A Name for a Life
ARUNDHATI
SANYAL
I had met her in my adolescent years
in Durgapur. She would be a frequent visitor to our home on Mirabai Lane. I
still remember her tall, statuesque silhouette on our verandah on dusky summer
evenings. She would be impeccably clad
in a white “kora” saree with a pencil-thin border of black or navy blue, her
hair in a low bun that touched the nape of her tall neck where it met her broad
shoulders clad in a boat-necked blouse, her only other accessory that I
distinctly recall would be a raven-black handbag with an oblong and rectangular
shape with firm circular straps that would remain strung around her elbow. Now
that I think about it I never saw her without the handbag. There was a firm
erect posture to her figure that remained unchanged when she sat down; my
mother would reminisce about how the nuns in her college in Shillong possessed
similar stance. There was a distinct
sense of respect that she commanded and received at our home; maybe, I remember
this because of Ma’s hushed demeanor when Mrs Saudamini Ghoshal (for that was
her name) would visit us.
Much later I would come to know why
there was such a hushed tone of awe and homage around Mrs Ghoshal at our
home. I knew later that she would come
to get the paperwork for her appointment as primary school teacher in one of
the elementary schoolsrun by the steel plant township that we lived in. Her story and her past intrigued me because
she was so different from the people we lived with in our small township where
a woman’s identity particularly was predictably recognizable through her
husband and his work position in the steel plant. Here, on the other hand, there was no such
predictor; Mrs Ghoshal was indeed a free agent; her story unconnected to the
expected pattern had an independence that was quite attractive to my adolescent
years.
II
Narayanganj in present day
Bangladesh had always been a bastion of the erstwhile Hindu population that
later found its way to West Bengal and India.
Saudamini’s story began in Narayanganj where she lived a happy,
uneventful life with her husband and two children. Bimalendu Ghoshal worked as
an assistant manager in Mahalakshmi Jute Mills, one of the earliest jute
enterprises in the town. He had married
Saudamini and settled into a fairly predictable life of regular work at the
mill and the nurturing of two young children, a boy, Sadhan, and a baby girl,
little Shinjon. However, this was not to last. The mid-60s had proved fairly
stable in post-independent East Pakistan.
However, this changed drastically with the rise of Sheikh Mujibur Rahman
in Pakistani politics and the inevitable conflict with West Pakistan and the
“Rajakars” (the West Pakistani expatriates in Bangladesh) who began to organize
pogroms aimed at the intelligentsia, mostlyBengali Hindus at first and then
spread to liberal, educated Muslim Bengalis.
In one such fracas in the early
spring of 1968, the Ghoshals were caught up and forced out of their home into a
huge open ground next to the banks of the Sitalalakshkhi River where a large
number of Hindus had converged to seek refuge from the organized persecution
and violence. However, this proved to be
a death trap for most; in the melee that ensued the Ghoshal saga turned tragic
in the worst possible way. The family separated with the husband falling victim
to stab wounds that he succumbed to. The
children were with their mother who now faced the toughest moment of her life –
a moment that extended to several days of fear, grief, and harrowing witnessing
of the torture of her son.
III
Sadhan was thirteen when he
experienced this brutality. I pick up
the story at the point when Saudamini distraught, terrified, and convinced that
she has lost her severely injured son arrives at the General Hospital with a
paltry police protection with her children.
By this time, the paranoia is complete among Hindus with rumors raging
that that no hospital in Narayanganj is safe as the majority population is
determined to continue those with the pogrom.
In fact, this is her argument to the
nursing staff trying to take Sadhan to the emergency room and admit him. Saudamini is adamant that he would be
poisoned by the staff there. The
altercation continues until a middle aged gentleman in white coat comes in and
introduces himself by the name of Dr. Bhowmick,
a general practitioner attached to the hospital. The word she used later
to describe him was “Soumya” (literally a combination of grace, dignity, and
erudition in Bengali). He immediately
took charge of the situation and firmly, but gently took Sadhan under his care
and into the examination room.
What followed was a week to ten days
of prolonged struggle to save the young boy’s life with Dr. Bhowmick assuming
the role of both practitioner and mediator between the distraught and paranoid
mother and the predominantly Muslim caregivers in the staff. At every step of each surgical treatment for
the injured child, he had to convince the mother that all intentions were
indeed to treat him and not otherwise.
Based purely on her instincts of being under the care of a Hindu doctor,
she allowed the treatment to continue.
She did question his Hindu background, asking for his full name, his
father’s name, his ancestral home and its whereabouts, all to establish his
genuine credentials as a fellow-Hindu.
Diligently, he told her he was Abhilash Bhowmick, son of Ananta
Bhowmick, of Sandikona Gram, Netrokona sub-division of Mymensingh
district.Satisfied with these responses to her queries, the mother completely
gave into his persuasions and thus Sadhan’s series of surgeries ensued which
eventually helped him survive his injuries.
Weakened and traumatized, the family
consisting of the mother and the two children returned home to more grievous
news that their husband and father had fallen prey to violence and had
died. The extended family from India
reached out desperately to make arrangements for bringing in these three survivors
and as it so happened, one of her younger brothers was employed in Durgapur
Steel plant and within a year they were united and Saudamini came to live in
our township.
Her narrative was so tragic and
fraught with the unspeakable pressure of violence that it seemed to overwhelm
the survival and spirit of resilience that the three also demonstrated. Sadhan and Shinjon grew up to become quite
successful and lead happy, ordinary lives like the rest of us. However, the narrative does have a “coda”
that for me always seemed to possess the most powerful twist. Months after Sadhan’s release from the
hospital, Saudaminihad re-visited the office of Dr. Bhowmick to give thanks for
his support. She had been told there was no Dr. Bhowmick employed by the
hospital. The familiar doctor’s office
had the nameplate of an Anis Bhuiyan who had been the attending physician for
quite a while. The nursing staff
explained that it was Dr. Bhuiyan who had assumed a Hindu name and identity if
that allowed the mother regain her confidence and allow her child to be
treated. The staff had been forbidden to reveal the truth as long as the
patient remained in the hospital. And
all this because he was confident that, if treated, the child could indeed
survive. In the midst of raging
inhumanity a quiet professional had taken a decision that his identity was
interchangeable as long as it restored life and health to his patient. His
name, his ancestry in return for the opportunity to save a life.
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