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- A Week in Translations: Shameless
In the days leading up to World Translation Day, A Week in Translations is our initiative to showcase brilliant voices from across the country. We will be featuring one distinctive title each day, from our vast range of translations in an endeavour to celebrate the rich linguistic diversity of India.
Taslima Nasreen’s novel Shameless is an uncompromising, heart-breaking look at ordinary people’s lives in our troubled times, told through the perspective of Suranjan and his family. Read this powerful extract from the explosive sequel to Lajja, translated by Arunava Sinha:
From Shobhon babu to Shobhon to Sobhaan. This was how Suranjan had gradually come to know him better. He was startled when he got to know the real name. Sobhaan stood miserably in front of him, his head bowed.
‘So you’re not a Hindu?’
Sobhaan shook his head guiltily.
‘Oh, shit.’ There was anger, irritation and even humiliation in Suranjan’s response.
Sobhaan had left swiftly. The mild-mannered, gentle, well-behaved Sobhaan got busy with his own work. Suranjan could get by without him, and he, without Suranjan. And yet they could not. They were frighteningly lonely, both of them, and each had been a listener for the other one. Suranjan had talked of his parents and sister and former wife; he had told Sobhaan everything, even about his Muslim-hating friends, but he had never mentioned Zulekha. Asking himself why he was hesitant about this, the answer he had received was that Sobhaan was vulnerable, while he was assertive. Suranjan belonged to the majority, and Sobhaan, the minority. If Sobhaan came to know of his relationship with Zulekha, it would mean Suranjan was joining Sobhaan’s ranks. A romance with someone from the minority community was different from a friendship, for a romance didn’t just mean a romance, it meant a lot more – it meant marriage, and children. Children who would not be pure Hindus, for someone born to a Muslim womb would always be a Muslim.
But the bond broke after Suranjan discovered Sobhaan hidden behind Shobhon babu. Both of them knew their relationship would not proceed further and they stopped meeting or enquiring after each other. Things might have continued this way, but Suranjan, without any idea why, made an attempt six months later to get in touch. He could not go on without Sobhaan. Actually, he could have if he had tried hard enough, but he was too lazy for that. He took a risk instead, a leap, an experiment; he began to consort with the very people in whose blood, he knew, ran the seeds of treachery. He sought out Sobhaan, spending hours in idle conversation with him next to the Nandan Nagar lake, on the field in front of Ramakrishna Mission, at the computer shop. Possibly because they were in tune with each other, for what else could it be? Suranjan did not lack friends, after all. Sobhaan had never revealed whether he enjoyed Suranjan’s company. A mysterious smile appeared on his face whenever the subject came up.
Suranjan’s friends in Belgharia had not approved of his intimacy with Sobhaan, and he couldn’t stop himself the day they had terrorized him. He was in Sobhaan’s computer shop at the time. Achinta came in and said, ‘So you’re very thick with the mullah these days. Where’s the asshole?’
‘Cut the crap,’ Suranjan had responded coldly. ‘Tell him to pay up.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The prick is making good money in the land of Hindus. Tell him to cough up 10,000, or else…’
‘Or else?’
‘Or else, we’ll take him to Rajarhat and plant a loving kiss on his forehead.’ Achinta had a mocking smile on his face.
Suranjan sat there, clenching his teeth. Even talking to them was abhorrent.
Ten days later, Achinta came back with some of his fellow hooligans. While he went in, his disciples took up their positions at the door.
‘Make a contribution, Sobhaan saab.’ ‘Contribution? To what?’
‘Pujo.’
‘What sort of pujo?’
‘Kartik pujo.’
‘Kartik pujo?’
‘Yes, 5,001. Hand it over.’
There was a long silence. Then Sobhaan said, ‘I give money for Durga pujo, Kali pujo, Shoroshshoti pujo, I can’t manage for Kartik pujo, dada.’
‘But you have to,’ said Achinta with a smile. ‘I don’t have so much money.’
‘That won’t work.’
‘What am I supposed to do?’
‘We need the money now, this instant, mister Sobhaan.’ Sobhaan gulped. His head was bowed.
Achinta pounded the desk. A glass full of water fell to the floor. ‘Will a thousand do?’
‘A thousand isn’t enough.’
‘Right now, I…’
Hauling Sobhaan to his feet by his collar, Achinta slammed him against the wall. Sobhaan asked his assistant to quickly borrow four thousand rupees from one of the nearby shops. The assistant raced out. Letting go of his collar, Achinta sat down on a chair, opposite Suranjan, who hadn’t said a word, simply looking out the window at the pedestrians, cyclists, cars and buses passing by, some in one direction, some in another. The assistant didn’t take too much time, returning soaked in perspiration and handing over the money to Sobhaan, who added a thousand and one rupees from his pocket and gave it all to Achinta. Counting the notes before putting them in his pocket, Achinta kicked Sobhaan in the stomach, spat on the floor, said ‘fucking son of a Muslim’ and walked out. Suranjan kept sitting for a while, turned to stone, and then ran out without a word to Sobhaan. Catching up with Achinta on the road, he tripped him from the back and tried to grab the money. ‘Who do you think you’re playing gangsters with?’ he said.
Leaping to his feet, Achinta aimed a punch at Suranjan’s jaw. ‘With a Muslim,’ he said.
Punching him back, Suranjan said, ‘No, today you did it with me.’
Brushing the dust off his clothes, Achinta said, ‘I’m warning you, Suranjan, don’t touch me. I didn’t do anything to you. I went to get his contribution, if he’s your friend, that’s your problem, not mine.’
Suranjan said, ‘You want contributions for your pujo, take it from Hindus. Why are you extorting it from a Muslim? Do they take money from you during Eid? How much have you contributed till now?’
Achinta began to scream. ‘There’s still time, Suranjan, walk away from them. Haven’t you found out yet what they’re like? Haven’t you suffered in Bangladesh? They’re ferocious; you haven’t seen their fangs yet. Don’t you know who’s responsible for all the crimes? Are you asleep? They live here, each and every couple produces a dozen children, don’t you see the rate at which the Muslim population is climbing? They will kill all of us, they will bomb all of us, they will take over our country. Wait and see. Why can’t they all go to Pakistan? When Pakistan wins against India at cricket, doesn’t that friend of yours join the victory parade with a Pakistani flag? He does. He runs his business in our country without paying taxes. Go check, he’s probably building a house in Pakistan. A race of terrorists. I wish I could kill the bastards.’
Achinta was panting as he spoke – panting and sweating. His eyes were both blazing and tearful. Suranjan looked at him intently. He remembered hearing the same thing in Bangladesh; this was how hardline Muslims used to talk about Hindus: why don’t they move to India? They’re happy when India wins a cricket match, they run their businesses here without paying taxes, they’re probably building houses in India.
Achinta had been a Naxalite once, but he wasn’t connected to a political movement or party now. He had spent some time with the people of Bajrang Dal, after which he had joined the CPI(M). But – no one knew why – he had been expelled. Achinta followed his own beliefs now, without caring for anyone. He swore at BJP workers, saying ‘you people are useless’. His band of followers wasn’t a small one – not only did it include ordinary people, but even people connected with politics, who had voluntarily become his disciples.
Achinta had declared that anyone who messed around with him would not make it back home alive. Suranjan had gone home without another word, and hadn’t left home after that. He kept thinking of what Achinta had said, of the horrifying amount of hatred that had spilt out of him, the man’s loathing for Muslims. He had seen the same kind of loathing directed at Hindus. Hindus and Muslims were unlike in many ways, but they were alike too. The greatest resemblance was in matters of hatred. But did all of them hate everyone from the other religion? Did Suranjan? Lying on his stomach on his bed, he asked himself repeatedly: do I hate Muslims, do I? Perspiring, he got up, had a drink of water, and lay down again, tossed and turned, then jumped to his feet and paced up and down, and lit a cigarette, then another, then another. He went out in his slippers, walked about aimlessly, returned, opened a book, shut it, got up to make tea, let it go cold, lit a cigarette, lay on his back, then on his stomach, then with a pillow beneath his chest. He buried his face in the pillow, then got up again to look for a sleeping pill, didn’t find one, pulled the door shut and went to the pharmacy to ask if he could get a sleeping pill, was told he couldn’t, went back home, lit a cigarette. His breathing grew faster, he felt a pain in his chest, he went for a bath, came out and lit a cigarette, paced up and down, made himself another cup of tea. The phone rang, he didn’t answer it. Kiranmayee came to talk to him; he told her not to disturb him and went back to bed, lying on his stomach. Several hours passed. Suranjan remained in the same position.
That was when he had taken the decision to move out of Belgharia.
To read more from this moving novel by Taslima Nasreen, order your copy of Shameless today.
About the Book - SHAMELESS
'My name is Suranjan. You don't recognize me? You wrote a novel about me. It was called Lajja.' One day in Calcutta, Taslima suddenly finds herself face to face with Suranjan, the principal character from her controversial novel Lajja. Persecuted…
About the Author - Taslima Nasreen
About the Author - Arunava Sinha
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