"The Good Muslim" by Tahmima Aman Uncovers the Boundaries of Freedom

T

he first passage of the book gripped me. The words were deep, picturesque; flow was smooth and yet they conveyed the anguish without any undue force – “The petals of mustard flowers, dried to dust, tickle his nose and remind him of the scent of meat, which he has not tasted in several months. Underfoot the grasses spit and cry; overhead the heavy-lidded eye of a midwinter sun.”Tahmima Anam’s “The Good Muslim” is more than a good read, it’s a journey through the pathways of a country that waged a war to set itself free and became prisoner to its own people, blinded by a faith. The book is not a denouncement of any religion or of Islam in particular. Far from it. It talks of faith and its price, it talks of what you gain in surrender and what others loose!

This may be only the second novel by Tahmima but her voice is confident, thoughts mature and narrative strong. Her pen has a strange but intoxicating mix of torment and calm. There is freshness in the prose as well a subtle lyricism. However there are incidents in the plot that portray confusion. The characters are sometimes made to behave in a certain manner to fit a thought process, not their own. This is a jarring note, but then this can also be a perspective of the reader. Maya, the protagonist, grows on the reader as a character and one starts moving with her along the prose. At a point, you get so engrossed in this fearless yet vulnerable woman, that you start looking at her predicaments as yours. And, of course this is because Tahmima has etched Maya so strongly in the readers mind.

Bangladesh as a new nation, struggling to wipe off the signs of a bloody war and trying to move on, is a character in itself in the book. The country caught between the “revolutionaries” and “reactionaries” is struggling to keep aloft the ideals it fought for, and failing miserably, for the people who fought the gruesome war for nine long nine months, scarred with a genocide and thousands of rapes, wanted to move on too quickly. “At first she thought of sitting there…. For someone to come and explain to her why Paltan Maidan had been turned into an amusement park”- speaks of an entitlement of the people who bore the birthing pain for the new-born nation. And then this entitlement turns to anguish – “it was where, for a moment, they had won. Now their histories will be papered over with peanuts and the smell of candyfloss.”

Another more powerful portrayal in the novel is of “beerangona”, (the war heroines), as Sk. Mujib called them. The ladies who fought a different war, fought on their flesh by hungry soldiers. These ladies were part of the collateral damage who could not wipe off “the shame” of rape and lust they were victim of. Ironically, while the father of the nation had opened his heart for them, asking people to welcome them back to their homes as decorated soldiers of war, he decreed, but not the seeds that they carried. The abortions and the desperate attempt of the much maligned women to build their homes, finds a touching portrayal by Tahmima.

There are some twists and turns that sound stretched at times, but then these are minor glitches. Tahmima succeeds in building a narrative that grips you and makes you chew on some thoughts long after you have closed the book. Like, “why child, why you have to be so intolerant? ... Don’t be so frightened of it…. It is only religion.” But you ask, is it simply that, a religion?

Refugee - A short story

With an uncertain smile, she knocked once again on the closed door. Nothing. No sign that there was anyone in there! What was she to do? Khadija had walked almost an hour to reach here. The sun was too harsh to venture out and walk back all the way. Madam had asked her to come back here again in the morning. So she did. Maybe she was late. Maybe Madam had left already. She thought of knocking once more but then decided against it. Resigned, she sat down at the front porch. Let’s wait here for some time. Where else could she go? She is yet to find work. People speak strange languages here, in this city. She cannot understand much. But Madam spoke her language. What a relief it was! Oh how she wish Madam could offer her permanent work, but she already had a maid. She, therefore, was offered a weekly job of cleaning and arranging book cases and wardrobes. She had accepted that with gratitude.

Only yesterday Khadija had cleaned the big wardrobe and arranged sarees, suits and pants that Madam wore. She had planned to clean the book cases today, and Madam had agreed. But she was not there; maybe she had got it wrong. Maybe Madam expected her to be back only next week. Whatever it is, she was here and there was nothing for her to do but to return as the house seemed locked. Taking a deep sigh, she pulled the handkerchief in which she had folded a few rupees and a few coins. As she spread out her meager savings, she could not help but admire the white embroidery on the red square piece of cloth, a big white rose, leaves fanning out and a name lovingly inscribed – Tamanna. Her daughter. All of nine years of age and already adept at the fine art of embroidery! Her heart did a small somersault as she remembered the innocent face of her young girl. She was far away now, in the care of her paternal grandmother. She had promised to send enough money to keep her away from working in bidi factory. It was already half a month and she had not managed to save up even the minimum amount due to the money lender back in her village from whom she borrowed a princely sum of 10,000 taka to come to Hindustan. Many of her friends had done so in past and are now well off. Not only have they paid off the money lender, but have also built pucca houses and have farm land of their own.

It was this magical transformation from penury to life of plenty that made her cross the wide paddy field on foot and then board a precariously tilting overcrowded boat at night to cross Padma. Before day break Khadija had reached a check-post where the agent had made arrangements for them to quietly enter Hindustan. With at least fifty other women and men from her’s and surrounding villages she had set foot in a different country, which deceptively looked just as her own, with same green pastures and low muddy huts, thatched with palm leaves, bleached to almost white in harsh sun.

She knew that coming to Hindustan was illegal and that she could be caught by police and put in jail. She had heard terrifying tales of such captures from many in her village. But she could not understand why? She had not come here to steal or to harm anyone. She had come here to work and save enough many to go back and take care of her two sons and a daughter, the nine year old Tamanna. Strange rules big men made, she thought amused! Sitting at the porch, thinking about the events of past couple of weeks that she was in Hindustan, she realized these people may speak different languages, but was so similar in the way they lived!

Initially she was made to walk for hours in a herd of men and women, carrying meager belongings and the scent of their homeland, Khulna, a nondescript district in Bangladesh. After hours of walking through paddy fields, soft undulating streams and then dingy, dark lanes of a muffasil town, they were boarded on a train. It took them three days on the overcrowded, stuffy and at times suffocating coupe to reach this big city, they called Bangalore. Once they landed here, they were lead in a bus that took almost two hours in the wee hours of morning and offloaded them in a shabby looking neighborhood. Here she met hundreds of her folks, men and women who came from Khulna to make a fortune!

The first week she shared the hutment with six other ladies from her district. Since she could not contribute financially, she was to cook, clean, fill water and wash clothes for all of the inhabitants of the small hut. But soon even her labor was falling short and Khadija was forced to borrow money from the lender to contribute her share of rice to the group. She then approached a lady who promised to get her work in exchange of one month’s salary.

She was taken to huge buildings that reached the sky, almost! A few houses that she went to looked enormous, like palaces! She was awestruck. She had never seen such glory back in her village, or even in the sadar town! In the bright light and posh surroundings, she felt grouch and inadequate. Yet, she managed a confident smile in hope of landing some work. Luck was not with her. All these palatial householders spoke a language she could not comprehend at all. So, she was without wok even after enlisting help of the lady who got everyone a job.

It was just by chance that she met Madam. She had been refused in yet another home and was walking back towards the ghetto when she heard Madam speaking to someone over phone, struggling with two huge bags. She had rushed to her and elated to hear bangla had all but cried in relief. She offered to carry the heavy bags, and still angling the phone on her shoulder, Madam had allowed her to pick up the bags. She walked beside Madam as she entered a small lane lined with white similar looking two story houses. In the quiet of the afternoon the locality with its pristine white houses and bright patches of green gardens, looked peacefully sedate! Hope had risen in her and she was sure to find employment with the lady animatedly speaking on the phone!

That was three days ago. Though she had a weekly job now, she was still too far away from regular employment. And that worried her. She had hoped Madam will keep her as a maid or refer to someone, but that too was not happening. With a deep sigh she got up to leave but just at that moment the maid who worked there appeared. “What are you doing here?” she asked in hindi. Though she could understand what was asked, she could not reply coherently in that language. She only said , “Madam?”

“Office”, was the syllable thrown at her. She could sense a disgust in the other maid. Why? What had she done? Maybe, she perceived her to be a threat to her cozy job! She tried to communicate that she would want to wait for the lady of the house to return but was strongly put down. Now the maid was asking her to leave while she turned the key in the lock. Why? Why can she enter the house when Madam was not there and she was asked to go back. Wasn't she a maid too? She thought herself to be at par with the other maid and followed her inside. There was an angry exchange and soon the other maid was shouting at top of her lungs. This alerted the neighbors who gathered there. Khadija could not understand what was being exchanged, the language was completely beyond her. But by the gestures of the other maid she could make out she was being accused of something. The ruckus went on and finally there were Policemen. Khadija was too scared to say anything. She was being pulled and pushed and shoved. She found herself drowning in a dark abyss.

She was in a lock up when she came to her senses. Looking at the gloomy surroundings and finding herself in a jail of sorts, she started crying. A policewoman approached her and ordered her to keep quiet. She was then unceremoniously hauled and pushed out of the cell. The agent who had brought her from her village was there and was speaking to the Policeman sitting in the chair. He was showing some papers, one that had her picture. She was both relieved and worried.

In a few minutes she was asked to leave with the agent. As she followed him outside, he scolded her for being a nuisance. She was tired and dejected, she begged him to send her back to her village. “Are you mad? How can I send you back?”

“why? Why can’t you send me back? So many of my village folks have gone back, why can’t I?” she asked agitated.

“Ok give me 10,000 taka and I will send you back.”he said with a cynical smile.

“You know that is not possible. Where will I get that much money?” She was terrified.

“Don’t think of going back then. Find some work, earn and then when you can pay for it, think of returning.” He smiled slyly handing her a card with her picture. “Here take this. This is your voter ID card. Carry this to that office hoisting Indian flag and you will be paid.”

She took the card and walked a few paces to a shabby looking tin roofed room hoisting the Indian tricolor. Outside there was a que of people holding similar cards. When she finally reached inside someone took her card, made some notes in a register and gave her Rs. 500 and a sack of rice. She was elated. Outside, she asked a woman carrying similar bag of rice, “what is this magical card?”

“it’s the voter ID card, don’t you know?” the other woman said.

“Vote card? What for?” Khadija continued further surprised.

“what for? Well, I don’t know that but it sure gives us rice and money at times and when you show it to Police, they do not bother you”, said the other woman conspiratorially.

“will this get me work?” asked Khadija.

“No dear, everyone here has this card. And not everyone gets work. So, that is up to your luck,” smiled the other woman as she walked away.

Khadija was left staring at the card in her hand. She then slowly pulled out the small red handkerchief embroidered by her daughter and safely tucked away the Rs. 500 note and the voter card. It must be something precious she thought, if it got her rice and money. She will give it to her daughter when she returned. With this thought, and a relieved smile, she started walking back to the ghetto where dimly lit hut awaited her.

Defending the Indefensible….

Jarnail Singh, an otherwise quiet, controlled, mature and respectable journalist gave India its very own Shoe-gate Controversy today. The slow motion replays of a white sports shoe missing a white robed (literally and metaphorically) Mr. Chidambaram by mere inches also brought about replays of some more pictures in my mind… those of 1984, my first introduction to a new vocabulary – curfew, tear gas, lathicharge, shoot at sight, flag march, riot, Hindu and Sikh!

To put it simply, the shoe hurled today seemed more an act of frustration and suppressed anxiety than an actual revolt. The shoe needs a closer look as it represents a turban and beard – the signs a community was almost forced to relinquish for want of safety. And the shoe was asking the Home Minister, Mr. Chidambram, respected for his spotless record and balanced political views, how can you sit here and defend the indefensible!

No, I am not defending the indefensible either. What Jarnail did was wrong, utterly wrong, not acceptable at all, but understandable. The incident in question `is not about what is seen today, the outburst, but about corpses in the closet that are not quite dead, but buried. And, since in the mortuary of democracy, all political parties irrespective of colour, creed or ideology (??) have reserved closets it is one level playing field for all- no one quite claim an advantage or disadvantage here.

What happened today as I see is just a way of showing disagreement with something that happened long ago, and continues to live… something that the party in whose premises the incident happened, wants us to forget and forgive. No, its not about Congress alone. If Congress would want us to forget 1984 and its breeding of LTTE thereafter, BJP would want us to forget Babri demolition and Godhra… the Left would want us to forget their bloodied battles as Naxals in 1970s… the Shiv Sena their wrath against non Maharahtrians… AGP its terror in Assam… the list is long, too long in fact to put here.

We were getting distracted, so coming back to the point in discussion, the incident today is expression of anguish against the efforts to bury a past that has a strong imprint on today and probably will have impact on future as well. Things that political parties want us to forget are not so easily forgotten, neither should they be. No, I am not agreeing with Jarnail’s act of depression or desperation, nor am I showing solidarity. He absolutely had no business doing what he did, not as a journalist at least. Objectivity and uncoloured reporting is the foundation of journalism (in theory, at least) and I am a staunch believer in it. Jarnail, as a journalist did bring shame to the fraternity by venting his anguish the way he did. But then are there ways really for a journalist to be able to raise questions that go beyond TRPs and circulation figures?? A debatable issue that we may take up at a different date and time!

Coming back to 1984 and Chidambaram’s very technical defence of the indefensible, the pictures that start playing in front of me are those of fire and eyes stinging with tears… of stench of burnt clothes and charred bodies… of the magnificent white of the façade of the biggest Gurudwara in the city turned black and the ever busy lanes and by-lanes of the congested central market of Kolkata, bare of their usual chaos, drenched in an unceremonious quite where the boots of young Gorkha and dark South Indian men in olive green uniform with real guns in hand… for a 9 year old it was a spectacle more mesmerizing than the Indrajal comics and adventures of Superman or Spiderman! Here it was, a whole new thriller unfolding in front of my eyes, only this time the characters were cartoons of a different degree!

I do not have the complete recollection of events as they happened, but there are some images, some fragments of conversations that continue to haunt me till date. One is the tears rolling our cheeks without the occasional slap from mom for not finishing homework… and the reason being attributed to “tear gas”, something the police used to make people cry if they do not behave! Another image that flashes through is the flames that were almost touching the skies… burning the front façade of “our” gurudwara, the place that all of us (yes all of us who were Hindus) went to daily, we kids for the Prasad of halwa, the elders for asking favours of a God, who they now claimed was not theirs… I also recall the image of two Sardarjis telwale (as they supplied kerosene in the locality) being kept hidden in one of the bigger rooms in our building (resembling more to a Mumbai chawl) as the madness raged outside. But one of the most tragic images that I remember is that of those two Sardarjis crying, their knees bent, hands folded… someone had jokingly suggested shaving off their beard and hair. An insensitive joke, representative of the mood of the people at that time, insensitive being the operative word.

Later once the “live” telecast of Mrs. Gandhi’s funeral was over, I remember some pictures that flashed on our black and white TV- death and destruction – numbers – death toll reported as cricket match score! I remember my father, an otherwise quiet and somewhat lily-livered man claiming with pride they killed so many Hindus and in response “we” killed so many Sikhs! “We”… who was this we, I wonder.

As I grew up and saw more riots this “we” became more understandable. This we became the closest allegiance at the time of conflict between two castes, creed or religion. This “we” was not India, but India divided in many parts, each claiming ownership of an island floating on blood and corpses.

I have similar recollection of 1992, demolition of Babri masjid. It was our one of the first encounters with cable TV… the images of mob breaking down dome of a historic structure battling with faiths of two conflicting religious fanatics. I also remember openly circulated video cassettes of “true incident” floating around capturing speeches of some top leaders of Saffron hue and the red fluid freely flowing everywhere that had debates raging whether it began to those defending Babar or Ram.

In the wake of these images, when the slow motion picture of that white shoe flowing past Honourable Home Minster only makes me question – can one rationalize the irrational and defend the indefensible?