Noakhali, East Pakistan (present-day Bangladesh), December 1946
The time-worn clock on the wall showed ten. Today, the evening seemed interminably long. And now, the night was dragging its feet. The last sliver of the etiolated moon struggled for space amidst the dense clouds. The charcoal chunks in the clay oven crackled and sputtered as the dying embers fought a losing battle. Madhobi gathered her thick, dark tresses into a tight bun. A few unruly strands encroached on her roundish face and hovered around her large almond eyes – naturally kohled, dark pools that seemed to reflect the wisdom of a thousand years.
Sitting inside her modest hut in Munimganj village, Madhobi huddled closer to the oven, trying to osmose some warmth. The dinner lay unattended before her. A thousand thoughts swirled in her head, threatening to whip up a tempest. She wrapped her shawl tightly around to shield herself from the dipping mercury. The vibrant red-and-yellow handcrafted shawl was a part of her wedding trousseau. This was the first opportunity she got to wear it. But against the blinding white of her saree, the colours seemed to scream blasphemy.
Look at her…freshly widowed and sporting colour!
A brand-new widow wearing red? What has the world come to?!
A sentiment echoed by many of her neighbours and relatives. But frankly, Madhobi didn’t care. She had neither the resources for a wardrobe overhaul, nor the emotional bandwidth to give in to societal demands. Besides, she was saved by that small voice of daredevilry that one is blessed with when one is nineteen.
Madhobi kept drawing patterns with her finger on the copper plate that held her dinner – a frugal meal of plain rice with a dash of mustard oil, salt, a green chilli, and some boiled vegetables. This was all she could afford now. Or consume. Days of grieving had robbed her of all appetite. But she knew better than to starve herself – beginning tonight, she would embark on an arduous journey, traversing an unfamiliar path. One, that she hoped, would forever change the trajectory of her life.
Dinner over, Madhobi lowered the flame flickering unsteadily inside the small oil lantern, and went out into the open veranda. She plonked herself, one last time, on the coir charpoy beside the handpump. The village, which, till three months back, was teeming with activity, now lay cloaked in a deathly silence. Many of the houses wore a deserted look, with their owners having fled at the first tremor of unrest. The ones who stayed back, did not dare to venture out after sundown. The air was still heavy with the choking smell of smoke. A few hutments at the far end, bordering the vast paddy fields, had been torched – silent spectators to the theatre of death and devastation that played out in this once thriving, peaceful hamlet.
Madhobi gave out an involuntary sigh as she looked around herself.
Is it fear that’s keeping people indoors? Or perhaps, a crushing sense of being hounded and hunted…of wanting to hold one’s loved ones tight before one lost them forever?
Heaving and suspiring through the tall palash trees outside, the nippy winds hummed a mournful tune. The lonesome evening star seemed to cry out for kinship. Pretty much like her, who suddenly found herself all alone, flung amidst a violent maelstrom, with no shore in sight. Sitting in this island of isolation, Madhobi allowed her thoughts to wander…to peek into those happy times when life was all about sharing smiles and dreams. Until the combined catastrophe of communalism and colonial policies wreaked havoc in their collective existence.
It was the spring of 1946 when Madhobi, barely nineteen, first stepped into Munimganj village in Noakhali district as a bride. Her petite frame and dusky complexion were more than made up by her expressive eyes and chiselled features. The crops had ripened and the fields looked like giant swathes of green and golden. The Meghna River, flowing outside the village, not only sustained the entire neighbourhood but also produced a gentle, fanning breeze that soothed human souls. The only child of her widowed mother, she had cried bitterly while leaving her paternal home and moving here after marriage. But the outpouring of affection from everyone in the two adjacent villages warmed her heart.
Munimganj, and the adjoining Chandpur village, were like conjoined twins, separated by administrative barriers but united at heart. Though Munimganj was inhabited predominantly by Hindus, and Chandpur by Muslims, the vicious shadow of religious disparity had never clouded their equation, either ethnically or socially. If Poila Boishaakh saw families of both villages exchange sweets and maacher kaliya, Eid-ul-Fitr made them savour fragrant biriyani and sinfully rich seviyan from a shared platter.
Jatindra, Madhobi’s husband, was a tall, lean, affable 25-year-old who worked at the local oil mill. Having lost his mother early on, he was the apple of his father’s eye which, ironically, was fast losing vision. The quinquagenarian welcomed Madhobi into his small family with open arms and unstinted love. Though his movements were restricted due to his failing eyesight, he ambled into the young girl’s heart as the father figure she had always yearned for.
The twin villages were quite self-sufficient. Farmers, boatmen, weavers, grocers, and fishermen formed the majority of the village. Artisans, potters, goldsmiths and butchers made up the rest. Jatindra was particularly close to Haroon, the 30-year-old boatman who lived with his parents and wife Rashida in Chandpur. Many a balmy summer evening was spent lazing about in Haroon’s boat, bobbing gently on the placid waters of the Meghna. The lilting music of the river, the starry town lights twinkling at a distance, and the gentle rhythm of the oars splashing in the waters, created indelible memories in the minds of Haroon, Jatindra and their wives.
Madhobi and Jatindra spent their youthful days in Utopian bliss where gossamer dreams were woven with the silken thread of longing. As the weather changed from spring to summer to monsoon, their connection, too, graduated from unfamiliarity and apprehension, to comfort and compatibility. A tender love tiptoed in and lit up their lives, drenching them both with its innocent charm and naivete. They were the most loved couple in the village, with their ‘happily ever after’ setting a new benchmark for youngsters.
The first red flags were noticed in August, 1946. The divisive politics of the British rulers had been trying to drive a wedge into the Hindu-Muslim brotherhood for several years now. The partition of the country was imminent. The sub-continent would be divided into Pakistan, India and East Pakistan (which housed Noakhali). Communal conflicts were reported from many parts but it never reared its ugly head in Noakhali. However, in mid-August, Calcutta (in India) reported widespread violence and killings, a direct fallout of which was noticed in the villages around Noakhali. Chandpur witnessed groups of Muslim men huddled together at the marketplace, outside the mosque and the madrasah, or even in playgrounds, discussing the overall political situation of Bengal, and planning survival strategies. Taking a cue, the Hindu community of Munimganj, too, amped up their surveillance and discussed retaliatory measures.
Two months elapsed. The pristine, blue skies of Noahkhali were overcast by the dark, ominous clouds of religious mistrust and resentment. The seamless movement of people between the two villages came to an abrupt halt. Trade transactions were halted. Chance meetings were marked by an awkward silence or a fumbled greeting before both parties hurriedly parted ways.
“I’m thinking of visiting Rashida,” Madhobi told Jatindra one pleasant October afternoon. “Kamala Maasi said she’s pregnant.”
“Oh really? That’s wonderful news,” Jatindra’s eyes lit up at the happy news of his dear friend. “They had been praying at the dargah for a year now!”
But his elation was short-lived. Almost immediately, he was reminded of the prevailing communal tension. Hence, visiting friends in this new vicious ecosystem was not entirely free of risk.
“So can we go tomorrow?” Madhobi persisted in a hopeful tone. She had really missed her friend, their long soul conversations, shared meals, the languid boat rides – all those little things that helped them graduate from being friends to family.
“I’m not sure, Madhobi. Will they welcome us like earlier times? More importantly, will their village heads like our intrusion?” Furrows bunched on young Jatindra’s forehead. “And our own folks here…won’t they take it as a breach of trust?”
“I feel you’re over-thinking. Believe me, nobody will object to it. Your friendship with Haroon is considered legendary in these parts. For all you know, our visit might mend the broken bridges. Munimganj and Chandpur might forge fresh bonds of kinship in these troubled times.”
Madhobi’s voice held such earnest, her eyes brimmed with such hope, that Jatindra couldn’t disappoint her. But he had one condition.
“I’ll make the first visit alone. If all goes well, we shall head there together next week.”
Reasonable enough, Madhobi thought, and readily agreed. The next morning, Jatindra touched his father’s feet and set off for Chandpur on his bicycle. Madhobi joined her palms in prayer for her husband’s safety.
The day wore on and the shadows grew longer. Jatindra hadn’t returned yet. His aged father stood at the entrance, leaning on his wooden cane. His unseeing eyes were transfixed on the narrow path ahead, waiting for a familiar voice or a known scent. If he remained stoically silent, it was only to spare his young daughter-in-law of any additional anxiety. On her part, Madhobi just couldn’t fathom the reason behind Jatindra’s inordinate delay in returning. To ward off her rising disquiet, she forced her mind to conjure some happy possibilities.
Has Rashida prepared her mouth-watering phirni for Jatindra? With a side of succulent lamb chops? Or have they gone boating down the river, fishing kit in tow? Maybe the grand old lady, Haroon’s mother, is narrating her childhood stories to Jatindra for the umpteenth time…the perfect listener that he is, armed with the right doses of empathy and patience!
It was around sunset when a blood-curdling cry emanated from nearby, accompanied by the rush of shuffling feet and several panic-stricken voices. Madhobi came out of the hut, primarily to check on her father-in-law and usher him indoors. But the sight that greeted her outside, brought her whole world crashing down in one brutal stroke!
Wrapped in a tattered jute sack lay Jatindra – motionless and stiff, eyes bulging out, with his body bearing multiple gashes, around which the blood had congealed. They were clearly the work of a sharp, serrated knife. His shirt was soaked in a crimson mix of blood and wet soil. Disjointed words floated into Madhobi’s ears from light years away — no sign of life…mired in mud beside the river…is this Haroon’s message to our village…weren’t he and Jatindra best friends…
Madhobi blinked incredulously. Initially she was in complete denial, and even refused to acknowledge his body.
Who is he? Not my Jatindra, for sure! Why are all these people crying? Baba, let’s go inside…
Finally, when the truth hit her, a rush of bile rose within her; a mishmash of distant voices eddied inside her brain till she could bear it no more! The ashen sky turned nebulous before her eyes, as her limp body collapsed in a heap.
The next few days passed in a blur. Government sepoys and the darogah came and went, impassively noting down details of the killing. The initial flow of relatives and neighbours gradually watered down to a trickle. An overbearing sense of trauma was weighing down on the entire populace of Noakhali which had been ravaged by communal violence. Homes were set afire. Crimes against women were at an all-time high. Gone was the gentle psithurism among the swaying, white kaash. Now the air smelt fetid, reeking of blood, betrayal and brutality.
Madhobi’s greatest concern was the failing health of her father-in-law. Here was a man with a broken spirit, whose face mirrored complete defeat. And just like that, one night, he tiptoed out of this world, unshackling her from everything that bound her to Munimganj.
Madhobi spent all her time indoors, trying to make sense of what happened. Haroon, their closest friend, turned out to be their cruellest foe. When did barriers inked on paper sunder living, beating hearts, she often wondered. Robbed of family, friends and resources, Madhobi now decided to recalibrate her life. The warrior in her refused to fade into oblivion without putting up a fight. She had nothing more to lose, after all!
Armed with a newly-minted confidence, Madhobi decided to relocate to Calcutta. She remembered how Jatindra call it the land of ‘revived opportunities and new beginnings.’ She knew nobody there, but was determined to push her luck. In the wake of the industrial revolution catalysed by the British, a flurry of philanthropic and socio-economic reforms was sweeping through Calcutta. Refugee camps had been set up specifically for the Hindu families fleeing East Pakistan.
A chance meeting with a villager revealed that a few families were leaving for Calcutta by a steamer on the coming new moon night. Given the carnage all around, this plan was a well-guarded secret. For Madhobi, it presented a golden opportunity. She kept her gold bangles handy, just in case she needed to ‘buy’ her freedom.
Around midnight, Madhobi gave a final, longing look at what had been her dream home for ten months now, before stepping out of it. The night was still. A rising symphony of cicada drowned the rustle of her saree brushing against the herbage. Carrying a small bundle of clothes and essentials, she hurried along the narrow, winding path towards the river.
The village of Chandpur was located on the way. Determined not to let her mind stray, Madhobi increased her pace and looked straight ahead. Suddenly, there was a movement in the bushes followed by a feeble cry, more like a whimper. She stopped dead in her tracks, too intimidated to examine the source of the sound. Diverse thoughts jettisoned across her mind.
Am I being followed? Was this all a ploy to trap me? Am I, too, destined to have a gruesome end, like Jatindra?
However, not one to give up so easily, Madhobi glanced sideways. Sprawled out among the dense undergrowth was a lady, her face half covered by her saree pallu. Emboldened a little, Madhobi drew closer and peeked at her face. If bewilderment had a human face, it would probably have Madhobi’s, at that moment.
“Rashida! Is it really you? What, on earth, are you doing here at this ungodly hour?” Madhobi’s voice was quaking, her heart hammering against her rib cage, a spontaneous feeling of concern washing over her. “Is Haroon nearby? I heard you were pregnant, so why are you outside now?!”
“Madhobi!” Rashida crawled out of the bushes, straight into Madhobi’s arms. “Thank god it’s you and not anyone else! I’m so glad I could meet you, Madhobi! There’s so much I wanted to say…” Rashida stopped, her lithe body racked with sobs. A few moments passed as both women hugged each other and cried. Drenched in a deluge of emotions, their tears felt cathartic.
Rashida was the first to speak. “Madhobi, I left home today…forever. I sneaked out after everyone retired for the night and have been hiding here since then, trying to figure a way out. Haroon has a meeting with his Muslim comrades. So, this was the only opportunity when I could escape.” Rashida’s words tumbled out in spurts.
Madhobi took a long, close look at her. Taking the cue, Rashida continued, “Yes Madhobi, I was pregnant…but not anymore. Once, in a fit of rage, Haroon hit me hard. My unborn child bore the brunt of Haroon’s violence.” The tears flowed unbridled down Rashida’s face. “That was the day I resolved to leave him. He is so consumed with rage; he appears diabolical at times. And strangely, his parents support him in this.”
Madhobi’s heart went out to her. In a different universe, they could well be soul sisters. But now, there was no time to lose. “So where do you plan to go from here?” she asked.
“I haven’t thought of that…I just wanted to get away from this toxic environment, where faith comes in the way of fraternity and friendship.” And then, she shot a strange question, “Madhobi, can I come with you?”
Madhobi’s first reaction was a resounding no! How could she take the wife of her husband’s assailant under her wings? Wasn’t this couple solely responsible for annihilating her happiness?
“Madhobi, please don’t punish me for my husband’s misdeeds. I had fallen at his feet to spare Jatin Bhai. But he called me a slut and shoved me away. Can’t we both begin a new life together?” Rashida’s voice was laced with such honesty that Madhobi couldn’t help but feel sorry for her.
Aren’t we two kindred souls, with a shared pool of sadness, floating aimlessly, trying to gain a toehold in this hostile universe? Is it destiny, then, that has brought us together again, so we can talk…share…and heal?
Madhobi made up her mind. She covered Rashida’s face fully with her saree. Holding her hand firmly, Madhobi weaved her way towards the river bank, in a last-ditch effort to reclaim and rebuild both their lives. The steamer was about to leave when they boarded it, fired with a steely resolve to cross the Rubicon.
The overcrowded steamer whirred to life, sailing across the swollen Meghna, towards Calcutta. Madhobi sat in silence, imbuing the warmth and solace of her new-found sisterhood with a woman who would be commonly considered her adversary. And finally, as the first sinuous ribbons of rose and gold peeked through the dark skies, the steamer reached its destination. Madhobi inhaled the crisp air – it smelt of freedom, and fresh possibilities.
Glossary:
Poila Boishaakh – Bangali New Year
maacher kaliya – spicy fish gravy
biriyani – a fragrant rice preparation
seviyan – sweet vermicelli
darogah – police constable
kaash – a long-stemmed white reed, commonly found alongside rivers in Bengal
pallu – the free end of a saree
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