Riding a Tata Sumo: on being squeezed out of Bangladesh

Artwork by Aloke

We three were sitting side by side in the Tata Sumo going from Petrapole to Kolkata. I had the window seat. The man sitting in the middle beside me was a Bangladeshi Hindu ('Chanchal Saha') both of whose children went to school in Kolkata. It was also obvious, when we got to talking, that he spent a huge amount of time in that city. And the man on the other side of him was a Bangladeshi Muslim ('Jahangir Ahmed'), from Gopalganj, who owned a buying house in Dhaka. He was going to support his friend who had taken his father to Kolkata for medical treatment. Jahangir told us that his in-laws were Indian, and that he was planning to pay his first-ever visit to their home in Burdwan. Chanchal Saha would listen to both of us, and was cool enough to carry on conversations with both sides. Our driver--we were sitting just behind him--kept squinting at us through the rear view mirror, seemingly interested in our conversation. I couldn't be sure, but I guessed that he was a Bangla-speaking Indian, a contract driver based in Petrapole, and must have been a Hindu too.

Tata Sumo is a popular brand among Indian vehicles. No doubt it had been named so as to sound big and strong, like a Japanese wrestler. But when the passengers were told by our travel agent at Petrapole to ride in one, none of us had been happy. Usually, the Dhaka-to-Kolkata route has a number of travel agents doing business in a haphazard way. When they issue tickets imprinted 'Dhaka-Kolkata,' one can hardly imagine the tough time that awaited travelers at the border. A group of travelers from Bangladesh can reach Benapole, disembark and then not know how the next leg of the trip, from Petrapole to Kolkata, is going to go. A lot of the time contract vehicles--Tata Sumos--simply wait for a group, and as soon as 7/8 travellers clear immigration, the travel company dumps them inside one of those vehicles. Neither the travel companies, nor the state authorities, bother to supervise how travelers actually are transported. So there we were, uncertain, standing with blank looks, when we were herded towards the Tata jeep.

'So dada! Do you have Sumos in Dhaka?' our driver asked, his eyes looking at me in the rearview mirror.

I looked at Chanchal beside me since I was not the right person to have a discussion with on cars. Then Jahangir looked at us as if seeking permission to start on this topic. But the subject had already provoked a response. From behind, someone said: 'Come on, what are you saying? Bangladeshi people do not even bother with Indian cars. They have plenty of Japanese ones.'

'Really? Then they have money.'

Though our driver sounded unhappy, his face seemed to announce his familiarity with this fact. Maybe Sumo-topic was an easy subject for him to start a discussion with his India-bound passengers. It seemed unbelievable to me that people from this region, especially the Bangla-speaking ones, had to be provoked into a discussion. But maybe our driver wanted his passengers to have a lively time.

Two girls, in their early teens, were settled in a single seat beside the driver. Till now they had shown no interest in the seniors' conversations, but the comment on vehicles in Bangladesh by their father made them sit up in their seats. He now began to express a real annoyance about the extravagance of Bangladeshis, which he had seen on his two-week visit to Bangladesh.

This family was Muslim, from Barasat, a near-by town of Kolkata. I knew very little about Muslims in West Bengal. What I did know came through a general understanding of Partition and pre-Partition population transfers - of both of the communities; especially those who were upwardly mobile with a keen interest in modern education and trade. Yet it surprised me to see an average trader Muslim family of West Bengal with very close kin in Dhaka [Bikrampur actually] who had made a real long trip of two weeks just for a wedding.

Earlier, in the waiting room at immigration this family was the only one that had looked happy. A tiresome journey along with a harassing immigration process had made everybody very tired. It was harder on the older passengers waiting for a vehicle that could get them a bit closer to the destination. Return passengers, from India to Bangladesh, were also there, giving us traveling tips for India. There were the money-changers, each one telling us how his service was much better than the others. Even with all these happening in one small room, some passengers set themselves in their chairs and fell asleep. A painted arrow pointed towards the toilet. Actually there was no need for the arrow since the smell told everybody where it was. However, none of these seemed to affect the Barasat-family. They were full of joy, chatting with the nearby passengers about the wedding, how gorgeous the ceremony had been--that Bangladeshi Muslims still cared about family pride and relatives and other such things. The two teenage girls, probably coming back in order to join their school, had been quite talkative. Then I had wanted to travel the rest of the way with them because I was curious about a wedding which brought together relatives from the two nations, Muslims from either side of the Bengal divide.

But Govinda, our driver, made things difficult by starting on the topic of cars in Bangladesh. With the discussion generated I had no hope of re-establishing a link to the wedding. So it was now talk about Sumos! The two girls were eagerly following the points being made by their father. I guessed that they had been impressed by the fleet of cars in the wedding they had just attended. But Govinda turned the discussion in another direction by bitterly making the observation about Bangladeshi people: 'Then they have money, eh?' He seemed irritated by the fact of families having ancestral ties in present-day Bangladesh. Which had an effect on my two Bangladeshi seatmates. Jahangir Ahmed looked at Chanchal Saha, and Chanchal looked at him. Then both of them looked at me. But seeing that I refused this invitation to defend Bangladesh against this charge, Jahangir took up arms: 'They say Bangladesh is a beggars' country. They should go there and see for themselves what our people can show. What do you think, dada?" He said, turning to both Chanchal and then me. Both of us were, technically, 'dada'. After a second's hesitation Chanchal decided to join Jahangir.

‘Sure! Huh! All that other talk is hot air...’

Jahangir seemed to be relieved to have this Bangladeshi Hindu support on Indian land. But the head of that Barasati family wouldn't give up so easily: ‘What a useless lifestyle! Everybody there is wasting money.’

And so it went on for some time.

Later everybody calmed down. In the silence the noise of the engine grew louder and when anybody tried to talk, the words dissolved into the sound. I dozed off. Then woke up when I felt the Sumo come to a stop. I saw that we were behind a long queue of other vehicles, surrounded by a vast countryside. Riding in the Sumo we had been getting hungry, and everybody had asked the same question: 'When do we stop at a dukaan?' We had thought that surely there would be a stoppage for some food. Maybe a break at Barasat. But now stuck in this jam there was no chance of that. We were starving. Passengers from other vehicles had gotten down and were walking around. Govinda suggested a very tiny shop at the end of the slope beside the highway. People rushed down to buy there. Jahangir ran down with them but only managed a small packet of muri. Which he shared with us.

Back in our seats we were told what had happened. The president of India Abul Kalam had come to a Barasat school-house for a meeting and a speech. And security-men had blocked off all the roads. This presidential visit to Barasat, a rather remote place in West Bengal with a lot of Muslims, provided us with matter for another round of discussion. Govinda found the president a 'bojjat' without any fault in BJP's act: 'He is just spoiling all credibility of the government. He is a clown, you know? A reputed scientist, eh? Then let him go back to his laboratory.' Chanchal Saha was furious about the BJP's strategic move of selecting a 'minority' for the presidential post: 'An unnecessary move. Surely India could find a more competent candidate.'

Jahangir was trying hard to follow his position but waited to hear what the head-of-the-Barasati-family would say: 'Don't you understand? Just to cash in on the Muslim votes. They make fun of the people but everybody knows. Dada was absolutely right.' This view shocked him. When the talk first had started he had supported Abul Kalam being made president: 'India has the guts to do it. A Zail Singh, then …' Now he looked to Chanchal Saha for support. But the latter didn't respond. So he turned towards me:

'Ki Bhai? What do you think?'

'Huh? Me? Nothing really.'

We were still stuck in the traffic jam. Soon the light faded. It was mid-February and the day was in a hurry to get to its end. Far from our destinations, we settled in for a long wait. Everybody was tired and hungry. A silence. Girls were sleeping. Nothing was moving. And then softly somebody proposed an alternative route, very narrow and risky. There was a small road on the right by which we could reach a muddy by-pass, where cars hardly ever ventured. I thought Govinda wouldn't be interested in such a risky venture with a brand-new Sumo, but he seemed delighted. Everybody then debated the matter. The Barasati head-of-the-family led the way: 'I don't have to go a long way, just to Barasat. And I am going home, so no urgency.' Chanchal added: 'My sister-in-law's home is in mid-town Kolkata. So no problem with a delay.' Jahangir: 'I am going to be in a hotel near Shyamoli [our travel agent office] in Kolkata. No big hurry.' But everybody was hungry. And when I asked Govinda, he said: 'You know, dada, my wife had a baby just last night. She is in the hospital and my mother is ill. I have to get back from Kolkata tonight.'

That did it. Everybody wanted Govinda to return to his wife and little baby. So he started the Sumo and swung into the risky, narrow, muddy road towards the Barasat bypass. A sense of relief, and tension, at the same time. Holding a water bottle in his hand, Jahangir looked at me.

'Don't you have any urgency?'

'Not really.' I replied.

'I see.'

'As long as I get there by midnight.'

'So where are you going?'

'Oh, Kolkata, of course.'

'Relatives, or work colleagues?'

'Actually, my parents.'

'They live in India?'

'Yes, presently. They are from Bangladesh.'

'So you visit them frequently?'

'This is my first visit after they left.' Actually, as Hindus living in a village, they had been slowly been squeezed out of Bangladesh. Had sold the old bheeta bari and left on a bus for Kolkata.

'Oh!'

Darkness swallowed the inside of the vehicle. It was darker outside on the road, muddy, with trees on both sides. The only light was from the beam of headlights. We rode in silence into the black night.

Manosh Chowdhury teaches anthropology at Jahangirnagar University.