessions etc. with Bithi, I didnt understand most of it. Rudra had
explained things later to me. This Zamindari existed within a very complicated situation. From whatever was earned from the
land at Mithekhali, he took his mothers share. For many years now he had been doing so. After keeping some of it for his
personal expenses, he left the rest for the household expenses at the port. But now, Rudra did not believe anymore in taking
their share of paddy from the sale. From a long time, he had been telling his mother to ask Mejo mama to arrange for the
division of the land. From his mothers share, he wanted to sell a portion and start a printing press in Dhaka. Rudra was not
even willing to forgo his mothers share in the 50 Lalbagh house at Dhaka. Bithi secretly gave her approval to her Dada. But
Mejo mama was not agreeable to the division of land. After Boro mama, now Mejo mama was in-charge, and unless he agreed,
there could be no division. From these complications about land and property my mind escaped to the paved landing stage at
the pond. Lets go, lets go and watch the swans swimming. I would say, or lets go and bathe in the pond. Listening to my
wishes, everyone in the house laughed, so did Rudra. As though I had no sense or understanding, as though I was not aware of
what life was all about as yet. I only amused people with my childish precocity. Outsiders came to bathe in the pond, so the
bride of the house could not do so. If I had to bathe, it had to be with the other women in the house in the inner pool. In the
inner muddy pond, I sat soaking my feet.
I stared at the pond from my window on the second floor. I felt the pond was as lonely as I was. As though it, too, had not
bathed in ages. Weeds had gathered over it. All the water for cooking, washing, ablutions, and bathing came from this pond.
The water was also used for drinking. During the rains, the system was to collect the rain water in huge earthen barrels. These
casks lay in the courtyard always. Water from these barrels was drunk the whole year round. When that water finished, then the
pond water was used. One day while drinking the water I found many tiny creatures swimming around in the glass. The others
were happily drinking this infested water. When I shouted for them to stop, Bithi said, These creatures are harmless, they can
be eaten. Bithi told me about their source of water, and how they collected drinking water. I listened completely appalled.
Seeing me everyone laughed. They obviously thought I was some strange bird. I spent days without water. The two cups of tea I
had in a day, had to fulfill the absence of water in my body. Rudra had brought many bottles of Fanta and Coca-cola for me
from Mongla Port. Standing by the window, I saw men having a bath at the pond, applying soap to their bodies. I couldnt
understand how all the people could drink water from this same pond without any hesitation? So much land, so much money,
how come no one could arrange for some clean drinking water for the people? Rudra said, There is no need to make any
arrangements. We have drunk this water from our childhood, we have never fallen sick. Sitting in Kakus room, I spent my
time leisurely. I looked for books in this house as well. Except for a few books on the Quran-Hadith, and a couple of almanacs
there were none. In this room itself, one day, Rudra had found out my date of birth from one of the old almanacs. He searched
where the Arabic year, on the twelfth of Rabi-ul-awal, that is mid-August, would fall within which years in the English
calendar. Looking between fifty eight and sixty four, he informed me that it would be 1962. 25
th
of August 1962. Rudra had no
problem in sitting idle in Kakus room. For long, long months he would sit in this room. He wrote his poems in this room, read
my letters posted to him, and in this very room sat and replied to them. Always sitting around in this room made my life seem
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damp, humid and stale. Whenever I said to Rudra, lets go back to Dhaka, he had only one thing to say, let me make
arrangements for money first. I couldnt make out from where the money was going to come. The night before we left
Mithekhali, Rudra had returned drunk from Mongla Port. He wanted to do something drastic. Without paying heed to my
restraining voice, he actually did it. He broke the lock on his Mejo Mamas almirah and took out the property documents. The
documents he had waited, year after year, to get. He could now, without any restrictions, sell his mothers share of the land to
anyone. But no one at home supported Rudras action. Kaku, who was so dear to him, didnt, his mother, whose land it was, too
did not condone her sons disrespectful behaviour, not even Bithi, who normally applauded her Dadas every action. Rudras act
was rendered completely futile. He had to ultimately ask forgiveness of his Mama, and return the documents to him. Rudra
literally pushed me to touch Mejo mamas feet in Salaam and Kadambusi, the day we were leaving. I obeyed Rudras command
with a bent head, this being one of the hundred duties a wife had towards her husband.
***
Many things went wrong for Rudra. He had said a nine-to-five job would not suit him, but once we reached Dhaka he went in
search of such jobs. He never got one. He went around the newspaper offices, but even there nothing concrete materialised. He
could at least have got an assistant editors job in one of the papers. Who was going to give Rudra a job! He went to noted
writer Sayyed Shamshul Haques palatial home, and requested him to get him some work writing film-scripts, but Sayyed
Haque did not promise anything. Many knew that he was making a lot of money writing film-scripts for Bangla cinema under
an alias. From Sayyed Haques younger brothers publishing house, Sabyasachi, Rudras third poetry book The Map of
Mankind had been published. That was all. Rudra was not fated to get anything more. When The Map of Mankind was launched
at the book fair, he sat every evening without fail at the book stall. His purpose was to see if his book sold, and when someone
bought it, if that person would like him to autograph the book. Rudra sat there till the fair closed. Rudra was not content with
just writing poetry or by publishing poetry books. Given any opportunity he would join all kinds of groups. An organization
called United Cultural Party had been nurtured and built up by Rudra and his friends. This party organised various functions
showing opposition to Ershad. However, due to Rudras prolonged absence from Dhaka, the responsibilities of his important
position in the party were handed over to someone else. Rudra went around frantically trying to retrieve his lost position, but
could not get it back. He knew that unless he shifted permanently to Dhaka, not only would he never be able to set up home, but
the recognition that he had got as a budding young poet in the nations literary arena, would also suffer as jealous fellow poets
attempted to destroy it.
I felt sorry for Rudra. I told him, you write poems, I will run the home. You dont have to worry about earning money. The very
first thing I bought with my own money was a book case. Taking the books from Rudras old bamboo shelves, I arranged them
neatly in the almirah. I stopped at the steel shop on the way to and from Chhotdas Nayapaltan house, and bought a clothes
cupboard, and had it delivered at the house on Taj Mahal Road. I arranged both our clothes in it. Rudra knew very well that
gradually we would have to buy things to set up the house. From Aubokash I had filled a trunk with my clothes, books, and a
thousand miscellaneous things and brought them to Taj Mahal Road. I dedicated my heart and soul towards decorating my
home. Rudras money kept evaporating at the Methorpatti liquor adda, at Sakura. Almost every night he went to Sakura, and sat
with his drinks. He shouted and talked to his friends while drinking, and tossed matchboxes singing, There is a mad wind in
the corner of my mind Very often in the middle of the night I returned home with a swaying Rudra in a rickshaw. Rudra was
not consuming liquor, liquor was consuming Rudra. Without liquor his evenings and nights were spent in dejection. I tried,
tearfully, to reason with him, I scolded him, showed anger, lovingly tried to make him understand that drinking was not good
for ones health. Rudra understood everything, and didnt seem to understand anything at all. If he couldnt get liquor, he had to
have something else, ganja or charas. He kept black charas folded in paper, and after grinding it into powder he inserted it into
his cigarette wrapper and smoked it. Even if one requested him day and night to stop taking these things there was no use. He
continued to indulge in his intoxicants, come what may. I too will drink, and take ganja and charas, I said one day and he did
not even stop me. Instead he slapped my back in encouragement. He offered me a cigarette with charas. Two inhalations and I
was a coughing wreck. At Sakura he enthusiastically offered me a glass of liquor. Because I was nauseated at the very smell, he
became desperate to initiate me into drinking. He mixed three drops of vodka in my glass of orange juice. My throat was singed
with the zing; he congratulated me as soon as I had drunk two sips. This is very good, now carry on this way, and youll get
the hang of it, he said. However that did not happen. I was unable to follow in Rudras path. He continued without me in his
path, along with some friends who were drunkards and drug addicts. In the liquor den, friends collected every evening, to
drink at Rudras expense. Rudra was very generous. The minute he had imbibed some liquor, he was willing to treat, upto a
dozen friends with free liquor. The money for our household expenses disappeared rapidly thanks to Rudras public liquor
service. When money finished, it meant his leaving Dhaka. Can one carry on like this Rudra? He knew one couldnt, but there
was no other way out. I could bear the household expenses, but that didnt mean I could pay for Rudras liquor bills as well. My
stipend as an intern would not stretch so far. Rudra knew it couldnt, hence he had no option but to cross over to Mongla
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whenever required.
For as long as he stayed in Mongla or Mithekhali, I tried to concentrate on my medical internship. Even if I couldnt, I at least
maintained my attendance. The minute Rudra returned to Dhaka, I would leave my internship to the dogs, and be with him.
Rudra was my destination; with him the sapling of my dreams of family life grew rapidly, growing into a tree. Rudras younger
sister, Mary, was now in Dhaka, staying at Mejo mamas house at Lalbagh. She had joined the IA Programme at Lalmatia
College. Hearing this, I told Rudra, Bring Mary home. Her college will be closer from here. It is better she stays at her
brothers place, rather than at her Mamas. Here she will feel much more at home. Rudra initially did not agree. How could
Mary stay in this house! There were no comforts or luxuries. No maids and servants. We did not permanently stay here
ourselves. I told him that my internship was almost complete, even if he was away, I would be able to stay most of the month,
maybe I would need to go for only five or six days. So one evening we brought Mary home from Lalbagh. Once Mary began
living with us, the house really started feeling like home. From Geeta, I got a young girl called Shabuj (the name meant green),
to come and cook. Everyday I bought small things for the house. We survived in that one room. But I had to leave everything
and go to Mymensingh, because my internship was yet to be completed. When I returned from Mymensingh to Dhaka, I saw
that my household had undergone quite a few changes. I found that Rudra had brought another of his sisters called Safi, from
Mongla to Dhaka. All Rudras siblings looked alike; all of them looked like their mother. Safi had left her studies and was
waiting to get married. Since it would be easier to find a groom in Dhaka rather than in Mongla, Rudra had brought her across.
The house now, was no more a vagabond couples household, it was a house whose anklets danced, which echoed with the
sound of voices. I was happy, happy, thinking that at least to keep his respect in front of his two sisters, Rudra would not return
home drunk now. I was happy to see Rudra domesticated. But couldnt he have at least informed me once that he was bringing
Safi to Dhaka! I gradually got to know, that many decisions were being taken by him alone. Mary and Safi were sleeping in the
bedroom, on the big bed. In the almirah, their clothes and belongings had been placed. My clothes had been pushed into a
corner. My space was shrinking daily. Rudra and I slept in the study in front, lying on the small mattress of the broken bedstead.
I underwent this self-imposed course of hardship and penance. Or maybe I wanted to achieve something. It seems you could
only achieve something if you underwent hardship. However, in spite of observing celibacy in the midst of the household, I was
still unable to keep Rudra with me all the time. It was time for him to go to Mongla. After kissing me and saying, Stay well
Lakshmi Shona, stay well my life etc, he left the money for the household expenses in Safis hands and went to catch the night
train. I had set up this household with my own money, yet Rudra left the money for expenses in his sisters hands. A small
doubt began to form, but ultimately didnt, in my anxieties for the household. Maybe I couldnt believe that the reins of my own
household had already been taken out of my hands.
**
Rudra said we needed a bigger house. He had decided that he would now bring even his younger brother Abdullah to Dhaka,
and admit him to school. Every day I looked at the To-let advertisements in the papers, and looked for a home. I didnt like
most of them. Those I did had too high a rent. If the rent was low, then the rooms were small, and there was less space. After
searching for a long time, I liked a house on Indira Road in Rajabazar. Paying a months advance, I awaited Rudras return.
When he came, we shifted all our belongings from the Muhammedpur, Taj Mahal Road house to the new house at Indira Road.
There were two bedrooms, one big and one small. There was a big drawing room, and next to the big bedroom ran a long
verandah. Safi chose the big bedroom for herself. Rudra didnt agree and made both Mary and Safi understand that the big
bedroom should be ours. He bought a big bed and placed it in the big bedroom. Also his own writing table. A new almirah was
also bought for this room, and was placed close to the window. A small cot was bought for Abdullah and placed in the drawing
room. In the smaller bedroom the old big bed and the steel almirah were placed for the use of Mary and Safi. Meanwhile I had
ordered a dining table, chairs, sofa etc from a furniture shop on the way to my hospital in Mymensingh. Rudra and I hired a
truck and picked all these up from the shop. In fact, even from Aubokash I picked up an old chest-of-drawers and a marble
table, and the two of us returned to Dhaka with everything. I had nothing in my head except thoughts of a beautifully decorated
house, and a happy and peaceful domestic life. Expertly I set up my household. I bought thousands of things for the house,
spending all my savings, settling down to steady domesticity. My internship was over. I didnt need to go to Mymensingh any
more. What about you Rudra! I have come away to you now. The indisciplined, irregular life my absence brought in your
existence would now no more occur. Look, I have finally arrived. To be with you. Rudra promised that he too would now
permanently shift to Dhaka, and would not run here and there for money anymore. He would somehow bring enough money
from Mongla or Mithekhali, to be able to set up at least a small printing press. He would sell some land either belonging to his
father or mother. He would start a printing business in Dhaka. Whatever was his share of the parental property, he would take it
right now.
A printing press. A printing press. Rudra imagined everything, where it would be located, how it would be. The joy of having
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him close to me everyday made me tremble with excitement. He would never again have to go far away to procure money for
the monthly expenses. No more would the pain of loneliness tear him to pieces. My dream tree was covered with blooms.
***
But, when he returned from Mongla, the news was that he was unable to get the money for a press from the sale. He was to get
this from the sale of his mothers share of the property, to be separated from Mejo mamas share. So the question of
permanently staying in Dhaka was not yet possible. However, he had started a business on his own in Mongla, that of prawns.
There was someone to look after the business. He need not go himself too often. Two visits in the year to have a look would be
enough. Okay, fine, now lets get down to serious domesticity. The dream we had been nurturing for so long, of staying
together, never leaving the other and going far away. Before we started, we completed our wedding ceremony. Lets finally tell
the world with pomp and ceremony that we were married. The wedding was only a social obligation. For this function Rudra
wrote the invitations himself.
We will light up the moonless earths shores,
With the beautiful flame of the heart, ignited by the joining of our lives.
***
I was not going to wear a white sari and marry in the clothes of a widow. I wanted a red Benarasi with gold jewellery. Rudra
was angry to see this spendthrift girls senseless list. But my argument was that if I have to dress as a bride, then I would do so
like any other Bengali bride. I bought Rudra whatever clothes he would wear for the ceremony. My enthusiasm was more than
Rudras. I asked a Chinese restaurant in town to be prepared for the night of 29
th
January. I would call everyone, relatives and
friends. Let everyone see that I was well, I was happy. After all Staying well and happy was judged by people according to
the clothes and jewellery you wore. After spending Id in Dhaka, when I returned to Mymensingh, Ma had asked, You say you
are married, then what sari did your husband gift you for Id? I had not made any reply. No, Rudra had not bought me any sari
for Id. Since we did not believe in religion, we did not believe in Id. The question of saris did not arise. Ma heaved a deep sigh.
Not because I did not believe in Id, but because I was not getting any sari or jewellery from my self-chosen husband. Saris and
jewellery were not the only source of happiness, maybe Ma believed that. But only if a husband loved his wife would he gift
her saris and jewellery. Ma searched for signs of Rudras love, for me. No one saw how much money Rudra had, or whether he
could afford to give gifts or not. They only judged Rudra against the standard expected of a husband of a qualified doctor. Such
a husband would have the capacity of giving expensive gifts. According to this standard it was gauged whether I had got a
suitable husband or not. Everyones doubts about Rudras suitability irritated me no end. I thought I did not follow social norms
and rules, but living in society, it was difficult to bypass them completely. In pouring rain on the wedding day, dressed in a red
Benarasi sari and gold ornaments, this bright crimson bride went to the Chinese Restaurant. This bride did not look exactly like
a bride was supposed to, as on her head the sari-ghomta was missing. But she was still a bride. Rudras writer friends, my
doctor friends, relatives from both sides, all came. From my side, Boro mama with his children, Chhotda with Geeta and Jhunu
khala with her husband from Barisal came. The function was mainly to eat, chat and gossip. And take photographs, standing in
front of the camera with captivating smiles on our faces for the whole world, regardless of which person one was standing next
to, enemy or friend.
***
I attended invitations with Rudra at Jhunu khalas and Chhotdas houses. When Ma came to Dhaka, I showed her my home. My
social obligations were complete. Now what? Now Rudra would return to Mongla, to his prawn business. Leaving the money
for the rent and household expenses with his sister, Rudra went away as usual. I was someone who had lavishly spent all her
internship stipend on decorating her home and publicising her marriage and happiness to all her friends and relatives. Since I
was now running an independent home, I had brought all my belongings from Mymensingh, in fact even pulled out my own
roots and replanted them in Dhaka. Dreaming of a beautifully arranged, blissful married life with the man I loved, I began to
notice that in my own house I was a secondary individual. Didnt Rudra believe that I would be able to shoulder the
responsibilities of this household? It wasnt even as if I would have to run again to Mymensingh for my internship. That part
was over. Then why this distrust! Why this lack of faith! A keen feeling of insult gripped me. Rudras brothers and sisters were
wonderful. I had nothing against them. They were happy, energetic people. Not like the way they appeared in Mongla Port, half
asleep. Abdullah played cricket in the car portico outside, he had made many friends in school. Mary too had done so. Their
friends, girls and boys, all came home. There was a lot of fun happening. For sometime I also joined the fun and tried to think
of myself as part of the family. But it didnt always happen just by trying. I made no decisions in this family. I had no role to
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play. No responsibilities. Shabuj had left. From Mymensingh I had brought Nargis younger sister, Bilkees. Even Bilkees had
left. They had got a maid from Mongla. The girl kept the house tidy, cooked and fed them. What shopping was required, with
what ingredients what was to be cooked, was all decided by Rudras sisters. Once food was served at the table, only then was I
called. After eating I returned to my room. I realised that I was no more than a guest in this house. Rudra had now found a way
to earn money himself. The inefficient, useless son had suddenly become very important, because he was now shouldering
some responsibilities of the family. Bithi was running the household, Saiful was studying medicine. The care of the six
remaining siblings had been taken over by Rudra. Three of them were already in Dhaka and the other three were going to come.
Having got this big responsibility, he was very excited. In Rudras dreams, there was no place for a home where the two of us
would be alone. In fact he didnt even dream of staying permanently in Dhaka any more. All those old, old dreams had been
pushed aside and replaced by other ones which had raised their heads. Now Rudras dream was to make a lot of money in the
prawn business, and look after his six siblings, and bring them up well. Rudra would leave saying he would be back in two
weeks, but there would be no sign of him for two months. Living in their household, I felt ashamed of being fed by them. I
came away to Chhotdas house. Geeta had a new baby. When this baby was to be delivered by Dr. T.A. Choudhury, I was
allowed to enter the labour room of the clinic, having got his permission as a Doctor. I saw the baby being born. Chhotda had
given her the name Oindrilla Kamaal. I gave her the pet name, Paroma. Geeta left her job to take care of Paroma. Both Chhotda
and Geeta were dancing with happiness with the arrival of the new baby. They were not eager to keep Suhrid with them. Geeta
would not be able to handle the problems of caring for two babies, so even after bringing him to Dhaka they sent him back
within a few days. They sent him back to the place that suited him, and to the people he was attached to. My leisure hours were
spent at Chhotdas house. Sometimes I went and sat at Jhunu khalas house. From Jhunu khala I heard that her husband from
Barisal had asked for a huge sum of money from Boro mama. Boro mama did not have so much money to lend. It seems this
man from Barisal very often told Jhunu khala, I have been cheated so badly, having married into this Fakirs clan! The minute
he saw me, he would say Jhunu khala was old, she had tricked him into marrying her and that he could have got a much better
bride. I didnt like spending time at Jhunu khalas house either. I went back to Mymensingh. But I didnt feel happy as before in
Mymensingh either. I felt like a guest at Aubokash. As soon as Rudra returned to Dhaka, I went back to that house. Rudra
became one of the family immediately, while I remained a guest. I told him, repeatedly, angrily, lovingly, trying to make him
understand, Leave this prawn business, stay in Dhaka and start something here. But he could not leave that business and
come. He had invested so much that he would have to continue with it. Rudra continued to concentrate on the business and I
continued to concentrate on Rudra.
***
Somehow Rudra managed to spend the whole of February in Dhaka. In this month a book was printed, the book fair was held,
and there were poetry readings on different stages. Towards the end of January, Rudra began to collect together his poems,
which expressed a keen desire to take up arms against tyranny. He wanted to print a book. Looking for a Publisher had been in
vain. He was going to print the book himself. He told me to collect my poems also. Searching through whatever poetry I had
written in the last few years I collected thirty-eight poems. All the poems were mostly like Rudras poetry, against wrongs,
torture, inequality, and opposed to tyranny. I took the two manuscripts to Neelkhet, where the graceful, bearded poet Ashim
Sahas printing press Ityadi Printers was located, for printing. Every evening both of us went to Ityadi Printers, and checked
the proofs of the poems. With simple covers, the two books were printed and bound, and finally ready. Rudras book was called
Chhobol, or Strike with Fangs, and mine was called, Shikorey Bipul Khuda, or Great Hunger at the Roots. This was my first
book of poems to be published. Joy flowed endlessly in my world. Once the book fair started in the Bangla Academy
compound, we both began to visit it every day. After offering flowers at the Shahid Minar on 21
st
February, I entered the gates
of the Book Fair, saving myself from the crowds with great difficulty, especially from those who were waiting to grab the
breasts and buttocks of women. Reading our poetry on various podiums, sitting on the grass in the fair grounds, eating at the
food stalls, sitting on the academy stairs, in the book stalls, chatting for hours with poets and writers, our time passed
wonderfully. The main topics of adda were literature and politics. Rudra read his poems at various platforms, including the
Bangla Academy, during this period of agitation for the Bangla language or Bhasha Andolan. And because I was with him, and
was also a writer of poetry, I too was asked to read mine, which I did. Our books had been distributed to various stalls for sale.
Everyday when we made enquiries, we found Rudras book had sold a few copies, mine not at all. When the fair ended, I had to
bring back home the unsold copies of my book. Packets of books lay under the bed. That poetry was not for me, appeared very
clear. That I used to write poetry at one time, that I had published a magazine called Shenjuti, all that was now history. I did not
write poetry any more, poems never got written. I couldnt everywhere I was now known as Rudras wife. Rudra was invited
to read his poems at Coxbazar. Quite a few poets left for Coxbazar. I was Rudras companion. In the afternoon, Mahadeb Saha,
wearing a lungi-panjabi, and a gamchha on his shoulders, went to bathe in the sea. Rudra was bare-chested. I was in a
Kangaroo vest and jeans. At dusk, the poetry reading session was held sitting on the sands of the beach. Like a drudge, I too
read my poetry, on being requested.
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***
The Alawal Literary Prize was being given to Muhammed Nurul Huda. Some young poets were invited. Rudra was one of
them. He went to Faridpur with me. In a group, we went to the village and saw the house of poet Jashimuddin, and also saw the
famous Dalim, pomegranate tree mentioned in his, Here is your Dadis grave under the Dalim tree, for thirty years I have kept
it fresh with the tears from my two eyes! Rudras company, and lifes pace and rhythm kept me submerged in great joy. My life
could have been the same as any other ordinary Bengali bride. My life could have been spent in keeping track of oil, daals and
salt. By flouting social superstitions and restrictions we had both come thus far. Then why was I still dreaming of being a part
of society! I swept away the regret that lurked in my mind, at not having been able to set up home exclusively with Rudra.
Rudra now wanted his home to be completely different from others, removed from the world, removed from people. But by
selfishly creating a cage for ourselves we would not be setting up house in reality. We would live in the free world outside, we
would fight for a beautiful, healthy world where there would be no inequality, in this way we would spend our marital life with
trust and love. We would be each others fellow-traveller or fellow-fighter. We would live in a world where there would not be
even a hint of selfishness. Rudras siblings would leave the stale, mouldy, opportunity-less atmosphere at Mongla Port, and
come to Dhaka. Here their intelligence would radiate and each would grow into a great person who would serve their country
and people. They would be brought up by us with our own ideals.
I had met Chandana in Dhaka. She was with her husband, staying at his sisters place. For all the time that I was in that house,
Chandana had talked to me in a low tone. She had even come to our house with her husband. We had all wanted to go out for a
meal to some restaurant, but her husband said he did not have time. Even if she would have liked to spend time with me,
Chandana had to leave because of her husband. Seeing Chandanas life gave me a lot of pain. Had she dreamt of such a life for
herself! Even if she hadnt, she had now got used to this life. A stricken life in which she had to speak in a suppressed voice. I
got the feeling that Chandana did not even get a chance to see the sky. Or if she wanted to, she would first have to get
permission from her husband or one of his relatives.
When the February festival was over, Rudra asked me, What is your contribution to this house? My face turned purple with
shame. Why wasnt I spending money to run the house, like Rudra was! The reason was very simple. I did not have any money
to spend. I was waiting for a Government job. As soon as I got it, because I believed in the equality of the sexes, I would prove
that I did not want to be economically dependent, and would also contribute my share in the household expenses. But why
wasnt I trying to earn some money till I got that Government job? Instead of that I was making my body into a fat lump of
flesh! Rudra said this, even though there was not even an ounce of fat on my body. In fact, inspired by Geeta, the long hair
cascading down my back was now cut till the shoulders, further exposing my bony structure. Thanks to Rudras enthusiasm, an
arrangement was made for me to see patients in a doctors chamber inside his friend Salims pharmacy in Siddheswari, at the
corner of Shantinagar, B.N. Medical Hall.
Dr. Taslima Nasreen,
MBBS, B.H.S. Upper
Consultation 9 am to 3 pm
Salim hung up a signboard with these words written on it. In the evening, Prajesh Kumar Ray also sat in these chambers. He,
too, had passed out of Mymensingh Medical College. Prajesh was a classmate of Dada in school. He was an Assistant Professor
in the Medicine Department at the P.G. Hospital, and in the evenings practised at B.N. Medical Hall. Everyday I went to the
pharmacy carrying my stethoscope and the instrument for checking blood pressure . I sat silently. There was not a sign of a
single patient. I told Rudra, Dhoor, no patients come, I just sit uselessly! Rudra said, Oof, dont behave like a kid! Sit there,
gradually patients will come. The days passed. The one or two patients that appeared did not earn me even half of my
rickshaw fare. I kept looking for a job in clinics. Searching the pages of the newspapers for private clinics, I finally procured a
job in a clinic of Iskaton. The duty was at night, the monthly pay was fifteen hundred taka. From my internship, I had earned
the same amount as monthly stipend. I knew it was not possible to run the household on this money. The house rent itself was
twelve hundred taka. But the very fact that I was earning money myself gave me a different kind of delight. With this money, I
would have enough spending money for myself, as well as for shopping expenses for the household. Once I entered the clinic, I
discovered that here too there were ways of earning extra money. If I assisted in an operation, I could earn between five
hundred and thousand taka. If I regulated a patients menstruation, meaning performed an abortion I would get five hundred
taka. If a patient came at night, it was my duty to see the patient. Whatever money the patient gave the clinic, I would get a
percentage of that. Bah! Very good! The job was getting along marvelously. The owner was quite a sincere gentleman. By
giving me a few abortion patients, he gave me the opportunity to gain enough practice in this procedure. But one night around
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10 oclock when there was hardly any patient, the owner, called me to his office room on the second floor. Only if it was very
urgent would the owner normally call one. What was the reason for calling? No, there was no reason, he just wanted to chat. I
told him I had to go downstairs as a patient might arrive at any time. Oh, forget it, if a patient comes, the nurse will call you,
dont worry. I wasnt worried either about this. I knew the nurse would call me as soon as a patient arrived. I was more
worried about the intentions of the owner. Why had the owner called me here, was there something important he had to say? If
there was, how come instead of telling me what it was, he was asking me to sit down! When I did, why did he say he would
drop by my house very soon, as he went that way very often, to Indira Road, in one of whose lanes my house was! Why did he
ask me why I had married a poet, and that I had not done a very intelligent thing by doing so! Next to me, my husband did not
look suitable at all. Whether I was happy with him and many more things! Why! I was sure these were not very urgent matters.
While talking to me, the glass he was sipping from contained liquor, I could make out. I was unable to do what the owner
wanted, to sit and talk about the joys and sorrows of life. I disobeyed him and came downstairs. Once down, I wrote in large
letters on a white paper, that I was resigning from my job with full knowledge and of my own free will.
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Chapter XXV
Distances
The incident took place towards the end of 1986. Saying he would return after a month and a half, Rudra left for Mongla to
oversee his prawn business. Since I had nothing to do in Dhaka, I left for Mymensingh. After a month and a half when I
returned from Mymensingh, I found Rudra still hadnt come back. I wanted to know when he was going to return, and Mary
said he would take another two weeks. I sat in the Rudra less room by myself, the room felt very empty. There were poetry
notebooks lying on the table, as though he had been writing, and had just got up and gone to the other room, and would return
any minute and start writing poems again. Mentally I waited for Rudra to return from the other room, keeping my eyes closed. I
imagined his hand on my shoulder. I heard a very familiar voice, When did you come? I have been waiting for you for so
long! The hand on my shoulder was slowly descending towards my chest. On my other shoulder was another warm hand and
that too was descending. My body was growing slack, he was rubbing his beard on my cheeks and saying, My Shona, my
Manik, my bride, I cant live with out you re! My hungry pair of lips wanted to be moistened with a long warm wet kiss from
his lips. A never before experienced thrill was making my body shake. My head rolled on the notebooks on the table. For a long
time I remained pulverized between the reality and fantasy. On the last page of the notebook, I wrote, I do not like it, not like
it, at all. Why havent you come? How do you stay away from your wife for so long? I feel very lonely. I find even one moment
away from you unbearable. I have no one to call my own except you. I cant go through life without you. Either take me to your
side, or come to mine. I stared at the neatly done bed with a body full of desire. An aching arm moved towards the bedsheet to
feel the touch Rudra had left behind and continued to stroke the sheets. To smell the scent he left behind, I pressed my face to
the pillow and breathed in his aroma, saying, When will you come, I dont like being alone anymore. Please come back, my
life. Come back to my bosom, to my eyes; come back, my eternal happiness. All my joy, come back. The pillow was soaked
with my silent tears. Alerting myself to the possible curiosity of all the other members of the household, I quickly wiped my
tears with both hands. I called Mary, I might as well return after two weeks, saying which I began advancing towards the door
when she said, Are you leaving immediately, Boudi? Sit and have a cup of tea. With a dry smile on my lips I said, No I am
not thirsty for tea.
Taking a rickshaw from the Raja Bazar corner, I went towards Mahakhali Bus Stand. Dhaka minus Rudra to me was the same
as an empty, endless desert. From Mahakhali I suddenly turned the rickshaw towards Nayapaltan, saying Dhootori. I did not
like the thought of going to Mymensingh. At Aubokash I was an unwanted guest. Ma said very often, You married without
your parents consent. You had said you would live in great bliss! Why do you then need to come home so often? If I
happened to come before Babas eyes, he gave me a stern look, called Ma and said, Why has this girl come to my house? Shoo
her away from the house. What right does she have to come here? Do I earn money to feed another mans wife? Do not give her
any food. Sitting sorrowfully at Chhotdas place at Nayapaltan, I thought of Rudra. How tirelessly the poor chap was working
day and night. He must be spending sleepless nights. He must be dying to come back as soon as possible, thinking of his wife.
Since he was unable to do so, he must be suffering a lot. I felt like wiping the sweat off his brow with my sari-aanchal. Geeta
interrupted my pre-occupation saying Ki re, what are you thinking of? Wheres your husband? Why didnt you bring him
along?
Am I not allowed to visit alone? Do I always have to bring my husband along?
Ki, have you had a fight or what?
Nah! Why should there be a fight!
Thats what seems to be the matter. Is your husband in Dhaka?
Nah.
Geeta had a crooked smile on her lips. There was one on Tullus lips as well. Geetas younger brother, Tullu stayed in this
house. A black, fat, caterpillar mustachioed boy. Chhotda had given him a job in Bangladesh Biman, and brought him to stay in
his house in Dhaka. With the crooked smile still on his lips, Tullu called out, Give me a glass of water, will you, Nargis.
Nargis brought a glass of water and placed it in Tullus hands. There was eye contact between them for a second. Then she
looked away. Why did she turn her eyes away! Was there fear shimmering in her eyes? Geeta had brought her from Aubokash,
to look after Paroma. Apart from all Paromas work, she was doing all other household work too, by herself. Sitting with
Paroma on my lap I was thinking of a child of my own. Someday I would be the mother of a child, surely then Rudra would not
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leave his own child and stay so far away for so long. The thought was shattered by Nargis untidy hair, unwashed, torn, soiled
garments, and pale face.
The evening passed. I had eaten, slept and, after stretching myself, I was now again sitting on the sofa with Paroma on my lap.
Nargis was dipping a cloth into a bucket of water and mopping the floor. She had yet to have a bath or eat her food. She would
eat only when Geeta asked her to.
Kire Nargis, how are you?
Apa, when did you return from Mymensingh? Nargis asked in a low voice.
I came today itself.
When will you return?
I dont know. Do you want to go to Mymensingh?
Yes.
Nargis had stood up in her agitation. As soon as Geeta entered the room, she bent over her mop.
Whats happening? Geetas enquiring eye was focused on Nargis.
She hasnt eaten as yet! She needs to eat some food! I mumbled. Geeta screamed, Once she finishes all her work, she will
eat.
In a soft tone, I said, Doesnt she have any decent clothes? Who knows for how many days she has not had a bath!
The minute Geeta heard my words she kicked the bent body saying, Why havent you mopped the bathroom? She had wiped
the bathroom floor. Tullu had gone and wet it again. Nargis didnt say this, I did. Thanks to my interference, she caught Nargis
hair in her fist and lifted her up, throwing her on the dining room floor, where she kicked her viciously on her face and chest.
Emerging from his room indolently, Tullu said, Go on, kick her some more, the hussys very wicked. I ran to rescue Nargis
from under Geetas kicks.
Geeta snatched Paroma from my lap and screamed at Nargis, You stay in my house, eat my food, and tell others what you
think of me? Does anyone have the authority to judge me?
I said, She did not say anything about you to me. I only said so.
Barely had I uttered the words, when Geeta pulled Nargis to the window and pushed her against the grill. Gripping her hair, she
repeatedly banged her head against it. I looked away, my jaw hardened. I wished I could take Nargis with me and leave this
house, this very moment, but I couldnt. I wanted to push Geeta away, but I couldnt. This house was not mine, it was Geetas.
Nargis would have to follow her commands and directions. Looking at the dreadful sight, I could not bear to spend another
moment in that house. I left with all my powerlessness and weakness.
Traveling on the bus to Mymensingh I saw three trucks upturned on the edge of the road. Two buses had fallen into a ditch.
Next to the two buses, people were standing around ten or twelve dead bodies. I felt as though my bus too would fall into the
quarry. Maybe I too would die like this and lie on the side of the road. No one would know my name, or where my home was.
This unidentified woman would be buried in some public graveyard. No relatives or friends knew I was travelling to
Mymensingh from Dhaka today by bus. Even if they came to know of the Dhaka-Mymensingh bus accident, they would not
know that I had died in that accident. Thinking this, I took out a small piece of paper from my handbag, wrote my name and
address on it, put it in my bag, and became prey to another thought. What was its use in the last rites for a dead body! Once
dead, would I know whether I was being given a ceremonial burial or not! Even if I did get one, what would I gain from it!
What would be the difference between my dead body being eaten by foxes and vultures in the village, and it being covered with
a silk cloth, soaked in the scent of attar and smelling of frankincense, and buried in a nice grave, covered with a marble
tombstone what would be the difference between the two! After death I would not have the power to know whether I was
loved or not. How did it matter then whether I was cared for or not! Ma said, people forget them within four days of burial,
however great a person may have been or however close a friend. The thought sat next to me in the bus, I opened my bag, took
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out the paper, and tearing it to bits, threw it out of the window into the breeze. In the darkness of the evening, the torn bits of
paper began to get lost.
***
Aubokash remained the same as before. Ma was making Suhrid into her most beloved person. After learning that her bleeding
ailment had no treatment, she did not even complain about it anymore. After passing her M.Ed., on Babas orders, Haseena had
applied to all the good schools in town for the post of a teacher. A third divisioner in her SSC and Intermediate, even a B.Ed.,
and M.Ed. degree did not secure Haseena a good job. But Baba continued to search for new schools. He did so to earn her love.
Yasmin was not interested in Botany. Her interest was in humanity. Her time in college was spent with a variety of friends.
More than the attention Dada paid to his medicine business at Arogya Bitaan, he paid to writing thirty-two page long letters
once a week to Sheila. Love letters. Back home he called Haseena, Mumu, and made her come close to him. In order to make
her permanently angry face smile, he regularly bought gold ornaments and expensive saris for her. It was an impossible task to
bring a smile to Haseenas face.
My name is Haseena, but my Hasee, smile is not cheap, sat before Dada everyday with sacks of complaints. After Dada came
home one afternoon, she told him that she had asked Ma to cook the chicken with potatoes, but she had cooked it with the
kitchen vegetable potol. If she could not eat what she pleased, she was not keen to live in her husbands household anymore. As
soon as he heard this, Dada ran through the house, and standing in the center of the courtyard, called for Lilys mother in
everyones hearing and said, If the chicken is not cooked with potatoes for dinner, I will beat you till I throw you down dead.
Hearing him, Ma came out of her room and screamed, Why are you telling this to Lilys Ma? Tell me. I cooked the chicken
with potol. If I have committed a crime by doing so, punish me. Beat me to death. That is all thats left for you to do. Without
replying to Mas statement, Dada slapped Lilys Ma on her face and shouted at the top of his voice, You will do exactly what
Mumu tells you to do. If you mess things up, you will die. Lilys mother sobbed and said, You are angry with each other and
are taking it out on me. I will not work in this house anymore. Grabbing Lilys Ma by her shoulders, Dada pushed her towards
the wood-apple tree, and said, Go, leave this house immediately. Stopping Lilys mother, Ma said, Wait for Suhrids
grandfather to come. You will tell him everything before you leave. For Dadas benefit, Ma lowered her voice and said, I am
a mother, even if I am illiterate, and havent passed my I.A., B.A., I am still your mother. You do not give me the respect due to
a mother in the least! Dada had barely reached the verandah of the room in the tin-shed, when from within Haseena said,
Cant you ask how she expects any respect! After romancing her own brother-in-law, now she expects her son to respect her!
Dada supported Haseenas accusation, It was necessary to tell the truth. When Baba returned, Ma gave him all the details of
the incident. She even said, Haseena thinks she married my son on her own initiative. Baba called for Dada, and for Haseena.
In a low voice he spoke to them both. Ma waited in the other room, hoping Baba would finally lay down the rule that in this
house his daughter-in-law would speak with respect to her mother-in-law. If the daughter insulted her mother-in-law today,
tomorrow it would be the turn of the father-in-law. But after the discussions and consultations the decision that finally emerged
was that the house would now run under Haseenas authority. After ages, a glimmer of a smile played on Haseenas ever
frowning face.
The day the responsibility of the household went into Haseenas hands, Chhotda came to Mymensingh. Seeing the change of
hands at home, he told Ma, This is correct, Ma. Why should you take so much trouble anymore? Let Boudi manage
everything. But why was Chhotda alone? Have you left your wife at her parents house? No, Chhotda had not brought his
wife at all. He had come alone. He had come to see Suhrid. If that was his main reason for coming would he have spent two
minutes with Suhrid, and said, Kire, want to go out and taken me out of the house? Where do you want to go? Come, Come. I
will take you to a new place. The desire to go to a new place flew like a kite in my mind. Chhotda was becoming more
handsome by the day. There was no fat on his body. He was tall and slim. He looked as though he was growing younger.
Chhotda looked so much like a young boy that when he took me in the evening to an army officers house in the cantonment,
the officers young and pretty wife actually asked, Ki Kamaal, is she your elder sister? Happily pacing up and down in their
house, Chhotda said, What are you saying? She is eight years younger than me. Chhotda spoke to Nina in the same tone and
style he used with Geeta. Lifting Ninas chin with his hand, he said, Bah, you are looking lovely! I couldnt believe my eyes,
or ears, nothing. I couldnt believe that the man in front of me had ever gained fame as a hen-pecked husband. Will you have
tea or something? asked Nina. Chhotda piped up, No, no, I wont have anything. I came to see you, beautiful. My heart feels
enormous satisfaction at having seen you. Now I will leave. The smile on Chhotdas lips was exactly the same one when he
romanced Geeta. Nina rose up, saying No, No. What are you saying, you have brought your sister with you; you must eat
something. As she went towards the kitchen, Chhotda pulled her back by her hands. She almost clung on to his chest. Where
are you going? I wont eat anything. Your husband might come back, let me go, today, Ill come another time. Saying so,
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Chhotda lightly caressed the beautys cheeks and came out. I asked Chhotda, Who is this woman?
She is the younger sister of the singer Piloo Mumtaz.
So how did you meet her?
I met her on the flights. She goes abroad very often.
Oh!
She is a very nice woman. She has given me some customers. I sell business stuff to them.
The crew of Biman called the foreign goods they brought back to sell, business stuff! Saying these were things for their
personal use, they got them through customs, and then sold them to others at a profit. A chosen clientele bought this stuff.
Why do you do this? I had asked Chhotda. Arrey, business is the main thing. Thats where the money is. How much pay do I
get, after all! Chhotda pursed up his lips.
Listen, dont ever tell Geeta about this woman.
Why, what will happen if I tell her?
Theres no way out. Geeta has never been able to stand my talking to any other woman. If she gets to know, it will be
disastrous.
Chhotda left that very day for Dhaka. The other purpose of his visit to Mymensingh was to leave some money at Geetas
parents home in Peonpara. There, the old tin-shed had been broken, and a proper brick structure was coming up.
Baba remained as domineering as ever before. After Borodada died, Baba went to the village intending to equally divide all the
land he had bought in Borodadas name amongst his siblings and himself. On reaching there, he was attacked by his well-to-do
brother Riazuddin and his equally well-to-do son Shirazuddin. He was also threatened with death the next time he ventured to
enter the village. In this way they were able to get rid of this trouble maker from town, and were successful in sending him
back. Returning home, more than from physical illness, Baba suffered mental agony for the next seven days. He wailed, What
have I done all this for, all my life, hai, hai. Ma sat next to him, stroking his head and saying, You did everything for their
benefit, what is the point of regretting it now! Baba recovered physically, his mental agony also abated. His obsession with
land swiftly gripped him once more. Next to Nanibari was Koritala. In front of it was a huge open field, where in our childhood
we played gollachhut, dung-guli, chor-chor, cricket and all kinds of other games. There was also the pond around which we
used to sit and dip our feet, where the slum girls also used to bathe and wash their clothes. At the edge of the field was a row of
houses like a fence. Baba bought the whole area, filled up the pond, broke down the houses and after clearing the field , built
twenty-five houses and rented them out. He had raised a wall around the whole Rajab Ali Colony. Thanks to this wall, the way
out of Nanibari was blocked. Nani complained about this. What is this Nomans father, you have closed our path! Baba made
no excuses to Nani. He was not satisfied with just buying the land at Akua. The house bordering the wall of Aubokash was
owned by Prafulla Bhattacharya. After he died, one day his wife, too, passed away without warning. They had one daughter
who lived in Bombay. The girl neither came to perform the last rites of the mother, nor did she come to take possession of the
property and other wealth. Baba kept a track of whether and from whom he could buy their land at a cheap price. Pipping him
at the post, one day Parimal Saha began to stay in Prafullas house. Since Prafullas heirs did not come to claim the property,
Parimal Saha, who was not a relative but only a neighbour occupied the place and had the gumption to build new rooms exactly
adjacent to Babas boundary wall. How dare he do so! Baba immediately filed a case against Parimal. Ma said, It isnt as if he
is building anything on your land, or harming you in any way! Why do you needlessly go after people? She threw bitter
glances at Babas angry eyes. When lowly people get rich, they forget to treat people as human beings. Ma wasnt exactly
correct in her statement. Baba had educated quite a few people, like his nephews, and set them up in life. He had got many girls
married. He had found jobs for the girls and their husbands. Amanuddaula had got married in Gaffargaon, when he went to
work there. When he was transferred to Netrakona from Gaffargaon, he married for the second time. Baba had no objection to
his brothers marrying more than once. When Amanuddaula visited Mymensingh from Netrakona, he went to Babas chambers
to meet him. Baba asked him about his job, how much he was earning and other things, but never questioned him regarding his
marriage. He was paying entirely for the education of Amanuddaulas children. Every month, Amanuddaulas, elder wife came
to Baba and took from him not only the school fees for all her children, but also their tutors fees, money for buying books and
copies, the house-rent and even a fat sum for their food expenses. In the care of his family, Baba never said no. When Ma
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sensed Babas anxiety in getting Haseena to pass her B.Ed., M.Ed., and making a school teacher of her, she said, You are doing
so much for your daughter-in-law, yet you dont even give Yasmins rickshaw fare regularly! People do things for their
daughters, how come you have ignored your daughter and are more concerned about your daughter-in-law?
Baba scolded Ma and stopped her, If a daughter-in-law educates herself and earns a name for herself, who will benefit? If she
becomes a school or college teacher who will gain? Will people say that Haseena Mumtaz teaches in so-and-so college or
school? They will say Dr. Rajab Alis daughter-in-law is a teacher. My daughter-in-law has joined my family, my daughter will
join another. Mas voice cried fie on Baba, Family, family, family. What have you ever got from your family? The love and
care your daughter feels for you, will you get the same from your daughter-in-law? You are so worried about your name, if
people were to know you give nothing to your wife, what will happen to your name and fame?
Baba did not wait to hear Mas ranting and raving. He went to see his patients in the chamber. He had many patients. Since he
had his separate chambers, a few permanent women-patients would be examined by him behind closed doors on a regular basis.
Ma had one day made Babas favourite dessert, carrot halwa, and taken it to the Chambers, so that Baba could eat while
examining patients. She had knocked on the closed door for quite sometime. Knock after knock. The door was locked from
inside. Finally when Baba irritated by the persistent knocking, angrily opened the door, the fly of his trousers was still
unbuttoned. Spitting out in disgust, Ma had come out. Baba was not affected in the least by Mas disgusted spitting. If he didnt
send the groceries, then everyone at home would have to fast, if he threw us out of the house, everyone would have to live on
the streets. No one could deny his power and authority. Ma said very often, If I could have passed my SSC, I could have taken
up a job. I could have left this house ages ago, if I had been working! Ma was sure that any job she could have got, would have
given her the freedom to ignore Baba and not bother about him.
Normally fever did not cause Ma to collapse. She carried on with her domestic chores even if she had temperature. But one day,
fever crippled her to such an extent that she lost the strength to get out of bed. I told Dada to send Amoxycillin manufactured by
a good company for her. Now for anyones small ailments at home, I took up the treatment. Daily postponing giving the
medicine, Dada finally came three days later with ten capsules for Ma to have. Ma had been having the medicine, routinely
every eight hours. Even after seven days, Mas fever did not go. She looked sorrowfully out of the window in her feverish state.
Placing my hand on her forehead, I found that it was burning. Taking the hand I had placed on her forehead into her own, Ma
said, Sit close to me, Ma. Let me tell you a secret. Ma had never asked me in such a soft tone to sit beside her, and hear a
secret. Ma had only one secret, and that was Razia Begums real relationship with Baba, and to make new discoveries about it
and to let me know. Within me, not an iota of curiosity to find out secrets was ever born. My disinterested gaze roamed over
Mas face, pillow sheets, windows and coloured glass. Ma very slowly said, Thanks to your fathers torture, I one day thought
of leaving this house. I really and truly thought of doing so. But where could I go, to whom could I go! It was not always
possible to say I am going, and actually leave. Like I once in a while got angry and threatened to go to the jungle, but was that
truly possible! No, it wasnt! Ma stopped, staring out of the window towards the other side, where the sky was packed with
clouds, and small blue sorrows, she said, In my childhood I used to have a tutor. He would come home and teach me Arabic.
The tutor liked me a lot. Some years ago, I tried to find out where he was, and in what state. I heard he had got married, but his
wife had died. That September I wrote a letter to him, one day. I asked him directly if he was agreeable to marrying me. He
came to meet me very eagerly. I met him in the park. He knew that I was married to a doctor. A doctor who was highly reputed.
Owned a big house. The first thing he asked me was, how much land do you own? Land? I was shocked. Why was he asking
about landed property? I told him the truth. I told him I owned no land, nor did I possess any money. Hearing this, he showed
no more interest.
That means if you owned property, he would have married you!
Yes.
I sneered and said, You actually wanted to marry that munshi fellow?
I couldnt bear to suffer your fathers crookery any more. In anger I had called that man. I wanted to show your father, that I
too could leave. But I couldnt.
Had you thought of what would happen to us if you left?
It is because I worry about you that I think of going away and can never actually do it. You all have grown up, but still I have
never been able to go away. You all will set up your own homes, have children. Your Ma goes off with some other fellow; this
would give you all a bad name. A father can live with seven women, but will not get a bad name.
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I stared at Mas gloomy face. Heaving a deep sigh, Ma said, It is a sin to commit suicide, so till today I have not done so. If it
had not been a sin, I would have done so ages ago!
Looking away from Mas gloomy face, my eyes fell on the local soiled amoxycillin strip that I was playing with, to the name of
the medicine, to its date of manufacture and expiry. The expiry date was three years seven months old. Did Dada purposely give
Ma this expired medicine? I couldnt believe that he could have done this on purpose. I didnt tell Ma that these medicines had
lost their medicinal properties ages ago, that her fever would not go with these. I didnt tell Ma, but I went and told Dada. This
medicine was expired! I thought he would say he had not noticed the expiry date, and that he would send fresh medicine
immediately. But seeing the callous expression on his face, and hearing his equally callous statement that nothing happens if
the date of expiry has gone past, the medicine remains okay, made me stand dumbly before him. A strong breeze came and
struck me. The painful blue sorrows in the sky fell in showers, wetting me. I thought, let me dry myself and take away the
useless medicines from Mas pillow and throw them away secretly. Just as secretly I planned to replace the old medicine with
new ones I would purchase. Ma would recover from her illness, and would never know that her eldest son had wanted to cheat
her. I had never had the time to think of Mas life. In spite of being a good student, she had been forced into marriage when she
was barely ten or eleven years old. Her husband was perpetually having affairs with other women right after the wedding itself.
Pinning her hopes on her four children, Ma had continued under the drudgery of running a household. Both her sons had got
married and forsaken her. She had brought up her grandson single-handedly, in exchange for which she got two saris in the
whole year. If a maid were hired to look after a baby, even she was given a sari. Ma was not treated any differently. Ma had
actually got used to living in want. Ma did not require any sari or jewellery. She did not need any oil or soap. She was not even
looking for eggs, milk or bananas. All Ma needed a little was love and care. Like the legendary Chatak bird waiting for water,
Ma waited in vain for that love. Rapidly growing in Mas tears was a lotus. A day would surely come, when Baba would stop
getting involved with other girls and women. On that day Baba would hopefully become more stable. Maybe once hed crossed
the sixties and seventies, when he reached the eighties and nineties, he would ultimately turn towards Ma. But Ma, I told
myself, once life is over, what is the use of finally having your beloved return for your ownself? Would such a return be for
love! That would be a return only after everything was lost, everything was over, and it would be a return only because a dried
up bark was left with which nothing else was possible.
I told Ma the story of Geetas indescribable cruelty towards Nargis. She did not express any opinion on hearing about it. Mas
silence made me gradually move away from her, and go to another room. Ma said after me, Did Kamaal come alone that day?
Or did he leave Geeta at her parents place and come to see Suhrid?
I dont know, was my answer.
He should not have left Nargis alone at home and come.
The statement made me pause. Why shouldnt he have? I asked. Ma said, Tullu is not a good boy. I was there, wasnt I with
Suhrid for a few days at Kamaals place? Tullu went at night and grabbed Nargis. I told Geeta many times to let Nargis come
back with me. But she wouldnt.
Hearing what Ma had to say, I left the house and took a rickshaw to Kushtopur, to Nargis house. There I told her mother to go
to Dhaka and bring her back, not to delay. She was ready to bring back her daughter, but did not have the bus fare. Neither
Nargis father nor mother had ever gone to Dhaka. I promised, I would come and give them the money the next day. As soon as
they got the money they were to board a bus or train and go, and not delay at all. I would write the address for them. Once they
disembarked at Dhaka, any rickshaw-wallah would take them straight to Nayapaltan and drop them in front of the house. On
the way back, I kept visualising what were the ways in which one could arrange for the money. The web of my thoughts was
torn asunder by a missile from a group at the corner of Chorpara. The faces in the group were familiar, seven or eight of my old
classmates, who had been unable to clear their final year, were standing there. All of them wore anxious expressions on their
faces. I stopped my rickshaw and asked, Whats happening, it looks as though the Ragging day is being celebrated! Ratish
Debnath told me, Rizwan has died.
Our Rizwan?
Yes, our Rizwan.
What do you mean he is dead?
He used to take pathedin. He was taking a muscle relaxant to get a greater high. He had rented a room in the Chorpara Hotel.
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The owner of the Hotel broke his door down in the morning and found him in this state. The syringe and an empty vial were
lying there. He never realized that without artificial respiration, muscular paralysis would set in and the lungs would not
function. Arrey, if your diaphragm does not move, the lungs cannot function!
Death could come so easily. Here one was alive, without any thoughts of death, then suddenly death said, come along. Without
wasting any time I went home. Some died in happiness, some in sadness. Those who died in happiness were fortunate. They
had not suffered any of the agonies of life. Rizwan would possibly never have suffered any agonies. He had become a doctor,
and was moreover a man. There was nobody who could have cheated him. There was no one even to oppress him. Rizwans
father was very wealthy. The father would definitely have spent money unhesitatingly for his sons happiness. Back home, I
again thought of how I could obtain money. Ma had no money. The question of asking Baba for it did not arise. If he could he
would have thrown me out of the house by now. Dada had changed; he would at the most, spit into my extended hand.
Promising Yasmin that I would buy her a new Harmonium with my first pay, I took her Harmonium to the Sur Taranga shop at
Chhoto Bazar, from where I had bought it. I bought it for five hundred taka, how much will you give, if I sell it? I asked at
the shop. The old man in Sur Taranga, with his short dhoti and round-framed glasses, said he could give hundred and fifty.
After bargaining with him, I was able to obtain three hundred taka. With the money in hand, I did not wait for tomorrow. That
very day I went to Kushtopur and gave the money to Nargis mother. Repeatedly I insisted they leave for Dhaka next morning
itself, Do not delay, I said. I wrote the address on a piece of paper. When I returned home Ma asked, Where did you leave
the harmonium?
I did not make any reply.
****
I ran to Dhaka after receiving Rudras letter. Reaching the Indira Road house in the morning, I found that he was not at home.
The room carried his aroma, but he himself was not there. It seems he had gone out just a while ago. I waited for him the whole
day. Rudra did not return. Night came. He did not return. I sat up the whole night waiting for him, in case he returned late at
night or towards early morning. Maybe he had sat down to adda somewhere, maybe he was discussing politics, or was taken up
with some heated literary debate. I understood that after being away from the Dhaka adda, it was difficult to tear oneself away
from it. The light of dawn touched my body. It touched my eyes, hair and chin. The rays radiated from my chest to the rest of
body. But Rudras touch was missing. Alone in bed, I pressed his pillow to my chest and remained in bed. The morning passed.
Rudra came in the afternoon. He was a little surprised to see me as he entered the room.
When did you come?
Not today, I arrived yesterday.
Yesterday?
Yes, yesterday. Why didnt you come home last night? Where were you?
I was in some place.
Where is that some place?
I was there.
Where?
Without replying, Rudra took his towel and lungi and went into the bathroom. I never saw him spending so much time over
taking a bath. Smelling all over of scented soap, he emerged from his bath, saying, Have you eaten?
Yes, I have.
Then you wait. Ill have my food and come.
Rudra went towards the dining table. Lying on the bed I wondered, why couldnt he tell me where he had been! Why did he
hide the place where he had been, behind the words I was there! My thoughts did not take me anywhere. I had not ever seen
Rudra spending so much time over his meals either. Every grain of my body was eagerly awaiting his touch. I wanted to sit next
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to him at the dining table, to see how he ate. He must not have eaten last night. Otherwise why would he have gone straight
away to eat in this way, without so much as touching me even slightly! Pride and fear kept me in their grip. After he finished his
meal and returned to the bedroom, I asked him to sit next to me. Taking his hand in mine, I said, I think you are trying to avoid
me.
No. Why should I?
How come you wont tell me where you were last night?
I said I was somewhere!
Where? At some friends place?
No.
At some adda?
No.
Then?
Rudra remained silent, his silence became steadily unbearable and the pain cut me to the quick, almost paralysing me. I began
to find it difficult to breathe. Rudra please say something, if you confess, my pain will go away. But such pain did not go! It
only increased. Rudra said he was at Narayanganj. Why in Narayanganj, did any friend stay there? No. Then why did you go?
With whom did you go? Alone. To whom? To no one. Where were you at night? Tanbazar. Rudras expressionless eyes were
focused on mine. I could hear my heart beating loudly. Tanbazar in Narayanganj was the countrys largest red light area. Was
Rudra trying to tell me that he had gone to spend the night at some brothel in Tanbazar! No, Rudra, whatever else you say,
please dont tell me that. Tell me that you spent the whole night at some tea shop, liquor shop or even on the footpath, under a
tree, something of that kind! My eyes were full of entreaty. But Rudra said he had spent the night at Tanbazar, at a prostitutes
place. My eyes were stricken. Rudra, prostitutes are also human beings, like your mother, your sisters. Say, because you were
hungry the prostitute fed you; you were so sleepy, after drinking, that you went to sleep soon after eating. Tell me you slept like
the dead the whole night, and have just woken up and come. Say you havent touched any other body. You had promised not to
touch anyone else, tell me you have kept your promise. Say, that these lips are the only ones you kiss, no others. Tell me you do
not desire any other body but mine. Rudra was unable to read the language of my eyes, he told me about his intercourse with
the prostitute. Throwing a world of darkness in my direction, he continued speaking. I sat stunned. I could find no air to
breathe. I looked at the decorated room, I looked at Rudra, I looked at my home. I had slowly patched together my broken trust
and faith, and started life anew. Oh my life! This was no home, it was a whole graveyard. Like the dead lie in the graveyard, I
lay in my home. I was on fire, burning to ashes. However, suddenly I gained strength from within myself. That strength pulled
me out of the blazing fire. It saved whatever little was left of my existence. Rudra, who had washed off from his body all the
juices and scents brought from the prostitutes body, lay down straight in the bed. After lunch he always took a nap; that was his
habit. After he woke up from sleep, he would go out in the evening. He would fill his stomach with liquor at night. If I was near
at hand he would have sexual intercourse with my body, if not, then with any other womans body. There would never be an
iota of change in Rudras daily lifes routine. Not even a tiny one. He was not going to change his nature for my sake. I cried fie
on myself. I should have forsaken him on the night our wedding was consummated, on the bridal bed of flowers. Where had
been the requirement of bearing the burden of my love around for so many years! Once someone betrayed your trust, he would
always do so. Betraying was his nature. Betraying was his propensity.
With no regret in my voice I asked, What does one have to do to get talaq?
In a cracked voice, Rudra said, You have to go to a lawyer, give the reasons for the break up, give all details required. Various
problems. I noticed, that unlike the last time, I was not weeping. I had not a tear in my eyes. From utter stupefaction, there
emerged a stony voice, Tell me where the lawyers house is, I will go there today itself. Why me alone, you also come along.
You of course know very well, that there is no meaning left in our relationship. Therefore, I am not forsaking you out of anger.
Lets both of us go and do the job. Lets break our relationship. And please believe me, I dont even feel that I am divorcing you
because you have slept with other women, and thus our relationship should end. Our relationship should end, because you do
not love me.
I do love you, Rudra said with conviction.
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The love in which there is no trust!
I do trust you.
You trust me. But have you thought of my trust? If you were in my place, what would you have done? Can one love someone
without trusting that person?
This happens to some extent with artistic people. They do not follow all the norms of society. You at least should have
understood that. You married me knowing I was an artist. Then, why so many questions now?
The question is not about social norms and mores. In personal relationships, the most necessary ingredient, trust, is what we
are talking about.
I started laughing. Laughing, I said, If you are an artist you can get away with cold-blooded murder, isnt that so! As an artist,
you have the freedom to do whatever you please. Does that mean if one was an artist one did not have it! I too write poetry,
does that mean I can also do whatever you are doing? Or is it that I do not have the freedom, because I do not write good
poetry. Whereas you do, because you write well! Or is it that you have freedom because you are a man. I am a woman, is that
why I shouldnt have that freedom?
Rudra was silent. He stared out of the window for a long time, except for a high wall there was nothing in front of it. Only a
white-washed wall. I stared at Rudras eyes. After looking at the wall in the same way for a long time, he said, Cant you
forgive me for the last time?
You said the previous one was your last time? Your truly last time will never ever happen.
It will.
You said so before as well. You know what? This is your habit. It is not so easy to change ones habits.
Okay, give me one more chance. I will change myself.
Why should you? Do you truly want to change? If you did, you would have done so. In any case, what is the need for you to
change? You dont think there is anything wrong with your habits, do you?
Rudra left the bed. Speaking in a harsh voice, he said. I have told you so many times to stay with me all the time. How many
days have you spent with me since our marriage, tell me! It took three years for you to get over your hesitation. Can a man live
alone like this?
I managed to stay alone.
What is possible for women is not possible for men.
Why not?
Whatever the reason, I am unable to do so. When I returned to Dhaka and didnt find you at home, I was very angry. Thats
why I went out and got drunk. That incident was a result of this drinking.
That means whenever you are angry, you drink! Dont you drink otherwise at all? Dont you drink even when you are not
angry? Dont you drink when you are happy?
Forget about liquor. What will you say about the fact that you have not stayed with me from the very beginning of our
relationship?
You know very well I had to stay in Mymensingh for my medical studies. Now I dont have any problem in staying at Dhaka
permanently. You are the one running away.
You should have stayed with me from the beginning.
Are you trying to say that I should have left my medical studies and stayed with you? For your convenience. Thats it, right?
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So that you dont go astray. Achcha, when I get a job, it is not necessary that it will be in either Mongla or Mithekhali. I will
have to leave my job. You will be going to check on your prawn enclosure, or to sell your paddy. Wont I then have to go with
you to Mongla and Mithekhali so that when your body gets aroused, to satisfy it, you can have a womans body close at hand?
Rudra remained silent. I said, When I live without you, I dont go to other men to satisfy my bodily desires. The thought of
another man does not even peep into my head. I just cant do it, how do you! Do you know the reason? The reason is because I
love you, and hence cannot go to any other man. You dont love me, so thats why you can. This is the very simple,
straightforward answer.
I knew Rudra would not accept this simple answer. He would say he loved me. He had slept with other women but not out of
love. Rudras reply would be equally simple. Rudra did not give this simple reply, but in a grave voice said, I believe in a free
marriage. I told you this earlier. A marriage which involves no lies. A marriage in which the domestic life of the couple is
different from all other married couples. This marriage will not make it difficult for me to breathe. I will not feel entrapped. If
married life feels like a cage, then the open-sky is preferable.
Sitting on the chair at his writing table, Rudra lifted his feet on to the bed and said, Yes. That is what I told you. I told you
not to want to put me into any strait-jacket.
Does that mean you want the freedom to sleep with any woman you desire?
When you are with me, I dont want that.
When I am not there, you do?
I dont. It happens.
What do you mean by it happens?
It happens means, it happens.
Suppose it happens to me as well?
What do you mean? Rudras eyebrows creased in shock. His feet came off the bed. Sitting face to face with him on the bed,
looking at the narrowing eyes, under his puckered brows, I said, I mean, when you are not with me, suppose it happens that I
too sleep with another man!
What did you say?
I said, suppose I too happen to sleep with some man, when you are not with me!
Dont talk rubbish, Rudra snarled in reprimand, loads of disgust in his reproof.
This is not rubbish. What you have the right to do, why shouldnt I have the same? My tone was very soft.
We are not talking of rights, yesterday I was drunk, Rudras voice too was soft.
That is no excuse. Drinking is your addiction. You get drunk every night.
No, I dont. I do not drink every night.
Then what is it you want to say? That on the nights you drink, get drunk, on those nights you have to have a woman under any
circumstances, if Im there, then me, otherwise anyone else!
Rudra picked up a book, and kept his eyes on the pages of the book. As though at this very moment, it was more necessary to
read the book than talk to me. Snatching the book from his hands, I said, Speak to me. Look into my eyes and speak. Tell me
how you will feel if I too spend the night with another man and return home? Suppose I dont return home tonight. I return
tomorrow afternoon, after spending the night with another man?
Rudra looked at me with narrowed eyes, snatching the book back, he said, You want to take revenge?
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I dont want to take revenge, I only want to know isnt this what you would call free marriage? Or do you want free married
life only for yourself, not for me!
I said I made a mistake yesterday, it wont happen again.
Why wont this mistake happen again? Because I do not like it?
Yes.
But you do. You have no problems in having relations with more than one woman!
Why are you giving so much importance to physical relationships? No spiritual or mental relationship has taken place.
Okay, I will not have any emotional relation with anyone. Only physical. Acceptable?
Rudra thought for a long time. He then shook his head. No, he would not accept that.
I laughed and said, Actually I have no desire to have a relationship with any other man. This goes against my taste. Even if
you had wanted me to, I would never be able to do it. But you used to say, you believed in the equality of the sexes. I was just
checking that. I have seen how much you believe in it. You talk of equality, because it is fashionable to do so. As an artist you
have to say these things. Or if one has to appear very progressive, then one cant but say these things. You think you believe in
equality, because you go about town with your wife, you chat with your friends in her presence; you havent confined your wife
to the house, and have not kept her to do household work. That is why you possibly experience some kind of thrill, thinking you
are a great supporter of progress. Of course, it is very easy to support progress, and equally easy to talk of equality. But when it
has to be discussed and applied to ones own life, it becomes very difficult. Right?
I talked of applying for talaq by mutual consent, but Rudra would not agree. He made it very clear that he would not go to a
lawyer for talaq. He repeatedly asserted that he had kept the promise he had made after his sickness was detected for the first
time, to never to go to other women. Only that day by chance the unfortunate incident occurred at Tanbazar. I should for this
time, and this would be the last time, forgive him. I should never ever again think of anything as dreadful as talaq. None of
Rudras statements gave me any relief. I did not somehow feel that Rudra had only that day gone to the brothel. My heart told
me that Rudra, who had been going to brothels from his youth, had never stopped going. After infecting me, he had only
written the poem The Darkness of Remorse, he had not really felt remorseful. Composing words and believing them was not
the same thing. Restlessness began to eat me up. I did not know any lawyer whom I could ask to draw up the talaq papers. I
went ultimately to the lawyer who had prepared our marriage document. I took Rudra with me though, but that was only two
days later. I had told him, If you dont come along, I will go on my own. This is in spite of the fact that I do not believe in
relationships on paper, and had come to you because I love you, not because of the marriage document. The talaq document is
also a piece of paper, but this paper will free my body from any rights you have over it. At least legally. The lawyer was
amazed to see that we had come to sign a talaqnama. Laughing loudly he said, Go home, go and sort out your differences. Is
there any couple as wonderful as you? Sitting on a wheel-chair, the physically challenged lawyer called his wife. The
extremely beautiful woman, seeing Rudra, arranged tea, biscuits and shemai on a tray, and came and happily sat down to a
literary discussion. The lady not only enjoyed the flavours of literature, she was herself a writer. She had written a book. Sitting
close to each other, Rudra and I both experienced her excitement and joy at having written her first book. Who would have
guessed that Rudra and I were there to give talaq to each other? After having tea and biscuits, and concluding the literary
discussion, I told the lawyer before leaving, We have not quarrelled. There is nothing to make up. But it is better to end the
relationship.
Take some more time. Think over it. Dont do anything out of a whim.
I have nothing more to think about. I came only after I had thought it over.
The lawyer gravely told me to come back to him after a month. What were the reasons I was seeking talaq for, I had to tell him
everything. Only if he thought the reasons were valid to get talaq, would he grant it, otherwise not. He also spoke of carrying a
hefty sum of money with me, when I came next.
***
Although Rudra very often said, Lets make love, his mind did not completely lose control over his body. Even though my
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body was there for the asking, he did not this time have sexual intercourse with me. He kissed me though and squeezed my
breasts till a river of arousal flowed in my body, and drowning in overwhelming desire, I clung to him like to a straw. I made
him my saviour, so that he would safely carry me to the shores and save me. But he cruelly snatched my straw, and turned away
from me. His limbs were not cool, yet he turned away. My limbs cried out for touch of his, but he still turned away. Why? He
lay inert next to my aroused body. Was he asleep? No, he wasnt. Was this a show of pride in view of our impending
separation? No, it wasnt even that. Then what was it? The next night, Rudra went to sleep in another room. I tossed from side
to side, flung my hands and legs around, my body was aroused on the pure, unblemished bed; it was soaked with lust and
sweat. Rudras touch and scent aroused me so tremendously that I was unable to repress it and disguise my response.
Why are you staying away from me? Dont you want me? What is wrong with you?
At midnight, he finally told me what had happened. He was sick again.
He showed me the red boil at the base of his penis. He definitely did not want to infect me this time. He was sure that he had
carried the virus from Tanbazar that day.
Covering the penis, I said in an impossibly quiet tone, No, you did not get this from Tanbazar. This disease does not manifest
itself so rapidly. Did you not go to any other bazar before Tanbazar?
What are you trying to say?
You surely understand what I am trying to say.
There was no reason for Rudra not to understand. Sitting bemused for a long time he finally said that one or two times
unfortunate incidents had occurred without warning.
Where? In Banishanta?
He slowly nodded his head. They occurred in Banishanta. That he went to Banishanta regularly, I was absolutely convinced.
When I was with him in Dhaka, he did not feel the need to go to a brothel. But whenever he left Dhaka and went to Mongla
port, it became impossible for him to control the temptations of Banishanta. For Rudra I was only a body, nothing more than a
mound of flesh. I felt disgusted with myself.
You of course told me that nothing happened after 1983, only that last day at Tanbazar!
Rudra heaved a deep sigh. So I did.
You have been lying to me from the day I was introduced to you. If that sore had not manifested itself, then even this time you
would have hidden behind a mask and claimed that you were completely mine, and were pure. You would not have disclosed
the Tanbazar incident either.
Rudras face was a pathetic sight. Did I loathe any prostitute? I asked myself the question repeatedly. The answer was, no. Did I
loathe Rudra? No. I did not. Instead I felt sorry for Rudra. The next day I took him to Shahbagh for a shot of penicillin. The
same employee of the same pharmacy took Rudra inside, laid him on the table, and gave him the injection in his buttocks.
Rudra did not suffer very long from the pain of the injection. Like before, the two of us chatted with our friends in the
university grounds, in Shahbagh and Sakura and returned home at night. The next day when I was packing my clothes into a
suitcase, Rudra appeared to fall from the skies.
Whats up, where are you going?
Mymensingh.
Why Mymensingh?
Im going.
When will you return?
I dont know.
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You dont know when you will return?
No.
Tell me clearly when you are returning.
I may not come back at all.
What do you mean?
I told him to understand for himself, what that meant. I told him I was going, going away.
Going away, meaning?
Going away means going away. After a month I will go and sign the papers at the lawyers.
Then why did you do all this? Why did you get me injected?
That was for you. For your well-being.
If you are concerned about my well-being, then stay with me.
Just because one is concerned, does one have to stay?
Why not?
I can want your well-being even when I am away from you. Cant I?
Whats the use? If you stay far away, then why should you be concerned about what is good for me?
I laughed and said, So what? Our relationship has been such a long one, has my love for you suddenly dried up, or what? It is
still very much there.
Then why are you going at all! Come, lets start everything anew!
No.
Why not?
I want to deny this belief of yours that I am only a female body and nothing else.
Who said that was my belief?
Ask yourself. You will find the answer.
Forsaking all attachment for my home I went back to Mymensingh permanently. On the way there I spent one night at
Chhotdas house. After hearing all the tales of Chhotdas foreign travels and eating dinner, just when I had gone to sleep,
everyone woke up in the middle of the night at the sound of banging on the door. Moving aside the window curtains, I saw
Rudra standing outside. Absolutely drunk.
Whats happened, what do you want?
Rudra screamed, Come out.
Why?
You are my lawfully wedded wife, you have to listen to whatever I say, come out, or I will call the police. No son of a swine
will be able to stop me.
Go away. Dont scream.
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I will scream. Till you come out, I will continue to scream.
I will not come out. Go away.
Why wont you come out? You just have to come out. Im telling you I will break down all the doors and windows. Lets go
home. Come out, I say.
The whole locality had woken up because of Rudras screams. He was systematically kicking the door to break it down.
Chhotda pulled me away from the window. Pressing my face bent in shame to his chest, he hugged me with both his arms.
Making me lie down on the bed, he lay down next to me and stroked my hair. Chhotdas tender loving care finally opened the
flood gates for all the tears I was holding in. Wiping my tears he said in a choked voice, Be strong, be strong. The next day,
Geeta personally drove the car and dropped me to the Kamlapur station. This sparkling red coloured Toyota Corolla, was given
by Chhotda as a present to Geeta, on her birthday.
That I had left Rudra and come, even if I told no one at Aubokash, they all understood. Taking my clothes out of the suitcase,
Ma arranged them on the clothes stand and in the almirah. She spread a new sheet on the bed. She tidied the table, clearing
away all the scattered papers. She brought a fresh rose and put it in the vase. After two days my employment papers arrived. I
had been appointed as Medical Officer; Specialist in Medicine, in the Health Centre at Nakla Sub-division. The day after the
papers arrived, Baba took me by train to Jamalpur. From Jamalpur by bus to Sherpur, where I sat in the Civil Surgeons office
signing my joining papers. Within seven days I would have to start work at the Nakla Health Centre. Baba himself escorted me
and my suitcase across the Brahmaputra River to Shambhuganj, from Shambhuganj by bus to Phulpur, and from Phulpur by
rickshaw to the Nakla Health Centre. In the midst of paddy, jute and pea fields in the village stood the hospital. At one corner of
the hospital were a few white, double-storeyed houses, government staff quarters for the Doctors. The Head of the Health
Centre was Dr. Abdul Mannon. He stayed in government quarters with his wife and children. Abdul Mannon was a tall bearded,
panjabi-clad doctor, who offered namaz five times a day. It was arranged for me to temporarily put up at his house. Baba must
have thought him most trustworthy. But after seeing patients at the hospital the whole day, when I returned to my shelter at
night, I saw Abdul Mannons eyes shining at me like a wolf. I didnt have to protect myself from his paws for very long,
because Baba managed to get me transferred from Nakla and brought me back to Mymensingh. In the headquarters of the
Health office in town, there was no real work. I wanted work. I wanted to keep busy. Next to the chambers, sitting idly against
the red wall was Dr. Namul Haq, whom I requested to send me to such a place where there was a lot of work, where there was
only work from morning to afternoon to evening to night. Where I would not get even a minute to breathe.
When I was treating a cholera patient in the Suryakanta Hospital in town who had been washed up in the flood waters, Rudra
sitting in Mongla was writing,
Shower rain just once more, O sky far away
The fresh young mustard fields are burning in the extreme heat of the sun.
The farmer unskilled in agricultural practice, has no irrigation facilities,
His heart is only full of a genuine love for his crops.
Send clouds just once, or forgiveness in the form of rain,
Do not destroy even this one handful of grain in life.
Let me bear fruit even in the anarchy of this polluted afternoon,
Let the field be heavily laden with golden mustard.
Take back the hot droughts of estrangement,
These fiery distances between
Send the clouds and shower rains on the afflicted body of life.
For this simmering, shattered heart, O sky, touch with your mystical hands
The breast of the clouds, so that caresses shower down as rain.
The plough tears apart the heart to sow the seed of paddy-love
Desolate wilderness is awaiting this day,
You gave it clouds, rain and hope,
And the scorching fallow decayed earth dreamt of a harvest
The darkness of remorse, became the sunshine of a refreshing dawn.
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The soil that had burnt for a long time in dreamless morbidity,
That had turned into earth, collecting the deluge of defeat
You had given it clouds, rain, water and the whole sky.
You had given it hope, even its first exposition,
You had given it only the dream of flying, but not the wings.
You had picked up your whole life and placed it in my hands,
But what you didnt give me was the extremely insignificant location of your secret solitary retreat.
Whatever I had, I had given it all to Rudra. Even the extremely insignificant location of my solitary retreat. This was possibly
his only consolation, that there was at least one thing I had failed to give him, hence the complete chaos that had finally
resulted. There was something I hadnt given him, hence, today our relationship was in this mess. Yet I had no secrets. I had
kept nothing for myself. I not only signed the legal papers, I even paid the money demanded. After that I hadnt bothered to
find out the consequences. I only knew this much, that I could not spend my life with Rudra, and yet I loved Rudra, hence life
without him was also unbearable. The way I had rashly signed the marriage documents, I did the same with the talaq
documents. Sitting in my dreamless, grey existence I had repeatedly told myself, do not ever go back to the person who has
insulted you, girl; do not suffer any more. He has not valued your love even a little. He never will. He believes in free marriage,
a marriage in which no promises are kept. He is someone who has drunk the water of every port, in whichever way he can; he
will float in the rivers of pleasure, he will not look back at the solitary figure awaiting his return on the shores.
I had forsaken Rudra, but I had to sift through his memories twice a day. I wanted to forget Rudra. Yet when I sat in the
verandah of the house on a lonely afternoon, looking out at the blazing sunshine, the person I thought of, the one I could not but
think of, was Rudra. An unbearable pain wrung my heart, and brimmed over into my eyes. I tried my best to make sure that the
nightmare called Rudra, and the black past which I had left behind, never managed to touch me ever again. I kept failing to do
so. I realize very secretly and confidentially, that my love for Rudra has not dried up even today. But do I really want it to die!
Come back certainty, come back all consuming love.
In the rapid flow of troubled waters I am floating like a ferry into the unknown,
With no ties, no bonds of love, affection or solace,
There is no shelter, no pardon, no vast forgiveness.
After ploughing darkness the whole day I return home,
Through the night I sow seeds of pain in my heart
I know you are my safe-haven, the warm waters to return to,
You are like a mothers aanchal come back pure gold.
I am being destroyed by the seasons, nature and adverse times,
Mans cruelty, and my own unforgiving conscience.
I am being destroyed at once both by love and the lack of it
My tears with love I feel have far exceeded my tears without it.
I am beheaded by the formless knife of anarchy,
I am burnt by the restless hooves of the horses of distrust.
I fearfully keep rolled up the tender wings of faith,
The Ashwin moon rises and gets to know the distrusted name.
All around the blind waters raise their hoods come back arrows,
Come back straws, the body made of glowing wood.
Come back deliverance, lift me up fully,
My failures, sins, love, hate and affections.
The extremely rapid flow of nighttime, comes and strongly pulls me away,
Come back certainty, come back the dawn of my sunshine.
But to whom would I return? He would only cause me greater sorrow. Even though I knew it would hurt me, I still read his
241 of 244 9/21/2014 12:50 AM
poem Graveyard, and tears gathered in my eyes. I broke down in love and pain.
I put forward my hand of desire, it returns after touching emptiness.
You are not there, a blacked out lamp burns alone in the fore-front
Like a pair of stone cold human eyes,
While the thirsty body is filled with painful wailing.
The soft light of the moon dies in the Agrahan night,
What lives is love and the shining, star-spangled memories.
Your emptiness is surrounded by long sighs, and the scent of pain,
Hundreds of graveyards are pervaded by your absence and remain awake.
I had settled into my life in Mymensingh. I decorated my room at Aubokash again. The daughter of the house was back.
Actually the daughter of the house had been at home always; only once in a while she disappeared. Those bouts of
disappearance had now come to an end. But had they completely ended! On one melancholic evening, Come to Dhaka, I am
waiting for you was the telegram I received. Immediately I was tossing in a wild wind. That I was related to Rudra no more,
that I had snapped all connections, was something I completely forgot, and taking two days leave, I ran to Dhaka. I knocked on
the door, Rudra opened it. As though he knew I would come. Silently, wordlessly, we stood before each other. A warm hand
touched me lightly. This one touch caused a lightning to spread through my whole body. He held me in a deep embrace for a
long time. He wept. On my shoulders and chest fell the tear drops. Pain collected at the base of my throat choking it. Dont
cry, these small words remained buried under the collected sorrow. I wiped away his tears. I looked at his room. It was exactly
as before, in the same manner. I looked with my two eyes at my household. Rudra kissed my shoulders, neck, chin, breast, lips,
eyelids and all over my body as before. Untouched for so long, my body surrendered as soon as it felt Rudras touch. As though
our life was the same as before. As though like before we were dreaming of a married life in which we were exchanging our
hearts and bodies. I was unable to think that Rudra was no one to me any more. Satiated with our sexual union, Rudra lifted my
chin and laughingly said, Ki, dont you think of yourself as a very pure person! Now, what? I am not your husband, how come
you slept with me!
Putting my two hands on both his cheeks, I laughed. Caressing his whole face with my fingers, I said, I love you; thats why.
If you love me, then why did you go away in the first place? And since you did leave then why have you come back now?
That is because you called me.
So what if I did, you have not kept any connection with me.
I am still battling with myself.
Why battling?
So that I can love myself. By loving another so much, what happened was, I completely forgot one should also love oneself.
Rudra lay resting his head on my breast like a small baby. I stroked his hair with my fingers. He said, Lets go to the lawyer
again, and tell him not to prepare the talaq documents.
I smiled sadly.
That night I was attacked by high fever. Even the next day the temperature kept rising. In the afternoon, Rudra got up from next
to my fever-ridden body, on hearing someones footsteps. Someone was knocking at the door. Who it was, who knew! Rudra
was speaking to the guest in the next room. I moaned for a little water, but Rudra was not there. He returned after an hour or
two, for a little while.
Who has come?
Nellie.
That Nellie! Rudras Nellie khala.
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Bits of Rudra and Nellies conversation, laughter, loud laughter, whispers and giggles floated into the bedroom. I was racked by
it all and the fever. I kept thinking that even today Rudra was in love with Nellie. There were some feelings which remained
even after a relationship was over. My fever did not make me shiver as much as did the pangs of loneliness. After another two
hours, when Rudra returned to the bedroom after sending Nellie off, in my feverish, but strong voice, I asked, How did Nellie
know the address of this house?
She has come before.
She comes often, does she?
Not often. Only sometimes.
Oh.
Was I a little jealous? Yes. When I spoke, it sounded like delirious raving, Whenever I am away, you do not remain mine any
more, you became anyones playmate. I do not call any man my own.
What sounded like my delirious ranting continued, I know what the nuptial night means. I know what it is to stay awake on a
dangerous night in a port. I know, my bones and flesh know, so does every fisherman on the sampans, every cargo labourer; the
morning launch also knows, and do you know any less? How destructive love can be, that someone who does not know how to
swim, sinks herself in the waters of the Rupsha and actually floats back again. From the other end of the sky, swaying in a litter
carried by four bearers, after burning in the flames of doubts, she returns to place her face and cry out again in the weak arms of
the same drunkard who lies fallen in the drains. This innocent girl returns from another city to drink sip by sip the blood and
pus picked up from Banishanta. You are drunk, deep in sleep, but you know no less. How many times I have lifted you on to the
raft and been wretched and worn out every time, while on the tired waters of the Jamuna.
***
The day the fever abated, we both went out. Just like before. In the university grounds, a meeting was going on of some new
poets. We too were to participate in this meet. We sat on the grass, just as we used to. The meeting was to organize a poetry
festival to oppose Ershads Asian Poetry Festival. Some young poets, Rudra and I signed on a paper to having attended the first
meeting of the National Poetry Society as members. Rudra was always very enthusiastic about all these things. He had been
writing poetry against the autocratic government for a long time. Now he had a deadly weapon in his hand, to oppose one
festival with another. A few poets who supported the government and Islam, who could be counted on ones fingers were in
Ershads party. The rest were with the National Poetry Festival. With this handful of poets only, Ershad had given his poetry
festival the name Asian Poetry Festival. The Asian was arranged in a closed hall, the National on the streets. The Asian sank
into a well and the National swam in the sea.
***
When Rudras enthusiasm about the National Festival was at its height, and he wanted to run here and there, he was unable to.
Forget about running, even if he walked, his legs pained. Earlier they pained if he walked ten yards, now they pained after only
four yards. The distance was reducing every day. Rudra still did not lose his eagerness, even if he had to halt; he continued to
walk. The big toe on his right foot was changing colour, turning blackish, the blackish colour was turning dull. It was as though
this was not a toe, but the root of a tree. The illness was definitely Burgers Disease. If gangrene set into the toe, there would be
no option but amputation. I was blue with fear. Stop smoking. Your blood circulation is getting blocked. This is a kind of
peripheral vascular disease. You are getting intermittent clodication. It is happening in your calf muscles, in your foot. After
this even when your foot is at rest, it will pain, I told Rudra. Rudra didnt believe all this could be caused by smoking. So
many people smoked, they didnt get it! Everyone doesnt get it, some do, I said. My advice was treated like pages of bad
poetry, torn into bits and thrown away. Hoping he would listen to a reputed doctor, I took him to the B.N. Medical Hall at the
corner of Shantinagar, to Dr. Prajesh Kumar Ray. Dr. Prajesh Kumar Ray said the same things I had repeatedly told him, You
have to give up smoking. Otherwise there will be no option but to amputate your foot. The doctor prescribed some medicines.
For as long as I was in Dhaka, I made Rudra take his medicines regularly, made him soak his feet in hot water, so that even if
only a little, his veins and arteries dilated somewhat. I snatched cigarettes from Rudras lips and threw them away. He got very
angry. Pushing me aside he went to drink liquor every evening. If he had money to spare, he went to Sakura, otherwise to
Methorpatti. If he spotted any pretty girl, on the streets, even while he was on the rickshaw, he would wink at her and whistle,
and yell, Special Stuff and laugh loudly. There had been a talaq between the two of us, so I was no deterrent for Rudra in
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these kinds of antics. When was I anyway! Before leaving for Mymensingh, I repeatedly asked him to take his medicines
regularly, to follow the doctors advice, and impressed on him, that there was nothing more valuable than life. I did not feel I
was Rudras beloved or wife, I felt more like a friend, a well-wisher, a doctor.
***
Rudra continues to remain addicted to liquor, cigarettes, ganja, charas and women. And Rudra continues to be my addiction,
something I try my best to get rid of. On the one hand, Rudra completely drunk keeps saying,
You are my living crutch, I want you.
Wherever I go, wherever I turn,
Whether in my memory or future,
I want you now.
No, my life is not for becoming someones living crutch. I cannot sacrifice my own life to become anothers crutch. I feel sorry
for Rudra, but more than that, I feel sorry for myself.
The End
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