Sunday 30 September 2012

Kothopokothon 1/11 - Purnendu Patri



পূর্ণেন্দু পত্রী
 পূর্ণেন্দু পত্রী - উইকিপিডিয়া

পূর্ণেন্দু পত্রী | কবিতার খাতা


Published on Sep 30, 2012 by
Recitation: Anjuman Ara & Shafiqul Islam Bahar
Album: Premer Kobita - 2
Courtesy of Dawn Music
&
Preetilata Prokashoni

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Standard YouTube License


পূর্ণেন্দু পত্রী
Photo Courtesy of: http://priyokobita.wordpress.com/tag/he/
আবৃত্তি ::
আঞ্জুমান আরা ও শফিকুল ইসলাম বাহার

১৯৯৪ (?)

Saturday 22 September 2012

Tuli Had a Dream



Mizan Rahman

It’s final. Tuli’s marriage has been all arranged. The boy is the son of the older brother-in-law of the youngest sister-in-law of her aunt in Bradford. Good boy. Good pedigree. Owns a lot of property. Family is widely known over the entire region. Even the District Magistrate bows in respect to his father, who went to the holy pilgrimage, not once but twice. They built a mosque on the premises of the family home, that has a cemented floor and corrugated tin roof and walls. You won’t have a better family as your in-laws’ place----you will have to be born with the luck of a princess to get to marry a son there.
Everyone in the family has been notified-----wherever in the world one may be. The eldest maternal uncle in Detroit has sent his blessings. Her uncle Sultan in Los Angeles said: congratulations. Great news. Uncle Qurban has sent word from  Montreal thanking Allah for her good fortune. All the elders back home in Bangladesh have sent their blessings and warm wishes. Tuli’s father is happy, as is her mother. Everybody knows about Tuli’s marriage.
Except Tuli herself!
Her parents made a calculated decision that the news need not be given to Tuli just yet. Her exams are near. It’s the final exam in her 11th grade. Poor girl is keeping late at night to prepare for it. Let her. It will only disrupt her mind if you raise the issue at this time. After all, she isn’t quite adult yet-----will be seventeen in two months. Still now she behaves like a child sometimes. Fights with her younger brothers. Sulks over birthday presents that didn’t meet her expectations. Can’t go to sleep without her teddy bear in her hands. Her mother tried a few times to take it away after she closed her eyes. But she would immediately wake up and ask for her teddy. So you see how difficult it would be to give her the news of her marriage right now.
Unfortunately she was far from an underage child-like girl in her physical size. On the contrary. Quite a stout full-grown young lady, as a matter of fact. Both in height and width. Puffy cheeks and overgrown breasts. No one will say she is only 16! Looks more like a 20 or 21- yr old. In body size, at least, she has taken after her mother’s side. Apparently her maternal grandmother was quite a robust lady also, towering over her grandfather by about a foot. In breadth as well. It was more out of concern for her unusual size that her parents were so anxious to find a suitable boy as soon as possible. Or else, they feared, no one might come forward to take her as a bride. One can’t ignore the reality that not too many eligible young Muslim men are here in this foreign land who would want to marry this not-too-attractive daughter of theirs.
Tuli. Quite a pretty name. Not her official name, though. Her official, or real name is Shaukat Ara Khatun. The nickname ‘Tuli’ was chosen by her youngest aunt (on the father’s side), who had once been a college student. One can surmise that the choice of Tuli had a college flavor. The aunt had a secret hobby----to paint portraits and landscapes with paint and brush. Behind the curtain, of course, where nobody is looking. In that house it was forbidden to draw any picture, or to sing, or listen to any radio or gramophone music----an ultraconservative  Muslim family. So she would wait till everybody went to bed to light her dim kerosene lamp and her paint-and-brush kit, to start doing the stuff she loved so much. In the morning, before day-break, she would try to hide her work in a wooden chest. When Tuli was born she pleaded with her brother to let her choose a name for her new-born niece. Her choice of ‘Tuli’ was unacceptable to everyone in the family-----her parents and grandparents alike. Because it had a ‘Hindu’ sound. It wasn’t Islamic. But Tuli’s father had a very soft corner for his little sister since she was a baby-----always protecting her from their parents’ wrath and punishment. He was well aware of his sister’s weakness for a little painting, but shielded it from others as a shared secret between the little sister and a much older brother. He pleaded on her behalf to withhold her marriage till she got into an art college----but to no avail. His pleading and her loud protestations didn’t do any good----the inevitable couldn’t be stopped. In those days girls from respectable Muslim families wouldn’t think of going to an art school. That was absolutely out of question. All the loving brother could do is to give her a lot of gold jewelry at the wedding. It was just about the time of Independence. He didn’t actively participate in the war, but he had implicit sympathy for the freedom fighters----even though the family was leaning on the side of Pakistan.
This is the same man, Tuli’s father, who is anything but the same liberal man he was before. Yet he didn’t object much to the suggestion of his little sister-----a Hindu-sounding name, notwithstanding. Nicknames really didn’t matter, right? Real names are the only real thing.
Tuli likes her name a lot. It is easy. It is simple. And it is sad. It has the tears of her aunt, her broken dreams. The name is modern. Her nickname is about the only ‘modern’ thing in her life. She can’t play volleyball or basketball in school grounds like her friends do, can’t go to the movies on weekends with her friends like the other girls do, can’t even listen to the pop music like the others of her age do. These are strictly forbidden stuff for her. Her father doesn’t even like her picture in the school yearbook. She started wearing the baggy shalwar-kamij and hijab since she was ten. Her friends in school would make fun of her. They would ask, mockingly: did you lose your hair, Tuli? She hates the thing. Especially in the heat of summer. But she had no choice----no hijab, no school. They threatened to send her ‘home’ (meaning Bangladesh, of course) if she continued to balk at wearing the hijab. So she continues wearing the stuff she hates. The only thing she hates more is being sent back ‘home’, which for her would be an exile.
Tuli is not a very good-looking girl. She is dark-skinned. She is bulky if not fat. She   is big. But none of these mattered to the groom’s parents. They didn’t come with the marriage proposal because of her looks, but in spite of her looks. Her passport was far more important than what she looked like. The passport had the seal of the United States of America, and that is all that mattered. She can board a plane in New York and fly to Bangladesh anytime she wants, and come back to New York anytime she pleases. Her real face is her passport-----her most important quality. No other quality is needed for marriage with that precious son of the older brother-in-law of the youngest sister-in-law of her aunt at Bradford, because this would mean freedom for him too to fly to New York whenever he pleases, and fly back whenever he wants. Tuli’s passport would mean his passport. Girls like Tuli didn’t need any other qualities----they are born as suitable girls. Rumor has it that the groom’s family had completed a land transfer deal with Tuli’s father for a considerable chunk of property in Uttora. They also agreed to hand over the keys of a fashionable new home in Sylhet once the wedding is over. Quite a handsome deal in lieu of a not-too-good-looking 16-yr old girl, wouldn’t you say?
So they decided to keep the news from her till the very end. All they told her was that they were going to go for a family vacation to Sylhet once her exams are over. For as long as two months, maybe more. Tuli loves going ‘home’ for a visit. Especially to be with her mother’s folks. Her maternal grandfather and her aunts and uncles simply dote over her. That is about the only place on earth where she can really be herself, let her emotions fly free, and enjoy all the freedoms she craves for. The rules there are not half as stringent as they are in her home in New York. At her grandpa’s house she is allowed to climb a berry-tree to pick as many berries as she wants, can horse around with her cousins, male or female, play ludu or carom till midnight if she pleases. The grandpa is a pretty religious man, but doesn’t like imposing his faith on others. He dislikes the coercions and excesses. He goes to the mosques to listen to the sermons, but will not invite the Mullahs home to do any preaching. Pretty modern and surprisingly tolerant for an elderly man in a conservative society. Tuli used to swim in a family pond even a couple of years ago. Played with the cousins in the water. Her mamabari  was the only place where she could be a child again. That’s why she got excited when she heard about going home after the exams.
This time, though, it was going to be different. Her father had already decided that her visits to his in-laws’ place isn’t going to be allowed anymore. It’s not just that she is going to be married away soon, but he never really liked the ways of their lax living. It wasn’t the right environment for children to grow up, he thought. Too liberal for his liking. Tuli isn’t a little girl anymore. Going to be seventeen in a couple of months. More importantly, going to married soon. God willing, her wedding is set for July 10. That is firm----everybody knows that. Except Tuli, of course. If the word goes out that the bride still goes for a dip in outdoor waters then all hell will break loose. The wedding is going to be cancelled, and along with it will go the land deal at Uttora and the new home in Sylhet. If she wants to go after her marriage with her husband’s permission, well, that’s not going to be his business anymore, will it? However, this decision of his has also been kept from Tuli for the time being, and for her own good. So the poor girl kept fantasizing about all the things she would do at her grandpa’s house this time.
Tuli is a dreamer. A habitual dreamer. She loves to let her imagination fly like a kite in the sky. All kinds of crazy ideas she keeps weaving in her mind. She dreams of riding a bicycle to the Central Park with her friends for a Michael Jackson concert. She dreams to go for a sleep-over at the house of her Colombian friend in school. The two of them have become best friends over the years. The friend had asked her so many times. We shall spend the whole night talking and talking. Next day we’ll sleep till 12 noon. Then my mother will come to wake us up with a tray full of homemade Colombian pancakes and freshly brewed coffee. We’ll have a lot of fun. No doubt about it---a lot of fun. How could she tell her friend what an impossible dream it was. She dreams she would go to a Sunday afternoon movie with the Panamanian boy in her class. Poor boy had pleaded with her so many times. Yes, she would love to go to a movie now and then, eat popcorn with hot butter on, like all the other boys and girls in this country. But Tuli doesn’t belong in this country, she only lives here. How could she explain that to Rozario? She likes the chap very much. They are not just in the same class, but also in the same Chemistry lab. Their desks are side by side. They help each other doing their lab work. If Tuli drops a test tube accidentally on the floor he will rush to pick up the pieces and clean the floor for her. He will give her a flower and a birthday card on her birthdays. The boys in the class will whistle at them, the girls will wink meaningfully. Tuli blushes furiously. Gets angry at Rozario. There was no need to bring the flower in clear view of everybody in the class. It’s only a birthday, right? You didn’t have to be so brazenly open, did you? She gets pretty rough on the poor kid. Yet, she takes the flower in her hand and puts away in her locker----as if it was the most precious thing anyone ever gave her. She knows she can’t possibly take it home-----she wouldn’t dare, unless she cooked up a phony tale. The home she lives in is not where she can take a flower given by a loving boy on her birthday. So she lies in her bed closing her eyes dreaming away the wistful night. Dreams her crazy dreams. With Rozario in her thoughts.
 Tuli’s dream is to be a doctor. Or a top researcher in animal studies----perhaps Microbiology. She is the top student in her Biology class. She scored almost full marks in her term tests. And 96% in Chemistry. Her Biology teacher thinks she should aim at going to Harvard or Princeton for her college education. You should go to a big school if you want to have a big career. The teacher has full confidence in Tuli’s ability to do well enough to earn a scholarship in one of the top schools in the US. Tuli herself would like to pursue a research career in some area of Biology. Genetic Biology is one area that she finds most attractive. She keeps up with modern literature on genetics as much as she can. Her dream is to work under a Nobel Prize winning Biologist. Her Biology teacher has told her that with hard work she can achieve anything she wants. What is just a dream today will become a reality tomorrow.
What the Biology teacher wouldn’t know, however, is that there is another reality, a very stark reality, in the home of an orthodox Bangladeshi family, be it in Bangladesh or in the US. She wouldn’t know that there are things in life that are much more difficult to surmount than win a Nobel Prize for her 16-yr old top student. She wouldn’t know that the poor girl would be married away on July 10 to the son of the older brother-in-law of the youngest sister-in-law of Tuli’s aunt who lives in Bradford. She would have no way of knowing that the news of the imminent marriage is yet to be broken to the bride-to-be girl who she thought could win big scholarships at big schools in the country. Nobody thought it was necessary. Tuli’s opinions? Or consent? That would be quite irrelevant. Girls’ consent is not an essential thing in where Tuli’s family comes from. Before  the wedding her father’s consent is her consent. After the wedding it will be her husband’s  consent that will be deemed as her consent. If, God forbid, her husband dies before she does, then her son’s consent will be hers, too.
So let the girl dream away as much as she wants. That’s all she has as her own. That’s all she owns. And that young man on the other side of the globe, that boy has a dream too. His dream, however, is going to come true. How can a man’s dream come true until a girl’s dream gets shattered?

11 Sept.’12
Staten Island, NY, 10314
 (Translated by the author from his Bengali article : “Tuli’s Shapna”, written Jan 10, 2001and published in various Bengali magazines.)


Mizan Rahman
মীজান রহমান 

Dotalai Landing by Ahsan Habib

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Published on Sep 3, 2012 by
Recitation: Anjuman Ara & Shafiqul Islam Bahar
Album: Premer Kobita - 2
Courtesy of Dawn Music
Dhaka
c1994



আবৃত্তি ::
আঞ্জুমান আরা ও শফিকুল ইসলাম বাহার

১৯৯৪ (?)

আহসান হাবীব

আহসান হাবীব (কবি) - উইকিপিডিয়া

Sunday 16 September 2012

যাযাবর নারী



                   নাজনীন সীমন
যাযাবর শব্দের অর্থ যাদের নির্দিষ্ট থাকার জায়গা নেই, খাদ্যের সন্ধানে মূলত যারা একস্হান থেকে অন্য স্হানে ক্ষণস্হায়ী বসত গাড়ে এবং খাবারের সংস্হান করতেই আবার পথে নামে। লোহা ও ব্রোন্জ ধাতুর আবিষ্কার এবং কৃষিকাজে সম্পৃক্ত হবার আগ পর্যন্ত মানুষ যাযাবরই ছিলো। পশু শিকার করে চলতো তাদের জীবন; তাই তাদের পেছনেই বলা চলে চলতো এদের যাযাবর জীবন। নারীর জীবনের সাথে মানবেতিহাসের সে সময়টার অদ্ভুত এক মিল রয়েছে। বর্তমানে পশ্চিমের উন্নত দেশগুলোর সাথে অতোটা না হলেও এখন পর্যন্ত প্রাচ্যের বেশীর ভাগ দেশে এ সাযুজ্য ভীষণ ভাবে চোখে খোঁচা দেয়।
পূর্বেকার মতো এখন মেয়ে সন্তান জন্ম নিলে পরিবারের সবার মুখ অতোটা ছাইবর্ণ ধারণ করে না, মায়ের উপর অত্যাচার শুরু হয়না, বা কন্যা সন্তানকে লেখাপড়া থেকে বঞ্চিত করা হয় না। বেশীর ভাগ জায়গায় বাল্যবিবাহ আইন করে বন্ধ করা হয়েছে। বর্তমানে উচ্চ শিক্ষায় শিক্ষিত হয়ে মেয়েরাও তাদের অবস্হান তৈরী করে নিতে পারছে যেটা অত্যন্ত সুখকর যদিও বলা বাহুল্য এখন পর্যন্ত উল্লেখযোগ্য সংখ্যক নারী বিয়ের পর বেছে নেন কেবল সংসার জীবন অথবা বাধ্য হন তা করতে। তবে যে পরিবর্তন এখনো আসেনি, সেটি হোল বিয়ে প্রথা এবং বিয়ের পরবর্তী সময়ে বধূরুপী নারীর জীবন যাপন পদ্ধতি। বিয়ের সময় এখনো কন্যার পিতা, পিতার অবর্তমানে পরিবারের শীর্ষস্হানীয় অন্য কেউ, অধিকাংশ ক্ষেত্রে পুরুষাত্নীয় সম্প্রদান বা হাওলা করে দেন তাদের মেয়েকে নতুন জামাইয়ের হাতে অর্থাৎ তার দেখভালের দায়িত্ব হস্তান্তরিত হয়, সাথে তার ভরণ পোষণের দায়িত্বেরও হাত বদল হয়। এ দায়িত্ব সকল পুরুষ যে সঠিকভাবে করেন, তা অবশ্যই নয়। তবে এভাবেই শুরু হয় নারীর যাযাবর জীবন।
শিশু জন্মের পর বেড়ে ওঠে মা বাবার সাথে অর্থাৎ বাবার সংসারে যেহেতু বাবাই হর্তাকর্তা বেশীর ভাগ ক্ষেত্রে। বাবাই নিশ্চিত করেন তার মাথার উপরের ছাদ, পরনের বস্ত্র, শিক্ষা, চিকিৎসা, এবং সর্বোপরি খাদ্য। মা অর্থ সংস্হানে নিয়োজিত থাকলেও নগণ্য কিছু ব্যতিক্রম ভিন্ন পিতাই দণ্ডমুণ্ডের কর্তা থাকেন। কন্যাটি বড় হতে থাকে অসংখ্য বাধা বিপত্তি কটুক্তি এবং পারিবারিক ভয় ভীতি আশন্কা পেরিয়ে। ভয়ের প্রথম কারণ, কন্যার জন্য যদি পারিবারিক মান সম্মান বিঘ্নিত হয়; দ্বিতীয়টি হোল এ কন্যাদায় থেকে  মুক্তিচিন্তা অর্থাৎ তাকে কিভাবে ‘সৎ’ পাত্রস্হ করা সম্ভব তথা একটি ‘উপযুক্ত’ ছেলের হাতে তার যাবতীয় দায়িত্ব কোন উপায়ে সুষ্ঠুভাবে হস্তান্তর করা যায় সে ভাবনা।
আর এই দায়িত্ব বদলের মধ্য দিয়ে শুরু হয় নারীর যাযাবর জীবনের দ্বিতীয় অধ্যায়; প্রথম অধ্যায় তথা পিতৃগৃহ অধ্যায় সুপ্ত থাকে। অসংখ্য বিষয়ের উপর নির্ভর করে এর পরের জীবন কোন দিকে ধাবমান হবে এই নতুন চলার পথ। কেউ যদি সুগৃহিণী, সুমাতা হিসেবে নিজেকে প্রতিষ্ঠিত করতে পারেন, ধৈর্য্য সহ্যের গভীর সাগর হতে পারেন, কানে তুলো পিঠে কুলো মুখে ঠুলি সম্মান বোধের দরজায় তালা লাগিয়ে থাকতে পারেন, তো তিনি তার সংসারে স্হায়ী বাসিন্দা হতে পারেন। অন্যথায় বিচ্ছেদ ঘটিয়ে তাঁকে পথে নামতে হবে আবার নতুন ঠিকানার সন্ধানে। আর এই খোঁজার নিমিত্তে তাঁর অস্হায়ী ঘাঁটি পিত্রালয়। সেখান থেকেই রচিত হয় তাঁর নতুন বাসস্হানের ঠিকানা। আবার বিয়ের পর কোন নারী যদি বিধবা হন, সে ক্ষেত্রেও বেশীর ভাগ সময়ে তাঁকে থাকার নতুন জায়গা খুঁজতে হয়।
বিধবা হয়ে নারীর যাযাবর জীবনের পুনরাবৃত্তির আবার একাধিক ভাগ রয়েছে: তিনি মৃত স্বামীর সংসারেই গলার কাঁটা হয়ে থাকতে পারেন নিগৃহীত হয়ে, পিতার সংসারে ফিরে এসে ভাই বউয়ের জন্য বিষফোঁড়া হয়ে, পুনর্বিবাহ করলে নতুন স্বামীর বাড়ী, নিজের পুত্র সন্তান থাকলে সে বড় হবার পর তার ঘর, একাধিক পুত্র সন্তান থাকলে পালাক্রমে প্রত্যেকের ঘর হতে পারে তাঁর থাকার জায়গা। এটিও নির্ভর করছে সন্তানের আর্থিক সঙ্গতি, পুত্রবধুর (ক্ষেত্রবিশেষে) ইচ্ছের উপর। আবার নারী যদি ‘পরকীয়া’ সম্পর্কে জড়িত হন, তবে তাঁর বাড়ী আবার বদলে যায় এ সম্পর্কের চূড়ান্ত বাস্তবায়ন ঘটাতে গিয়েতাই নারী প্রকৃত অর্থে কখনো খোলা মনে বলতে পারেন না, “আমার বাড়ী”। বাড়ীটি আসলে হয়তো ‘বাবার বাড়ী’, নয়তো ‘ভাইয়ের বাড়ী’, অথবা ‘স্বামীর বাড়ী’, কিংবা ‘শ্বশুর বাড়ী’। যেহেতু তাঁর নিজস্ব কোনো ঠিকানা থাকেনা, তাই বিবাহ পরবর্তী সময়ে দেখা যায় রাগ বা অভিমান করে স্বামীর বাড়ী থেকে বাবার বাড়ী ছুটে যান।
নারীর যে নিজের কোনো বাড়ী নেই তার বড় প্রমাণ হলো তাঁর স্বামী বা শ্বশুর বাড়ীর লোকেরা কারণে বা অকারণে তাঁকে ঘর থেকে বের করে দিতে পারেন; কিন্তু একজন পুরুষকে বের করে দেয়ার অধিকার নারীর থাকে না যেহেতু স্হান বদল হয় তাঁর, পুরুষটির নয়। এমনকি নার্সারী থেকে কিনে আনা গাছেরও খানিকটা নিজের মাটি থাকে, কিন্তু সমাজ নির্মিত অনুশাসনে নারী নিতান্তই পরগাছা—পুরুষ নামক গাছকে আশ্রয় করে তাঁর বেড়ে ওঠা, স্বপ্ন দেখা। 
এসব কিছুর পর যখন জীবনের চূড়ান্ত মুহূর্তে শেষ ঠিকানার প্রয়োজন, সেটিও নারীর জন্য নির্মিত হয় একজন পুরুষের নিশ্ছিদ্র নিরাপত্তায়। কবরের উপর মৃতার নামের নীচে থাকে স্বামীর নাম; আর কুমারী কন্যার ক্ষেত্রে থাকে তাঁর পিতার নাম ঠিক ব্যাকটেরিয়ার মতো। সু বা কু, যে কোন ব্যাকটেরিয়ার জন্যই যেমন জীবিত কোষ প্রয়োজন, একই ভাবে জীবিত বা মৃত, নারীর জন্য প্রয়োজন পুরুষ নামবাহী ছাতা। সব মিলিয়ে পুরুষের আশ্রয়েই তৈরী হয় নারীর জীবন এবং মৃত্যুর পরও সেই স্বৈরাচারী নিবাস থেকে তাঁর মুক্তি হয়না। যাযাবর জীবন শেষ করেও নারী কেবল একজন “মেয়েমানুষ” ই রয়ে যান; মৃত নারীও পুরুষের আশ্রয়াধীন থাকেন
পশ্চিমা বিশ্বে দেখা যায় আইন করে নারীর অধিকার সংরক্ষণ করা হয়। স্বামীর মোট আয়ের ৬০ ভাগ পর্যন্তও স্ত্রী পেয়ে থাকেন দেশ ভেদে। তার চেয়ে বড় কথা, যেহেতু এশীয় বা মধ্যপ্রাচ্যের দেশগুলোর মতো নারীকে একজন পুরুষের হাওলা করে দেয়া হয়না, এবং নারীরা বিয়ের আগেই স্বাবলম্বী হয়ে ওঠেন, তাই পিত্রালয় থেকে তারা আসেন নিজ গৃহে যেখানে তাঁর ও জীবন সঙ্গীর সমান অংশীদারীত্ব। ইচ্ছে করলেই স্বামী তাঁকে তাড়িয়ে দিতে পারেন না বাড়ী থেকে কিছু ব্যত্যয় ব্যতীত। ফলতঃ যাযাবর জীবনের প্রতিফলন এই সমাজে অনেকাংশে কম দেখা যায়।
প্রাচ্যের দেশগুলোতেও এ পরিবর্তন আনয়ন সম্ভব এবং তা অপরিহার্যও বটে। এর জন্য প্রয়োজন কেবল সুশিক্ষিত সমাজ গড়ে তোলা যেখানে বিয়ে হবে দু’জন পূর্ণ বয়স্ক আত্ন নির্ভরশীল নারী পুরুষে এবং নারীর আত্নসম্মান বোধ জাগ্রত করা। নারী কোনো পণ্য নয় যে এক একজনের কাছে একেক রকম দায়িত্ব থাকবে তাঁকে পরিচালনা বা রক্ষা করার যেমন নাকি কারখানায় দেখা যায় কেউ বোতলে ভরছেন খাদ্যদ্রব্যটি, কেই ছিপি আঁটছেন, কেউ নামের কাগজ সাঁটছেন। নারীও একজন ব্যক্তি, একজন মানুষ। তাঁর দায়িত্ব গাধা সমাজের বওয়ার কোন প্রয়োজন নেই, বরং দরকার লিঙ্গ বৈষম্যের অশ্লীল অযৌক্তিক ছায়ামুক্ত পরিবেশ সৃষ্টি করা যেখানে ঘরে বাইরে কেবল মানুষেরই আনাগোনা থাকবে।
ফ্রেড্রিক নীটশে বলেছেন, “স্বাধীনতার মানে হচ্ছে নিজেদের প্রতি দায়িত্বশীল হবার প্রত্যয়” (Freedom is the will to be responsible to ourselves)। নারীর যাযাবর জীবনও শেষ হতে পারে এই দৃঢ় প্রত্যয়ের মাধ্যমে এবং এতে পুরুষের তো বটেই, নারীর করণীয়ও অতি প্রয়োজন।

 
নাজনীন সীমন
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  ২০১২ সেপ্টেম্বর ১৬
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Saturday 15 September 2012

The Fallen Girl



Mizan Rahman

The story was about two girls. One of them was called Mala, the other Jasmine. Mala was 19, likely a village girl. Girls with a name like Mala usually do come from villages. Perhaps she was a darling to her father when she was a little baby. Perhaps she was even lucky enough to go to school every morning with her braids swinging this way and that, happy as a bird. Maybe her cheeks would flush in a pair of gorgeous dimples when she laughed, like a lotus in the sun. Who knows if the village boys would line up behind her to curry her favor, just for a look, a nod, a smile. And then, something went horribly wrong. Something snapped somewhere. The Malas of the world usually meet the same fate everywhere. They appear as beams of light, disappear in clouds of mystery.
But how about Jasmine? Jasmine can’t be from any village! It’s an urban name, name of a cute little aromatic flower. In middle class Bengali homes it’s called belli or jui or chameli. One wonders why her parents would call her Jasmine instead of any of those three names. Perhaps her father was a fan of English books. Or her mother went to the Holy Cross school for her education. Or both parents used to love the English poet William Wordsworth. All those ‘maybe’s. All those tantalizing ‘maybes’ together could not save that poor girl from what appened to her in the end.
The newspapers didn’t say anything about their lives, only about their deaths. And that they both were ‘murdered savagely’. Murders are always savage, aren’t they? I haven’t heard of anyone being murdered out of love or kindness. Yet the news reporters are fond of using the phrase: savage killing. That way perhaps the act of killing becomes a bit more ‘inhuman’, for otherwise the act of killing an animal, that is committed everyday by hundreds and thousands, could also be deemed ‘savage’. Reports of ‘savage killing’ sell better than those of ordinary  ‘killing’.
As I read the news I got the impression that the murders occurred quite a while back----perhaps a few days before. Rather a stale news, I suppose. Murders are so commonplace these days that yesterday’s homicides aren’t much of any news today, because today there are new murders to read about. However, the news of girls like Mala and Jasmine are always interesting because of not how they died, but how they lived. Of the two Jasmine is more fresh. Her body is still in the morgue----perhaps still warm. Her death, in particular, has created quite a stir. Everyone is ‘ah’ing and ‘ooh’ing----how sad, how awfully sad!  Jasmines of the world usually do not end up in morgues like that-----unmarked and unwanted. They are accorded the normal funeral rites with due respect and solemn prayers. After the usual recital from the holy Quran and other formalities their bodies are put in graves ready to meet their creator. The bereaved family will mourn the death of their loved one, some will even wail in grief, then pray for their departed soul.
But not for this Jasmine of ours, who was lying in a cold container of the city morgue, with her eyes closed.
Why they were killed, who or how, isn’t of much interest to anybody. Not the police, not the newspaper publisher, not the reader. They all love to read about their death, but not much interest in the stories behind them----the sordid stories of their pathetic lives. Some may even be thinking: served them well----they deserved it. They are dark spots in society that should be removed, anyway. None will shed a tear for them. All they are concerned about is their bodies---their dead and filthy bodies. You can’t keep them in the morgue forever. No funeral home is going to accept their bodies for fear of reprisal from the pious communities around the area. It’s a prostitute, they will say, you can’t possibly put her alongside our loved ones! They are fallen girls, for heaven’s sake.
‘Patita’ is the Bengali equivalent of ‘fallen girl’. It’s lovely word, especially with the all-important vowel ‘a’ in the end of patita,that signifies, unmistakably, a female. Interesting that written in English alphabets you can pronounce the word ‘Patita’ in any one of the two ways: ‘patitau’, meaning a fallen male (or it can even mean an inanimate object that has fallen), and ‘patita’,which means the deadly thing----a fallen female. This is one word where one vowel, one tiny alphabet, rather how you pronounce it, makes the world of difference. It expresses the misogynistic attitudes of the entire society. The discrimination, the dominance, the cruelty, everything. Just a lousy vowel.
Interesting, isn’t it, that a male who may be fallen the same way as a female, is never called a ‘fallen man’. Nobody calls a man ‘fallen’ who may rob others of everything they had, terrorizes innocent people, becomes ultra-rich by deliberately defaulting on bank-loans. At best, he may be called a criminal, a pariah, but never a ‘patitau’. In fact, so warped and crooked are the rules and norms of the society that it is the very criminals that are often allowed to become the venerable haji’s (ones who did their obligatory pilgrimage at Mecca) and honorable members of society. But God forbid, if you are a female, then you are marked girl, a bad girl, a ‘fallen girl’, forever. No redemption or rehabilitation for you. Our righteous society will not tolerate the fall of a girl’s character----her chastity is a nonnegotiable commodity.
To think of it, it’s a lovely word, after all----‘patita’. Rhymes beautifully with ‘Kabita’ (poetry) or ‘Namita’ (sublime), or ‘Banita’ (a cute girl). Perhaps this is why the gentlemen prefer to call the ‘fallen girls’ ‘Barbonita’, meaning a girl who lives outdoors, just to make it sound a bit more polished and poetic. High society gentlemen really know how to use their language in the most civilized way.
I’d think Patita could have been the name of a beautiful flower. Or that of a little bird with multicolored wings. Couldn’t it be the name of dimly lit star in the sky?  At the very least, like the melancholy willows by the river Thames in England?
But alas, in our poor country, ‘patita’ isn’t the name of a flower nor a bird or a pretty little girl, just a poor little girl who has been cheated out of a decent life by everyone in the society. A cursed body and a rotten fate combined to send her off the slippery path of ruin and self-destruction. ‘Patita’ is the name of a cruel game, a game created by men who forced their unwilling women to be their partners. Like the muscular slaves in the old Roman prisons who were forced to fight each other to kill or die-----just as an entertaining spectacle for the gentry in the high balconies of the big stadium. In this murderous game the male never loses, and the female never wins. They must fight to the end----until they breathe their last. Just the way have died our two little girls in the news-----Mala and Jasmine. The only problem the male will ever face is how to dispose of the bodies of those poor little girls, the disgusting nuisance of a problem. Should they let her rot in the morgue or bury her somewhere covertly?
According to the rules of religion the dead body must be buried within 24 hours. Rich or poor makes no difference-----there is no exception. Anyone born in a Muslim family, no matter who it is, must obey this rule. At least according to the Sharia (the Islamic law). There isn’t supposed to be any clause in the books that a sex-worker can’t be put in a grave. The clauses were created by the society in contravention of their own religion. The same society that nearly drags a helpless girl or a trapped housewife out of her home and throws her onto the street, is also the one that forbids the undertaker to bury her in a grave. Rumor has it that a certain kindhearted cleric in Narayanganj irked the local community for having the gall to let the body of a sex-worker buried in a regular cemetery. It is beyond me that we will vouch to give our life to protect the integrity of Sharia, yet will not bat an eye to show blatant disregard of it by insisting that the lifeless remains of a wretched sex-worker cannot be put in a grave.
What is a so-called ‘red district’, or a ‘whorehouse’? The first time the term was brought to my consciousness was during the Second World War. There was an army installation at Kurmitola. Big, burly soldiers of all colors----white, black, red----used to patrol in military jeeps and trucks all over the city of Dhaka (formerly spelled Dacca), where I lived with my parents. I suppose it was part of their daily drills to go around the town at least once. However, I could never figure out why these alien people would gather every evening in a dark laneway in one of the filthiest parts of town while there were so many better places to look around. Sometimes I would go to watch a soccer game with my father at Paltan soccer fields. After the game we would walk back along the long Nawabpur Rd., stopping for the Magreb prayer at the big mosque by the Ray Shahab Bazar bridge. Curiously, the mosque was between a very foul-smelling Dolai canal and the ‘dark alley’ I just alluded to.  I asked my father, quite innocently, once or twice, what those strange looking soldiers were doing in that dark place. Obviously it wasn’t easy for him to give me an honest answer, so he would skate around the question by just saying that soldiers are bad people, and bad people always look for bad places. Now I understand why it was difficult to give a clear answer to his 9-yr old son. But this evasive answer would only help thicken my curiosity. Sometimes I’d try to steal a cautious look in that direction. I was both fearful and curious. It was quite amazing for me to see some of our very dark-skinned girls with their betel-red lips giggling and flirting with those huge muscular men in uniform. Some of them were even puffing away at cheap home-made biris in their lips. Naively I’d think: how happy these people must be. On the other hand I was bothered by their shameless behavior-----does one have to be so openly flirtatious with alien people just to show how happy they are?
It took me a while to get the true story. It was when one of the girls’ half-naked and blood-splattered body was lying unattended on the Nawabpur street. By word of mouth I found out that a white soldier, in a fit of drunken rage, gave her a good beating and left her on the road in a senseless state. After the incident he and his buddies rushed away from the scene on a truck, but not before running its wheels over the skull of that poor girl, thus bringing a merciful end to her miserable life. Her face was completely smashed, thus exposing her gums and teeth. Also the yellow of her brain. Not a very pleasant sight, to say the least. One kind-hearted man found a sheet to spread on her body to give a bit of cover to the child and a modicum of decency. By then the crowd became a sea of onlookers jostling for space to have a better look. Yet there was not a single person who would think of taking her to a hospital or call for medical help----none. Usually one is not supposed to let a dead body stay on the ground for too long-----somebody always comes from somewhere to pick it up. They’d try to locate her relatives. If the body happens to be that of a Hindu then proper cremation processes would be under way. And burial procedures for the Christians and Muslims. But in this case no one put a hand on her. As if she was a deadly virus, an infectious disease. You will be sick, may be, if you touch her.
With me was my friend Nizam. He was quite a bit older than me, and hence wiser, even though we were in the same class. He was much more knowledgeable in worldly affairs than I was. Basically I was just a village boy, pretty naïve in most matters of life. Nizam , on the other hand, was a city boy, a native, son of a local alderman. Hence a grown man almost since his childhood. I learned quite a few things about birds and bees from this friend -----things that your elders would blush to utter. So he threw some light on what really happened to that poor girl and for what possible reasons. She was a ‘fallen girl’-----a synonym for a sex-worker. One is given to believe that even a simple touch on her body would soil your hands that would need full ablution to wash off the impurity. When they die their bodies are not supposed to have proper burials, nor funeral services of any kind. Shocked out of my wits I would ask: then what is going to happen to her body?  His answer: most of the times the professional grave-diggers would come to pick up the bodies. Don’t ask me what they would do with them. It’s anybody’s guess. Most likely they make a few rupees by selling them to the medical colleges for the students to do their studies. With the little money they earn, rather cheaply, they would celebrate getting drunk on cheap local beer.
It was more than 55 years ago. But the girl’s mauled and mangled face still haunts me at times. The very thought of it gives me a chill, a jolt of horror. Initially the horror was at the brutality of the act, but the shock and dismay originates from the callous inhumanity of the hidden story behind the story. There is nothing wrong in speculating that once upon a time a beautiful girl was born to cheer up an otherwise mirthless home in a remote village of Bangladesh. Maybe she went to school every morning, happy as a bird, with not a thing on earth to worry about, then come home to play hide-and-seek with her siblings and friends, giggling and singing with complete abandon. May be she, too, would melt away at a simple touch of love from someone near and dear to her, and sulk away like a withering dahlia when someone would utter a harsh word at her.
And then, suddenly, from out of nowhere, the clouds came to wipe out everything-----completely. The endearing touch, the giggle, the silly songs, the sulks, and all. Evaporated. The only that remained was the body. The wretched body. The worst enemy of a woman. Who knows if it was her own husband who sold her body away to a miserable creature at a high price. Or it could be that some shady lover of hers tricked her into accompanying him to a happy and care-free life in the city, used her as long as he needed, then left her like a used goods in that dark alley. This body, this miserable body of hers----could it be used like this if it were the body of a man, or even an animal? Could the military truck then run over her body in such a callous manner? They all had a feast over her body----the men in uniform, openly; the men in gentlemen’s attire, under the cover of night and dark laneway, in disguise. And then, when the light went out the poor girl’s life they all stepped back, for fear of sin in touching her skin or her hair, for fear of fire in hell that would result from getting close to the corpse. What an irony it is that the bodies of the so-called ‘straight’ people will mingle with dust in their graves to morph into useless bones, while the fallen girls’ bodies go to the medical schools for the ultimate purpose of saving lives of other ‘straight’ people. And yet, for a male-dominated society the body of a ‘fallen girl’ is as deadly as the dreadful syphilis. More importantly, it is a sin, a cardinal sin. What a strange creature we are, this male species of mine.
It reminds me of another story from my childhood, somewhat similar to this one. It’s not something I witnessed myself, but an uncle of mine did. And this is how he narrated the story:
There was a river two villages across our own. On the other side there was this cute little hamlet which didn’t exist before, but the tides seem to have dredged up the silt to create a whole landscape. At the far end of that village lived a 25-yr old girl called Bilikis with her 4-yr old son. Her husband had passed away two years before, out of malaria. Her parents were so poor that they could neither afford, nor desire, to have their widowed daughter back in their charge, with the additional burden of having to feed her child. On the other hand, the husband’s side was unwilling to continue supporting her with their son taken away by Almighty Allah as He wished. To make it worse for her the older brother of the deceased husband cleverly maneuvered to grab the property that she and her child were supposed to inherit. All  she was allowed was this one-room hut by the river, at the edge of the village, plus a tiny morsel of land, apparently an act of great kindness and compassion by the family. This little act of ‘great kindness and compassion’, however, became a partial life-saver for Bilkis and her child. She could build a small shed on it for all kinds of plants-----gourd, beans, cucumber, eggplants and spinach. All by herself, with playful help from her 4-yr old boy. It was not easy for a young mother with a small child to survive on her own in a remote village. To add to the misery she was such a trusting girl, so naïve and so hopelessly gullible. Never could tell a trick from an honest offer of help.
Once it so happened that a salesman arrived in the village hoping to sell some saris, that he claimed were of high quality and low price-----saris that had the brand name of Modhupuri. Very well-known brand, and hence highly attractive to women. The good merchant somehow got word of the poor widow by the river. It might be a good idea to pay a curtsy visit to that young lady with a child, he thought. She might even be interested in buying a sari or two, especially if he offered her a hefty discount. On the pretext of giving her a varied choice he cleverly stuck up a friendly conversation with her. He told her about the sad death of his young wife last year at childbirth and how his life was completely devastated by that. Now he has no one to go back to in this world. A married younger sister was there for a while to give him some comfort, look after his day-to-day needs. But she too had to leave in a few days to be back with her in-laws. Poor man nearly came to tears telling her the sad story. Which touched Bilkis, exactly where he expected to-----her heart. She felt too moved to stay behind the curtain any longer, and in a spontaneous rush of empathy, came out to console the poor man out of his unspeakable grief. His loss brought back the fresh memory of her own loss two years before. She fully understood what he was going through. Poor man! She wanted to do something for him. At the moment all she could think of was a bowl of puffed rice with sugar cubes. Then she sent her little boy to fetch some fresh spinach from the field, so she can cook a modest meal for the man. How could she let him go without something solid in his mouth?  She can’t do that to such a heart-broken man.
After a hearty meal the man got the courage to blurt out what he really had in mind. He confessed that his coming to the village for the purpose of selling saris was just an excuse----a cover-up for his real intention. Which was to obey a command from the heavens: go and rescue that poor woman in that remote island. If you help her out of her misery she will help you out of yours. So he has come here with a proposal-----to marry her. Bilkis didn’t have to think too long. It was indeed becoming extremely difficult for her to lead a lonely life having to make a living by working long hours in other people’s homes husking rice and pasting onions and garlics, chilies and turmeric. So without thinking things out coolly, she said yes. She didn’t hesitate much mainly because it was God Himself who seems to have ordained their union. So why object to his next proposal that the man gingerly put forward. It made her blush a bit, but felt no compunction to reject his advances.
Unfortunately, next morning, as she woke up she found the man in her bed had disappeared with his bag of saris.
You’d think she learned her lesson by having been burned once. But no, she didn’t. She was a classic sucker for being taken advantage of. After the sari trader came a few more merchants with all kinds of sob-stories to melt her heart away. And she fell for them the same way, again and again. She was so naïve, so utterly trusting, that she just couldn’t understand how anyone could be so deceitful. So she kept on trusting. The last player was the son of a prominent member of the village. He too came with some cock-and-bull- story to bring down her wall of resistance that she might have put on otherwise. She figured: well, he is the son of a prominent member of the community, so he can’t possibly vanish in thin air like others. So why not? She didn’t have a good reputation in the village, anyway. People have started calling her a ‘night-ferry’ -----referring to her one-night affairs with strangers in her cottage. Poor girl didn’t even understand what this epithet really meant, except that it wasn’t very complimentary. So she reasoned this way: well if she gets married to the son of a prominent member of the community then wouldn’t he be obliged to stay married at least for the sake of his father’s honor? So she gave in. Just as she gave in to the others. So the boy kept paying the nightly visits-----then leaving before daybreak. And she kept pressing him for a wedding date. And he kept pushing it off----just a few more days. Let the rains stop, the water recede, he’d say .
The water did recede one day, and so did the boy’s nightly visits, leaving her having to defend herself against the taunts and innuendos.
Then, out of nowhere, there came a big storm one day. High winds, pouring rains and incessant lightning bolts. Bilkis kept her son as tightly pressed to her body as she could for fear of him being blown away. Her little hut was shaking like crazy, on the verge of collapsing any moment. She kept uttering all the suras from the holy Quran that she could remember, trembling like a sailor alone in a sinking boat.
Suddenly, she heard a knock----a frantic knock on the door. Could it be the wind? That’s what she thought at first. But the knock was so persistent that it had to be someone at the door trying to get in. Curious, yet frightened out of her wits, she went to unhook the door slightly, just to have a look. She hoped, desperately hoped, that it was the goddamn son of that prominent member of the community. But no, it wasn’t. It was the prominent member himself! She couldn’t believe her eyes.
It is such a stormy night, Moni’s mom (Moni is her son’s name), that I thought it would be wrong to leave you alone in your flimsy little hut that can be blown away anytime. So I came to see how you are doing. With that he tried to push his way in. But this time, at long last, for once, Moni’s mom found her strength. As well as her wits. This time she didn’t let herself be sweet-talked into yet another blunder. This time she forcefully jammed the door in and closed it up on his face.
An act of great courage and defiance? Yes, but not without a consequence, which she had no clue as to what it could be.
Next day, when the weather was all quiet and sunny, the mood in the village was anything but. What’s the commotion about, she wondered. Poor girl didn’t know that nobody, but nobody, ever gets away shutting the door on the face of the prominent member of the community. It’s not a minor offence that you could atone for by just asking for mercy or forgiveness. The prominent member called an emergency meeting in his front yard with the elders of the village. There was a just one item on the agenda: the fallen girl’s trying to entice his innocent son to commit sin through an illicit affair. She has spoiled the good name of the village. She is a whore-----a disgrace for the whole community. She deserves nothing less than 40 strikes of the leather whip. First she will be tied to a couple of indoor poles, followed by a big muscular man carrying out the sentence.
Perhaps an appropriate sentence for the grievous crime of robbing the virginity of an innocent young man.  At least according to the scriptures.
But Bilkis really showed her guts this time----didn’t give them the satisfaction of having their way to the end. She used her own sari and fastened it tight on a high branch of a grapefruit tree, then hung herself. Village girls like her have long known their saris and tall trees as their greatest allies in times of trouble. Especially for the ‘fallen girls’.
Her lifeless body, as usual, didn’t receive the formal rites. They put her on an empty country boat and let it float away along the tides. No one knew where the boat went----nobody cared, if the waves docked it at some remote village or was  just gobbled up by the mighty river. There was a rumor that the vultures had a feast on her. Others claimed that a lightning bolt struck the boat burning it to cinders-----which the good villagers attributed to Allah’s own punishment for her sinful life. Who knows which version is true, or none at all. Everybody believes, however, that even though she was able to evade the whip she could not evade the wrath of God.
That, too, was a long time ago. Have things changed somewhat today? I do not think so. Jasmine is still in the morgue. The vultures aren’t going to get her, of course, but no one tell for sure if the lightning will not strike her, either.

Staten Island, NY,
Sept.14,’12
( Translated by the author from his Aug. 3, 1999, Bengali piece “Patita”)


মীজান রহমান, Mizan Rahman,