Identity

It was around eight O’clock at night. Sagar was busy writing a paper on “Hindu Imperialism in Ancient India” to be presented in his departmental seminar next week. The dormitory room of his hostel is quite spatial, but not crowded too much. The rectangular bed is well-protected with a mosquito net; his roommates call him ‘net-babu.’
    Summer has a crispy affair with Gujarat. Sagar’s University is at the heart of Gandhinagar city. When the blazing sun burns the skin of University walls, Sagar imagines of the bygone days when thousands of workers were busy cementing each brick with another.  
    It was chicken day at hostel mess. Sagar turned off his laptop, took off his white cotton T-shirt, and was wrapping up napkin around his waist by standing with his back facing the main door. At that moment a boy entered into the dormitory. Looking around, this new comer asked, “Guys, does any Sagar stay here?”
    Hearing his name, Sagar turned back. 
    “Do you know who Sagar is?”, all words from his mouth fell directly upon Sagar’s face. 
    “Me is Sagar,” he softly replied. 
    “O, great. I heard about you, so I came to meet,” he stretched his right hand. 
    Sagar stretched his hand too. But being curious he asked, “What have you heard about me and from whom?”
    “I’m Prakash Chakraborty from Howrah district, doing PhD at department of Mathematics.”
    “I am Sagar Tikadar, PhD scholar, department of History.”
“It seems you are planning to go to bathroom.”
“Yeah.”
“I have been admitted this year. I went to Bengal to attend a wedding ceremony. Came back last night.”
“O! I see.” 
“One of my roommates told me there is one Sagar, a Bengali guy. So I came to meet.”
There was no smile on Sagar’s face; but he shook his head downward and about to say something that Prakash spoke out, “Well, it’s nice to meet another Bong guy. Actually we are planning to make a Bengali group at Central University of Gujarat. If you don’t mind, can I have   your contact number?” 
Sagar didn’t utter a single word and gave his number. 
“Okay, see you later. Good night,” the Mathematics scholar left the dormitory. 
Since chicken is given once in a week, instead of going late to the dining hall, he goes a bit earlier. He came back from having his bathing. One of his roommates told him, “Although I don’t understand Bengali, when two Bong guys speak, it sounds musical.” 
Sagar looked at him and smiled. He replied softly, “The language is known as Bangla and the People who speak it are Bengali. But not every Bangla-speaking person is recognized Bengali.” 
His roommate smiled in recognition. 
When he was having his dinner he saw that Prakash staring at him with fixed eyes and tearing apart the flesh from the bone. There was a smile on the latter’s face. 

                                     II   
Sagar is a late sleeper, enjoying his reading at night that goes on till four O’clock. That day he couldn’t pay any attention to his study. His guide told him to finish reading The History of Hindu Imperialism by Swami Dharma Theertha and submit an assignment on the comparative analysis between Hindu Imperialism and British Imperialism next month. But he seemed to be preoccupied with something too much. 
When every roommate fell fast asleep, Sagar dived deeper into the ocean of memory. He can see some wounded segments piled up at the bottom—some unforgettable incidents as recognizable as the scars of the moon. He looked four years back when he was studying post graduation at Calcutta University. On the International Mother Language Day one of his classmates, some Chatterjee blew hard in the small gathering in the classroom that Brahmins are meritorious by the virtue of their birth; this is the law of nature, of selection. His words still echo in the ears of Sagar, “Bengali identity and culture is the production of the meritorious Brahmins and other upper castes.”
That day he raised serious objections by saying, “Who is to be held responsible for the degeneration of education system in West Bengal then?”
In his classroom, Sagar had to defend his argument that the so-called upper castes are practically meritless, contributing nothing positive save the system of slavery. Sagar could feel the wound fresh even after four years when he remembers one Rupsa Mukherjee sniffed at his proposal and boasted, “My Muslim friends are far superior to Scheduled Castes.”
Born in a Bahujan family, Sagar Tikadar went on to become the topper in the Higher Secondary exam in his district. Since his father Manohar Tikadar introduced him with Guruchand Thakur and Babasaheb Ambedkar, he became interested in history. His father told him, “Your history textbooks do not chronicle the history of Bahujan people of India, instead they insult them.” He passed under graduation in History with First Class second and went to Alipore campus of Calcutta University to pursue higher study. Ancient people and their culture always fascinate him. One day he chanced upon an old copy of Buddhist India by T. W. Rhys Davids in the departmental library. This text opened up his eyes. He submerged in a thorough study of Ancient Buddhist civilization in South Asia. 
He is always conscious about his identity. One incident three years ago made him realize   the shallow Bengali identity. In his PG, he used to spend the afternoon at the reading room of the Alipore campus library. It was on the eve of Rabindra Jayanti. He was busy making some notes on the cavalry system of British army deployed in the Battle of Plassey. There were two Assistant Librarians, one male and another female sitting in the reading room. They were busy in their daily afternoon gossip before leaving. After a few minutes a third officer came and took his seat on the right side of the lady officer. 
The lady officer spoke a bit louder with this addition, “My daughter will sing Rabindra Sangeet in our club function tomorrow.”
“How old is she?” one male officer inquired.
“Four and half.”
“It is better to teach Rabindra Sangeet to kids. After all Rabindranath is the pinnacle of Bengali culture.”
The third officer was busy browsing his cell phone. The other two were busy talking about Rabindranath and Bengali culture. After a few minutes the third officer broke his silence, “Rabindranath did nothing for the Tribal people of Santiniketan, rather he used them as sweepers to clean his school.”
“Listen Manik, a poet has to be judged by his creativity only,” the pro-Rabindranath asserted quickly. 
“You are isolating a poet from social reality.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Give reason.”
“Listen, your Communist politics has destroyed the tribal economy by cutting forests. Everybody knows it,” the pro-Rabindranath was taking quick breath. 
“It is not the right answer of my question.”
“What Rabindranath did for Bengali society is beyond measure of Communists.”
“Tribals of West Bengal are not Bengali.”
“Whoever lives in Bengal is a Bengali.” 
Sagar was listening to them while making his notes. This intense argumentation made him slow down the pace of his writing. He became quite curious to join. He closed his note book and put the cork over his pen. Now he raised his voice, “Pardon me. Does your Bengali identity include the Dalits of West Bengal?”
The three wise persons suddenly stopped. They turned to this unknown voice instantly. There was a flickering smile on the face of pro-Tribal officer; the lady seemed attentive; and the pro-Rabindranath very suspicious: his brows got wrinkled, his eyes inquisitive, his back and neck straight, palms twisted. The reading room was terribly silent for a while. 
“You cannot interfere in our discussions,” the pro-Rabindranath responded first. 
“I just asked a simple question,” Sagar asserted.
“We are not bound to answer your question,” the pro-Tribal argued.
Sagar spoke in a clear voice this time. “You are avoiding my question because…” Sagar was stopped by the lady, “Listen my dear, we all are humans. This is the first and last identity.”
Sagar replied, “O, yes Mam and thank you for your philanthropic philosophy. But my question was as clear as water: Are Dalits of West Bengal Bengali?”
“There is no Dalit in West Bengal,” the voice of the pro-Tribal descended like a thunder. He seemed too confident. 
“O, I see. But there are many Scheduled Castes in Bengal, right?” Sagar extended the argumentation.
“Of course.”
“And in Indian perspectives Scheduled Castes form the Dalit identity. You know it, right?”  
“There is no caste system in West Bengal,” this great pro-Tribal intellectual confirmed. His eyes turned hostile; the glasses of his spectacle seemed to be too vulnerable in the heat of his eyes’ rage as it turned into red. 
“Why is then your Banerjee Chief Minister going to Thakurnagar?” Sagar’s voice was very calm.
“Namasudras are Hindus.”
“They were Chandals before they came to be known as Namasudra and Chandals are no longer a part of your Hindu society,” Sagar argued confidently.
The pro-Rabindranath was listening to their argumentation while fixing his sharp gaze upon Sagar. His eyes turned big as if two hot rasogollas; his face fully tanned; fingers straightened; body still; and imagination savage. The pro-Tribal was about to say something that this pro-Rabindranath stopped him and said, “Let me proceed.”
“Hey, which category you belong to?” his voice resonated very rough as if a jailor is interrogating a convict in the prison.
Sagar understood he was circled by a gang of laughing hyenas. 
“Scheduled Caste.”
“There you are,” he turned ferocious instantly as if a hyena saw a lion cub.
Meanwhile the pro-Tribal twisted his palms; coughed twice; rubbed his face with handkerchief; emptied the half-filled glass of water; pushed his wooden chair ahead. Then putting a crafty appearance, he spoke out, “Reservation must be based on class distinction, I mean, financial status, and not based on caste.”
After the pro-Tribal stopped, Sagar took a deep breath; closed his note book; shook a little in his chair and said, “Great argument indeed. Why do you mention your caste-based identity then in the matrimony sites in newspapers and websites? Why not only the financial status of the groom?”
“Caste identity has nothing to do with reservation system?” 
“Of course it has. It is because of the graded inequality of caste-based identity that caste-based reservation system has been introduced. Tell me why you mention your caste-based identity in matrimony sites.”
“Marriage is very personal.”
“What is personal is political.”
The pro-Rabindranath now joined to assist the pro-Tribal officer. “Since it is adopted seventy years ago, reservation seems invalid now-a-days. The SCs and STs have accumulated a lot of money in their bank account. Enough is enough.”
The pro-Tribal found a favorable wind around him. He extended the former’s argument, “The government must introduce the Creamy Layer status among SCs and STs immediately.”
Sagar was listening to them and perhaps arranging his counter argument. He responded quickly, “The primary objective of Constitutional reservation system is to ensure sufficient representation of marginalized sections and not to escalate financial backwardness. And what I understood a Brahmin or a Kayastha cannot represent a Santhal or a Namo or a Bagdi anymore. And if you talk about Creamy Layer concept, the government should capture all the wealth accumulated in Hindu temples where Brahmins and other upper castes are enjoying cent percent reservation.” 
The pro-Tribal replied in a sarcastic tone, “Just shut up. You are getting the reservation and playing around in fun and entertainment. If you have the guts, show the merit the way a General student shows.”
“SCs and STs have greater merit than Brahmins and other upper castes in all aspects of life. From cultivation to cultural affairs, from leather work to teaching—we are the most productive in India; but you are basically eating out our products in free of cost and polluting the environment with your poisonous excreta.”
The two wise men became angry too much. They just couldn’t digest Sagar’s words. The pro-Tribal was about to burst out that the lady officer almost screamed, “Please stop.” She looked at Sagar with her sharp gaze and told, “You better concentrate in your study and not interfere in the official talk of the Librarians.”
“You are right Mam. But you know very well that despite all required qualifications the social and professional status of a Tikader or a Mandi doctor does not seem equal to that of a Banerjee or Sen doctor. I am quite aware of it. That is why I am quite skeptic about your Bengali identity. Thank you.”
There was no exchange of words anymore. The entire reading room became calm and cool, as if the terrifying noise of a cyclone withers away. 

                    III
Sagar was feeling suffocated in his hostel room while harking back all these incidents. He came out and went to the small patch of land outside the Old Boys hostel. It is full of long thick hay and many unknown flowers. It is mid-July and the afternoon downpour has watered the ground. Water gets clogged here and there and frogs have already occupied it. Sagar can hear the croaking and feel the wet soft grass. He raised his head up. The sky is clear; stars are blinking; and the daily hooting of the owls is faintly audible. He was silent throughout. 
Sagar’s interaction with others at the University is very limited. Since he was admitted into the PhD program in the department of History last year, he restricted his whereabouts. His roommates know him studious, but he knows who he is: a very introvert guy. But he knows he is a keen observer too. 
Next day, on his way back from his department at afternoon, he received a phone call. 
“Hello?”
“Hi Sagar, I’m Prakash Chakraborty.”
“O, I see.”
“Can we meet around seven O’clock at the auditorium hall this evening?”
At this proposal, Sagar took a few seconds to reply, “Yes.” 
“Okay, bye.”
Sagar couldn’t expect such quick development. 
It is around forty-past-six. Sagar turned off his laptop; put on a blue T-shirt and a grey track suit; took his cell phone and money purse. Watching him in this unusual dress at evening, one of his roommates asked, “Where are you going?”
“To prove my identity,” aptly replied Sagar.
The other didn’t get any head or tail of it, “What?”
“To meet someone,” Sagar played straight. 
“What’s her name?”
Sagar burst out in laughter at this great advancement of thought.
“Why are you laughing, man?”
“No, nothing. I appreciate your intuition, but…”
Before he finished, the other affirmed, “What ‘but’? Just tell her name and the department. In the case of anything uneasy I’ll handle it.”
“Really? I didn’t know this great quality of yours before,” Sagar tried to give him a compliment. The other didn’t reply, but by raising his brow up and stretching his cheeks wide, he shook his head up and down two times; he pointed his thumb and index finger towards him as if he is a love-guru. 
“See you,” Sagar told him and headed towards the battle ground. 
The last fainting rays have disappeared from the sky; boys and girls are roaming here and there; the small ground is full with sprinting feet. On his way to auditorium hall Sagar met two dogs fighting. The immense prowess, terrifying barking, wrestling body, sharp teeth, straight far, and two pairs of wild eyes ready to take revenge—it is very uncomfortable. At the very moment of bypassing them a third one suddenly rushed to him from nowhere and was about to attack that he managed to slide. He instantly raised his right hand and shouted “stop.” 

                    IV
When he reached the auditorium hall, it was ten past seven. The hall is a massive building two sides of which are playgrounds; the two lamps are burning on two sides of the entrance; seven to eight stairs go up from the ground; the wide spatial veranda is decorated with cast iron benches; he saw seven to eight members sitting, all of them are quite visible in the lamp. 
“Welcome Sagar,” Prakash stood up and stretched his right hand. Sagar shook the other’s hand and took a seat beside a boy in the left corner in one of the iron benches. His keen eyesight was busy studying all of them. He saw most of them were looking at him with a curiosity as if pairs of eyes are inspecting a new animal in the zoo. There were four girls and four boys in this very auspicious gathering. 
Prakash broke the ice.”Guys, I hope nobody is left behind. Let us start. But before we come to our main discussion, let us introduce each other. I’m Prakash Chakraborty from Howrah, PhD scholar, department of Mathematics.”
Others introduced themselves one after another. 
“Sayantani Mukherjee from Behala, 2nd year PG, Physics.”
“Sourav Dasgupta from Salt Lake, PhD, Commerce.”
“Shreya Chaterjee from Baguihati, PhD, Hindi.”
“Dipesh Bhattacharya from Howrah, PhD, English.”
“Nabanita Sen from Thakurpukur, 2nd year PG, Chemestry.”
“I am Mayuri Chatterjee from Salt Lake, 2nd year PG, Mathematics.”
“Me, Imtiaz Molla from Barasat, PhD, Mass Communication.”
Now it is Sagar’s turn. He stood up and introduced him. “I am Sagar Tikadar from Bangaon, PhD scholar, department of History.”
After he stopped, he heard a fainted sound of coughing, perhaps from Dipesh. But it seemed not a coughing proper; perhaps a mixture of laughter and some other strange sound. He took a deep breath and sat down.   
Prakash resumed his speech. “Friends, we, the Bengali students of Central University of Gujarat want to create a Bengali group of our own. The reason is simple: we have to foster our great Bengali culture. Our culture which has been continuing for a millennium has been blessed   by the Almighty with Rabindranath Tagore and rebel poet Kazi Najrul Islam. Ours is a composite culture where both the Hindus and Muslims have contributed equally. We fought British rulers together; sang the Baul songs together; we fought the Pakistani army together; and more than that, Bengal is credited with most number of interfaith marriages between Hindus and Muslims.  
“But this is an alien land to all of us. There is no sign of Bangla alphabet anywhere in the city of Gandhinagar; although there are few Bengalis here and there, but there is no proper connectivity among them. I think we forgot Durga Puja and Saraswati Puja; we forgot Rabindra Jayanti.
“To repair the forgetfulness and to quicken our connectivity, I, Mr. Prakash Chakraborty, would like to welcome you all to join in our newly created Bong group. Thank you.” 
A loud clapping filled the veranda. Girls were cheering up. Everyone seemed quite content. Sagar was studying all of them while listening to Prakash. He got stuck with one particular sight: the girl named Sayantani Mukherjee who was sitting beside Imtiaz Molla touched the other’s right thigh with her left hand; instantly Imtiaz put his right arm around the shoulder of Sayantani and drew her closer to him; and both of them looked each other with wild eyes. Few of them got busy with cell phone; Prakash and Dipesh were looking at Syantani and Imtiaz and laughing. 
“What next, guys?” Dipesh asked.
Prakash was about to say something that Sagar spoke out. “It’s been my privilege that you have invited me in the auspicious gathering this evening. So far I have understood you are very proud of your Bengali identity and culture. You mentioned Rabindranath and Nazrul, Durga and Saraswati, and an auspicious Hindu-Muslim communal harmony. Great indeed.
“But I am Sagar Tikadar. Like all of you I am quite conscious about my identity. It seems there are few grey areas that you have not brought into limelight. If you permit me, I can raise some of them.”
“Of course,” A quick response came from Prakash. 
Sagar took a deep breath; relaxed for a few seconds. He tried to concentrate. Then putting serious attire he spoke out, “Directly speaking, for me your Bengali identity is an insult. Let me explain why I am not a Bengali like you, Hindus and Muslims. Your Durga is my enemy who is killing Asura, the great indigenous king with whom I have anthropometric, biometric, anthropological, historical, and cultural link. I must say your Durga is a seductress who is seducing a powerful man with her semi-naked dress, dance and other exotic skills that she mastered from her maids in heaven, such as Rambha, Urvashi, and Menaka who are nothing but concubines of your gods. You, Brahmins and other upper castes always want to sustain the cultural hegemony upon indigenous groups of people, such as Dalits and Tribals. Your Durga puja has turned into the biggest cultural event to meet the necessary requirements for the sustenance of Brahminical hegemony. Since I belong to Chandal community that does not share a slightest link with Hindu or Muslim identity and culture, I must convince you therefore that I am not a Bengali. I consider the narrative Prakash demonstrated as culturally oppressive, potentially antagonistic to the Mulnibashi groups of people, and highly discriminatory. You can feel comfort while inviting your Muslim boyfriends in the interior of your house at the time of festivals, but I have already excluded Brahmins and other upper castes and their Muslim boyfriends from my indigenous narrative of culture.” Sagar paused for a while just only to resume that Dipesh Bhattacharya spoke out, “Are you done?”
“No, not at all,” Sagar’s voice grew more assertive and convincing. 
“You have gone too far, Sagar,” Prakash added his comment.
“I am always within my reach,” Sagar understood the time was running out of his hand. He continued along with his quick heartbeat, “My next observation is your Saraswati has done nothing to educate the children and women of Scheduled Caste and Scheduled Tribe society.”
“Saraswati is widely recognized as the goddess of wisdom; even many Tribals of Purulia celebrate it. What is your problem, then?” Sayantani spoke out while resting her back against Imtiaz’s chest. 
“But I am not a Hindu like Prakash Chakraborty, a Muslim like your boyfriend, and neither a cultural token like some sold out Dalits. I am a Chandal by birth and by cultural lineage. And like Durga, your Saraswati is my enemy.”
Sagar just breathed out his long-pending repressive vocabulary and was about to clean out all sorts of unhygienic stuffs; but Sourav Dasgupta and another girl stood up suddenly and looking at Prakash said, “We got a go man.” Both of them walked away. 
This break up took a bitter turn on the face of others. Sagar understood the reason of this abrupt faction; but to others he is the vile upstart, ruining a peaceful gathering. But Sagar was adamant and straight. The departure of two guys certainly irritated others. Prakash was first to respond, “Sorry to say, Sagar, we intended to have a great evening together. But it is you who messed it up.” 
“And my interpretation is Brahmins and other upper castes don’t have the guts to face the   argument. They always make the best use of their tricks; and whenever they see their foxy appearance is about to be nakedly exposed, they flee from the site like a coward fox and get disappeared in their den, in the most unhygienic place, more suffocating than pandemonium, a shelter of perpetual darkness, a foul, filthy, rotten world.” Sagar became oxygen to his fellow Chakraborty. “You are a SC, right?”
Sagar anticipated this development of argument. He responded as quickly as possible in the most assertive voice, “Yes. And what about you?”
“We all are General.”
“And what does it mean?”
“We are meritorious and talented.”
“So as the Dalits,” Sagar confirmed others. 
“Then, why do you hang around the reservation like a dog shaking its tail to get some favor?” Dipesh was looking quite attentive this time. 
“Reservation is meant for adequate representation. To ensure the representation of marginalized communities…” Sagar was about to go on, but Dipesh intervened, “Marginalized, my foot. There are many SCs who are financially well-off, but still enjoying reservation, getting low cut-off marks, taking admissions even in IITs, IIMs, and AIIMS, producing substandard quality of research, and enjoying the scholarship money by going to brothels.” 
Sagar felt the wound of his verbal bite. But it was time for him to counter their arguments with his own and not to become agitated, nor to flee from the battle ground. He responded “If you talk about academic excellence, it does not come all of a sudden. A Dalit girl of remote village who got her education in rural school cannot compete with her counterpart who got educated in St. Stephen and St. Xaviers’ in major metropolitan cities. And if you see the demography, Dalits and Tribals mostly live in rural areas. But there are many other crucial issues that you always avoid. Dalit students have done outstanding progress in a very short period of time. You are practically jealous of their achievement. Yes, you can sniff off at them by passing lewd comments and insulting them by saying ‘quoter mal’, ‘sorkari jamai’, ‘sonar chand’, but the reality is Indian academic institutes discriminate SCs and STs in various means. Even if there are suitable SC and ST candidates, you disqualify them in the interview board on the line of caste background and submit the report that ‘suitable candidate is not found.’ There are many discriminatory practices you follow because this is what your Manusmriti teaches you. And because of your caste-based practices Rohith Vamula committed suicide. Yes I agree with you there are many well-off SCs who are still availing the quota, but remember reservation is representation. Despite their financial establishment, why don’t we get any of them at the top posts of universities, hospitals, judiciary, administration, media, and of course politics. That means your argument has its own limitations. You only cite few anecdotes—creamy layer, economic status and bla bla bla; but the originality is you cannot tolerate a Dalit or a Tribal becoming progressive in life because this is against your ideology. Simple as that.” Sagar stopped for a while; it seems he came here with his gun fully loaded with bullets; but he got little bit exhausted and took few quick breath in the anticipation of firing again. 
“Listen bro, although the caste or category-conflict has always been there, our target must be to overcome all barriers among us and move forward. Sagar da, I understood you quite well and have respect to your culture. But I have a simple request to all: don’t insult each other by spitting on caste or category.” Mayuri spoke in a positive tone and calm mood.   
“In our time, the divide is becoming wider day after day. SC-General, Hindu-Muslim. It’s better to go beyond these binaries.” Imtiaz added his commentary but Sagar saw him smooching   Sayantani’s soft neck. 
“I have very straight argument,” continued Sagar, this time less hostile, “to disown my linguistic identity. I know it has a potentiality to swallow my culture the way a big fish does with a small. One thing more…” 
“Please, no more. We understood who you are and what you will say next.” Prakash stopped him from going further. Sagar stopped too. He was silent. Everyone of this gathering was silent for a while. It seems a gang of hostile dogs get utterly exhausted after an intensively long fight. Without any delay, Sagar stood up. 
“Thank you, guys.” He took a few quick steps just to cut himself off from this gathering. But he heard the echo of Dipesh’s voice saying quotar mal. By the time he stepped onto the road, the echo accompanied with a faint noise of laughter died out in the air soon. The entire courtroom drama comes to an end in a moment that Sagar was feeling that something did not go on his way; he wanted to hit Dipesh back but he could not. He was feeling uneasy and irritating too. While walking along the road on his way back to his room he saw that three fighting dogs again standing on the middle of the road. The third one that rushed to him to bite earlier now walked two steps forward, this time not in a revenge mood at all. Sagar saw it was looking at him and shaking its tail.