The Truck to Bengal

The Truck to Bengal

By

Mariam Karim

(Published in the South Asian Review, USA)

     Nazrul crept into the makeshift shelter, bending his head low to avoid the clothes

hanging damply on the line in the small space. It was early dawn, and the smell of last night’s fish curry still lingered in the room. It made him feel he had come home. A cock crowed in the narrow lane, a dog’s sleepy bark turned into an apologetic yawn. Nazrul  lay down beside Yaseen, who slept heavily; he was about the same age as Nazrul, fourteen, only much taller and broader. He was also a master goldsmith. And all the boys were in awe of him. He could help them out with the most difficult pieces of jewelry.

   Nazrul was trembling despite the heat of the September morning. He was back, but he

was not home. A sudden hope had stirred in his breast when he had mounted the steps of

the rickety truck. Perhaps they would actually take him to the border of Bangladesh ...and

he would get to see his mother and sisters again, before he was brought back to India by

his employer’s men across the porous borders between the two countries.

     “Munna, Pappu, Raju, Pinky, Laloo!” A loud voce called.  The wake up call for many

nameless boys. They did not use their real names here…either false ones, or nicknames.

No one must know they were Muslims from Bangladesh.

   Not far from Sarraafa Bazaar, Meerut’s gold souk, the area famed for its delicate gold filigree work, the only of its kind  done in India…not far down a few narrow streets -- is one even narrower, from which  emanates the smell of fish : the Bangladeshi hideout. The Bangladeshi style of working gold is delicate, much in demand in the gold market, among the sophisticated as well as the bulk-buying Baniya community.

    Ravinder Sarraaf sat in his shop surrounded by clients. Fat men and women leaned

over the counters, contemplating necklaces, earrings, girdles, more for the shine than for

the workmanship, Ravinder knew. Ravinder knew many things, but they were things

which must never be spoken aloud. Could he tell the lady with the painted mouth

chewing betel nut that she had bad taste? No, he catered to bad taste. But he knew what

good taste was. He had studied the art of diamond-setting in France, and seen the

museum of Mycenaean jewelry in Athens.  But in these narrow streets where he had

grown up, where he would grow old, these thick, unwieldy rings and earlobe-wrecking

danglers must pass through his hands again and again, until he became inured to their

ugliness and like his clients saw only the size of the lumps of gold.

    For his discerning customers, however, he had a small upstairs sitting room…fine filigree work appeared there along with Coca Cola on silver trays…gold sets lying in blue and red velvet boxes encrusted with pearls and rubies and sapphires, intricate designs, lovingly drawn out from the same metal used to make the thick, rough patterns of the downstairs showroom…

    Ravinder kept many secrets in his heart, some open secrets, but which were never

uttered: one such secret was the narrow sloping lane with the clotheslines across it, the odour of fish frying in mustard oil, and of curries, perpetually winding itself about the lines, telling tales of another clime; the sounds of another tongue, boys calling to each other, laughing,  sometimes squabbling, teasing, in Bengali.

     The residents of the legal Bengali settlement at Durgabaari, (Abode of the Goddess)

would never visit this lane. No one would come to know of it, or if they did, by accident,

they would choose to forget it: Ravinder Sarraaf knew what he was doing. It was his

responsibility. Why interfere in his work? He was an honourable citizen. He was, in fact

so honourable, that he advocated a picture of the cow be printed on the inner cover of

every school text book—the cow, the mother, the symbol of Hinduism. So honourable,

that although his shop was near the “Chhatta”, the Hornets Nest, the hotbed of Muslim

fundamentalists, he could walk across it without fear. Most people cringed before the

arched stone gateway…they said cows were slaughtered here in household yards, and

their uneaten remains buried so no one would know. Every man emerging from there

with a beard and prayer cap was dangerous; every burqa clad woman slipping in or out

was suspect.  Every communal riot began and ended at the Chhatta.

      But a crease knit Ravinder’s brow as he sat with his fat clients, serving them fizzy drinks and laying out case after case of  trinkets for their perusal, for he had heard of

Nazrul’s disappearance. He was anxious. He had allowed the boy to go up to Noida, an

hour- and- a - half by bus from Meerut. The boy had an aunt in a village near the town, an

urban village. He normally visited her and returned the very next day. He was normally

discreet. Called himself Pappu, or by some Hindu name. Always came back on time.

    At this very moment, however, a crowd of boys was standing around the supine

Nazrul, all of them talking at the same time, asking questions but getting no answers.

Later, later, pleaded the boy. They left him, finally, for they had to get to work, in another

narrow lane not far from Ravinder’s showroom.  The boys passed through winding

streets where people performed their morning ablutions, spitting into the drains with loud

hawking noises. A small naked child defecated near a drunken beggar who was feeding a

dog.  A little girl of about five sat on her haunches scouring utensils outside her home.

She looked distractedly around, and hummed a film song as her tiny hands worked away

inside the metal pans. Every morning similar scenes greeted the boys’ eyes as they made

their way to their place of work.

    You might think there was nothing there, for in a low - ceilinged barrack smelling of sal ammoniac, borax and melting lac, hidden behind tarpaulins and plastic sheeting used as curtains to conceal them, worked at least thirty boys aged between twelve and eighteen, masters of their craft, makers of gold filigree work, the special designs of Bangladesh.

    Cleverly smuggled in across the borders by the sarraafs , the jewelers, the young

goldsmiths worked day and many a night in the crowded, airless  barrack, too hot in

summer and too cold in winter, motherless, familyless, without play or schooling, mouths

to their blowglasses,  for a monthly salary of four thousand rupees, which  was sent home

to their parents back in Bangladesh… and part of which was eaten up by the middlemen.

     When the other boys had gone, Nazrul drew a sheet over his eyes and lay still. He felt

as though he were still jolting along in the beating rain in the truck, the cold metal

banging against his thin back, the wails of the women ringing in his ears. Someone

singing Nazrulgeeti:  “Modhukor monjeero bajey”.  Nazrul’s mother had given him that

name after the great poet and writer of Bengal, Kazi Nazrul Islam.

       A terrible anguish raged through him, like a storm. What would he tell Chonda when

she returned? Could he ever face her again?  Would Maashimaa and her husband be able

to come back? They had given him their hundred-rupee note….perhaps it was the only

one they had…how would they have managed to eat during the arduous journey?

       It had been a perfectly routine visit to his aunt’s. He had done it before, a number of

times, in the past two years that he had been employed by the Indian jeweler. His aunt,

Maashima , as he called her ,was not really his aunt at all, but had been his  grandfather’s

neighbor in Khulna before they had left for India, driven by hunger and homelessness. Mashimaa’s family did not possess a talent or a craft, they were plain daily wagers, and

work was scarce. So was food. They left for India, paying off security on both sides with

whatever they had, concealing themselves by day and traveling by night under false

names. It wasn’t that difficult, they had to go into West Bengal, and they would speak in

Bengali, which is almost the same on either side of the border.  After that the passage to

Delhi was exhausting, but safe.

      Nazrul had, of course been brought by the jewelers’ middlemen, quite boldly, with

the other boys, with false papers in case of detection. Their families had been given an

advance, and money was sent to them regularly. It wasn’t such a bad deal after all. They

would have had to work anywhere, for they had to practice their trade, and getting to

Dhaka and finding a place for oneself in the jewelry market was not an easy task. Hiding

wasn’t such fun, though. Living under false names, pretending they had family in West

Bengal, pretending to be Hindus so that they could remain unnoticed, all of it took a toll.

Eid came and went, and they celebrated quietly while the others in Meerut rejoiced openly, lighting up their homes and streets with little electric lamps, going to the mosque

in spotless white dresses with their families, while the little lost boys of Neverneverland

looked on, depending for happiness on the gifts given to them by Ravinder, and the

sweetmeats made by the few women who inhabited their settlement.

   

    

Yes, it had been an ordinary visit to Maashimaa’s in the village.

     It was a balmy September morning, and when he awoke he could see Chonda, the young wife of the neighbour, hanging clothes out to dry on the terrace. She saw him looking at her and smiled warmly. Her hair was billowing in the wind and her round, smooth face was full of sleep and gentleness. Her teeth were perfect when she smiled. Nazrul had a bit of a crush on her. She would sometimes come for a chat when Nazrul was there. She was more his age than her husband’s who must have been in his late twenties. They would play Ludo or Snakes and Ladders, and she would laugh at Nazrul’s  rough Bangladeshi accent. She was from West Bengal, and her language was more refined, she insisted.

       It was about five in the morning. Maashimaa had made him some kheer with milk she had bought specially. Maashimaa’s children were grown up and on their own.  She liked mothering Nazrul when he came to visit. The neighbours made much of him too, because they liked Maashimaa. There were many Bengalis, both from India and Bangladesh, both Hindu and Muslim, living in that area, in rented rooms around small yards, some cemented; the bathrooms and toilets had to be shared by several families, but the water supply was uninterrupted, so it wasn’t difficult. The terraces were open and a good place to dry clothes, to sun pickles, red chillis, lentils, fish. The poorer refugees lived with other poor in a hutment area down the Dadri highway, in makeshift homes of cardboard, discarded plywood and plastic.

    Nazrul was just sitting down to eat his kheer when the rumble of wheels, the revving of

engines, and the shouting of men broke the peace of the morning. Dust rose in the cool

morning sky as two trucks came down the dirt road towards the settlement. The residents

ran up to the terraces to look: there were policemen in a jeep and a few official looking

men in plain clothes and dark glasses, with long sheets of paper, looking very busy. The

policemen had thick sticks in their hands and they shouted out that the Bangladeshis had ten minutes to collect their belongings and get into the trucks—they were to be deported to Bangladesh.

    “They had said this would happen,” said Maashimaa, her voice trembling, “but so

soon!”

    Nazrul saw Chonda race wildly down the stairs –her husband Prokash was running a

high fever, she cried.

    “What should I do, Maashimaa? “ Nazrul asked, suddenly lost.

    “Run, Nazrul, run back to Meerut, and don’t tell anyone you real name!” she said.

“They will take us to the border, then let us go. We will make our way back. You run!”

    Nazrul put on his slippers and shot towards the only door of the yard, but as he stepped

out his arm was caught by a hefty policeman, who grimaced and waved his stick at him.

“Where are you going Bengali pup? Trying to get away? Get into that truck!” He pointed

to a truck that was filling quickly with Bengalis under the surveillance of the armed

policemen. A man sitting on a three legged stool with a list kept calling out names,

writing in others, yelling orders, abusing, and laughing mockingly from time to time.

      An old bent woman in a dirty white sari fought tooth and nail as they tried to shove

her into the truck.   “Ami Bangladeshi nai!” she cried over and over.  I am not a Bangladeshi. She said she was from Midnapore. “ Amar jaati Hindu!” I am a Hindu. But she had no papers to show them, they were with her son, she said.

   

     The men laughed. “Bhenchod Bangalis!” one of them said – sister-fucking Bengalis

what did it matter if they were from Bangladesh or not? Hindu or Muslim?  Who was to

tell?    They had to clear the area of refugees, and numbers were important. How many they had deported. They would be handsomely rewarded. Who had the time to check their credentials? Figures were all they needed. All Bengalis better go back to Bengal, this side or that side of the border did not matter to the North Indians.

      For more than an hour the mounting carried on. Babies cried, men fought and were

beaten, women cursed and wept alternately, the dust rose higher as the sun rose, dogs

barked, and there was no one to see, no one to help, no one to appeal to, as the two trucks

filled with human beings, as the sheets filled with names and numbers…..that would tell

how many refugees had been sent back from the National Capital Region, enough to

satisfy the rightist elite who insisted the Bangaldeshis  were eating into India’s funds, being firstly Muslims, then on top of that, Bengali! Whether they had come during or after the Partition was also immaterial to these people.

    Luckily for Nazrul , Maashimaa and her husband were bundled into the truck he was

in. Maashimaa clambered on, cursing the policemen roundly, cursing their children and

the children of their children. How would there be enough water for them all? How long

would it take? How would they eat? How would they attend to natures call?

    Chonda , too, came into their truck , supporting her sick husband . Nazrul saw her face

was streaked with tears. A policeman slapped her chubby bottoms as she mounted,

helping Prokash, who looked delirious. At this the bent woman in the white sari let out a

stream of invective at the policeman who laughed devilishly.

    At last the two trucks started out, sucking in dust off the track and spraying it liberally

over the occupants. The trucks were to take different routes. The policemen and the white

clad men with dark glasses were left behind. Some strongmen with lathis were to

accompany them to the border.  As the truck drew out onto the main highway, the wails

and cries suddenly stopped. A hush fell like a blanket over the occupants. All one could

hear was the roar and the beeping of the traffic on the highway. It was strange, but all the

people seemed to be looking inward, very far away… at this abrupt end to their

precariously constructed lives, their dreams, their hopes of a future. Their heads were

bowed before the injustice of it all. The ones who were actually Partition refugees had no

domicile certificates, and could be treated as infiltrators as well. And the infiltrators, too,

were human after all….and could not be treated like cattle.

         It began to drizzle, the last of the monsoon showers. The rain fell over the roof of    

the truck, and as the drops fell faster a drumming filled the truck, a familiar drumming,

that quieted everyone’s thoughts, and lulled them into a kind of stupor.

      From somewhere in that heap of crushed humanity a voice rose above the din of the

rain: “Modhukor monjeero bajey”.  A few weak voices joined in, among them that of

Nazrul, the boy named after the poet. What would the poet have said had he seen this

condition of his people? The poet Kazi Nazrul Islam, who had said at Albert Hall : "To

those who complain why I'm not like them: Does the nightingale's songs belong to

anyone? Can you call wild flowers your own? Just because I was born into a certain

community or society doesn't mean it owns me. I belong to the world and all its corners.

I'm a devotee of eternal radiance and because I can rise above petty communalism, I'm a

poet."

    The poet who had said :

“I sing the song of equality, in unison

Where all the differences and barriers are gone.

United where, the Hindus-Buddhist, Muslim-Christian

I sing the song of equality, in unison.”

       And the people in the truck sang too. The songs they sang appeased their outrage. As

did the rain, caressing away their pain. Where was equality? Where was unison? They

may belong to the world, they thought, but did any part of the world belong to them? The

motion of the truck, too, mollified their anger, changed it into a kind of acceptance.

      Only Chonda seemed distraught. Prokash’s fever had risen again. He moaned and

asked for water time and time again. On either side of the road were houses and shops,

and finally the truck stopped at a small teashop on the outskirts of a village, and they

were allowed to go one by one into the fields to relieve themselves, or to buy tea and

biscuits at the shop. The man with the stick who sat at the back with them took a few

hundred rupees off some of the men, and let them make off into the fields. Nazrul

watched terrified, as he huddled close to Maashimaa, who said they did not have the

money to buy their freedom. “We will return later,” she said bravely.

     The rain had stopped completely. Sundown seemed to come quickly, as they were

traveling eastwards, and the condition of Chonda’s husband worsened. They had laid him

out on the floor of the truck and the others made place for him to be comfortable. He had

refused all food and drink. He mumbled deliriously and called out for his mother. The old

bent woman put her hand on his brow and began to chant a mantra.  He was quiet for a

while, then began moaning again. He turned from side to side as the moving truck jolted

his fevered body.

     Nazrul looked at Chonda sitting so still beside the prostrate man, her eyes terrified, her

lips sucked inward in fear and anxiety. Was she the same happy girl he had always met,

played Ludo with? The same girl who laughed at his rough accent? She caught him

looking at her, and tears sprang into her eyes.

       There was another stop. The darkness was thick and insects called from the

surrounding fields. Tea went around. Prokash again refused to let anything but water

pass his lips.  The driver and the conductor-cum-guard were talking in whispers.  The

driver came around to take a look at Prokash. He shook his head.

     “We can’t take him any further. Let’s put him down here in the field. We can say one

died. But we can’t have his body on us. That would be too risky.” Chonda heard and let

out a terrible scream. One of the men caught her mouth and the other two pulled Prokash

out of the truck. The Bengalis in the truck tried to stop them, but they had a gun, and

knives. They put the sick man down by the side of the road, and the engines sprang back

to life. Chonda struggled and fought, but the men held her. Maashimaa undid a knot in

the loose end of her sari—she pulled out a hundred-rupee note from it  ,quickly put it into

Nazrul’s palm and closed his fingers over it. To the driver she said, “Wait, wait, I have to

go to the field! Have pity on an old woman”.  To Nazrul she whispered, “Jump out if you

can when I have gone. Don’t let them see you. Your uncle will hide you –he will stand in

front when you jump…try, try. Be silent. Go, save Prokash. Take him back. I know you

can do it. “

     The driver cursed, but let Maashimaa go. Her husband stood in front of Nazrul and the

slim, lithe child slipped out, unseen in the dark. He ran, concealed by the truck’s body,

towards the elephant grass growing just off the road.   He hid himself in the prickly grass

that cut his skin. He saw Maashimaa return to the truck, slowly, while the driver and the

guard both cursed her loudly. He waited in the grass – the engine revved and the vehicle

started with a groan. Soon it was far away, disappearing down the road into the distance,

two tiny red lights.

        Nazrul was trembling violently. He emerged from his hideout and set about looking

for Prokash—it was so dark he had to wait for a vehicle to pass to be able to see anything

at all---he finally found him by the headlights of a passing car, lying quite still, his eyes

closed, his hands folded over his chest, as if in prayer.    Nazrul felt for his pulse….

***