TRANSLATED FROM THE BENGALI BY AMITAVA SEN
Mohamed was lying curled up in a corner of the cage. Eyes wide open. Fatigued, but didn’t dare sleep. Slumber settled sound on his eyelids quite often but he woke up in a trice. He was not alone in the cage. His four-legged co-mate wouldn’t hesitate even in the wink of an eye to muddle sleep up with death… might have put a fatal bite on his neck. So, Mohamed kept awake.
Night grew darker. The death knell of a brief span of imprisonment of a hyena and a rejected man might have tolled in a forlorn corner of the globe.
Mohamed’s entire corporeity was badly itching from the wounds – recent and past. Wounds had to be concealed to the best of his ability. His carnivore co-mate would be drawn to them if it could sense the slightest. Mohamed, somehow managed to shift his hand back to carry on rubbing and scraping the wound. His glare was obviously fixed on the four-legged one. It, too, was probably busy doing the same job. The canine bared open to do something under its forelimb. Mohamed wondered.
Fortunately, it had not put a single scar on him. Even when the chained Mohamed had been put into the huge cage, when the exhausted Mohamed had been overpowered, the animal had the slightest interest in the great human spectacle. It remained snuggled in a corner, savouring the scene with its tongue dangling without.
They stood for a while, putting Mohamed in to the cage. Perhaps, they were expecting an instant assault. To their utter dismay, the hyena lolled back on the floor of the cage. But having practiced this ritual for long, they refrained from overdoing. They left after sometime. But Mohamed knew, they would re-appear at daybreak. They would drink in the sight of his mauled corpse.
Mohamed preferred to spread both of his legs. The hyena was still licking its body, often pricking the fur with its teeth. Some mite must have got in to its tawny fur to bother it. Mohamed felt that the hyena had then been thriving on them. So, he had so long been temporarily neglected.
Once the hyena was over with licking its body, it stared at Mohamed. The spots on its body were not clear at night. He knew these creatures well. He was a lad of the jungle. Very few beasts in the animal chain are as fearsome and cruel as the hyenas. They live in cackles. A cackle might even comprise a hundred or more hyenas. The alpha females dominate and overpower a cackle. They are the arch-rivals of the lions. The long maned always claim half of the kill – hyenas seem to laugh at their custom. The laughter gets intense as the night gets darker. Mohamed would always shudder at the hyena’s laughter.
A hyena’s belly is never full. Mohamed had heard about it from a village black magician when he was a child. The old man was believed to have pet hyenas. The locals would even say that they were fake ones. Those, who would succumb to the fight with the hyenas, would be lifted by the old man by dint of his magic spell to make them run his errands. Mohamed would never believe in such stuff. He had not even found a baby mouse in the old man’s hutment. Mohamed was fond of him for a different reason. It didn’t matter whether he would domesticate hyenas or not, no one in the place would know so much about the hyenas.
Hyenas’ voracity couldn’t easily be satisfied. They were born with such gargantuan appetite. The victims of hyena hunts were left with nothing but horns. They would even be happy with the leftovers of lions or leopards. Mohamed had often found many a handiwork of them, while wandering in the jungle.
But this hyena might have bared its canine a couple of times, without giving any hint of preying upon Mohamed, who was both perplexed and hopeful.
Again it reclined on the floor of the cage as it had when Mohamed had been thrust into.
For the time being, it seemed to have no interest on its two-legged co-mate.
Mohamed garnered some courage only to be certain. He knew a bit about the behavioural patterns of the animals. He was a lad of the jungle. This hyena was not allured by the young blood. Mohamed kept his thoughts away from the hyena.
He could see a portion of a field from the other side of the cage. He longed to see the entire field. Could a match be held?
One football match?
He had woven dreams out of football. He wished to collect boys from the hamlets. Why should they carry guns, why not hit the football? Let them play football. Let them form clubs. Let them put on jerseys of the national team. Let the poor country grow big, sticking to football. This much he had wished. Wasn’t it a way to come out of the civil war, pushing the country to the brink of existence!
The future of the nation, he had been envisaging for two long years. He had been to the college in Mogadishu. He had been a regular in the football matches there. He had learnt the nitty gritty of football from the coach of the college team. He had thought of setting up a football team on returning home.
In the meantime, the World Cup happened in their dry and rocky, yet sacred continent. Mohamed, on his own, bought a TV set for the village club. But the religious bigots raised a ruckus the next day. Football was un-Islamic! They broke the TV set into pieces, Shadab’s throat got slashed once he tried to protest. Mohamed had been away to procure the jersey of his favourite team as well as for the rest of the members of the club. Some Brazil, some Argentina, some France, and some even were supporting the distant neighbours like Ghana or Ivory Coast. Jerseys were available in cities, which were more or less trouble free.
Shadab didn’t even reach eighteen. Mohamed had not dreamt even in the weirdest of his imaginations that the club would wear such a horrified visage. The warmth of Shadab’s blood desultorily exuded a milieu of anarchy. Mohamed had the jerseys in his tight grip. Murder for watching a football match!
There was a jersey, too, for Shadab. He would support Argentina. Following the gut feeling, Mohamed took out the blue-white striped jersey. Musa, the club secretary was standing beside him. He suggested to Musa to lay the jersey on Shadab’s tomb.
Musa had the slimmest expectation of such a suggestion. Musa and the rest had been dismayed to the bone. Mohamed was different, though. Grabbing the jersey from Mohamed, Musa sputtered, “Would it be right to adorn his tomb with the jersey? Shadab’s family won’t take the matter casually. Football, after all, had snatched his life away.”
Mohamed rose to his feet. Musa had logic in his assumption. But conforming to the logic, he would have to stay away from football. Mohamed asserted, “Let them return the jersey… no way… we would have to do this much.”
Musa was not ready to accept the decision. The rest of the members seemed to have vouched for Musa. Mohamed declared, “Rest of you, take your jerseys. Two of you must accompany me to the city tomorrow. I’ll buy a new TV set. I don’t want anybody to question me about it.”
The decision was even more unprecedented than the murder of Shadab. Everyone cried aloud in the negative. Had Mohamed gone berserk? How many lives did he want? Musa, Babar, Arfa protested in unison, “We want to live. Why should we die for your whim?”
Mohamed would not yield to the bigots.
“The Hizbuls will overpower us if we stop watching the match, why don’t you understand? They must not get the better of us. This time everything will be done underground. Why are you so scared?” – This was Mohamed’s declaration.
Arfa – “Don’t you know… they have informers. They’ll keep track even if we go clandestine, won’t they?”
Mohamed seemed to be triumphing over their protestations. Rather threateningly, he said, “Look, friends. Let’s watch football. How many would they kill? If not killed now, we would remain alive a little longer. But next time, they would barge into our interiors to kill us, don’t you understand?”
Musa – “You haven’t seen them. You won’t believe how blood thirsty they can be. Only Shadab was killed. We’re fortunate… we’re alive. Give up this contumacy, Mohamed. Forget about football and such stuff. This will continue during their rule. We all have families. You, too have. Who’ll shoulder their responsibilities if we all die?”
Mohamed cast a distant look. They were yet to know the truth. That they might get scared, he had so long kept it back from them. But, perhaps this was the time for them to know the truth. Mohamed’s eyeballs seemed to pan out obliquely at each one assembled. Slowly but deliberatively, he spoke, “Moslem has joined them a few days ago. Now he has turned out to be the best shot. I thought you must not know this truth. But I had to…”
Mohamed paused to take breath.
Every soul in the room remained tongue tied. Musa somehow spoke, “Moslem! Your elder brother has now…”
In a muffled tone, Mohamed said, “Yes. Even then I wish to watch football. To confront what’s happening across the country, may be, I have to follow Moslem. But, I know, their path is suicidal. Whatever happens, I’ll watch football, I’ll cheer for Brazil. Now you people think, what you’ll do.”
Musa couldn’t refute. Arfa, in a low tone, said, “You’re too stubborn, Mohamed.”
They were secretly watching football. Mohamed had installed the TV set in an empty room at the backyard of the house. The scared souls… many of them kept turning up. While watching the match, some kept vigil on the streets to warn the viewers if they could sense any danger. The TV was switched off for the time being, only to be switched on once the danger was over. This would happen even in the rough-and-tumble matches. They had to forego irritation to suit themselves to the situation.
Two more were killed by the Hizbul bigots even after this. Not in their hamlet, but in the other one. But the football fever had drained the fear out of them. The World Cup was happening in their sacred and dark continent. They were watching the World Cup. Nothing could limit their spirits.
In one of these days, Moslem came home. It was dawn. His face was masked but without the Kalashnikov-47. He entered the empty room. Everyone had been in a festive mood after the match the previous night. It had been a late night for everyone. Mohamed had slept in that room only. But he had not expected such a dawn.
Moslem asked, “You’re watching matches, aren’t you?”
It was pointless to tell a lie. Mohamed swayed his head in the positive. Moslem said, “Don’t you know watching match is forbidden?”
Mohamed spoke, “I know, but we don’t accept the reason behind the ban. Sports is no enemy to religion. Every nation… Turkey, Nigeria, Algeria, Ghana… every… one is playing.”
Moslem stiffened his tone, “Won’t you obey? Anyone else in my stead would have beheaded you. Hope you believe so.”
Mohamed raised his voice – “What else could your party have done? People are cheering at the match… you people are depriving them of their rights, killing them. This way, you hope to bring peace to the country!”
Moslem restrained from hitting Mohamed. He believed Mohamed had gone astray. Mohamed being his sibling, he had come to warn him without the knowledge of his party. In a very polite tone, he further tried to persuade Mohamed – “You’re my brother, so thought of warning you. Nobody knows I’ve come here. But everybody knows you people are watching football matches. Stop this.”
Mohamed looked up to his elder brother – an iota of humanity was still present in him. He laughed and said, “Thanks for your warning. But we can’t stop watching football. The hyena, once having tasted blood, can’t be tamed. Have you heard of Ghana’s performance? They have reached the quarter, might even reach the semi. Can’t even dream how Appiah, Gyan are proving their mettle. Ghana is the nation, we must support. Let’s see how you’ll stop us from remaining glued to the TV set.”
Moslem tried further, “This is how you’re welcoming danger to your entire community.
Think again.”
Mohamed replied, “I have nothing to think. You people think. You’re denying people of their individual rights. If anybody has to think you’re the people, yours is the party, who must think…”
Moslem retorted, “We’re fighting for the nation. Foreign army has been kept in shelter.
Don’t you know all these? We’re fighting for you people.”
–I know how they inflict pain on our nation. I know your cause. I respect it. But where is it written that one has to accept death if your diktat is not obeyed?
–But to gain something, you have to sacrifice something…
–You organize blasts… the innocent die… the sixteen-year old loses life for watching football match… we want peace… you people are robbing us of peace…
Moslem’s efforts failed before the legitimate claim of Mohamed. Still, he made one last effort. “I’ve come to warn you. But your contumacy, I believe, would be spared by Allah only. I’m leaving,” said he.
Just as Moslem had appeared like a bolt from the blue he disappeared in the thin air in the twinkle of an eye.
Just before leaving, Moslem took a deep breath with a chuckle.
The hyena did not shift his stare from Mohamed. Moslem had the same glint in his eyes… the doubt emanating from the emotional imbroglio… prior to pounce upon the prey.
The entire continent was enveloped in the silence of the graveyard once Asamoah Gyan missed the penalty shot… the ball hit the crossbar and sailed over. How Fernando Muslera, the goalkeeper of Uruguay, flew skyward and kept punching the crossbar, praising the fortune! Everyone had even forgotten spitting venom on Luis Suarez, who seemed to have wings, though sent off. Still, Mohamed had been praying for a tiebreaker win.
Gyan stepped forward to take the first penalty kick… kept a nice placement after a short run-up. The goalkeeper, again, found the ball flying above his head. But this time, it was caught in the net.
Mohamed, and those tied up with him yelled hoping to muster the zest. But all in vain.
The Panenka kick of Sebastian Abreu entered the goal dumbfounding Richard Kingson and by then, Mohamed had come out of the house. He would fail to put up with the air of despair brooding over the interior. Brazil had to retreat that day. He felt empty… would feel like escaping the societal bondage… he had long been tied up with those… he could sense Moslem and his men crying for his blood.
Mohamed was confirmed after five days that he had not wrongly apprehended his future. The pall of darkness loomed large. Moslem and four of his men, carrying Kalashnikov-47 with elan reached Mohamed, lost in disturbed slumber after his favourite team got disqualified.
The fragile door was broken in no time. Mohamed could hardly be on his toes when the gun touched his head. The other accomplice gagged him. Mohamed’s resistance fell flat in the face of the combined force of the five powerful ones. He learnt that Moslem was an integral part of the team.
Mohamed was blindfolded as well as pinioned before the long and almost eternal walk under the cover of the dark, with the gun barrel in constant touch against his spine. He stumbled a couple of times. They only made him stand erect.
It was a silent walk, punctuated quite often by encounters with wild animals… but that was the custom, felt Mohamed.
“Only five? Damn it! If Messi were there, he would have dribbled past all of them,” would have joked Shadab.
They reached a rocky place, traversing the jungle path. It was gradually getting clear. Mohamed was released. Sudden light after such a long spell of darkness shattered him. He was made to sit on a rock. Water was splashed, rather slapped on his face. The ambience was somewhat made clear.
The story of a parallel world unfolded before his eyes. Everyone seemed to be inertia- driven. Everyone was busy in the daytime. But everything seemed so unnatural. Mohamed was frantically seeking Moslem, his elder brother.
Where had he been left?
The hyena was closing in on him. Mohamed kept watching his co-mate. It was a bit limp in the hind leg. Mohamed hurled at it, “Are you abandoned?”
The hyena was flabbergasted. So long he had been found lying down. His faint voice might have stirred it up. He was also being watched by the hyena. Mohamed kept on asking himself and answering parallelly, “Caught by the wild dogs? No? Then lion? That too, no? Must be leopard… Then fled to the jungle? …”
Advancing a step, the hyena stood stunned. How could it decipher the language of a human? It could smell the soft flesh of a human. The young man’s limbs seemed paralyzed, only some indistinct sound flown out of the moving lips. Mohamed never stopped – “Then you were put in to the cage? Couldn’t get out of it! You’re now the doctor… truly you can discern the evil within? …do I have one. It had a yellow jersey put on it… a football at its feet…. Why don’t you tear the devil out of me?”
The hyena must be trying to listen to the man, supposedly speaking to it. Mohamed tried to lift his left arm only to put it on the hyena but was weak enough… the hyena kept on sniffing Mohamed. The wild breath of the hyena seemed to be mutilating Mohamed’s infirm body.
Mohamed started, “You can’t speak… so can’t tell your story… so listen to mine… they didn’t kill me at once… might be because Moslem is my elder brother… but I had to prove myself mad… my family called me mad to get rid of me… but I didn’t agree.”
The hyena was licking Mohamed’s skin. The weak skin was being battered by the rough tongue.
“They took me back to my native hamlet, kept me tied up… would beat me up. I would never give up. Would you have given up, surrounded by wild dogs? I would pray to Allah. I would have loved to fly like Carles Puyol, the Spaniard combating the German defence… that was my last match.”
Mohamed could not help stopping for the last few breaths. The hyena was engrossed in examining the wounds… the closed mouths of the volcanoes… once the molten lava oozed out it would spring into devouring…
“It was decided… I had to spend the night with you. But tell them when they would come at daybreak… I have not gone mad.”
The hyena failed to overlook the pus spewed out of the old wound in the left foot of Mohamed. Its canine would soon make inroads into the interiors of the young flesh and blood.
It looked at Mohamed once and laughed. It cannot talk. It can only laugh.
Also, read Poems by Utpal Deka, translated by Nirendra Nath Thakuria, and published in The Antonym:
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