Man Without His Tongue

Syed Manzurul Islam
(Translated by Rubana)

1
Altab Ali's hopes about his son, Ramzan, adjudged a ‘merit scholar’ while in class seven, suffered a dent when Ramzan's association with the politically left-wing Babar Bhai began to flourish. Ramzan's association with theology cost him his academic place and he barely got a second division in SSC.

For Altab the non-matriculate, Ramzan was a rare feather in his family's cap. A glorious future, that's what Ramzan had for himself, thought poor Altab. After all, wasn't he one of those who had gone hungry and fed their children? Weren't they the same ones who had clothed their children and themselves walked barefoot in winter? Hadn't they slogged so that the tiffin could reach their children at school? Yes, poverty had not curbed his dreams. Altab himself was a disillusioned soul, but that story will have to wait for its turn another time. Today, we can only accommodate Ramzan in the plot.

Thanks to his tiffin money, a lot of friends were drawn to Ramzan. And thanks to his protective father, Ramzan had grown up vulnerable and unsure. His snack money was often spent on his friends' cigarettes and luckily Altab Ali remained unaware of this practice. But that Ramzan had registered with the left wing of the students' union had ceased to remain a secret. So, a betrayed Altab lost no time in pleading with the well-known leader of the Left, Babar bhai: "Oh bhaijan, let go of my Ramzan. You are destroying my dreams." Babar Bhai had an unusual response to his plea: "But, bhai, there are people who expect a lot from Ramzan." Altab disappointed, then tried to reason with his son, "You are my eldest, baba…class struggle should rank the last in your list!"

In reality, neither Altab Ali nor Ramzan had the faintest idea about theories of class warfare. Only history could attest Babar Bhai's strength in that particular area. But somehow the ring of the phrase ‘class struggle’ appealed to Ramzan's senses and he consoled his father:

"Don't worry, Abba, I promise to study and lead the masses as well." Altab wondered if both were at all possible at the same time. Perplexed, Altab Ali at one point fell ill. He also remained blissfully unaware of Ramzan's brief love affair with Rushna, a student of Kaderia-Ambia Madrasa.

Ramzan used to send Rushna love letters drafted mostly during his study hours. Yet poor Ramzan's passion was wasted on his lover, who was about to wed a garments factory worker. But that's beside the point. Today our focus will only be on Ramzan and Altab. And at this point in the story, the inevitable happened. Altab's health deteriorated and Ramzan scored a minimum third division in his HSC.

This is where I make my entry into the plot. That summer, I had gone to my village and when I heard the news of Altab's ailment, I felt compelled to visit him. Altab, bursting into tears, looked like a man betrayed by destiny, "Baba, please take Ramzan to the city and get him a job that'll sustain him, or else my death will not be a peaceful one."

Dreams may be abstract and multifaceted and it may be difficult to interpret them. Altab perhaps in one of his dreams saw Ramzan as a doctor; perhaps in another he dreamt of Ramzan as an officer in uniform. His dreams must have interacted amongst themselves. But I am certain that the subject of his dream had never wandered beyond Ramzan and his happy world. That particular dream frame must have routinely made Altab a happy father.

"Does Ramzan want to work?" I asked casually as I was sure that his third division HSC would not be of much use. Besides, what powers did I have to employ Ramzan? My isolation from mainstream political activities on the campus has not done me much good. I have been, for the last seven years, pleading with the dean and the syndicate members to regularize a temporary employee, the son of a freedom fighter, who currently works as a university guard.

And I was the one who's supposed to be the resource person for Ramzan? Hah!

Ramzan took it upon himself to answer me, "Sir, I can work for a garment factory in Dhaka."

"In garments, Ramzan? I thought factories only hired female workers."

"No, sir. There are male workers out there too."
"Oh."
It was then that I firmly handed him a piece of advice: "No. Ramzan, you will study." I had, by then already calculated that between my wife's and my earnings we would be able to contribute at least 2000 takas for Ramzan's education. Since my wife earns more than me, expecting her to contribute 1500 takas and leaving myself with a minimum 500 was not that illogical an equation! And it certainly seemed like a feasible plan.

But Ramzan didn't want to pursue my dreams. He had his own to chase. He was adamant. He wanted a career in garments. He followed me to Dhaka and came to ‘Mondal Garments and Knitwear,’ which had two units under one roof. Mondal was a student of a batch of Preliminary students (Pre-lims were known as ‘Pilu’ years ago). Mondal's class unusually had two Mondals in it. The other Mondal was from the Honors stream. He was simply a Mondal and our Mondal was "Pilu Mondal".

Pilu had inherited the factory from his father and had expanded to knitwear manufacturing on his own merit. I referred back to an old business card of Mondal's I had from meeting him at a wedding some time back.

I called him, and surprisingly and almost instantly, Mondal agreed to hire Ramzan. "Sir, why just one job? I can hire even five at a time, specially when they come with your recommendation!"

Tell me, didn't I have enough reasons to be proud of Mondal? But wait…my sense of glory was short-lived; my trip to Ramzan's factory had killed my euphoria.

It was a huge, six-storied unit in Mirpur Number 12. The factory had only one locked, collapsible entry and exit point. Mondal's office was great to look at, though and he welcomed Ramzan with sufficient warmth. But the people surrounding Ramzan looked like….naaah…is it right to compare them with….the Mafia? Their steely expressions was loaded with suspicion. Mondal then educated me about his work force, which was 90% female. I shuddered at this. That would mean that these girls were always under the watch and care of these hard-eyed men. Mondal's guided tour unsettled my nerves further. These girls were not even allowed to smile since any sign of mirth from them would be considered blasphemous in a place like this factory. It would be considered a distraction. Ramzan got the job; his salary was decent and Mondal displayed enough respect towards me by providing him with accommodation as well. Yet Ramzan was the only one who had a smile on his face at that hour.

When I walked out of the factory, ironically, I felt a huge sense of relief. I felt like a prisoner out in the air for the first time after long many years of captivity.

As a boy, my cricket days were spent in front of the Sylhet district jail. Thanks to my friend, Gaus Sultan, whose doctor father worked there and through whom I had the rare opportunity to make friends with prisoners. Cane was their chosen handicraft and cane products were sold right outside the jail. Those products, to me, symbolized tears and pain. My decision not to ever buy any of those things or even sit on a cane stool stemmed from that single emotion.

Strangely enough, I connected with that old, repressed emotion of my past after long many years…right after I came out of Mondal's factory.

2
The last two years of Ramzan's academic life may have taken a nosedive, but his integrity and strength of character did not waver even for a moment. While his friends were busy smoking cigarettes with his money, he never took a puff; when Rushna got married, he stayed calm, never defied his father, and remained a devoted brother to his siblings. Ramzan might have had a measly score as a student, but as human being, he qualified for straight A-s. That doesn't, however justify Ramzan's cowardice. He could barely stand up for his rights...but isn't it unfair to expect a 100% out of a mere mortal? And even if he were at the impossibly perfect score range, he would then qualify to be a protagonist of a different story with a different plot.

Ramzan began his work at Mondal's factory with three specific commitments: One, he would reach work on time; two, he would set out to look for Rushna only after work; three, he would regularly send his mother her monthly allowance. His sincerity did not go unnoticed by Mondal and he was promoted to the post of a supervisor, surpassing Shampa and Habiba who, even after working for three long years, failed to bag that position. Ah..but then again…the gender issue? I had almost forgotten that part. Shampa and Habiba are not even our central characters. We surely sympathize with them, but Ramzan is the one today deserving the attention as he was the one who was able to get his sister decently married off with his own money.

Ramzan, a loner at heart, had no social life. So, when Shampa and Habiba gave up talking to him, Ramzan suffered, especially because his after-work hours were all spent on looking for Rushna. But he made an exception one day and bought two packets of chips for the two of his ‘apas’. In return they hurled insults at him; labeled him as the owner's ‘rat’ and then finally broke down and blamed their own karma. For Ramzan, ‘fate’ wasn't a word he was fond of. He knew 'reason' as taught by his mentor Babar. So, when he explained it to those two, they smiled and tried to keep up with him.

But the smiles faded with the announcement of the termination of three workers on grounds of violence and protest. All they had done was scream. They had raised their voices and spoken against the management's failure to increase salaries. Mondal himself had promised them the raise. But that was a Pre-MFA Phase not to considered now. You must be aware of the termination of the Multi-Fibre Agreement as per WTO rules through which exports from Bangladesh to America cease to be quota free from December 2004. But that was still to be a year from now. So why would Mondal then not live up to his word? Besides, why should the three of them lose their jobs? There were just too many questions and too few answers. However, Ramzan got his raise and instead of being a victor, turned into a victim.

Haplessly Rushna-less, Ramzan had earned himself an extra misery. Since his meeting with Mondal took place once every month, he took advantage of the routine and asked for a little extra time from him. He pleaded, "Sir, could you please increase their take-home salaries? I promise to increase your profit margin by ten percent." For Mondal, it was a tough equation to come to terms with. Profit and increased wages did not go hand in hand. Though Mondal believed Ramzan, he did not trust the rest and he believed that it was wiser to invest in power plants than in labor. Future lay in Power and not in Garments.

Brooking no further words Mondal dismissed him from his office - without, of course, even considering his demands. Ramzan dared to plead once more but Mondal remained unshaken. Ramzan was rather harshly told to mind his own affairs. "Sir, could you please reconsider as their families depend on their earning?" Ramzan's did, too. Nothing worked. But, neither Ramzan, nor Mondal made the failed negotiation public. In no time, when the workers felt that their wages would be halved and that many would lose their jobs, all hell broke loose in the factories between Mirpur Numbers.10 and 12 and their voices of protest crossed the locked, collapsible iron gates of factories and reached out to their neighboring friends. Mondal, of course couldn't be blamed for all the neighborhood discontent. But when posters were being pasted on his factory walls, he lost his temper and tore them off. By that time, the workers' union, which did not even exist a couple of months back, was fully at work and had called for further strikes. Besides, Ramzan being the secretary general of that organization and Habiba the president made the scenario worse. It was a disaster for Mondal anyway with the company facing a no-profit situation, and on top of that, he had the Ramzan-Habiba duo to take care of.

"What's going on, Ramzan?" Mondal asked Ramazan in an unforgiving voice, and which I was lucky enough not to have heard.

"Nothing much, sir", replied the rebel and said that it wasn't fair to treat his workers in that manner. Mondal was surprised, disgusted and lost no time in throwing Ramzan out of his office again.

Ramzan left for sure, but by the time he reached the landing he had already qualified for the legendary status of a hero. The women were carrying him on their shoulders, while he was having mixed feelings about the whole incident.

He felt relieved to have gotten rid of his ‘rat’ label. At the same time, he had his own material issues to deal with. If he lost his job, who would pay for his brother's college tuition, the one remaining son who would have made their father proud with his first division in SSC?

Something within him hurt when he remembered his father. There were two additional reasons that brought him close to tears. One, by the time he had tracked down Rushna, she had left for Pakistan along with her husband, a fact that Ramzan discovered twelve days too late. Goodbye, Rushna, forever! Two, Modal's goons had beaten him up, and had threatened to properly "size" him down if he deviated from the owner’s line.

Most of the garment workers are women, the socially vulnerable ones unable to fight the Mondals of the world. Mondals were always backed by the government and protected by the police. I noticed that articles in the newspapers had taken the workers' side, The Left Front had taken to the streets for them, but to no avail. Strikes would lead to retrenchment and even closure. How could one stand up against such ultimatums? After all, wasn't it better for the Mondals to just pay twenty takas to the police rather than pay ten takas to the workers? Blumenthal has give an explanation regarding this irrational psyche: aggression satisfies the ego and there is an added joy in brutally defeating the oppressed. The same theory works for religion and reproduction as well, doesn't it?

A few days later, when the unrest was almost brought under control, Mondal called Ramzan in.

For some time, Pilu Mondal had suffered humiliation. When the protests of the workers had peaked, Mondal was almost ready to accept defeat. For Mondol, defeat meant the end of human dignity. He had started looking at Ramzan through a different lens. After all, a slave had started to use his tongue to lecture his master. Ramzan had almost dared to replace Mondal; Ramzan had almost become him, and he, Ramzan; Ramzan the oppressor and Mondal the oppressed. Ramzan had become the center and Mondal the periphery.

For this, Ramzan would have to be punished. Mondal ordered, "You will not go 200 yards beyond this building." Ramzan, surprised, protested that his residence was over a mile away from the factory. To this Mondal suggested that he stay within the periphery of the office building. Ramzan was assigned a residence with the guards. At one point, he thought that he would give his job up and go away to Karachi. But what would happen to his Ma? Who would take care of his younger brother?

One afternoon, during the break, when a couple of hundred female laborers were dashing to their homes to grab a bite to eat and a few rushed to the roof to snack, the sight of Shampa's body shocked them all. Two girls testified and said that Shampa had slipped and fallen while rushing downstairs. The word of the girls could not be trusted as they were new recruits. Shampa, though not a favorite of every worker, had always worked on behalf of the workers, and they could not take her death lightly. Some even smelt murder. The workers started their agitation.

Mondal was home, entertaining a guest from America. After he received the news in the afternoon, he rushed to his neighbor Amir Hossain's verandah on the fourth floor and tried to assess the consequent developments. In the evening, Ramzan was seen talking to a reporter on a private television channel. He had the look of an angry man, Mondal thought. After a few hours, Mondal the dutiful host returned home. By that time, his goons had taken charge of the factory and the situation seemed to have been brought under control.

The channel had broadcast Ramzan's interview. Mondal had watched that bit. To Mondal, Ramzan's tongue suddenly seemed to have grown too long for comfort. Meanwhile, two or three of Mondal's chamcha workers had come in to update their ‘boss’: Ramzan had spoken for the poor; Ramzan had spoken about class struggle and had vowed not to return to work till their demands were met.

Ramzan's tongue! That long and stretched tongue! That tongue had to be taken care of! It had to be cut off! If the other tongues continued to grow after that, he would let them be. Even if factory-owning elites suffered violent deaths as a consequence, Mondal would still wait and watch.

Finally, Ramzan had lost his tongue. Mondal supervised as Ramzan's tongue was chopped to pieces. But in reality the rebellion had been quashed and one poor girl had replaced the other, ensuring no loss of business or export for Mondal. But Shampa cost him quite a lot of money since her brothers heartlessly wanted more from Mondal and would not settle for less.

Mondal, surprisingly felt sorry for Ramzan. He reverently remembered me, his professor, your narrator. So, he sent twenty thousand takas to Ramzan's mother explaining that a goon had done her son this major disfavor. She cried an ocean and offered her prayers. Ramzan's brother, too, got a package from Mondal's people, while yours truly here was unable to expose the real Mondal even by writing as he continued to be under heavy watch of the goon squad.

Right after Ramzan's release from the hospital, Mondal had a special offer for Ramzan: he was given the choice of a clerical job, or heading back home. If he decided to opt for the latter, he would get thirty thousand takas as a golden handshake. Ramzan remained silent and seemed unmoved by the offer. Mondal, surprised by Ramzan's silence, raised his offer to fifty thousand, and then finally to two lakhs. Mondal screamed at Ramzan: "Okay, the deal is final. But after this you will be MY man. You will serve me and take orders only from me. If I order you to remain standing, you will. If I want you to sit, you will. You will eat when I allow you to. You will starve if I so desire. Your flesh and spirit belong to me. You will breathe when asked to. You will hold your breath as per my wishes. You are completely mine from this moment on.”

Mondal stopped at this point. His words were piercing his own eardrums His goons, too, had heard him. So had the walls. But Ramzan was the only one not listening to him. He had left the room long ago. Mondal was taken aback by his behavior. He grew angrier. He ordered his goons to grab Ramzan and bring him back. Two members of the squad left to accomplish the mission. But how were they to grab him? Ramzan was in the middle of at least fifty workers. They were all excited. Their hands were raised. Their voices were high-pitched. Both goons came running back to Mondal with the tale: "Sir, sir…" Mondal inspected the scene and found the third and the fourth floors completely vacant. The workers had gathered on the second floor where the new girls were supposed to be at work - the same floor where Shampa used to work. It was where all the chaos had started. This was the same floor where Ramzan had first become the supervisor.

Mondal halted at the sight. His ears were ringing with the sound of protests.

The crowd now was facing Mondal. There were no individual voices; they had all become one; they had begun a storm. This storm had to be arrested. Ramzan was coming towards Mondal now. Hundreds of workers, including the new ones, formed the procession. Mondal was shocked once again. Ramzan was facing Mondol now. He raised his arm and almost immediately the protests from the back ceased. There was a moment of an uneasy yet eloquent silence. Ramzan was literally hurling words at Mondal: “Grrr….grrrr…grrrr...” This noise unnerved Mondal. He clearly heard the words Ramzan was saying: “The underclass is rising up. Class enemies must die. Death to capitalism.” Et cetera, et cetera...

Mondal covered his face with both hands and stood against the wall. He was a defeated man, ridden with fatigue. The workers were all brushing past him, making the same roaring noise, repeating what Ramzan had already said: The poor have risen against injustice. A new day had begun.

Let Mondal hear all that. Why should we waste our time on that? Let us rather go and queue up behind Ramzan. It's much safer this way. After all, right outside the factory, there are trucks full of police armed with batons. Some may even use tear gas to handle the scene.

By the way, what do they call them, tear gas-guns or tear gas-throwers?

artwork by mahbubur rahman