EVERYTHING AND NOTHING

The old cuckoo clock on the wall chimed nine times. Zafar’s

gaze moved towards it, alternating between the dial

and the swaying pendulum. Sitting at the window of Damyanti’s

bedroom, his wife, Rehana, and he were looking intently at the

street outside. Every now and then, Zafar would go to the edge

of the window, hold the rods firmly, and stretch his neck to look

at the farthest point on the street. Not able to see things clearly,

he would strain his ears for even a hint of a sound of a mob

approaching or people crying.

Zafar and Rehana had been waiting impatiently for the 9

o’clock news on Doordarshan to assess the situation in riot-affected

areas.

Three days ago, on December 6, 1992, a mob of kar sevaks

driven by the Ram temple rhetoric had climbed the top of Babri

Masjid and demolished it. Angry, agitated, and hurt, Muslims had

come out in large numbers in various parts of the country to

protest. More often than not, these demonstrations had resulted

in clashes between the two communities and forced the police

to intervene, causing damage to property and loss of lives. Most

of northern India was simmering with tension, and the worst affected

areas were Gujarat, Uttar Pradesh, Assam, and Bombay.

However, amidst this turmoil, Patna had remained calm.

***

Damyanti had never wanted to leave East Bengal — the

place of her birth, childhood, and youth — in spite of her

husband insisting that they move to Calcutta, the city of

hope. How could she leave the house that she had built along

with her husband; where her two sons were born and took

their first steps; where she had sown every plant with her

own hands and watered with ample love and care; where she

had stood under harsh sun and, at times, heavy rain, supervising

the laying of each brick; where every corner had a

story to tell, stories that opened floodgates of memories?

How could she live without the abundant love showered by

her friend Samina, an affection that she treasured and still

wanted more? How could she be away from the place, that

had the comforting presence of Salim, Manas, and other

friends; Salim, who most of the times appeared as a distant

apparition, and on a few occasions still had a looming presence

in her thoughts? How could she pull herself away from

the grand Durga Puja celebrations at her father’s house, a few

rows away from her own? How could she not be a part of the

city’s Janmashathami procession?

She would have continued to live in Dacca had the Noakhali

riots not happened.