Haridas Pal

At the inaugural ceremony of the annual language festival of the Mother Language Centre, the Honourable Prime Minister, in her speech as the chief guest, said nothing new, nor did he say anything additional. He read out exactly the written speech provided by the cultural ministry. He remembered the language martyrs and the freedom fighters, spoke about the contribution of language to the advancement of civilisation, talked about the role of art and literature in shaping ideal citizens, and mentioned how this language festival, over time, has now become a part of history and tradition.

After the event, surrounded by the SSF, he went to the field of the Centre. He was to inaugurate the sculpture, titled “Aa Mori Bangla Bhasha”, of the five language martyrs installed in the middle of the field. Accompanying him were the Minister of Culture, the Secretary, the President of the Centre, the Director General, and other senior officials. Also present was young sculptor Tuhin Mahmud. The usual seriousness on his face was absent. He always maintains that seriousness, as he is a well-known artist and, above all, an officer of a nationally important institution like the Mother Language Centre. Artists must maintain a demeanor of solemnity; otherwise, they cannot be distinguished from the general public. But today he was thoroughly cheerful. As he should be. The Prime Minister himself was going to inaugurate the sculpture he created—what a great achievement, what greater joy could there be in life! He looked magnificent in a red panjabi and white Swiss paijama. It seemed his age was not thirty-six, but thirty. His forehead was already broad; with his long hair tied in a bun, it looked doubly so. The trace of pride spread across his face touched his forehead.

The sculptures were covered with a black curtain. A red ribbon for the inauguration was strung across the front. The Prime Minister first cut the ribbon, then pulled it to remove the black curtain and unveil the visually stunning sculpture. A burst of applause erupted. While everyone was applauding, he was intently examining the terracotta designs below the sculpture and on the wall behind, his face beaming with a smile. The elderly Director General said, “There are such designs on the back of the wall too, Sir. Tuhin has done a wonderful job.”

The Prime Minister stepped around to the back and stood there. Seeing the design of a sari-clad mother standing with her son—killed by police gunfire during the language movement—in her arms, he exclaimed, “Magnificent! Absolutely beautiful!”

The Director General said in an elated tone, “Nowhere else in the country is there such a realistic sculpture of the language martyrs or such a beautiful terracotta design. It cost a total of Tk 1.3 million. A private company contributed one million. The rest came from the center’s fund.”
“Was the artist paid a proper honorarium? What an extraordinary creation! I’m truly impressed.”
“Yes, he was. He’s an officer of the centre. A talented artist.”
“Where is he?”
Tuhin, who had been standing behind, came forward. Placing a hand on his back, the Director General said, “Here he is, Sir. Tuhin Mahmud. Our pride.”
The Prime Minister extended his hand. Shaking his hand, he said, “I now understand that a sculpture can be this lifelike—your work shows it. Congratulations! Truly extraordinary. I was similarly moved when I saw Antonio Canova’s Psyche Revived by Love’s Kiss. That was made of marble. These are brass, aren’t they?”
“Yes, Sir, brass,” Tuhin replied.
“How long did it take to make?”
“It took about eight months, Sir.”
“You’ve worked hard.”

“Lie, Sir.” —someone called out from behind. Everyone turned their attention toward the voice. At the pond ghat, they saw a man wearing worn-out pants, a full-sleeve shirt, a black shawl over it, and a salt-and-pepper beard like dry straw on his face.

Stepping forward two paces, the man said, “These are all lies from Tuhinbabu, Sir. He didn’t make them—I did. I made them with my own hands. Took me three months. There was no hard work involved. Is there any labour in work done with joy, Sir? There isn’t. Tuhinbabu is passing off my work as his own. That’s wrong, Sir.”

The Director General’s face was filled with astonishment. Who is this man? How did he even get here? He snapped, “Who are you?”
“I’m Hari. Haridas Pal from Roail.”
“What are you trying to say?”

Haridas Pal stepped a few paces forward. Instantly, two SSF members took position on either side of him. As they reached out to stop him, the Prime Minister raised his hand and said, “Let him come.” The SSF members stepped slightly aside. Haridas Pal moved a few steps closer and said, “What I want to say is that these statues and designs were made by me. I poured my heart and soul into them, made them with great care, Sir. When I was sculpting the statue of Barkat, I was so absorbed in the work, it felt like Barkat had come alive, that he was talking to me. And the night I finished Salam’s statue, I saw him in a dream. We were riding the same bus to some faraway place. Suddenly, he got off at a crossroads. The bus sped forward. I leaned my head out the window and called out to him, but because of the noise of the vehicles on the road, he couldn’t hear me.”

The Director General snapped, “What nonsense are you talking! How did you even get in here?”

Haridas smiled. He scratched his beard with his right hand, then said, “Sir, I knew I wouldn’t be allowed to enter here, that I wouldn’t be let in. So, I got in yesterday. Spent the whole night on the roof. When the intelligence officers came to check the roof, I was hiding in the sunshade. They didn’t see me. If they had, I’d be in jail by now. By God’s grace, I got lucky.”

“How astonishing!” —the Director General’s face showed doubled astonishment.

The Prime Minister said, “He certainly looks like an artist. Tell me, what’s this all about? Where is your home?”

Haridas said, “No no, Sir, I’m not an artist, not at all. I’m an ordinary, very ordinary man. By profession, I’m a potter. My home is at Roail in Dhaka’s Dhamrai. My father was a potter, my grandfather too. Since birth I saw them sculpting idols of Lord Mahadev, Goddess Durga, and Saraswati. My heart was drawn to it too, and I got into this line. Didn’t study much, only passed class two. Sir, it was the English year fifty-two—that February 21st of 1952—when Pakistani police fired on students. That day my father was at the Ramna Kali Mandir, bringing an idol of Saraswati. He witnessed the incident with his own eyes, Sir. He saw it firsthand. He told me the story when I was young. That story left a deep mark on me, Sir. When I was sculpting these figures, it felt like I knew them all. As if I’d seen them somewhere before. The photos Tuhinbabu gave me matched exactly with the images in my mind. That’s why I could sculpt them just the way I imagined, Sir.”

An uncomfortable Tuhin said, “What are you talking about? I don’t even know you! When did I give you pictures? Whose pictures did I give you? Unbelievable! Who even are you—what Haridas Pal?”

Haridas Pal burst into loud laughter. Pulling the drooping shawl over his shoulder, he said, “Of course you wouldn’t recognise me, brother. My grandfather used to say, once a river is crossed, people discard the boat. If you had recognised me, you wouldn’t have told such lies. You thought I did the work just for a bit of money from you, didn’t you? No, brother, not at all. I didn’t do it for money. I didn’t even ask you for money. When you gave me those five martyrs’ pictures and asked me to make their sculptures, I never asked how much you’d pay. I did it out of love. I thought my name would be known, people would speak well of me. But in the papers, it was your name that got printed. It was written that you were the creator of these sculptures. Everyone praised you. The headmaster of Roail High School read me that news. You’re from the same village—I used to have much respect for you, brother. But after hearing that, everything fell apart. I felt I had to protest. That’s why I came running. I haven’t eaten anything since yesterday.”

The wise Prime Minister looked into Tuhin Mahmud’s eyes. In them played a flicker of light and shadow—not exactly shadow, rather a game of half-light and half-darkness. The light seemed to try and push the darkness away, while the darkness fought to push the light aside. Tuhin swallowed hard. In a moment, the Prime Minister’s smile vanished. His gaze turned to Haridas’s face. He looked at him for a few seconds. Then he turned to the Minister of Culture and said: “I don’t know whether the accusation is true. But it’s a serious one. We must not dismiss it. Please investigate. If it turns out to be true, whoever is responsible must face consequences. Keep me updated.”

“Yes, of course,” the minister nodded.

After the Prime Minister left, the minister instructed the Secretary of Culture to begin an immediate investigation. The next day, the secretary appointed a five-member committee headed by the secretary of the Language Centre and ordered a report within 10 days.

The committee set a date for the hearing and summoned both Tuhin Mahmud and Haridas Pal. It was ten in the morning. Many of the centre’s staff had arrived; the rest were on their way. Tuhin parked his motorbike in a corner of the field and entered the office. As he walked past the newly unveiled sculptures, he saw Haridas standing there, gently brushing the terracotta designs with his hand, his shawl covering his head. Hearing footsteps, Haridas turned and smiled faintly upon seeing Tuhin.

Tuhin flared up. “Who the hell are you to me, this so-called Haridas? What a disgrace you’ve brought upon me—in front of the Prime Minister no less! The journalists are all over me, the papers are writing about it, people are doubting me, I can’t even show my face anywhere. What were you thinking, huh? That I’m some fool? I studied fine arts, not some illiterate brute like you! You better prove your claims—otherwise, I’ll file a defamation case. A Tk 50 crore lawsuit. I’ll make sure you can’t live in this country.”

Haridas remained calm, still wearing that faint smile. Then he broadened it and said: “If I can prove that I made these sculptures—then should I file a case against you?”

Tuhin snapped: “You won’t prove shit. Let’s see how much of my shit you can touch. Filthy fraud!”

Haridas chuckled: “Ha ha ha, you’re angry now. Listen, brother, let me say something—it may sound odd coming from a simple man like me, but the words aren’t mine, they were my grandfather’s. He had some education, some knowledge of scriptures. He used to say: ‘Anger is the weapon of the weak.’ I didn’t understand it as a child, but I do now. He also said, ‘A house with a weak foundation trembles even in a light breeze.’ Just like you’re trembling now.”

“Shut up, you goddamn Malaun!”

Haridas’s face instantly went pale. The smile vanished. In a subdued voice, he said: “I’ve heard that slur all my life, brother. Nothing new. But you—an educated man, a university graduate—I didn’t expect it from you. Anyway, now that you’ve said it, I’ll swallow it.”

The investigation committee meeting began at eleven in the morning. The office assistant served tea to everyone. Moving the teacup aside, the head of the committee said, “Look Haribabu, the allegation you have made is extremely serious. The Prime Minister himself has ordered an investigation. I hope you will speak the truth.”

Like an accused in the dock, Haridas folded his hands and said, “I will not lie, sir. Swearing by God, I promise I won’t speak a single false word.”

The head said, “What is the proof that these sculptures were made by you?”

“My word is my proof,” Haridas said. “As I’ve already said, sir, I won’t tell a single lie. I, Haridas Pal, declare with full consciousness, these statues of the language martyrs Rafiq, Salam, Barkat, Jabbar, and Shafiur were made by my hands.”

One member of the committee, who is also the senior director of the centre, said in a slightly raised voice, “Is that supposed to be proof? If we asked the same question to Mr. Tuhin, he too would say the sculptures were made by him. That doesn’t prove anything. You need to submit proof.”

Haridas stood up. As before, folding his hands he said, “My family is my proof. My wife is a witness, my two daughters are witnesses, my son is a witness, and my neighbors are witnesses. They saw how carefully I worked on this. They will certainly testify in my favor.”

Tuhin glared angrily at Haridas. Raising his voice he said, “I have witnesses too. My wife is a witness, my son is a witness, my brother is a witness, and my five friends are witnesses. At least ten colleagues from my office will also testify in my favour. They have seen how tirelessly I worked day and night on these sculptures.”

Haridas softened a little. His lips started trembling. Sitting down, he took a deep breath. Then, looking straight into Tuhin’s eyes he said, “Babu, place your hand on your heart and look into my eyes and tell me—who made these sculptures? Can you? Can you say it placing your hand on your heart?”

Furious, Tuhin placed his hand on his chest and stared into Haridas’s eyes, “I swear to God, these sculptures were made by me. If I lie even a little, may my tongue fall off. May Allah destroy and ruin me.”

The committee realised that this approach would not work. The truth could not be revealed in this manner. A more in-depth investigation would be necessary. They decided to go to the field for direct inspection. They were sure the real truth would come out through direct evidence.

The committee members arrived early the next morning at Haridas’s home. Haridas was basking in the sun in his yard. He brought out chairs and stools from the house and let everyone sit. Without delay, the committee began the investigation. They spoke to Haridas’s wife, his son, and daughters. All of them testified that they had seen Haridas sculpting the figures with great care. The committee then spoke to neighbors. They said, Haridas makes idols all year round—various deities. They didn’t know exactly whose statues he was making and when.

Then the committee went to Tuhin’s house in Ghanoktuli. They took the testimony of his working wife, his six-year-old son, and his five friends. Then they returned to the office and took the testimony of his colleagues. Everyone said the same thing—that there is no doubt these sculptures were made by Tuhin. They had seen with their own eyes his tireless labor. Surely some conspiracy was being plotted against him. Some envious people couldn’t tolerate his fame and reputation and were conspiring in this despicable way. They had used some unknown Haridas to try to harass Tuhin.

Tuhin presented extensive evidence—receipts from the shops where he bought the brass, where he bought the paints, and where he bought the hammer, chisel, and sandpaper. He submitted all the memos from his purchases. He also presented two video clips: in one, he is seen lightly tapping a forming sculpture with a small hammer to shape its form; in the other, he is painting the sculpture of Shaheed Barkat.

All the evidence supported his claim. In every way, the balance tilted in his favour. Through further investigation, the committee became almost certain that the sculptures were indeed made by him. But why then did Haridas make such a bizarre accusation? Is the man mentally unstable? That didn’t seem to be the case from his speech. Could there be a past conflict with Tuhin? It's possible. They’re from the same village—conflicts over land are not uncommon. Otherwise, why would he level such an accusation against an artist?

Before the scheduled date, the committee finalised its investigation report: “No truth was found in the allegation made by Haridas Pal, a potter from Roail, against Tuhin Mahmud, a respected officer of the Mother Language Centre and a renowned artist. The investigation proved that artist Tuhin Mahmud is entirely innocent. The committee confirmed that the beautiful sculptures of the five language martyrs, recently inaugurated by the Honorable Prime Minister, were indeed created by him. It is assumed that Haridas Pal made this false allegation with malicious intent, possibly due to an old grudge, thereby tarnishing the reputation of a distinguished artist. The committee recommends punitive action against Haridas Pal.”

The day before the report was to be sent to the ministry, the committee head urgently summoned all the members. He also called Haridas Pal and Tuhin Mahmud. By eleven o'clock, everyone had arrived. With all of them, he walked over to the “Aa Mori Bangla Bhasha” sculpture. There lay some cork sheets and a mound of clay. Positioning Haridas and Tuhin side by side, the head said, “With these cork sheets and this clay, you both must sculpt a statue of Shaheed Barkat. It must be identical. No flaws allowed. But you won’t work together—you must build it separately. Decide who goes first.”

“I want to go first, sir,” Haridas said, raising his hand.
“Do you have any objection?” the head asked Tuhin.
“No, sir,” Tuhin replied.
“Then begin, Haribabu.”

Haridas swiftly removed the shawl from his body. Leaving it at the pond’s ghat, he began cutting the cork sheet. His hands moved relentlessly. Shaping the form, he started applying layers of clay. All eyes were on his hands. His hands did not make mistakes. From his artistic hands emerged Barkat’s nose, then lips, then chin. Gradually appeared the eyes, eyebrows, ears, forehead, and the shape of the hair.

The head turned to look at Tuhin’s face. “Mr. Tuhin, you may begin now,” he said.

Tuhin didn’t move. Tried to speak, but couldn’t. The head met his eyes—there was no play of light and shadow in them now. The darkness had driven out all light. Tuhin lowered his gaze. A faint smile bloomed on the head’s lips. Like a defeated Pakistani soldier’s bowed face in a sculpture, Tuhin stood there in silence.

Swakrito Noman: Fiction writer