To travel back to Dhaka
from Rangpur in the far north you had to cross the Brahmaputra River,
and if memory serves me at all, we did this south of Sirajganj.
Rahman was driving our solid, sturdy Mahindra jeep, for it was
understood that it was too dangerous for a foreigner to drive
anywhere in Bangladesh in those days and certainly not upcountry. I
had traveled to Rangpur to give testimony in a trial – a shabby
affair of embezzlement that ended with no trial at all, instead the
employee simply disappeared or, as they liked to say, absconded.
Or so I recall now, although in this, too, the details are hazy. No,
what I truly remember from this trip, a sight that has stayed fast in
memory since then, is something I saw at the ferry ghat while
we waited to cross the river.
All the major rivers –
the Brahmaputra, the Meghna, the Padma – all brought both life
and death, depending on the season. Even in the dry months the rivers
were wide, as much as two miles or more, and the only way across was
by ferry, and this meant waiting at a ghat,
the landing
place, with all the other vehicles and crowds of people. This day in
the spring, the sky was the clearest blue overhead and the sun was
brilliant but not yet so hot at this time of year, for the monsoon
had not yet begun, so it was a pleasant day. As always at a river
crossing, the ghat was crowded
with the people and
vehicles waiting to cross over. The bright hues
of saris and lunghis gave
vibrant
color to the scene, and I also saw a few of the pale
blue burquas worn by the more
prosperous women,
their bodies covered head to foot but for the narrow strip of veil
over their eyes, their life of purdah giving
proof
that they had no need to work like other women, the poor women who
must wear a garment that permitted the movement of hard physical
labor, and who could only cover their hair with the ragged scrap-end
of a sari held in place with their
teeth.
There were also hawkers
selling food and drink, and I bought mangoes for Rahman and I to
share as we waited for the ferry, which I could see far off in the
distance making its methodical way back across the water to the fresh
tide of cargo and passengers, all of us waiting patiently, like it or
not.
And of course there were
beggars on the ghat, as there always were
in any place
where large crowds gathered. They were of all ages and conditions,
all holding out there hands, asking for baksheesh, the
universal word used by beggars throughout south Asia, originally a
Persian word rich in meaning for it did double duty to mean both alms
and, in a different context, a bribe. As a foreigner I was a natural
magnet for beggars, but Rahman always kept them away, speaking not in
a harsh way but firmly, for he was a man with natural authority and
the straight posture and serious mien of a former soldier in the
Pakistani Army, a man some twenty years my senior, a man who without
effort commanded respect. He told the beggars that I was not a rich
man, and this was true but also manifestly untrue in this place and
time, and a man would need an adamantine heart and a conscience of
stone to be untouched by so much misery. Scenes like this, a throng
of beggars, always touched me deeply.
Some moments later there
was one in particular who caught my eye, a young boy. Was he ten or
twelve or fifteen? – who can say? — for poverty and
hunger of this kind make a child’s age unknowable. He stood out
not because of his rags, which were like those all the others, and
not because of the urgency of his plea or the stridency of his cry.
No, it was the fact that he crawled along the ground, one leg
grotesquely bent at a right angle as though it had been broken and
then set in this way, purposefully misaligned, a wretched distortion
of the human form, and, seeing him, my heart overflowed with
pity.
I asked Rahman how this
could have happened, so he talked with the boy in a rapid exchange,
then turned to me and said, “His father did it,” then
added, “to make him a better beggar.”
I was shocked, how could
this be? What kind of parent, I asked, would do this to a child?
Rahman answered, “He is certainly a very bad man…”
– he searched for a word, then added, “surely a
villain.”
My hand went to my pocket
and I pulled out a note but Rahman put up his hand, insisting I must
give the child nothing, saying, “No, you mustn’t. His
father will be in this crowd watching us and if you give the
child baksheesh, the money will
only go to him, a
terrible man!”
But the child saw the
money and understood my intent and his plea grew more urgent. Despite
Rahman’s words – and I knew he was right – I did
not want to stop myself so I bent down to the child and put a
ten taka note in his outstretched
hand. The boy
clutched the bill, his fingers like talons, and with his other hand
he touched his forehead and heart, offered thanks and wished upon me
the blessings of Allah. Then he turned away and, propelling himself
with only his hands, moved with surprising rapidity, scurrying away
across the ground, pushing his way through the legs of others. My
eyes followed him until he disappeared into the crowd.
My offering had caused a
stir among the other beggars who now clamored about me asking for the
same, and the air was filled with their cries of “Baksheesh!
Baksheesh!” I knew this situation could be
dangerous
so I followed when Rahman pulled me back to the jeep, insisting I sit
inside. But soon the ferry touched up to the ghat and, having already
paid our fare in advance like the others with vehicles, we were
allowed to board first while the great crowd of passengers arriving
and new passengers boarding made a vast unruly scrum on the shore.
Later, as we stood on the
deck and watched the one bank recede and the far bank grow slowly
more distinct as the ferry made its way back across the river, I
asked Rahman how such a thing could happen, how could a father do
such a terrible thing to a child?
“There
are wicked
men in the world,” he answered, “but God sees all and
knows all, and God does not allow men to be cruel simply because they
are poor, so God will give that father a terrible punishment to match
the terrible deed he has done to his child.”
He seemed so certain of
this but I could not share his certainty. I did not say the words but
in my skeptic’s mind I asked the question: If God
exists and sees all and knows all and has the power to punish evil,
then why does He not prevent it? If He knows the thought and the
intent, then why does He not stop the deed? But this
is an
ancient question – the essential dilemma of theodicy –
and there has never been an answer, unless one is open to the
arguments of Jesuitical casuistry or – examined in another
tradition – one is willing to accept without question a passage
from the Koran or some apt hadith.
Over forty years have
passed, but now and then something will bring back to mind that day
and the boy at the ferry ghat, but it has
been a long
time since last I thought of it, and I write it down now lest my
heart grow old, cold and indifferent.
