The Martyr

Martyr

“Where’re you going?” She asked her son, Sunil the third time. He didn’t answer but kept on tying his shoe lace. She looked at her son, her only son in fact, and repeated her question, “I say where you are going?”

                “You know where I am going,” he replied without looking at her.

                “No. You aren’t going anywhere. You stay home.”

                “Mom, everyone is going.”

                “Let them go.” Her voice was rising.

                “All my friends are going. Nothing will happen to me. You’re unnecessarily worried.” He tried to reason with his mother.

                “No. You’re not going.” She said, and left the room.

Sunil heaved a sigh and lied on the bed. He put his hand under his head and looked at the ceiling. In its centre there was a hook for the ceiling fan. But there was no ceiling fan, just the bare hook –his mother couldn’t afford the luxury of a fan. When he was 8, he had asked his mother:

“Why don’t we have a fan, Mom? Prem, Krishna, Lok everybody has a fan in their room.”

His mother had nestled him in her bosom and replied, “We are poor people son, so we can’t buy a fan. You grow, be a big man. When my raja beta earn a lot of money he’ll buy a fan for me.”

He was pleased, was very happy thinking of buying a fan and being able to give some comfort to his mother in the hot summer. He’s now taller than his mother, but not a big man. He is now 16 but hasn’t been able to earn even a single penny yet let alone earning a lot to buy a fan for his mother.

Sunil turned his gaze towards the walls. They were not whitewashed or painted. On places the plaster was peeling off and the bricks were showing which resembled the uneven teeth of an old woman. Opposite his bed, there were pictures of Laxmi, the goddesses of wealth, Ganesh, the god of wisdom, and Sarsawati, the goddess of knowledge, which his mother had bought specially for him. Below each picture, there were residues of offering –the stubs of incense sticks. Everyday his mother, Kanchhi burnt incense sticks which she bought cheap -3 rupees a packet- from a local shop and put them below the pictures. Instantly their smoke filled the poky little room with a pungent smell. She then joined her palms together and prayed:

“O God and Goddesses! Please throw a glance of mercy and benevolence on us. We are poor! Forgive us and protect us!” Then she would pray for her son, “Mother Sarswati, bestow a little favour on my son. Make him a learned man.” Then as a token of blessing, she put a tika on Sunil’s forehead who joined his palms together like his mother, closed his eyes and asked for the forgiveness and kindness of the goddesses.

Sunil always wondered why his mother asked for god’s forgiveness –what was it that they had done wrong. Was to be poor a sin? And she asked for protection –protection against what or whom? As he grew older, unlike his mother, he lost his faith in the kindness of gods and goddesses. In his childhood, many a time he asked them to save him against the cruelties of his classmates who teased him by saying him ‘an orphan’. They made fun of his clothes which were always second hand –the hand-me-downs of the children of those families where his mother worked as a house maid. He tried not to hate them. His mother had taught him to love everyone and if he could not love, then not to hate anyone. But it was so hard not to hate his classmates; and he always felt crying in his effort. Every day he prayed and asked the goddesses to change the hearts of his class friends, to make them friendly to him, to save him from their cruelties. Had he asked much? But they never helped him. So Sunil toughened himself. He turned a deaf ear to the taunts of his friends and bore their sarcasm with an air of forgiveness. Gradually, he didn’t know why or how he was accepted by them and he became their playing pal, but he lost his faith in the kindness of the gods and goddesses. However, he never voiced his thoughts to his mother as he did not want to hurt her feeling. He understood that in some strange way, the gods and goddesses hanging against the wall of their tiny room transmitted strength to his mother, who was alone and fighting with this ugly world. He looked at the goddesses: they were happily hanging against the wall and looking at him benevolently with a never-ending smile on their face.

Sunil was the only child of his widowed mother. He had no memory of his father because his father died before he was born. He joined the rebels who were trying to overturn the present government, and one day was shot in an encounter with the army. His mother never told him about her past: he learned it bit by bit from others. He learned that his father died before he was born, that his father was an educated man but couldn’t get a job as he was a dalit, that her mother had eloped with his father without her parents’ consent who belonged to the upper caste and who never forgave her for this outrageous deed, that her name was Sushma not Kanchhi which everybody addressed her with, that she never went back to her parents or asked for their favour, that she raised him, her son by doing all kinds of odd works -from carrying bricks on a doko to working as a housemaid in several families- that she carried him on her back tied with a piece of cloth while she mopped the floor or washed the dirty dishes, that…

                “We want Democracy!”

                “Down with Dictatorship!”

                “Long live Martyrs!”

Slogans were heard outside in the street. Sunil got up from the bed and went to the only window of the room and looked through it. A long line of people, men and women even children were marching shouting slogans and raising placards over their heads. He didn’t know why but he wished to run and join them, only the thought of making his mother unhappy stopped him. He remembered the sight of the movement he and his friends had witnessed. He had gone to the demonstration –not to take part in it really but to see it, and was on his way back home with his friends. What they had seen was not nice. People had been brutally beaten by the security force. He with his friends had escaped the beating and the tear gas because they were in the back of the procession. He had marvelled at those who had the guts to go near the soldiers, shout slogans and face the risk of being beaten and or shot.

As Sunil recalled the scene, he became restless. He was thinking of going to look for his mother when she entered the room.

“Mother!” he started.

“No, son !” She cut him short. “You aren’t going. Think of me. You’re my only child. If something happens to you, what will become of me? How can I live?”

“But Mom, what about the movement and democracy?

“What about it? What has democracy given us so far?” retorted his mother. “What does it mean to the poor? Does it feed people? Will it give us a house to live in, land to farm on, money to continue your study? Democracy, democracy! What has it given us? Nothing but vain words! Don’t you let yourself carried away by the words of the politicians –the leeches who suck the blood of their poor countrymen to fatten themselves.” After a pause she began again, “The movement will not fail just because you do not join the procession. It will fail or succeed even without you, won’t it?”

Sunil didn’t know what to say. What his mother said was correct. With or without him the movement will continue. Nonetheless he said, “Yes. But I want to be part of it. I want to be there with others, with my friends. You don’t worry. I won’t be there alone –all my friends are there. I feel bad sitting here while they are on the street shouting slogans.”

“You’re just like your father –stubborn and indifferent to my feelings. And you know what happened to him. I can’t afford losing you after him.” She was in tears. This was the first time she mentioned his father to him. Sunil hugged his mother and said:

“People say that my father died for a noble cause. I’m proud of him and you should feel the same, Mom. He was not a drunkard or a gambler. He fought for people. People might question the way he chose to fight, but there could be no question about his intention, his wish of making his country free from all kinds of evils.”

His mother blew her nose, “I wish the movement to be successful. But I’m a mother, and you don’t know how a mother feels about her son. Sons, when they are grown up, don’t listen to their mothers.” She heaved a long sigh and then said, “OK, go if you must but promise me that you’ll be away from the police and the army, and will return before nightfall.”

“Yes, Mom. Don’t you worry,” he said and came out into the street.

It was the 7^th day of the people’s movement and nobody knew how long it was going to continue. It was no longer a movement led by the political parties and media, but the whole nation was sheathing in the cauldron of movement –set to uproot dictatorship from the country’s soil once and for all. Teachers and students closed schools and campuses, lawyers stopped practicing in the courts, and doctors wore black bands on their arms to show solidarity with the people’s movement. Shops were closed, transportation stood still and government offices stopped functioning. The whole state machinery was paralysed: only the army and police were functioning.

During the week a dozen people lost their lives, and hundreds of them were injured: loss of eyes, broken legs and arms, fractured ribs and so on and so on. Yet people’s enthusiasm for democracy, their vigour to fight against tyranny did not abate, on the contrary they were surging forward even more forcefully and tirelessly.

When Sunil came out of his house, his friends were already gone. So he hurried to join the procession. On his way he saw Gopichand standing on the veranda of his house and looking at the procession. “Aren’t you going to join the procession, Gopichand uncle?” he asked.

                “I’m not a fool. What do you know about movement? I participated in the movements  of 1951 and 1989. My only son was shot on the street like a pariah dog. I nearly lost my life. And what have we got? Corruption grew more and poor became poorer. Then I was a week-kneed lad like you so I followed the leaders and believed their lies. Now I’m not. Nothing is going to change for me or you in this country. So why should I risk my neck –to make these bastards politicians rich?” His outburst surprised Sunil.

                “Don’t take him seriously”, Sunil looked at the speaker and namsted him by joining his palms together as he recognised the school teacher. “Gopichand was a leader in his own time. He was deceived by his own party colleagues. So he is bitter about everything and is cynical about the government and the political leaders. He has grown soft in his head. There are people like Gopichand who think that nothing is going to change.”

                “What do you think, sir? Will there be any change?” asked Sunil eager to know.

“Nepalese fought for democracy twice times in the past.” After a while the man continued, “Each time promises were made by the leaders, endless promises. But none of them were fulfilled. A new class of people emerged who had become rich overnight. Common people condition remained unchanged. Naturally many people are sceptical about it, the movement I mean. But I believe that there will be change and we should try for it. We cannot go on bearing this unbearable situation.”

Soon both of them were engulfed by the huge crowed which was slowly nearing the Ring Road. Sunil looked around. It was a magnificent sight: from all directions long lines of people, men, women, young, old and even children were marching forward chanting slogans, and holding placards and banners. Like waves of the sea hundreds of thousands of heads could be seen surging forward from all directions. Without any obvious reason Sunil felt his heart swelling with pride and he shouted with all his might. His voice mingled with those of others:

“We want democracy!”

“Down with autocracy!”

The procession like a huge anaconda moved slowly and came near the river: on the other side of the river was the Ring Road. They had to cross the river and reach the Ring Road to break the curfew to show civil disobedience. As the road was higher, soldiers and policemen could be seen marching along the road with rifles and light machineguns. Sunil looked at them, at their guns and then looked back at people. People in thousands had already crossed the river, were crossing the river, and coming to the river. The narrow suspension bridge seemed to be breaking under the feet of so many people, and it did break taking some people down with it. But the pressure to cross the river from behind was so high, people couldn’t turn backward and so they moved forward marching on the wooden plank knee deep in water –their slogans even louder.

Sunil saw people near the road. Some of them were talking with the soldiers. Suddenly some young people rushed to the road and were on it in no time. They were four, quite young, of his age Sunil thought. “Aren’t they afraid,” Sunil wondered. They were waving their banner and placards and beckoning people down to come up. The mass cheered, and many ran to join them, and… and then stopped. They were being beaten by the police. Three of them escaped: one couldn’t. Now he was being caned, now being booted –his banner was fallen and he was rolling on the concrete road trying to save his face with his both hands. People were watching as if mesmerized.

                “They killed him. Butchers! They killed him. O poor little boy! Can’t we do something?” A woman wailed. Everybody wanted to help but nobody wanted to move forward first and face the soldiers. It was like thousands of feet were nailed to the ground and thousands of eyes were pasted on to the scene.

Then suddenly a roar came out of thousands of throat like a lion’s roar and the crowed moved forward. Sunil was carried away with it. But immediately the crowd turned back. He found him running with others. A boy of around twelve fell and screamed as someone trod on him. A ‘bang’ was heard and someone fell down screaming. Panic seized people. Everybody was running not knowing where. We shouldn’t run like this, like cowards -Sunil thought -we should fight, but his feet were carrying him away.

Another bang and he instantly knew that it was tear gas. He covered his face with his hanky and tried not to breath. The smoke entered into his nose however and made its way to his lungs. His eyes started burning and he could hardly see. All around him people were choking, moaning and cursing. He remembered his mother and longed to be away from the place. Still pressing his hanky to his eyes he moved forward: the animal instinct in him was urging him to run in order to save him from the potential dangerous predators.

Another bang and Sunil fell down on the ground. He was lying on his back on the dirt and could only see the running feet. He felt a dull pain on his chest. He coughed blood on his hand and looked at it. Was he dying? Surely not, he was too young to die –he thought. He couldn’t keep his promise to his mother. She would be waiting for him. Where are his friends? Are they too lying on dirt like him? Oh! He cannot buy a fan anymore. These fleeting thoughts came rapidly into his mind, and vanished. He looked at the sky. It was clear and shining but he couldn’t see it through the blazing sun. His senses were leaving him. He heard footsteps and saw a heavy, black, military boots near his head. He saw vaguely the boot suspended in the air just inches above his face -black, muddy, ugly boot. How obscene! He thought, and then everything went blank.