Page 59 of The Secrets of the Tea Garden
Fatima gave her a pitying look. ‘Yes, but he still keeps her photograph.’
Libby felt a stab of jealousy. ‘Where is she now?’
Fatima shrugged. ‘Probably back in Delhi where she came from. That’s if she survived the War. Ghulam never talks about her.’
Libby’s heart clenched for Ghulam and also for herself – for her hopeless love.
Fatima touched her arm gently. ‘I’m sorry but it’s best you know. I will understand if you don’t now wish to come to the meeting.’
Libby dug her nails into her palms; she would show no emotion. ‘Of course I still want to come. My interest in what happens to this country isn’t any less because of what you’ve just told me. I hope you don’t think I’m that shallow.’
Fatima smiled. ‘I don’t think you are at all shallow, Libby. You are a remarkable young woman. If only there had been more British like you, we would have got independence a generation ago.’
Libby felt a wave of gratitude for the generous words. ‘Thank you.’
‘Do you speak Bengali?’ Fatima asked.
‘Very little,’ Libby admitted.
‘You may not understand everything that is said,’ said Fatima, ‘but I’ll try and explain what’s going on. Ghulam will probably speak in English so everyone will understand him. Come on, let’s not be late.’
Despite the whirring of ceiling fans, the hall was hot and stuffy and packed with people, mostly men. The meeting was already underway and a man dressed in the white clothing and cap of a Congress party member was speaking in English to the crowd, exhorting them to remain united.
‘I think he’s one of the leaders from Delhi,’ whispered Fatima.
With nowhere to sit, Fatima and Libby stood at the back next to a handful of other young women. Libby, ignoring the curious looks of those around her, craned for a view of Ghulam. Her heart lurched as she spotted him behind the speaker. As the man finished, a handful of men rose to clap him but others began to shout their opposition. The clamour grew and the exchanges sounded ill-tempered, though Libby couldn’t understand much of it.
Ghulam stepped forward and held up his hands for calm.
‘Comrades!’ he bellowed. ‘There is a saying in our country that if you have one Calcuttan you have a poet; if you have two, you have a political party; and if you have three – you have two political parties.’
There was a ripple of laughter and the noise began to subside.
‘These are exciting times for our nation and some of us have different visions of what that nation should be. But what binds us all is ourdesire for freedom and the right to decide our own destiny. Don’t let brother fall out with brother – this is not the time for disunity.’
‘It’s too late,’ a man shouted, jumping to his feet. ‘The Muslims are butchering our brothers in the Punjab. It’s a matter of time before it happens in Calcutta again – just like last year.’
‘The violence was on both sides,’ said Ghulam. ‘As a journalist I witnessed atrocities against Muslims in our city too.’
‘Hindus only acted in self-defence!’ the man protested.
‘No,’ Ghulam contradicted him, ‘the violence was organised – the Hindu militants had been preparing for weeks, collecting weapons and teaching impressionable youths that Muslims were their enemy. But it’s the rich Hindu landowners who are to blame – inflaming the lowest castes to fight, all so that they can have the rich spoils of West Bengal to themselves. The ordinary people don’t benefit from partition – far from it: they are the ones who will be uprooted and lose their homes and livelihoods. The winners will be the rich Marwari merchants who want to push out their rivals – they are the ones who finance the violence in our city.’
‘That’s a lie!’ someone else shouted.
‘Not your city, Khan!’ the first protester said, jabbing an accusing finger. ‘You’re a Punjabi.’
‘And a Muslim,’ another called out.
Libby’s chest tightened in fear for Ghulam; she felt the sudden tension in the room.
‘I’m an Indian,’ Ghulam cried, his expression passionate. ‘We all are! That is why we must hold fast together,’ he urged. ‘Don’t let the British tactics of divide and rule live on in our new India. There is no place for a separate Bengal – or for a divided one.’
‘We don’t agree,’ said a Congress worker standing near to Ghulam. ‘The Bengal Congress Party has come to the conclusion that dividing the state is the only way of guaranteeing the safety of all.’
‘Whose safety?’ Ghulam challenged. ‘The up-country migrants from East Bengal who struggle to make a living in Calcutta?’
‘The Muslim Bengalis will be better off going back to East Bengal – that’s what they want too.’
