When the Mango Tree Blossomed Fifty Short Stories from Bangladesh by KAZI SUJAN

WHEN THE MANGO TREE BLOSSOMED FIFTY SHORT STORIES FROM BANGLADESH Edited by Niaz Zaman © Nymphea Publication, all rights reserved. Publisher Karunangshu Barua Nymphea Publication Suite 6C, 6th Floor, Hashim Tower 205/1/A, Tejgaon–Gulshan Link Road, Dhaka 1208, Bangladesh Phone: +88 02 222262032, +88 02 222262054 Email: info@nympheapublication.com Website: www.nympheapublication.com

Published in August 2021 Cover and Creative Direction Sabyasachi Hazra Coordinator Shimul Kibria Graphics Kazi Sujan ISBN 978-984-93853-3-2 Price

$ 1500 | $ 20 | € 18

D E D I C A T I O N Dedicated to all the dreamers and the doers who made Bangladesh a reality

C O N T E N T S INTRODUCTION

BEYOND THE SHADE OF THE MANGO TREE

Nazrul Islam 21-2-2121

Syed Manzoorul Islam Seventy-One

Kazi Fazlur Rahman The Last Encounter

Rahad Abir Mr. Moti

Anwara Syed Haq A Story That I Heard

Rashid Haider Address Uncertain

Manosh Chowdhury Ali Bihari’s Blanket

101

Khademul Islam Lunch

111

Humayun Ahmed Jalil Saheb’s Petition

121

Urmi Rahman I, Woman

133

Shaheen Akhtar Amirjaan Bibi’s Reception

147

Syed Shamsul Haq Another One of Our Martyrs

169

Sohana Manzoor The Hawk with Gold-Tipped Wings

179

Anisul Hoque One of Those Nights: Ninety-One

197

Niaz Zaman The Monster’s Mother

207

Sabrina Masud A Caged Sun

219

Neeman Sobhan The Untold Story

239

Shahnaz Munni The Six Arms of Rupmoyi

253

VILLAGE MATTERS

265

Saleha Chowdhury The Disappearance of Gopal Maker

267

Rizia Rahman Mother Fatema Weeps

279

Hasan Azizul Huq The Vulture

303

Nur Quamrun Naher Salish

317

Audity Falguni Kamalaksha Baske’s Sacrifice

333

ACROSS THE SEVEN SEAS

343

Syed Mujtaba Ali Sweet and Savoury

345

Syed Manzu Islam The Mapmakers of Spitalfields

365

Purabi Basu The Eternal Journey

393

Sitara Jabeen Ahmed The Destinations

401

Shamim Azad William’s Tale

411

Nuzhat Amin Mannan And Tomorrow Would Be Another Day

419

METROPOLIS MOMENTS

433

Alauddin Al Azad The Madonna

435

Makbula Manzoor In the Urban Jungle

447

Farida Hossain The Customer

461

Pias Majid Jibanananda on the Streets of Dhaka

471

Sumon Rahman Seeking Shaila

479

Mahmud Rahman Dear Honourable Commissioner

489

Moni Haider The Procession of Tongues

503

Jharna Das Purkayastha The Night Queen

525

Selina Hossain The Conjunction of Time

537

Nasreen Jahan The Silver Ashtray

551

Razia Sultana Khan The Anklet

563

VITAL SIGNS

575

Syed Waliullah No Enemy

577

Imran Khan Sweet Memories

585

Abeer Hoque Loosey Goosey

615

Shahaduz Zaman My Position on Death Is Very Clear

633

Farah Ghuznavi Losing Bindu

645

OTHER LIVES, OTHER LOVES

669

Numair Atif Choudhury Chhokra

671

Mojaffor Hossain My Mother Was a Prostitute

677

Jharna Rahman The Magical World of Setara and Golenur

687

Mahbub Talukdar A Human Being

699

Rashida Sultana Beating Wings

725

TRANSLATORS

736

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

742

I N T R O D U C T I O N On 21 February 1952, young men and women gathered at amtala, in the shade of the mango tree, on the campus of the University of Dhaka – at that time, the southern portion of the Dhaka Medical College and Hospital. The mango tree was in full bloom, but few of the young people noticed it at the time. They had other, more important, things on their minds. They were protesting the imposition of Urdu as the state language of Pakistan and were demanding that Bangla, spoken by the majority of the people in Pakistan, should be made a state language: rashtra bhasha bangla chai. The question of what would be the state language of the new state of Pakistan had been raised before. Twice, it had been squashed. Both Quaid-e-Azam Mohammad Ali Jinnah, the Governor General of Pakistan, and later Khwaja Nazimuddin, the Prime Minister of Pakistan and an East Pakistani, had categorically stated, at different times, that the state language of Pakistan would be Urdu. Section 144 had been imposed the day before, preventing the assembly of more than three persons. However, the young people under the mango tree were not to be deterred and,in small groups, they emerged from the university campus demanding recognition of Bangla as a state language. The story is too well known to bear repeating, and yet, it is important to recall what happened. On that day the spark of Bengali nationalism was lit and would inspire a nation to independence a little less than twenty years later. As the small groups emerged, the police, as

was their wont, used batons on them as well as tear gas, and then, inexplicably, fired at the crowd. At least five persons were fatally wounded in the firing: Rafiquddin Ahmed, Abdul Jabbar, Abul Barkat, Abdus Salam and a young boy named Ohiullah. The next day, another young man, Shafiur Rahman, succumbed to his injuries. As a result of the events on 21 February, the demand for Bangla to be made a state language – if not the state language – could not be denied. The East Bengal Legislative Assembly adopted a resolution recommending the recognition of Bangla as one of the state languages of Pakistan. On 16 February 1956 the Pakistan Constituent Assembly adopted both Bangla and Urdu as the state languages of the country. In honour of that day, on 17 November 1999, UNESCO adopted a resolution proclaiming 21 February International Mother Language Day, recognizing the rights of all language communities to speak and preserve their own language. After the deaths resulting from police firing, a Shaheed Minar was built to commemorate those who had been killed. This temporary structure was subsequently replaced by another structure designed by Hamidur Rahman and Novera Ahmed. This Shaheed Minar not only became the focus of the processions in subsequent years on 21 February but also, throughout the years ahead, the stage for cultural and political protests. The Shaheed Minar became the symbol of Bengali nationalism. So much so that, in 1971, the Pakistani forces while shelling the university dormitories, the police barracks and the headquarters of the East Pakistan Rifles, while killing academics and intellectuals and setting fire to urban shanties, also razed the monument. However, the spirit of nationalism that had inspired the young men and women under the shade of the mango tree on 21 February 1951 continued to inspire the people of Bangladesh. The realization that East Pakistan was discriminated against led the Awami League to set forth a charter of demands to

remove the disparity between East and West Pakistan. The SixPoint Programme, as it was called, was placed by Sheikh Mujibur Rahman at a national convention at Lahore in February 1966. Among the proposals was the establishment of a Federation of Pakistan in its true sense as proposed in the Lahore Resolution of 1940, with the federal government dealing with only Defence and Foreign Affairs. Sheikh Mujibur Rahman started being viewed as a separatist and, in 1968, was arrested in what is popularly known as the Agartala Conspiracy Case.1 In view of the protests and agitations, the case was withdrawn and, on 22 February 1969, all the accused, including Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, were released. Shortly afterwards, on 25 March 1969, General Ayub Khan was forced to resign as President of Pakistan. General Yahya Khan was sworn in as President of Pakistan. One of the first announcements he made was the holding of general elections in 1970. By now Sheikh Mujibur Rahman had gained immense popularity in East Pakistan, which, at the time, had a larger population than West Pakistan. The elections – held on 7 December 1970 – gave an overwhelming majority to the Awami League. However, the premiership was not given to Sheikh Mujibur Rahman. A series of talks took place while plane loads of soldiers were flown in to Dhaka. On the night of 25 March 1971, Operation Searchlight was launched. Apart from shelling police and para-military barracks, university dormitories and shanties, the operation involved the arrest of Sheikh Mujibur Rahman. Many of the top Awami Leaguers left Dhaka to avoid arrest, many young men and former and serving army and paramilitary officers and soldiers joined the Mukti Bahini, the liberation forces. Fleeing the atrocities, an estimated 10 million refugees sought safety in neighbouring India. On 3 December 1

The official name of the case was “State of Pakistan vs. Sheikh Mujibur Rahman and others.”

INTRODUCTION

1971, open hostilities between the two countries started, with Pakistan launching aerial strikes on Indian air bases. In Dhaka, on 16 December 1971, the Pakistani troops, though numbering 90,000 – of course not all of them in one place – surrendered to the joint forces of India and Bangladesh. Bangladesh – a name that was used even before the independence of the state – had in effect come into being on the night of 25 March 1971. Now, Bangladesh was free. On 26 March 2021, Bangladesh celebrated its golden jubilee. From what Kissinger termed “a bottomless basket,” Bangladesh has come a long way. There are many things to celebrate. Despite the vagaries of nature, Bangladesh has achieved near self-sufficiency in food. The number of people living in extreme poverty has shrunk. Thanks to its garment industry, Bangladesh clothes the world. There is gender parity in education up to the secondary level, and increasing numbers of women are enrolling at tertiary institutions. “Bangladesh is one of the largest contributors to UN peacekeeping operations.”2 Rashida Sultana, one of the writers included in this volume, is working for the African Union/ United Nations Hybrid Operations in Darfur, Sudan. And though few, Bangladeshi writers have won international literary prizes or been shortlisted for them. Despite its own problems, Bangladesh has hosted more than 700,000 Rohingya refugees.3There are many reasons for Bangladesh to celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of its independence. When the Mango Tree Blossomed is being published as part of these celebrations. It includes fifty stories, thirtythree written originally in Bangla and then translated into English and seventeen stories written originally in English. Two of the stories – “The Last Encounter,” by Kazi Fazlur Rahman, and “Happy Memories,” by Imran Khan – were 2 3

United Nations Peacekeeping. <peacekeeping.un.org> The UNHCR gives the figure at “more than 742,000.” <www.unhcr.org>.

translated by the writers themselves. Many of the writers are prizewinning writers, winning prestigious national awards such as the Bangla Academy Award, and a few also winning international awards, or being short-listed for them. Farah Ghuznavi won the Commonwealth Short Story Competition in 2010, Shaheen Akhtar won the Asian Literary Award in 2020, Shamim Azad the Art in the Community Award also in 2020.However, many of the writers are relatively unknown except among small groups. Taken together, I hope that the stories will give the reader a picture of Bangladesh. Though many of the stories are about 1971, this is not a book only about 1971, nor are all the stories located in Bangladesh. There has been a Bangladeshi diaspora and a few stories, by diasporic writers, reflect this. Most of the stories are, however, situated in Bangladesh. The stories have been grouped according to theme, with the first part,“Beyond the Shade of the Mango Tree,”reflecting the changing political landscape of Bangladesh beginning with Nazrul Islam’s science fiction story “21-2-2121” based on 21 February 1952. The last story in this section, “The Six Arms of Rupmoyi” by Shahnaz Munni, in the fairy tale mode, narrates the story of a woman who becomes the ruler of a kingdom but is guided by her late father and husband. Syed Manzoorul Islam’s “Seventy-One,” Kazi Fazlur Rahman’s “The Last Encounter,” Rahad Abir’s “Mr. Moti,” and Anwara Syed Haq’s “ A Story That I Heard” are set during the war. Rashid Haider’s “Address Uncertain,” Manosh Chowdhury’s “Ali Bihari’s Blanket,” and Humayun Ahmed’s “Jalil Saheb’s Petition” take place after the war. Khademul Islam’s “Lunch” is not related to the war but to the turmoil that followed. Sohana Manzoor’s “The Hawk with Gold-Tipped Wings” takes place several years after the war, with memories of the war shadowing the lives of some of the characters in the story.

INTRODUCTION

The figure of the birangona, literally the victorious female warrior, but the term given to women who were raped during the war – with estimates ranging from 200,000 to 400,0004 – figures prominently in many stories about 1971. Urmi Rahman’s “I, Woman,” Neeman Sobhan’s “The Untold Story” and Shaheen Akhtar’s “Amirjaan Bibi’s Reception” narrate three very different stories about birangonas. “I, Woman” is about a middle-class woman who is raped and rejected by the man she loves. Instead of committing suicide, she gains selfhood and identity, which makes her hold her head up with pride. Shaheen Akhtar’s story, “Amirjaan Bibi’s Reception,” reflects the attempt to honour birangonas, often with disastrous effects. Neeman Sobhan’s “The Untold Story” tells the stories of two women in 1971: one woman who was saved by her Pakistani captor and the other woman who was raped but is fortunate enough later in life to get married. As the narrator comments in the story, there is a “silence of untold, unspeakable stories.” Syed Shamsul Haq’s “Another One of Our Martyrs” takes place during the late seventies, while Anisul Hoque’s “One of Those Nights: Ninety-One” describes the collapse of the Soviet Union while narrating the story of an ailing Communist Party worker in Bangladesh. Niaz Zaman’s “The Monster’s Mother” reflects on the Holey Artisan Café attack on July 1, 2016 when twenty-two persons, mainly foreigners, were killed by a group of five armed militants. Sabrina Masood’s “The Caged Sun” takes place in 2017 when, since early February, graffiti depicting a caged man or a man running with a caged sun with different 4

Susan Brownmiller writes: ‘‘During the nine-month terror, terminated by the two-week armed intervention of India, a possible three million people lost their lives, ten million fled across the border to India and 200,000, 300,000 or possible 400,000 women (three sets of statistics have been variously quoted) were raped.”Against Our Will: Men, Women and Rape. (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1975), 89.

warnings such as “Subodh tui paliye ja/Tor bhaggey kichhu nei” (Flee Subodh/Luck is not with you) started appearing on the walls of the streets of Dhaka. The stories included in the section titled “Village Matters” range from questions of religious identity through the victimization of women to the uprooting of farm communities on various pretexts. The first story in this section, Saleha Chowdhury’s “The Disappearance of Gopal Maker,” is about a Hindu who converts following the Partition but secretly prays to his own gods. Rizia Rahman’s “Mother Fatema Weeps” and Nur Quamrun Naher’s “Salish” both depict the plight of women in a patriarchal society. Hasan Azizul Huq’s “The Vulture” narrates the extreme cruelty of a group of village boys who torment a vulture till it dies. Through the story of Kamlaksha in “Kamlaksha Baske’s Beautiful Eyes,” Audity Falguni narrates the story of how farmers are deprived of their ancestral land and often killed or incapacitated in the name of industrialization. “Across the Seven Seas” traces different times and types of the Bengali diaspora. Syed Mujtaba Ali’s “Sweet and Savoury” tells the tale of Sylheti khalashis, boatmen, and of one who, through no fault of his own, found himself stranded in Marseilles, unable to return to his homeland. “The Mapmakers of Spitalfields” by Syed Manzu Islam describes the plight of Bengali settlers in London and their fear of being picked up any time. Shamim Azad’s “William’s Tale” narrates the story of a romance between a Bengali woman and a man from Kent in the form of a realistic two-part dream. Both Purabi Basu’s “The Eternal Journey” and Sitara Jabeen Ahmed’s “The Destinations” are set in the US. Basu’s story tells the story of a woman immigrant who married to get a green card, while Ahmed’s story tells the parallel stories of two immigrants with very different endings. Nuzhat Amin Mannan’s “And Tomorrow Would Be Another Day” begins in the UK, with the protagonist meeting a Burmese woman who has nothing

INTRODUCTION

good to say about the Rohingyas, and ends with the protagonist meeting Rohingya refugees in Kutupalong. As she interviews them, she understands the psychology of refugees, including that of her “ghoti” grandmother. The stories under “Metropolis Moments” are seen through the urban perspective – though in Selina Hossain’s “The Conjunction of Time” the locale changes from the village to the town and ends in the village. Alauddin Al Azad’s “The Madonna” is set in a prison, with two prisoners sharing a cell. One of them is an artist who describes how he picked up a prostitute to draw a picture of a Madonna and child. Makbula Manzoor’s “The Urban Jungle” narrates the difficult lives of people who live in the urban slums, subject to exploitation of various kinds. In “The Customer,” Farida Hossain describes the life of a woman from early youth to widowhood through the eyes of a salesman in a sari shop. Pias Majid’s “Jibanananda on the Streets of Dhaka” imagines the poet come back from the dead. As he wanders about the streets of Dhaka, he sees that his poems are being recited, people are doing research on him and that he has even become a name to advertise roadside eateries. Sumon Rahman in “Seeking Shaila” looks at the changing social conditions of women and how more and more of them are found in public spaces. “Dear Honourable Commissioner” by Mahmud Rahman purports to be a polite letter from an ordinary citizen to the Commissioner of Police. Moni Haider’s “The Procession of Tongues” is a satire on corruption in different places, with the tongues one day rebelling and refusing to aid these corrupt people in their nefarious activities. Jharna Das Purkayastha’s “The Night Queen” is built around the contrast between the affluent and the impoverished – a common theme in many of her short stories. The Night Queen is a flower that blooms only for one night. It is a prized plant for many, but the two children, given stale rice left over from a party, who fall sick and die are also flowers who die untimely

and unnoticed. “The Silver Ashtray” by Nasreen Jahan narrates the story of a man who believes that he has fashioned his wife into what he wanted. It is only at the end that he realizes that she isn’t the docile wife he thought she was. Razia Sultana Khan’s “The Anklet” is a tender love story inspired by the collapse of an eight-storey building called Rana Plaza on 24 April 2013. The building housed a garment factory employing several workers. The collapse of the building resulted in the deaths of 1,134 men and women. The first story of the section titled “Vital Signs” was written by Syed Waliullah in English, before the creation of Bangladesh. He later translated the story into Bangla. Waliullah passed away in Paris on 10 October 1971, without having seen the independence of his country. Syed Waliullah, however, cannot be left out from any book on Bangladeshi writing. He was a major writer, with three remarkable novels to his credit: Lalsalu, Chander Amabasya, and Kando Nadi Kando. In 1971, he actively participated in enlisting the support of French intellectuals, including André Malraux, for Bangladesh. The term “Vital Signs” is a medical one and refers to the four main vital signs that medical professionals routinely monitor. This first story, “No Enemy” by Waliullah, is about a man seeking out his enemy to make peace with him because he knows he is about to die. The other stories in this section deal in various ways with questions of life and death. Imran Khan’s “Sweet Memories” is about a man who goes to see a doctor because he needs a doctor’s certificate for leave. The doctor asks him to recall his happy memories. The story describes his search for memories – his own and those of others. “Loosey Goosey” by Abeer Hoque narrates the story of a man suffering from memory loss – an increasing problem with longevity. Shahaduz Zaman’s “My Position on Death Is Very Clear” contains two parallel stories: the story of the narrator’s father who describes a time when jute was king and the

INTRODUCTION

story of the narrator’s dilemma when his father is in hospital with an irreversible condition. Much of the second story focuses on the dialogue between the narrator and a doctor and reflects on the plight that many have today: How long does one keep a loved one in a hospital when there is no hope of recovery? Farah Ghuznavi’s “Losing Bindu” tells the tale of Bindu who suffers physical abuse at the hands of her husband. Most women keep quiet lest they bring “shame” upon their families. In Ghuznavi’s story, Bindu also keeps silent but arranges matters with her brother to leave the country, while leaving a note for her parents to suggest that she committed suicide. The section “Other Lives, Other Loves” contains a variety of stories about mutilated beggars, a prostitute and her family, two women who appear to have a lesbian relationship, a child abandoned because its gender was not clear, and a talking mynah. Numair Choudhury’s “Chhokra” narrates the story of a beggar boy whose work is to cart around his mutilated sister. Mojaffor Hossain in “My Mother Was a Prostitute” reveals what life is like for the family of a prostitute. Jharna Rahman’s “The Magical World of Setara and Golenur” describes the relationship between two female security guards. Mahbub Talukdar’s “A Human Being” is a sensitive story about a hijra, an intersex person, who is abandoned shortly after birth. Bangladesh recognized intersex persons as the third gender on 11 November 2013. However, change has been slow to come. Rashida Sultana’s “Beating Wings” is about the relationship between the narrator and a talking mynah. I hope that the variety of stories will give readers an idea of the history of Bangladesh as well as the range of writing by Bangladeshis in Bangla and English. It was not possible to include many important writers, even prize-winning ones. Nevertheless, I hope that the stories in this volume will suggest the richness of Bangladeshi writing and encourage others to fill in the gaps. I would like to thank all the writers or, in some cases, their heirs,

for giving me permission to include their stories in this anthology. I would also like to thank all the translators, those who had allowed me to use their earlier translations as well as those who translated the stories for this anthology, many of whom did the work despite their other commitments and in the midst of the COVID-19 crisis. Among the latter are Noora Shamsi Bahar, Junaidul Haque, Fayeza Hasanat, Md. Jamal Hossain, Sabiha Huq, Mohammad Shafiqul Islam, Selim Jahan, Arifa Ghani Rahman, Marzia Rahman, and Sharmillie Rahman. I would especially like to thank Noora Shamsi Bahar and Junaidul Haque for translating a number of stories each. Despite his teaching commitment and other responsibilities, Imran Khan translated his own story and I thank him for his contribution and for the extra work of translation that he took up for this anthology. I would also like to express my thanks to the following translators who allowed me to include stories that they had translated earlier: Sitara Jabeen Ahmed, Sagar Chaudhury, Takad Ahmed Chowdhury, Jyotiprakash Dutta, Shirin Hasanat Islam, Shahidul Islam Khan, Abdullah Al Muktadir, Masrufa Ayesha Nusrat, Ashfiqur Rahman, Hasan Ameen Salahuddin, and Kaspia Sultana. I would like to express my appreciation for Abdul Hannan who helped in putting this manuscript together. Thanks to him, my work was made much easier. I would also like to thank Razia Sultana Khan for her support and for her valuable suggestions. Above all, I would like to express my gratitude to Karunangshu Barua of Nymphea Publication for publishing this book on the occasion of the fiftieth anniversary of our independence.

BEYOND THE SHADE OF THE MANGO TREE

NAZRUL ISLAM Former Professor and Chairman, Department of Sociology, University of Dhaka; former Dean, School of Liberal Arts and Social Sciences, Independent University, Bangladesh. He founded and has been the Editor of the internationally reputed Bangladesh e-Journal of Sociology, since 2003. He received his BA and MA degrees from the University of Dhaka and PhD from Syracuse University, USA. Islam has been an avid reader of popular science and science fiction since his teens and only recently has taken up writing Sci-Fi stories for pleasure and has completed two novels and an assortment of short stories, all waiting publication.

Nazrul Islam

2 1 - 2 - 2 1 2 1 1 Suddenly he found himself standing in a huge grassy field. The lab with all the instruments and his cousin were gone. For a while he did not know what to make of it. He was stupefied with fright. What happened? How did everything change? Where was he? All such questions seemed to be the realistic approach to his situation. But he was scared that even raising such questions would put him in greater peril than he was in now. A huge scream was wailing from inside of him but he was afraid even to let it out. He closed his eyes, trying to deny the reality he was in. Transfixed, he stood there, for what felt like eternity. A few long seconds, minutes, later he slowly opened his eyes with the apprehension of a worse fate and looked around with foreboding. It was rather bright all around under a clear sky with a slight breeze blowing in his face. It seemed to be very quiet except for the rustling of leaves in that light breeze. It felt a bit chilly as the sun seemed to have gone down a little to the west, assuming that was the west.

BEYOND THE SHADE OF THE MANGO TREE

Everything looked unfamiliar, even the grass under his feet was unkempt, wild. The few trees around did not seem to have been ever attended by anyone and were growing as wild as the grass. The air smelled of dry leaves and felt heavy. The whole scenario looked and felt alien, nothing that he could relate to. The scream that was wailing up finally burst out and the twelve-year- old boy screamed at the top of his voice.

2 Ornob looks down at the passing multitude on the street below from balcony of the tenth floor apartment of the professors’ residential quarters of the Bangladesh University of Engineering and Technology. This particular location has always housed the residential quarters since the university began about 160 years ago; only the buildings have been growing taller. Compared to the rest of the city, this university and the neighbouring campus area of Dhaka University – celebrating its 200th anniversary this year – still offer most of the green spaces in this old part of the city. That is one reason Ornob likes it here and, whenever he gets an opportunity, he visits his uncle Akash, a senior professor at the university and the resident of this apartment. But a more personal reason for his visits, of course, has always been his older cousin Abir, the closest thing he has for an elder brother. Abir is in his late teens and completely opposite him in nature and taste, but the two of them get along very nicely. Abir, being a resident of Dhaka and with the wide experience of travelling all over the world with his father, can always impress his younger cousin from the little town of Netrokona. Abir, unlike his father, who is a world renowned scientist with many inventions to his name, is least interested in science and technology and displays his lack of interest very openly, which does hurt his father a little. Abir decided long ago to traverse the fields of arts and humanities and is recently said to have found his calling in creative writing. Ornob, closer to the truth, attributes

2 1 - 2 - 2 1 2 1

Nazrul Islam

this escape to the humanities to Abir’s poor grades in maths. Abir is the restless type and dominates over his younger cousin in all things good and bad. Ornob, on the other hand, is very calm and composed even at the early age of twelve. He shows immense maturity and takes serious interest in his uncle’s work and science and technology in general, which has made him a favourite of his uncle. He is eager to learn and takes immense pride in his country and culture. Ornob’s father is a Headmaster of a high school and has little opportunity to travel the world. As a result, Ornob has lived most of his life in Netrokona and has very little experience of the world outside of this little town. Nor is he allowed to travel much. His uncle’s house in Dhaka is the only destination he is allowed to visit alone and there too his father sends him in their programmable flying capsule with all kinds of built-in security features that this century offers. In spite of that, his parents act as if he is travelling to the moons of the outer planets. Ornob does not mind such watchful attention because he knows that his parents have to be careful with their only child in this age of demographic crisis, with a negative population growth rate, when even one-child families are becoming rare in the country. The road below demarcates the boundary between the two universities. The building on the opposite side is the Jagannath Hall, a hostel for the students of the minority communities of Dhaka University, as it has been for over 150 years. His uncle once told him that an older building at the same spot in the 1950s temporarily housed the then Provincial Assembly. The assembly building was later converted to the residential hall. In the mid1980s, one evening, the roof of the old building collapsed, causing a major catastrophe when many resident students died, and the day is still remembered for the tragedy. The building has since been reconstructed a few times over and continues as a twenty-storeyed student hall. Part of the view of the road below is obstructed by the overhanging branches of a huge banyan tree, which, according to

BEYOND THE SHADE OF THE MANGO TREE

Abir, has been there for two hundred years. Abir’s friend Shagor probably has a more plausible explanation. Shagor thinks that the current tree, perhaps, grew over an earlier tree, as it often happens with trees of this family. In any case, the tree and the road under it are witnesses to a lot of history of this nation. A seminal section of that history is being commemorated today on that road below the banyan tree. Thousands of people, in bare feet, are marching down the street towards the new Shaheed Minar, only metres beyond to his right, chanting the nearly two-century-old song, “Amar bhaier rokte rangano ekushe February, ami ki bhulite pari…”( How can I forget 21st February, stained by the blood of my brother?), which still gives goosebumps as it touches the heart of every Bengali even after so many generations have passed into history singing the song. Ornob is in Dhaka to participate in this most important ritual in the calendar of every Bengali, everywhere, including on the Moon and Mars. Wherever any sizable number of Bengali population lives, there is sure to be a Shaheed Minar of some sort and Bengalis pay tribute to the students of Dhaka University who were killed on 21st February 1952, defending the right to speak their mother tongue. Since the last century, the day is also honoured as the International Mother Language Day. Ornob will also be joining the procession to the Shaheed Minar along with his uncle, aunt and Abir as soon as the crowd thins a little. Ornob was awed by the gleaming 70-metre high white marble structure of the Shaheed Minar, when he saw it for the first time. It is set over a 100-metre wide black marble floor, from which two dozen broad steps flow down to the ground level, nearly 10 metres below. The whole 10-acre area is covered by green grassy lawns. He read somewhere that the design of the structure has remained the same down the centuries. Many new designs were proposed before the construction of the current Shaheed Minar but the overwhelming majority of 98% Bengalis polled wanted to retain the old design. The only addition to the

2 1 - 2 - 2 1 2 1

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structure is the museum housed under the main floor, also a part of the original design but never completed earlier. The museum contains a rich collection of materials depicting the history of the language movement and remembrance of the event down the past centuries. Ornob has visited the museum many times, fascinated by the exhibits, including paper cuttings from the historic days of 1952. Some carry black and white pictures, while others depict news items focusing on the events of the fateful days of February. These are, of course, housed in protective casings with facilities to read the original writings. Ornob has spent many hours reading the texts of those news items and looking at the other exhibits. He often feels like being a part of the student procession which defied the government ban that day, walking with them, sharing their anxiety, a sense of boldness creeping in his attitude, making him one with the proceedings of the day. Maybe that’s what museums are for: they take you back to those days, make you one with history.

3 Still frightened, Ornob gradually took charge of himself, tried to gather courage and make sense of the situation. His surroundings started taking shape as he looked around again. Right in front of him was a banyan tree, about five metres in height. Far to the left was a lone red brick building, large and of unfamiliar design that looked more like a school building. Banyan tree? His eyes jumped back to the object in front of him. The tree finally put things in perspective for him as he seemed to have found his bearing. The same tree? A smile formed on his lips and his mood lightened. He now knew exactly what had happened to him. Fiddling with the panels of the “time machine” his cousin accidentally, or, perhaps, playfully, sent him back in time to the afternoon of 21st February, 1952!

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4 Every time he goes to the museum, he stands in front of the viewer of a particular news clip; it sends shivers through his spine. It is not featured as the main story but is put at the end of a report – almost as an afterthought. It simply reads, “A boy, about twelve years old, was also known to have been shot dead but his identity remains unknown, nor was his dead body found.” Other reports suggest that some dead bodies were taken away by the police. The same must have happened to the twelve-year old, Ornob always suspected. That news item is the most important bit of information for him and it always draws him to the viewer and he stands there, often with moist eyes, trying to comprehend the force of the occasion that can draw even a small boy to his fate. It touches him most since, being of the same age, he can easily identify himself with the martyred boy. Standing in front of the news item, he tries to imagine the feelings that must have passed through the mind of the boy as he joined the others in the procession, shouting slogans in his girly voice, “RASHTRO BHASHA BANGLA CHAI” (We want Bengali as a state language), marching with the elders at the same pace, with the same determination, head held high in defiance. How proud he must have been, how committed he must have felt for his language, for his culture, for his people. Or, did he at all understand the importance of the moment? Was he just a little innocent child carried away by the happenings of the day? Did he really know that he was making history? What did he feel when suddenly the bullet pierced his heart, or was it his brain that blew apart? Was he suddenly stunned by what had happened to him? Did he have any time to think before he fell dead on the dark asphalt road? Perhaps, he had a few moments before he died. Maybe an older student picked his body up running for shelter, for a doctor. But, in the middle of all the hustle, the elderly student also fell down dislodging the boy, who now lay helplessly on the ground,

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his vision growing dimmer, the sound from all the commotion gradually dying down, eyes slowly closing, as he looked at the world for the last time. What thoughts ran through his mind then? About his mother, his little sister or did his thinking also stop at that moment? Did he look at the world with a shocked innocence? Did he realize he was dying? Did that confuse him, that sliding into the unknown? Did death come as bliss? What did death mean, finally when it came? The dead body lay there amid other bodies. Then the police came and dragged the boy by one leg and took him away, who knows where? “Ornob, come in. Your breakfast is getting cold,” comes Aunt Rodela’s voice from inside the apartment. Ornob does not disobey. He enters the duplex which has the bedrooms and the living room upstairs and kitchen and a dining space downstairs, separated by a long wall beyond which is a large room housing his uncle’s electronic lab. The room was originally designed as a library but, since books went digital and were readily available electronically, the notion of a library as a physical entity died out last century. So, most professors turned the available huge room into labs for their personal quirky experiments, before they made these public. His uncle’s lab is similarly designed for experiments on “time travel,” with which his uncle became obsessed after reading H G Wells in his teens. A tour through the lab always constitutes the most exciting aspect of Ornob’s visits to his uncle’s place. He knows very little of the gadgets there, even though his knowledge of electronics easily surpasses those of many high school boys. Coloured lights on different sized panels and wires of varied thicknesses cover the whole lab, with very little space remaining on the floor. On the north-east corner there is a desk-like panel, a pedestal, 50 centimetres high, set three metres away from the panel, and a horseshoe-like arch, almost touching the ceiling, about 20 square centimetres thick, the two ends of which are placed about two

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metres apart on the ground on both sides of the pedestal. Lights at various points of the arch, all focused on the pedestal below, are the only breaks in the otherwise smooth surface of the arch. During those tours his uncle enthusiastically explains the workings of the gadgets, often narrating the complicated theories behind them. Ornob understands very little, but loves to hear his uncle’s passionate explanations and often asks childish questions to prod him. His uncle only smiles and goes on explaining things in a simpler form. The theory that always comes up in their discussions is of time travel. Ornob can tell that his uncle is involved in some major work with time travel, which, as his uncle would say, has become a craze with many scientists since the return of the astronauts who had taken flight in near light speed experimental space ships last century. The difference between their on-board subjective time and the earth time on arrival, bringing them to their “future” and proving Einstein’s theory, created a stir in the scientific community. Many now believe that if travel to the future is possible, then one might as easily travel to the past. Some have achieved major successes in this regard. Foremost among them are one Nigerian and two Vietnamese scientists all sharing their knowledge with his uncle, possibly the most successful of them all.

5 Ornob now felt in control of himself and began to examine the surroundings in a new light. It could not be the same tree he tried to rationalize. Or was it, as Abir claimed? Could it have been that old? But a little banyan tree, growing on top of a dead stump, was here at the same spot in 1952! Wow! He was impressed and also felt relieved. The very presence of the tree was reassuring for him; it was almost like a friend in this alien world. He felt like hugging the tree and claiming it as his own. From then on he was no longer scared and began to look forward to the events of the day.

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He had seen the maps of the city from this time period in the museum and could identify the locations of the buildings and roads. He was standing precisely where his uncle’s apartment stood, only that it had not been built yet. The whole place was just an open field of green, somewhat faded under the dry February sun. The red brick building, to his left, was the Ahsanullah Engineering College, the forerunner of the engineering university. And the building in front of him, partly hidden by the little banyan tree, must be the Provincial Assembly building. The narrow asphalt road, he could see extending to the right and left of the tree, though much narrower, was one and the same on which he saw thousands of people marching down towards the Shaheed Minar. He walked a few steps to the tree and peaked from behind it to get a better picture of the place but found himself looking straight into the eyes of a policeman, who had probably come to investigate about the screaming. The policeman was in loose, knee-length khaki shorts and a half-sleeve shirt with a long bamboo stick in his hand and was walking down from the other side of the road towards the banyan tree. Ornob tried to look away, but, wherever he looked, he saw policemen. They were all lined up around the Assembly building, probably guarding it from possible assault by the agitating students. At the far corner of the building, he saw a group of policemen standing with .303 rifles and immediately identified them as the killers of that day! The first policeman stared back at him and asked in a harsh voice, “Ei, ki chao ekhane?” “Na, mane, kichhu na,” Ornob stammered back, realizing that he was intruding. “Bhago ekhan theke,” the policeman barked again, and made gestures which Ornob translated as a command to leave the place and hid behind the tree. “Anyway, this is not the stage,” Ornob reasoned and, before the policeman could catch him, Ornob ran away towards the

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Dhaka University Arts Faculty building, a few hundred metres behind him to the right, which he knew was the centre stage of the day’s events. Seeing the policemen by the assembly building still at ease, he was sure that things were yet to heat up at Dhaka University and he wanted to be in time to participate in the most important event of his nation’s history, so he ran as fast as he could for his appointment with destiny.

6 The first time Ornob saw the “time machine” which his uncle is building in the lab, he remembers, his uncle made him stand in front of the pedestal and asked him to look closely. He then took Ornob’s study tablet from his hand and put it on the pedestal and played with the flickering lights on the panel in front. Suddenly, intense light from the arch flooded the tablet for a moment and the tablet vanished from sight! With total shock in his eyes, Ornob looked at his uncle who was only smiling a triumphant smile. Ornob looked on in disbelief as, from nowhere, his study tablet reappeared on the pedestal a minute later. “I had sent the tablet to the future,” his uncle explained while Ornob listened with dropping jaws. “I timed it for one minute but I could have easily timed it for tomorrow. I have done so with other objects,” he ended, waiting for a response. What could the little boy say? He merely fumbled out, “That means, time travel is possible.” “Well, you saw it with your own eyes,” his uncle emphasized. “What about going to the past?” Ornob asked in earnest. “It should follow the same principle. After all, today is only the yesterday of tomorrow. The same point of time is past, present or future, depending on our perception; we divide it into yesterday, today and tomorrow, or into past, present and future for our convenience. So that, theoretically, we can select any point of time without calling it past, present or future. I may, thus, place an object

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at any point of time; it is only my perception of time that labels it as the past, present or the future. What this machine does is allow me to select a point in time; and put an object there and later take it out. I should, therefore, be able to place an object at a point we call the past in the same manner or, as I did with your study tablet, one minute in the future. I do not know very much yet. I have just started working on it. I need more time.” This last sentence his uncle almost said to himself, which came out as a mere whisper as if the world-renowned scientist was too afraid to take credit for his achievements until he was 100% sure. That was over two years ago. During his next visits to the lab, Ornob only saw his uncle hard at work. He would merely raise his head from work to smile at the boys or once in a while admonish his son Abir, who would fiddle with and often set off the instruments. Then, during one of his visits six months ago, Ornob found his uncle really excited as he showed how he got a chicken egg to disappear into the past and made it reappear in the present. And to prove the authenticity of the experiment, he then poached the egg for the boys, satisfaction written all over his usually shy face. But the last time, a couple of months back, he found his uncle very upset, standing in front of the pedestal holding a dead rooster in his hand. Before Ornob dared to ask anything, his uncle came up with an explanation. “They always tend to come back dead, no matter how far back in time I send them. All inanimate objects and even eggs are fine but the living ones cannot seem to handle the journey into the past. They always come back dead. . . ,” he trailed off with frustration written all over his face. “The time traveller in Wells also died,” Abir reminded his father. “No, he did not die,” his father replied. “He just did not come back to the present.” “But he did come back to tell the story,” Ornob argued. “Yes, but in the end, he went off again and never came back,”

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Akash corrected him. “Which means he died,” insisted Abir. “He could be travelling in time and probably went to live in some other time and place,” Ornob argued back. “Ya, he might pop up in your bedroom tonight,” Abir teased his cousin, which lightened everyone’s mood. Akash pointed out, “That’s only a story. I am dealing with real living things here. I cannot just send a living thing back in time and let it die. I have to bring it back, and alive,” he emphasized and soon got back to his own thoughts and resumed tinkering with his instruments. Ornob and Abir began joking about the “time traveller” and went out of the lab, confident that Ornob’s Uncle Akash, one of the greatest scientists in the world, would soon find a solution to whatever might be the problem.

7 “The Mother Language Institute at Dhaka and the International Mother Language Day are both the results of the events of this day,” Akash declares passionately as they sit for breakfast, “and we as Bengalis should be proud of these facts.” “That was only the beginning as people all over the world became more protective of their languages, particularly against the onslaught of English as the world language,” Aunt Rodela joins the discussion. “That’s where comes in the role of the Mother Language Institute. The single most important contribution of the Institute at Dhaka is the discovery of the ‘universal translator’,” Uncle Akash notes proudly. “Almost like Douglas Adams’ ‘Babel Fish’ translator in The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. You put this nano-tech, semi-organic gadget in your ear and you can hear all languages translated into your own,” he explains. “The translator saved so many languages from extinction,” adds Aunt Rodela, who teaches sociology at Dhaka University.

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“Before the translator was invented, half of the nearly six thousand languages of the world, some spoken by a few dozen people only, were predicted to be extinct by the end of the 21st century,” Rodela elaborates. “But they all survived, and all languages have now become accessible to the world community.” “Which also meant the end of English as an international language. It was already on the wane as languages like Chinese and Spanish were gaining greater acceptance worldwide,” Uncle Akash concludes. “But, what about Bengali?” Ornob asks inquisitively. “Well, since civilization moved back to Asia by the middle of the last century, we started making major contributions to science and technology in Bengali as well,” replies Uncle Akash. “Bengali is today as much a language of science and technology as it continues to lead in literature and culture. It has acquired a prestigious position among the world languages and is even spoken by 5% and 7% of the population on the Moon and Mars respectively.” By now Abir has lost all interest in the intellectual deliberations since he has heard this same discussion from his parents many times in the past. “Baba, may I take Ornob to the lab?” Abir asks as they finish eating their breakfast. “Yes, of course. But, Abir, do not touch anything,” Uncle Akash cautions the boys as they hurry from the breakfast table to the lab.

8 From the very first day, when he was only five and walked bare foot with his father to lay flowers at the Shaheed Minar, Ornob had wondered about what must have happened on that fateful day in February. And since his first visit to the museum below the Shaheed Minar at the age of eight, he had been obsessed with the events and the people who forever changed the history of

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his country that day. Now he was there, where history had been made! Accidental or not, he was there in person! He had now been given the opportunity to witness that history being made. “I shall be the first real witness to the events that shaped the history of my nation. Many will follow me, now that time travel has been perfected by my uncle, but I shall always be remembered as the first time traveller.” These thoughts made him even more excited as he ran to become a part of that history. Yet, something at the back of his mind was nagging him. He could not lay his fingers on it but felt that it was of vital importance. Halfway down the field, he could hear the din of the commotion rising from the direction of Dhaka University. And long before he reached Aamtola, the meeting point for the agitating students, he could identify the slogans above the general uproar of a large crowd. “RASHTRO BHASHA BANGLA CHAI” was being repeatedly chanted by a thousand voices in unison, electrifying the whole area. Mesmerized, without even realizing it, he too was chanting the same lines, feeling as one with the crowd long before he reached his destination. At the Aamtola, by the shade of the huge mango tree in front of the Arts Faculty building, there were many more people than he had ever seen in any one place. Most were obviously university students, but there were others too, including many common people, officials and workers, and even some school children, mostly older than him. His shorts and half-sleeve shirt were not uncommon in this age and unless one looked purposively at the fabric, no one would notice the difference, so that he blended in perfectly with the crowd.

9 Abir will be the last teenager ever to listen to his father and as soon as they enter the lab, he starts fiddling with the “time machine.” “Don’t touch anything,” Ornob cautions him “Don’t worry. I have seen Baba operate these things,” retorts Abir.

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“Just don’t do anything silly,” Ornob remarks as he moves to inspect the arch with the light points. Uncle seems to have changed the lights as these look much larger than the ones before, probably to increase the power of the “time machine” and correct the earlier faults, he reasons. He stands by the pedestal and begins inspecting the lights one by one. “Hey, Ornob, when did it happen?” asks Abir from in front of the panel. “When did what happen?” Ornob asks back without looking at Abir. “The language movement.” “21st February 1952.” “I know that, but at what time of the day?” replies Abir, a bit angrily. “It was in the afternoon,” Ornob specifies and then looks at Abir with alarm. “Abirda, don’t play with those dials. They are very sensitive instruments.” “Are you sure it was the afternoon?” Abir repeats and then reassures Ornob, “Don’t worry, I am not stupid. . . .” “Oops! Damn!! Damn!!!” Abir swears loudly. There is an intense flash at the arch, much brighter than anything Abir witnessed when his father was working with the machine and, before he can turn fully towards the arch, he sees Ornob’s form flicker and then disappear while the lights slowly dim.

10 All of a sudden the commotion rose to a high pitch as groups of students, four at a time – since gatherings of more than four in one place were forbidden by the government – began to walk out of the premises. “RASHTRO BHASHA BANGLA CHAI,” the whole crowd shouted. Ornob also shouted. He was now a part of the crowd. He was defiant, committed, playing his role for history to remember. This was what he was born for and would die for!

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A few school children followed the procession, but no one took notice of them. In all his excitement he also wanted to follow but something was holding him back, something very important, something he should have remembered. Some flashes of memory like a “dead rooster” were warning him of what he did not understand. He should not go; he should run for safety. But he failed to translate the meaning. He was too much into the event now, too much a part of the proceedings to hold back. All his life he had dreamt of being a part of this event and there he was in the middle of the whole thing. How could he remain a passive observer? He was always a part of this melee; he was always a part of this encounter. How could he stand by quietly now? He always knew he was one of them. He was the very embodiment of the movement. Still bothered by that nagging feeling, but ignoring his premonitions, he decided to follow the procession out of the premises and on to the street! “RASHTRO BHASHA BANGLA CHAI,” Ornob shouted and felt invincible as he marched out behind another group of four students. He had gone barely fifty metres when the whole procession suddenly turned around and started running for shelter. He could see the policemen behind them, with long sticks and a few with guns giving chase. He also tried to run back but fell down on the black asphalt road as someone bumped into him. He tried to get up but more and more people rushed on to the spot and a few more fell down. Desperately, he tried to get up as he sensed that the police would be on them soon. Using both his legs and arms, he finally managed to get up and run but continued to be pushed and shoved. He tripped and fell again and that flash of memory came back of a “dead rooster” in his uncle’s hand. Something he must remember, something he should have recalled much earlier. A few gun shots crackled in the air. A few bodies fell on the black asphalt, turning it crimson.

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“A boy, about twelve years old, was also known to have been shot dead. . . .” The news item from the museum newspaper flashed before his eyes. He got up again and began to run, his legs failing to keep pace with the speed he desired. He felt as if he was running in a slow motion movie. There was no place to hide. Some students scaled the fence by the roadside but it was too high for him. A student grabbed his hands and tried to pull him along but he too tumbled over and fell, leaving Ornob to fight for his own life. “The living ones cannot seem to handle the journey into the past,” rang his uncle’s voice in his ears. But his uncle, the greatest scientist in the world, must have repaired the machine by now. He remembered the new lights on the arch. Maybe right at this moment his uncle was trying to transport him back to 2121, he hoped in his desperation, as death loomed on him. But Ornob soon realized that the situation was getting out of control so he looked behind on the road, trying to see how far the police were and to estimate his chances of reaching the university gate. To his utter horror, he noted that the policemen were almost on his heels. One of them raised his rifle. That’s when he remembered what was nagging him all the time, what he should have remembered as soon as he appeared in this time line, afternoon of 21st February 1952, on the ground near the banyan tree. He could now hear his uncle saying in a frustrated tone, “They always come back dead!” The policeman fired.

SYED MANZOORUL ISLAM Syed Manzoorul Islam recently retired from the University of Dhaka as a professor of English and now teaches at the University of Liberal Arts Bangladesh. Although primarily an academic, he is also a noted art historian and an award-winning fiction writer. His short fiction collections have been published both from Dhaka and Kolkata. He has also written several novels and a few books on Bangladeshi art and artists. Daily Star Books published a self-translation of some of his stories, The Merman’s Prayer and Other Stories, in 2013 and Dhaka Translation Centre brought out Absurd Night, the translation of one of his novels, in 2020. His short story collection Prem O Prarthoner Golpo (2005) won the Prothom Alo Book of the Year Award. He is a recipient of the Bangla Academy Sahitya Puroshkar (1996) and the Ekushey Padak (2018) for his contribution to language and literature

Syed Manzoorul Islam

S E V E N T Y - O N E The title of the story could have been “Tiger,” just “Tiger,” as, for a few days in 1971, a tiger had been the cause of a massive terror to us. According to Baba’s description, the dread was stronger than the distant noise of gunfire and explosions, or the flames curling above the eastern night sky, or the cries and uproar of people. Baba would tell us, and we would know, somewhere, people were dying, some village was burning. We would know and we would imagine that at that moment of time and forever, these people’s lives would be filled with a void too deep for them to confront, and the unfolding nightmare would push them into another realm, where the life they would live would no longer be theirs. As if history had drawn a clear line between their past and their present, and said, “From now on, this is your life, or whatever is left of it; this life is one of unending sorrow, suffering, sighs and/or pride – whichever way life will now direct you.” But then, the name of the story is “Seventy-One,” since the tiger too had at one point, been claimed by the amazing alchemy of ’71. He never got out of there.

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I spoke of losing honour because, when March ’71 was barely over, that is what had a strong grip over us, like a monster from the Arabian Nights. Us, as in, Baba, Ma, Bhaiya, and me. My elder sister too, even though at her in-laws’ house in Old Dhaka, the monster was, may be, crouching in the shadows. I would put my sister aside; she didn’t have much to think about honour, but, from the day I heard that Pakistani soldiers had infiltrated Satkhira, I became like a cat on hot bricks. In ’71, I was fourteen years old. Ma would say I resembled Suchitra Sen. Baba would call me Pori or fairy – and Bhaiya, with a hint of mischief in his voice, Penchi because, apparently, my nose was like a pencha’s, or owl’s. I have never seen an owl up front, so I cannot be sure of the credibility of the moniker. And yet, I would get provoked when he would call me by that name. I would cry. But Bhaiya stopped calling me Penchi towards the end of March. We would lock up the doors and windows of our Satkhira home and tremble indoors. Ma would pray and weep – and her tears were mostly shed for my honour. Some of it was for Baba too, as he was in the forests – either in Munshiganj or in Burigowalini or some other place. Baba was a range officer of the Forest Department. Keeping us in a rented house in Satkhira, he would go off to do his work in the forests. Ma had gone to visit the forests with him thrice, and Bhaiya a couple of times. I would become terrified when I listened to tiger tales or crocodile stories. The Sunderbans can be beautiful, I’d think to myself, but I don’t want to see its fearful underbelly. As a result, I hadn’t gone inside the forest. Within a couple of days, Baba returned. It was difficult to recognize him; it was as if he had been chased by a ghost, or a tiger or a crocodile. He gave Ma a single day to pack up everything. The next day, at the break of dawn, we left. At first we went to Kaliganj, then to Shyamnagar, then through the Kholpetua

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River towards the south. Until we stepped into Burigowalini, Baba’s terror persisted. But even after my fear had subsided, the forest’s unnamed horrors penetrated my core. Baba’s colleagues – four trustworthy foresters – had made a tree house of sorts with wooden floorboards and a thatched roof made of sun grass high up in the sturdy branches of a rooted tree. Baba was very satisfied when he saw our new shelter. Smiling, he told Ma, “The place is safe unless you decide to make it otherwise.” “How would that be?” Ma asked. “If you stay put in the tree house and don’t climb down, and if you don’t fancy befriending a tiger, then there is nothing to fear.” “Say that to your daughter,” Ma said in a teasing manner. Ma was unable to comprehend how she would live or cook in the tree house which Baba jokingly called a machan, or a hanging platform, and wondered for how long she would have to live like a forest-dweller. But the fact that we were safe from the hands of the Pakistanis for now came as a huge solace to Baba. There was no use blaming him. He knew the forest like the palm of his hand. He was not afraid of the forest in any way. Besides, we had four men to guard us. They had managed to get a supply of beds and mattresses; they had bought pots and pans; and they were bringing water in a pitcher every day. They were delivering vegetables, spices, meat and fish. They would stay up at night. Baba would sometimes take a boat to his office. He would come back and speak of massacres and village burnings. One day, he sat with Bhaiya and did some calculations – of rivers, roads and distances. And of financial means too. Our ancestral home was in Bashirhat. An uncle still lived there. Baba’s calculations were also about the stretch of geography between Burigowalini and Bashirhat. Baba wasn’t concerned about the financial means needed to live in Bashirhat, but rather of the

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expenses of the journey. He was sure his cousin would welcome us with open arms. Baba’s calculations gave Ma a sense of relief. One day, one of Baba’s guards, Naju Sheikh, told Ma stories of the tiger widows. If one left the vicinity of Burigowalini and ventured out into the localities towards the east or the north, he said, tigers were sometimes sighted. As a result, occasionally, people lost their lives when they entered the forest. Tigers could smell human flesh from miles away. Ma later told me, “These poor souls have to go into the forest – for firewood, if not for honey and fish. Some never return. Their wives are made widows for the rest of their lives.” Ma’s retelling of the tiger story sent a cold shiver down my spine. Damnation! I asked Baba, “Can’t we leave tomorrow?” Baba laughed. Bhaiya said, “Penchi, wait for a few more days. I’ll see to it.” I don’t know why hearing Bhaiya utter the pet name “Penchi” gave me immense joy. I felt that there was nothing to be afraid of. After a couple of days, when Bhaiya went to Shyamnagar with Naju, I thought to myself, “This is it. Just a few more days. . . . Once on the road, it won’t take long to reach Bashirhat.” It was as if the name “Bashirhat” contained all the safety and security in the world. I realized what a forest was after coming to Burigowalini. The days were hushed; the nights were breathless. It was difficult to keep track of the innumerable birds’ chirping. Sometimes, I would hear the bleating of deer, and, at other times, the squawking of bats. But the noise for which I would keep my ears pricked, the noise whose absence I felt would be good for the world – the tiger’s roar – could be heard only once in a while. When Baba would

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hear it, he would say, “It has hunted down its prey,” or “Maharaj is hungry,” or “Has it really come within 300 yards?” Why wouldn’t the tiger come within 300 yards or even 3 yards, I wanted to ask Baba, but Baba himself had told me one day, “Tigers think before they act.” I’m sure the tiger was thinking about us. One day, it had been raining since morning, and it was as if the forest had lost its breath or had been suffocated by its steamy wetness. It was stuffy and hot; I was sweating profusely. As soon as I stepped on to the little open space on the deck, my gaze locked on to something afar. Maharaj! A luminous black-andyellow face, piercing eyes, razor-sharp vision. Did our eyes meet? I only realized that I was about to lose consciousness when Ma held me. Ma called out for a forester named Muna Ali. By the time he climbed on to the deck, the tiger had taken its leave. It started from then. Baba said, “The tiger has been so mesmerized by Pori that he won’t move from this place now.” He said this in jest, to shoo my fears away, but it did work. I was also helped by my realization that, no matter what the tiger was, he was not as savage as the Pakistanis. Rather, he was a “gentleman.” He had appeared, and he had left. If I don’t leave this machan, it won’t be a problem. He won’t attack. Baba knew tigers don’t like noise. With the use of ropes, Muna Ali and Indra Shil had tied many empty kerosene tin containers to the trees nearby, and they would often pull on the ropes. It would create a racket. I, too, was taught how to play these percussions. And yet the tiger didn’t stay away. He could be spotted at times. Baba began to be scared. One of the guards, Ruman Mian, knew how to fire a gun. But there were only a few cartridges

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left. The Pakistanis had taken away all the cartridges. Baba had also heard the Pakistanis would soon be launching a military operation in the Sunderbans because a marine commando team of freedom fighters was becoming active in the area. The problem was Ruman Mian wasn’t a precision shooter. Neither was Baba. The biggest setback was that Baba was stuck because of the tiger, despite the fact that he had already decided to quit his job and travel to Bashirhat. The guards were afraid to collect water and vegetables. There were tiger footprints on the banks of the Kholpetua. The river wasn’t wide enough for someone to swim or row a boat through the middle and be out of the tiger’s reach. As a result, we were short of provisions. Our meal preparations were minimal. And the less time Ma had to spend on cooking and cleaning, the more time we had for thinking up frightful images which pervaded our thoughts. One day, I heard the tiger growl from a very short distance away, and I said, “We will never be able to go back, Ma. The tiger is our destiny,” During the rains, gaps appeared in the sun grass roof; the machan was becoming a bit risky as the ropes tying the poles were losing their tautness. We would collect rainwater, but it was difficult to find a dry spot for making a cooking fire. The tiger would see us and feel satisfied. He would think to himself, “Just a few more days. . . .” We would hear the tiger and felt as if the air had become heavy with the odour of his body. I could see his luminous glory, and his unforgiving pair of eyes the moment I closed my own. Ma said, “My son doesn’t know the tiger is lying in ambush. What if he arrives here now?” It was a question not meant to be answered. One morning, Indra came and said, “Last night, the tiger came too close to the machan.”

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The tiger had come for me. I am Suchitra Sen. But he won’t take away my honour. He will only take my life. One less thing to worry about. But before the morning reached its full glory, I could hear distant gunshots. Baba said, “The Pakistanis are here.” Indra said, “The tiger is restless today.” We thought we would either die by the Pakistanis’ bullets or by the tiger’s paw, or both. This was our fate. However, the Pakistanis’ boat didn’t come all the way to Burigowalini. Why? Who knows? That night, we stayed up the whole night in darkness. We figured the tiger was lying in wait. But he wasn’t making any noise. Maybe he was telling himself, “Just one more day. . . .” The next day I heard gunshots from a close distance. Indra said, “They’ve set fire to villages. They will probably take this path to proceed to Munshiganj.” However, at around 11 o’clock in the morning, we could hear a huge uproar from a little distance away. One could sense panic in the collective clamour. One could also sense anger. It was not difficult to feel a sense of pain commingled with terror. I heard the sound of gunshots. Then at one point, the tumult receded. Only some people’s voices could be heard. Muna came running. Baba was standing on the machan. Muna called out to him and he got down. Both of them hurried towards the north. Some very nervous minutes ticked by, made more edgy as there was no sight of Baba. Ma and I held our breaths. At some point, Baba returned. He told us that seven or eight Pakistani soldiers had come in a small gunboat. They had

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burned down two villages; they had killed about ten people. On the Kholpetua, a tiger had suddenly pounced on them in their boat. The impact flung the soldiers standing on the small wooden deck into the water. The tiger had broken one’s neck, and killed another with a powerful swipe of its paw. A couple of those who were in the water had drowned. The survivors of the burnt-down villages killed the rest of them with sticks and sickles. Baba’s voice broke. With tears in his eyes, he said, “Maharaj has probably died too. He was hit by bullets.” Baba, the guards, and some people from the villages found the tiger before noon. The bullet wounds had caused his intestines to spill out. Not one, but two bullets. A Herculean body, a Herculean grandeur. The villagers placed the tiger on a makeshift litter made with bamboos and brought him to Burigowalini. Baba said, “Unquestionably, Maharaj is our friend, a freedom fighter. He must be buried with honour and we must give him a salute.” After burying him in a pit the four forest workers had dug up, Ruman Mian shoved a cartridge into a rusty gun, the only one that was left, and fired a shot in the air. Baba said, “This is a gun salute.” Then he gave fifteen minutes to Ma. We had to leave immediately.

2 After many years, Baba brought us back to Burigowalini. Standing next to the tiger’s grave, Baba said, “What strange magic Maharaj performed that day! Don’t you think so, Pori? I think he emerged from the depths of the forest to keep an eye on us. Maharaj knew who the enemy was, who the ally was, and who wanted to turn the nation into a cremation ground. It’s so surprising that he didn’t wait for anyone’s call or any training. He fought a war on his own

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terms. Such a colossal life, and he sacrificed it so generously!” I was surprised at Baba’s words. He had aged. There was not much logic in what he thought or said. When one gets old, one says such things. Right? Translated from “Ekattor” by Noora Shamsi Bahar

KAZI FAZLUR RAHMAN taught briefly at the University of Dhaka before joining the Civil Service of Pakistan. After the independence of Bangladesh, he served in various capacities in the government, including Secretary, Ministry of Education and Member Planning Commission. From 1990-1991, he was an Adviser in the first Caretaker Government. He is also a short story writer and novelist. He translated some of his short stories into English for the anthology The Image in the Mirror and Other Stories(1998).

Kazi Fazlur Rahman

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A rough push by the soldier propelled Rashed into the room. He stumbled. The Pakistani officer standing in front of the table caught him. He ordered the soldier out and untied Rashed’s hands. Then he moved behind the table and sat in the chair facing Rashed. “Sit down.” Rashed blinked. Even the pale light of the winter afternoon was too harsh for his eyes after the long hours being blindfolded. He rubbed his eyes without seeming to have heard the officer. The enemy officer was of his age or perhaps a little older. He was fair-complexioned and of rather slight build. Under the broad forehead, his eyes had a hint of blue. And those eyes, Rashed could not help noticing, did not have the taunting look of the captor for the captive. The eyes were tired, and the face heavy with fatigue.

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After being asked a second time, Rashed slowly sat down. He touched his right temple, which was covered with congealed blood. With his left hand, he tried to feel if any of his ribs were broken. “What’s your name?” Rashed’s hands froze. But he kept quiet. “Are you a student? How many other miscreants were there with you?” Rashed did not respond. He felt sure that these were the preliminaries before the torture began. This was the moment he had been dreading since regaining consciousness. He knew only too well what there was in store for him. He had seen too many, both dead and dying, who had been tortured by the Pakistanis. Instinctively, he clenched his fists. “It won’t be very difficult to make you talk,” the officer smiled faintly. “Even if I can’t do it myself, I can ask some of my soldiers and razakars to come and help. You surely know how experienced they are in this business and how much they enjoy it.” “We may have to spend some time together,” the officer added after some moments of silence. “We should at least get acquainted. My name is Azam – Captain Azam.” Captain Azam pushed the packet of cigarettes across the table. “Have a cigarette. Whether you or I want it or not, we are both fated to be on the same stage for the time being. Once the war is over, each of us will be back in his own world, provided we survive till then. I really wanted to meet a proper mukti – a so-called freedom fighter. Almost all we manage to catch alive seem to be illiterate farm-hands, young schoolboys or old men. You, I think, belong to the right category – if ‘right’ is the proper word!” He pressed the bell. “First, let me get some tea for us. Meanwhile, you may like to have a wash. There’s the bathroom.” Kadamtali, a rather small river port, had an oil storage depot

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and lay right on the river route of oil tankers plying between Chittagong and Dhaka. The guerillas desperately wanted to disrupt the oil supply. They had damaged a couple of passing tankers and also made an unsuccessful attempt to blow up the depot. The Pakistanis reacted by increasing the size of the army contingent guarding the depot. Fortified bunkers were constructed within the depot perimeters. A few days earlier, Rashed had received reports that Pakistani soldiers had stopped coming out in the open after sunset. Now was the time, he had decided, to blow up the storage tanks. The plan was simplicity in itself. With grenades in a waterproof plastic bag, he would swim over to the depot landing. The usual heavy December fog would provide adequate cover. From river bank to the depot it was only about thirty feet or so. He would toss the grenades, run back to the water and jump into it. Balai and Jalal would open fire from safe distances to distract the Pakistanis. But things had not worked out as planned. The fog had suddenly cleared just as Rashed was getting ready. Nevertheless, he had decided to go ahead. He would have perhaps changed his mind had he only known that on that very day the army contingent had been reinforced by a large group of razakars. They were put on patrol duty outside the depot. After all, their Pakistani masters could not care less if they got killed. These wretches were expendable. Rashed, after crawling up to the depot fence, had already lobbed the grenades when the razakars started shooting. Even with their wild marksmanship, the hail of bullets was thick enough to cut off his escape. Meanwhile, the grenades set off a chain reaction of explosions among the oil drums. As he lay prone on the ground, a large metal fragment, possibly a piece of a bursting drum, hit him on the head. He regained his senses only to gasp from the savage kicks to his head, face and chest. Soon he sank into oblivion again. When

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he woke up again he found himself blindfolded. His hands and feet had been tied. He was quite surprised that he was still alive. He did not know that only the captain’s intervention had saved him from a slow and extremely painful death. “I don’t know how well informed you are,” Captain Azam took a sip of tea, “but it’s almost all over with the war. It won’t make any difference whether you or I live or die. The Indian army has won this round.” “Not the Indian army alone,” Rashed’s voice rose in protest. “It’s the combined allied forces of both India and Bangladesh.” “Rubbish! It is the Indian superiority in the numbers of planes, tanks, artillery and soldiers. You Bangalees simply act as their porters.” “You lie! Is it because of the Indian army that you dared not come out of the bunkers? How many of your officers and men of the so-called best army in the world, equipped with the latest American and Chinese weapons, died in the last nine months? How many in Dhaka alone? Who killed them? Surely not the Indians!” “You can’t win a war by a few stray murders or by throwing a bomb here, planting a mine there. Without the Indian army, your Joy Bangla would have remained just an empty slogan.” “Again, you are wrong. Our victory was inevitable. We would have driven you out on our own. Sure, that would have taken much more time. The process would have been far more painful and the price paid for freedom still higher. Yet, perhaps that would have been better for my country’s future.” Captain Azam crushed his cigarette in the ashtray. “Enough of that. Now tell me how you got involved with this ragtag band of muktis. You don’t look like a miscreant.” Rashed’s eyes flashed. “What would you have done if your brother had been made to dig a grave and then was buried alive in the grave he had dug? Or your sister had been ravaged and

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mutilated by a gang of savage beasts in the shape of men?” “Yes, I know there have been some excesses. A few such unfortunate things are bound to happen if an army is called upon to suppress a rebellion.” “No. This was planned and cool-headed savagery. Yahya the drunk, Tikka Khan the butcher and Bhutto the smooth-talking charlatan ordered you to perpetrate all these bestialities in the name of defending Islam and Pakistan. They felt sure that killing and brutality on this massive scale would frighten the Bangalees into silence. But they made a mistake. Yes, brutality within a certain limit may temporarily terrorize a people into inaction. But beyond this limit, it is counterproductive. There are many in our ranks who never bothered about politics or their identities as Bangalees. Your senseless yet systematic brutality made them take up arms.” “You see, I don’t really know much about all these things.”Captain Azam was somewhat apologetic. “It’s been only four months since I came from West Pakistan. Anyway, even if the things you allege did really happen, they were under the orders of superior authorities. The ordinary officer or soldier in the field can’t be held responsible for carrying out orders.” “Hitler’s generals and soldiers took the same plea. The civilized world refused to accept it. They were found guilty and hanged. Even now those war criminals are being hunted down and brought to justice. And you’re also going to be tried and punished.” “You delude yourself. We aren’t going to be tried. Your leaders will forget all about it in their scramble for pomp and power. And if you really want to try anyone, you’ll have to look for the guilty amidst you – the razakars and al-Badars who joined us in the killings, and the Peace Committee members who pointed out to us the villages to be burnt down, the persons to be tortured and

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murdered. They are the ones who captured the young girls trying to escape and delivered them to our camps.” “Yes, I know. Every people fighting a war of liberation has to contend with some quislings. We also have ours. Certainly, they’re going to pay dearly for their crimes.” ‘‘Again, you err. Perhaps some small fries will be caught. But the really big ones will manage to have their protectors. They may temporarily disappear only to surface again when the time is ripe. They will be as useful to the new rulers as they were to us.” The telephone rang before Rashed could speak again. Captain Azam picked up the receiver, listened in silence for a couple of minutes. Then he said, “Yes, I understand,” and put the receiver down. “The war is over. General Niazi has just signed the surrender document.” Captain Azam looked both shocked and relieved. “Really? Joy Bangla!” Rashed jumped up from his chair. “Yes, but that doesn’t mean that I am surrendering to you. My orders are to surrender with my men only to the Indian army.” Rashed made a move towards the door. “No. You can’t go. My soldiers and the razakars outside won’t know that the war has ended and they can no longer have the fun of killing a captured mukti. You’re still my prisoner.” Rashed stopped in his tracks. “In a manner, I am also your captive. Still, I carry a weapon. If I shoot you, no one will bother to find out if you were killed before or after the surrender. You better take your seat again.” Rashed thought for a moment or two and then returned to his chair. The silence was broken by Captain Azam. “The war is over. We don’t have to keep up pretences. Let’s rather talk about ourselves. Are you a student?” “Yes, I was.” “What were you studying?”

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“English Literature, at Dacca University.” “Strange coincidence! I was also a student of English at Lahore Government College. But I had to join the army before I could get my degree. Mine is a family of soldiers. My grandfather was a non-commissioned officer; my father retired as colonel. And he wanted his only son to become a general. I am afraid he is going to be disappointed. My days in East Pakistan have convinced me that I should have resisted my father’s wishes. I’m not cut out to be an officer of the Pakistani army.” “Why?” Rashed could not help asking. “My first posting was in a big outpost near Comilla. Our orders were to go out on daily sorties to raid villages reported to be harbouring guerillas, Awamis or Hindus. There was a competition among the officers. Each had to keep a tally of how many houses his men had burnt down, how many persons he had personally killed. Each evening in the mess, with whisky glass in hand, each had to announce the numbers. The one with the highest score would be declared the champion of the day, and glasses would be raised to toast his feat. Some even announced the number of Bangalee women they had raped, not, as they would take pains to explain, to satisfy their carnal desires, but in discharge of their patriotic duty of ensuring a better breed of Pakistanis in this part of the country. Yes, men under me also burnt, killed, and raped. But my personal score was nil on all these counts during the fortnight I was there. And that made me an outcast. I was forced to seek a transfer to a place where I would not have to compete with others to prove my prowess. That’s how I am in Kadamtali.” There was again a long moment of silence. Then Captain Azam said, “But you aren’t saying anything about yourself!” “It should be really a quite common story now. I am the eldest of four children in my family. My brother is missing, presumed dead, after the army raided his hostel on the night of the twenty-

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fifth March. My father, a college teacher, was shot dead for sheltering a wounded pupil. Our home was burnt down. My mother managed to escape with my two sisters. I can only hope that they succeeded in crossing the borders and are in some refugee camp, or that they are dead.” “What are you going to do now that the war is over?” “I really don’t know. What I know is that I won’t be able to go back to the life of a student.” “And I can’t go on being a soldier. But whatever happens, I look forward to visiting your Bangladesh one day, perhaps years later. I would like to find out what sort of a country it is going to be – a country for which so much blood has been shed.” A shadow passed over Rashed’s face. “I also wish I knew what the future holds in store for my Bangladesh. Sometimes I have more anxieties than hopes. You’ve not only maimed, tortured, and killed. In the process you’ve brutalized our people, both as victims and avengers of brutalities. We have also learnt to kill. Shall we now be killing each other? And we were such a gentle, peace-loving people!” “Perhaps you have good reasons to be anxious,” Captain Azam smiled sadly. “However, our officers and soldiers also have learnt to kill unarmed civilians, women and children. They won’t be able to forget the taste of blood. When they go back, they will look for opportunities to kill and inflict pain on their own people. They may not spare even those who let them lose here. And that will be your revenge.” Slowly, the darkness of the winter night gathered round them. “Have you ever read Wilfred Owen’s war poems? ‘Strange Meeting’?” “Yes.” “Do you remember the last lines ‘Let us sleep now...’?”

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“Yes, that’s what the dead soldier tells his killer when they meet in the afterlife.” They sat still and silent as the room turned darker. Captain Azam stood up and switched on the light. “Perhaps they could. But will you and I be able to sleep?” Translated from “Mukhomukhi” by the author himself

RAHAD ABIR is a writer from Bangladesh. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Los Angeles Review, The Bombay Literary Magazine, The Wire, Himal Southasian, and Brick Lane Tales: An Anthology of Short Stories About London’s Iconic East End. He is an MFA candidate in fiction at Boston University. He received the 201718 Charles Pick Fellowship at the University of East Anglia. He is currently working on his first novel.

Rahad Abir

M R. M O T I Ameen is seventeen when the war breaks out. One Monday, after supper, he announces he will go to war. Sonabhan shrieks in surprise. You want to leave me alone? It won’t take long, Ma, he assures her. I’ll be back soon after the training. That night Sonabhan cannot sleep. After sun-up, she opens the duck coop. The flock streams out, stretches and quacks around her for their morning meal. She takes longer than usual. She mixes water with rice husks in an earthen bowl and puts it down. They gobble it up in five minutes and head for the pond. Ameen has let out the chickens by then. He lifts his 12-week-old cockerel, Moti, and sits on the veranda. During breakfast he doesn’t strike up any conversation. Having noticed Sonabhan’s puffy eyes, he knows not to mention last night’s subject. He casts his glance to the side, down at the cockerel eating rice in silence.

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Today is haat bar, market day. Sonabhan has arranged the things Ameen will take to the bazaar to sell. Two dozen eggs, a sheaf of areca nuts, a bottle gourd. The bazaar is about a mile away. Ameen wears his short-sleeved floral shirt over his lungi. He whistles as he looks into the cloudy mirror to comb his hair. Placing the rattan basket on his head before setting off, he hollers: I’m off, Ma. Sonabhan watches him go along the bank of the little river. For the first time it occurs to her that Ameen has grown up. He has reached the height of his dead father, has his long neck and straight shoulders. In that moment, Sonabhan realizes it’s not the war, it’s the fighting that Ameen is fascinated with. Like his dead father, he is crazy about bullfighting, cockfighting and boat racing. That same stubbornness flows in his blood. Once he decides on something, nothing can stop him. Her little son! Now a man. Even up to his fifteenth birthday barely a day passed without neighbours appearing with a slew of complaints. Sometimes one or two turned up from other villages. They peeked into the house and asked, Does Ameen live here? Sonabhan would sigh. What did he do? Your son stole my date juice! Emptied the juice pots hanging on the date trees! Sonabhan would sigh again. Then ask the visitor to pardon him. She hated saying that she’d raised her son alone. If she could spare them, she would bring half a dozen eggs and hand them to the visitor: Please take these for your children. At night, Sonabhan climbs out of her bed, clutches the hurricane lamp and tiptoes into Ameen’s room. She stands by his bed, looks at her sleeping son. He snores like his father. He has her light skin and button nose. She touches his cheek. His broad forehead. She suppresses a desire to lie beside him. Like the old days, when she slept cuddling her baby.

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2 Friday is fixed. Only three days to go, Sonabhan moans. Then her boy will leave. She cooks Ameen’s favourite dishes for every meal. She cooks and cries, cries and cooks.... In the evening Ameen gets home from the bazaar, ruffled and outraged as a fighting cock. They’re killing our people like cutting taro leaves! he tells her. Dhaka has turned into a ghost city! Is this her little boy talking? she wonders. On Wednesday Sonabhan soaks rice overnight. Thursday she grinds the rice, strains the flour. With dusk falling, she begins preparing sweet pitha cakes. Ameen comes, sits in the kitchen. By the flickering light of the clay stove, she watches her son eating the steamy pitha stuffing. It’s divine, Ma! he gushes. If there’s no pitha in heaven like yours, I’m not going there. Friday arrives. She kills a cockerel, and makes a curry the way Ameen loves. He is home all day, helping her collect dry twigs, filling water jars, talking of this and that. He feeds the flock, plays with his cockerel. Sonabhan has decided not to be an overwrought mother. He’s going to fight for our people, she tells herself. I won’t cry. I won’t cry. I won’t cry. They say their goodbyes. She crumbles to pieces the moment Ameen hugs her. She buries her face in his broad chest, the way he once used to bury his face in hers. Ma.... He holds her. I’ll be back soon to fight in our district. Let me just finish the training. Sonabhan collects herself. She hands him a package of dry food: puffed rice, jaggery, and pitha. He pauses. Then speaks in a voice as though he were ashamed. Please take care of Moti. He is a good breed. He’ll make a good fighting cock.

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3 Sonabhan watches days turn into weeks, and weeks into months. She watches Moti grow. She feeds him before she has her own meals. By day she keeps an eye on him. By night she keeps him close to her bed. Sweaty, hot days turn into rainy days. The skies have mood swings, erupt in explosions. Allah, Sonabhan murmurs, look after my son in this thunder. Seated on the veranda, she breathes out, staring at the windy world. Sometimes when the downpour is extreme, the tin roof leaks and cold rain drops on Sonabhan’s head. Thoop. Thoop. Thoop. She does not budge. She thinks of a battle field.... Ameen is fighting in the rain....

4 The monsoons have passed. Moti has grown so healthy, so strong and so big that no other cocks even dare to be near him. The orange feathers on his neck are silky, his breast black, wings bluegrey. A touch of kans grass white flashes at the end of his saddle, and a curved, raven-shiny tail manifests his magnificence. His double combs stand as erect as a blood-red cockscomb flower, giving him the look of a crowned cockerel king. His tumescent wattles jiggle with every stride he takes. Of all the cocks in the neighbourhood, Moti is the one who first announces the cockcrow. Later in the day, when he lands on a fence, flaps his wings, swings his head arrogantly and cries cock-a-doodle-doo, he confirms that he is the handsomest cockerel of the village – a fact he proves daily, dancing on one leg, circling hens, pecking them, and chasing any rooster in sight, his hackles raised. There is a joy in hearing the soft sound of his footsteps against the ground – his prideful walking. Whenever Sonabhan calls Moti, if her voice reaches him, he comes to her like the

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wind, galloping with his long, loyal legs. Once close, he slows and stutters to a stop. Cock-cock-cock, he greets her. She greets him in return, smiling Ay ay, come, come. She caresses his back and feeds him. In the afternoons Sonabhan lazes beside the river. The river is now pregnant with new water and has a refreshing fragrance. She watches Moti amusing himself while she cleans betel nut from her teeth with a dat khilan. She imagines little Ameen scampering across the front yard, playing and cackling. Another memory floods in: little Ameen horsing around in the yard. A hen scratching the earth, teaching her chicks how to search for insects. Ducks quacking by the kitchen, aware that snail shells are being cracked open for them. Sonabhan standing, watching the ducks gobble down their food, while water-scented cool air flows from the river.

5 A girl from the neighbourhood drops by. Her name is Lailee. She asks how Sonabhan is doing. Does she need any help with anything? The price of rice is rocketing. Oil and kerosene too. The war is going to be difficult. Then she remains silent. Scratches one fingernail against the other. Sonabhan studies the girl. She has fine hands, a dimpled chin, knee-length hair. Umm, the girl blinks. Have you heard anything from Ameen? Sonabhan shakes her head. In early October, a young man visits Sonabhan. He talks the way city people talk. He has the look of a boy who has gone to college. He says Ameen has sent him and that they fought together for a while. Now he has been assigned to another mission in some other sector. Sonabhan badgers him with questions. Lots of questions. He half smiles, half answers. Says Ameen is a fearless fighter.

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She shouldn’t worry about her boy. He will soon be home to see her. It’s just the awful war that’s deterring him. I need to leave, he says. I don’t have time. No, no, Sonabhan pleads. You must have dinner. She kills a chicken and cooks for him. He devours the food like he hasn’t eaten in weeks. Do you get enough food there? she asks. He smiles. Sometimes. Sometimes not. Sometimes we go hungry. She covers her face with the end of her sari and wipes her eyes. She relishes his chomping and drinking water between mouthfuls, like her son. Is this Mr Moti? He points at the strolling rooster nearby. She nods. He’s gorgeous. Ameen said that after the war is over this cock will win him many fights.

6 Winter sets in. Mornings are fog-heavy. Days are short and sunny. Nights are long and cold. The river is narrowing and losing water. Six months, Sonabhan counts. Ameen has been away from home six months. One Saturday at noon Moti becomes restless, keeps crowing cock-cock-cock.... Sonabhan catches scraps of other cries: This way! That way! Quick! Forget your gold! Life first! Hide in Chowkidar’s jungle! She sees women, neighbours, scurrying in alarm. Babies crying, dogs barking.... She stops a woman. What’s happened? Military’s coming, military’s coming! the woman yells and runs. Sonabhan stands in the middle of her front yard. Sekander Bepari shows up. What’re you waiting for? Hide in Chowkidar’s jungle!

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Rahad Abir

Why would I hide? she says, nonplussed. Ahh, Ameen’s Ma! The military is burning houses! They’re killing men, raping women! I’m not going anywhere. Sekander Bepari does not wait. Sonabhan picks up the big machete she keeps in the house. She takes Moti in hand and settles down on the veranda, the door wide open. The river lies to the south of Sonabhan’s house. On the north side, where the house ends, and where a great puddle of mud lurks, begins the boundary of Chowkidar’s jungle – a paradise for jackals and snakes. The rich land, abandoned by a Hindu family after the Partition of India, had been grabbed by Chowkidar. That day the military does not come. The running and hiding and fussing happen several times over the next two weeks. After that people stop going into hiding. They take measures. They destroy all the wooden and bamboo bridges that link the village with the bazaar. They keep most boats under the water. They arm themselves with homemade tools and weapons. At the end of the month, occasional gunfire is heard at nights. My son! Sonabhan reflects. My son must be fighting there. He is close to home....

7 The cold is piercing. Wrapped up in a shawl, Sonabhan surrenders herself to the morning sun on the veranda. Sekander Bepari appears. Have you not heard? he says. What? she asks in controlled dread. The war is over. We won! We got a country. Our own country! Bangladesh! Really? Her face lightens. Yes! Ameen.... Where is my Ameen then?

BEYOND THE SHADE OF THE MANGO TREE

Ah, he’s surely on his way. Sonabhan counts every moment. She stands, lingers on the path along the river that Ameen took when he left, and would return by. At nights she lies unsleeping in bed. Her ears are catsharp, waiting for a voice. The moment her eyes catch a wink, she sits up. Did she just hear footsteps? A soft knock on the door? Did her son just call her? She holds her breath and peers through the window. Outside, the moonless night is alive with the cry of crickets. He’ll come soon, she mumbles. She thinks of Ameen running home screaming: Ma, Ma, I’m back. I’m back, I’m back, I’m back… hums in her ears. When he reaches her, he throws his wild arms around her, and out of the blue he lifts her up off her feet. Sonabhan smiles in the dark. Lailee comes by one afternoon. Her face is doleful. She lauds Moti, shares the latest gossip, asks about Ameen, and leaves. Three months pass. Sonabhan watches Moti grow bigger, sturdier. He looks more spectacular than ever. After the first seasonal kalboishakhi storm, the Bengali New Year arrives. Her mind glitters with hope. Ameen was born two days after New Year’s Day. He is waiting to blow in on his birthday, to surprise her. She is convinced. She starts the preparations for making pithas. Fresh excitement brims inside her. On the morning of Ameen’s eighteenth birthday, Sonabhan has no time for her breakfast. She cleans the house. She gets a neighbour boy to buy her some aromatic polau rice, spices and an ilish fish. She settles down to cooking. When the sun is high, she goes to take a long bath in the pond. She wears the sari Ameen bought her for Eid. Then she combs her hair. On the veranda she arranges the lunch and waits.

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Rahad Abir

She feeds Moti. She watches the sun move. Before sundown, Sonabhan gives away the food to her neighbours.

8 Chowkidar’s jungle is being cleared. Scores of labourers work there from dawn to dusk. People say Chowkidar is going to marry again and will offer his new wife a new mansion. Mangoes begin to ripen, just as they did when Ameen left. Sonabhan cannot read and write, but she can count. It’s been exactly a year since he left. A mansion is built where Chowkidar’s jungle stood. On a Friday afternoon, children sprint toward it. While a band plays party music, Chowkidar parades in with his fifth wife to claim the estate. A neighbour insists Sonabhan accompany her to see the bride. She agrees. The bride is good-looking, younger than Chowkidar’s youngest daughter. She seems happy in her newly-built brick palace, the nicest house in the village.

9 Not all is well with Moti. He has turned into the terror cock of the neighbourhood. A barrage of complaints come from neighbours. Moti is attacking their hens. Moti is sneaking into their homes. Moti is stealing their flock’s food. Moti is injuring their roosters. Sonabhan apologizes, as always, and gives compensation when she can. Despite this, the neighbours who frequent her house to purchase eggs or chickens or ducks praise her. Why are your chickens healthier than ours? they ask. They are my children, Sonabhan replies. I love them as my own.

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10 It is a blazing, boiling noon when Lailee walks in. She looks thin, blue. She says her wedding has been fixed for next week. Then tears course down her cheek. Sonabhan hugs her, strokes her back. Another Bengali New Year is around the corner. Ameen may come this time, thinks Sonabhan. He can’t vanish. Can’t perish. Perhaps he had a head injury in the war and lost his memory. When his memory returns, he will come home for sure. She prepares pithas, cooks different dishes, and waits. Just before dark she gives the food to the neighbours.

11 Sekander Bepari suggests Sonabhan talk to Chowkidar. Chowkidar is now the village head, and the wealthiest of them all. He can get her an allowance from the government for being a Muktijoddahar Ma, a freedom fighter’s mother. The word on the street is that Chowkidar has registered himself as a freedom fighter, though he didn’t fight in the war. In wartime, he wore a Jinnah cap and invested enormous energy into grabbing and buying land cheaply from Hindus who were leaving for India. My son didn’t go to war for money! Sonabhan bawls. I don’t need any allowance. I piss on their money.

12 A warning comes from old Chowkidar’s young wife. Watch your rooster, she threatens. I don’t want him in my house again. If someone touches my boy, Sonabhan responds, they’ll see the consequences. She grounds Moti for an entire day. It makes him sad. His forlorn captivity crucifies her. She lets him loose the following morning.

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Rahad Abir

Some boys come and ask Sonabhan to lend them Moti for cockfighting at a fair. They are happy to pay. Never, she tells them. He is my son.

13 One hazy morning, a crow on the jackfruit tree caws like mad. Sonabhan shoos the bird away twice, but it comes back shortly. Something bad may happen today, she worries. She cleans the duck and chicken coops, sweeps the house. At lunchtime, she calls Moti for his meal. He does not appear. She gets tense, tramps along the river, calling his name. She ceases, cocks her ear, seeking his response. Nothing. She waits. Perhaps she will see him skittering toward her in a moment. She walks to the back garden. She hears something faint near Chowkidar’s house. A frail reply: ku-ku-ku.... She discovers Moti sitting on the ground, inching towards her, limping. Her heart pounds. One of his legs is dangling. Moti! she howls, her face contorted in shock. She gently lifts him up, races through the garden, and flies inside. His left leg is hot and purple, the thigh severely swollen, drenched in blood. The fracture exposes his bone. What am I going to do, what am I going to do?! she cries. She wipes the blood, collects two tiny bamboo strips, places them on either side of the injured leg and wraps them up with a scrap of cloth. I’m sorry, my son, she says to him, sobbing. You’ll walk again. Just a few weeks. She sets Moti on the veranda, gives him wheat and water. With his round, clear eyes he looks at the food, but shows no interest. Just sits, leaning on his right side. Sonabhan storms into Chowkidar’s house. The young wife doesn’t show up; only the maid does. She says it was an accident.

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You hurt my boy! Sonabhan wails and weeps. You should have broken my leg instead! It was an accident, the maid repeats. We didn’t mean to. Sonabhan lays Moti’s sleeping basket next to her on the bed. Every so often she checks on him. His body is hot as red coals. Moti crows at dawn with a cry that is not his. He sounds like a baby rooster. He drinks, but refuses to eat. His foot, knee joint and thigh have swollen more. Sonabhan mulls it over. She has treated broken legs many times. They all healed. But some experienced permanent limping.

14 Sonabhan cannot sleep. Her memories take her back in time. She is a 14-year-old bride. The first thing at her husband’s place that charms her is the river. The south-facing windows overlook the high shore. The river breeze wafts the smell of water. Whenever she wants fresh, cool air, she comes out and stands under the banyan tree that bends towards the water. Here, the air smells of dead twigs, fallen leaves, damp earth, trees and bushes along the bank – all mingled with water. The water beneath the sprawling banyan tree is jungle green. The middle of the river is ash silver. The colour of the water changes as the day changes hues. Dingi boats, panshi boats, fishing boats, cargo boats, and passenger boats sail on the river all day long. Sonabhan loves to listen to the sound of splashing water from the waves made by these passing boats. The rhythmic, rippling water becomes alive, smells strong. It’s the water laughing, she thinks. Summer. She conceives again. She frequents the sacred Kalachand Fakir’s Tree every month, where she cooks khichuri and feeds the poor. She promises to slaughter a goat if she delivers a living child this time.

M R. M O T I

Rahad Abir

The month after Ameen is born, she has a strange dream. A beautiful woman offers her a dazzling flame burning in her extended palm. The woman, smiling, says, Take it. On a dark night, Sonabhan wakes up to relieve herself. A glimmering light in the front yard catches her eye. She nears it. She sees a big frog with an open mouth, inside which is something glowing, round – a golden ball. She stands, stunned. The frog seems to be offering her its treasure. All she has to do is bow down so it can drop the golden ball into her hands. She shudders. The treasure could make her rich. But should she take it? She’s heard that frogs and snakes offer hidden treasures to humans they like. But there can be serious consequences. A death can occur.... She dashes into the bedroom to check on her son.

15 Monday dawns without Moti’s crowing. His cold body is resting on its right side. Lying against the basket. Eyes closed. His kingly head down. With Moti’s basket in her lap, Sonabhan is motionless. She puts Moti to rest beside her husband’s grave. She sighs, plods across the empty yard, steps onto an empty veranda, crawls into an empty home and sits on the edge of an empty bed. Another morning breaks.... Noon and afternoon come and go.... The birds in the coops quack and crow.... No one lets them out. For the first time, Sonabhan’s doors do not open.

ANWARA SYED HAQ is a psychiatrist by profession and has used her knowledge of human psychology in her fiction. She writes in a variety of genres: novels, short stories, stories for children, essays, autobiography, and travelogues. Apart from the Bangla Academy Award, she has received the Anannya Shahitya Puroshkar, the Agrani Bank Award, the Michael Madhushudhon Puroshkar and the Shishu Academy Puroshkar. Some of her short stories have been translated into English and published as The Annihilation and Other Stories.

Anwara Syed Haq

S TOR Y

THAT

HE A R D

I heard this story from my friend Jaglul Haider Mashrafi. Mashrafi in turn had heard the story from his Chacha, Tayabur Rahman Shikdar. Tayabur Rahman had heard the story from his nephew, Zulfiqar Hossain, the son of his cousin whose mother was his paternal aunt. Zulfiqar Hossain was a muktijoddha, a freedom fighter. However, this story is not about Zulfiqar Hossain. It is about the son of a maternal uncle of Zulfiqar Hossain’s friend. Zulfiqar Hossain’s friend was also a muktijoddha. His name was Muktijoddha Imtiaz Ali. And his cousin’s name was Badre Alam. But this is not a story. I doubt whether it can be called a story. Still, since I am getting on in years, whether it is fact or fiction, I feel that I should narrate it. It was early 1971. The name of Zulfiqar Hossain’s friend’s cousin was Badre Alam. He was twenty-one. He was doing his undergraduate studies when he suddenly gave up studying and started working in his father’s departmental store near the Treasury Office in Khulna.

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He was doing quite well there. But at the beginning of March the movement started. Dhaka was heating up at Yahya’s deception; the whole country was in turmoil. Then came March twenty-fifth. Beginning with that dark night, Bengalis started being killed. The months of March, April, June, and July passed. August came. Badre Alam continued to sit in his father’s shop. He belonged to a small, fairly well-off family. Many shopkeepers had shut down their shops and stayed home. Or else had run away. But Badre Alam’s shop remained open. His father was a wellknown businessman of the town. He was a rice wholesaler. Local Bengalis and Biharis had always received help from him. When floods ravaged the country or when there was a famine, Badre Alam’s father was always there. Every morning before Badre Alam left for the shop, his mother would recite Ayatul Kursi, the Verse of the Throne, and blow on his chest three times. Protected by the Quranic verse, he mustered the courage to go to work. One afternoon in the middle of August, four razakars came to Badre Alam’s shop. Badre Alam was busy at the time, filling an order. He was planning to return home after this as he had heard that some razakars had entered the bazaar. But before he could take any precautions, the four razakars appeared in front of his shop. Behind them was a soldier. Badre Alam tried to see if he could recognize the razakars. Only a few days back these young fellows had done odd jobs in different shops. Now each of them had a rifle in his hands. On their foreheads were black bandanas. Badre Alam recognized one of them. His name was Zainul. He recognized another. Maksud Mia. But, before he could utter a word, the soldier roared, ordering him to come out of his shop.

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Anwara Syed Haq

What was Badre Alam to do? He came out and stood before the soldier. The soldier made him turn around and, holding a rifle to his back, said, “Move.” Badre Alam looked back at the other shopkeepers wistfully and started walking. Behind them, the four razakars of their area sauntered with huge grins on their faces. The soldiers had set up camp in Market House. When they reached the place, Zainul tied Badre Alam’s arms behind him firmly with a rope. Badre Alam noticed two blood-drenched corpses. Near the mouth of one of the corpses, flies hovered. The entire floor was covered with patches of fresh blood. People have been slaughtered here only a little while ago, thought Badre Alam. Apart from an officer, there were also two soldiers. The officer asked Badre Alam, “Whom did you vote for? How many Biharis have you killed? Where are the muktis?” Badre Alam was standing barefooted on patches of blood. The blood was still warm. It hadn’t clotted till then. His sandals had been removed a little while ago. Badre Alam recalled that he had been unable to vote in the elections the previous year. He had had such severe diarrhoea that he had been admitted to Khulna Hospital. He knew that the rest of the family had voted for the boat. Had he been well, he too would have voted for the boat. But he could not say those things here. He hadn’t killed any Biharis. There was no question of his doing so. Nor did he know any muktijoddhas. He had heard that the son of a businessman he knew had joined the freedom fighters. But he had never seen the young man. That businessman too was now supposedly in Dhaka. Without waiting for Badre Alam’s reply, the two soldiers started hitting him. First with a wooden ruler and then with an

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iron rod. They used the rod to hit him on all his joints. His ankles, his knees, his elbows, his shoulders. Badre Alam felt as if his joints had been loosened and his body was falling apart. If they had strung him up, he would have danced like the string toys one buys at melas. Then they started kicking him with hobnailed boots. Endless kicks. When that phase was over, they pressed lit cigarettes at various spots on his body. The smell of burned flesh rose in the air. Smelling his burning flesh, Badre Alam looked up wildly at the sky. Perhaps he thought some help would come from there. After torturing Badre Alam till about 8:30 at night, the soldiers untied him and said, “Come, you bastard. We’ll drop you home.” Blindfolding Badre Alam and tying his hands behind his back, they held a rifle to him and took him towards Number One Forest Gate. Before Badre Alam realized what was happening, one of the soldiers picked up the tall, middling weight youth and seated him in a jeep. After some time – Badre Alam was not aware when as he had lost consciousness – they dragged him out of the jeep and flung him into the river. The touch of the water roused Badre Alam. Badre Alam wondered, Is this the Bhairab? Or the Pussur? Perhaps today is my last day on earth. It was late night by then. However, the first thing that happened when Badre Alam was flung into the river was that the bindings of his hand loosened. Untying his hands, he opened his blindfold. Then he started floating on the river. After a while, he reached the bank of the river. He could not tell which side of the river he was on. In the dim light of the moon, he saw that there was a thick forest in front of him. The smell of wet earth rose in his nostrils.

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He managed to crawl up the bank and then, taking his life in his hands, he ran as fast as he could towards the jungle. There were tigers in the jungle. But the tigers were nothing to him compared to the Punjabi soldiers and their collaborating Bengali razakars. He entered the jungle. He fled deeper and deeper inside, into the heart of the jungle it may be said. Around him were a variety of plants and trees: sundari, goran, bain, kewra, jhana, golpata, nolkhagora and hetal. In front was an impenetrable jungle where tigers camouflaged themselves waiting for their prey. But Badre Alam was least concerned. Searching out a fairly large sundari tree, he scurried up its branches like a squirrel. He had been climbing trees since boyhood. Drawing some vines towards himself, he tied himself tightly to the branch of the tree. His maternal grandfather’s village was in Satkhira. As a boy he had spent days together there, swimming in the river. The smell of his burnt flesh assailed his nostrils once again. His joints were aching. His head felt that it would burst with pain. Badre Alam fell unconscious again. Badre Alam regained consciousness after a whole day. Not at the sound of birds chirping but at the call of the red jungle fowl. Opening his eyes, he saw on the branch of the sundari tree an orange-breasted hariyal, rocking. Glancing below him he saw deer. Not one. Two. A mother and a daughter merrily plucking leaves from the tree and chewing. They didn’t even see Badre. Badre Alam lost track of time. He didn’t know how many days, how many months, passed. He managed to survive in the jungle. He began to walk again haltingly. His loose arms and legs grew stronger. His burned flesh healed gradually. The clean air helped his lungs. He learned how to eat fruits and berries that grew in

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the jungle. He made a bow and arrows and learned to hunt game. He learned how to rub stone against stone and light a fire to roast wild fowl and green pigeons. On moonlit nights, he rested on a swinging tree branch and looked up at the sky. But he did not even once try to leave the forest. Lying in a hammock between two strong branches, looking up at the sky, he said aloud, What a wonderful life our ancestors lived. How beautiful it was, O God. He had learned to speak to himself without stop. Badre Alam had been apprehended in August. The country gained its freedom by the middle of December. People started looking desperately for their missing relatives. They wailed for their lost ones and searched marsh and jungle to find them. Someone recovered an arm, an arm on which a mother had tied a red thread thinking it would keep her son safe. Now that arm was floating on the water where hogla plants grow. Someone recovered a foot, a foot which had a deformed big toe, the result of a childhood accident. But that had not prevented the young man from joining the war. Someone recovered the skull of his father who had been taken away. He had recognized it from the deep gash on the forehead. Zulfiqar Hossain’s friend, Imtiaz Ali, was also a muktijodhha. Badre Alam was the son of Imtiaz Ali’s paternal aunt. They were quite close in age and had played together in childhood. After the war came to an end, like the others, Imtiaz Ali also started searching for his cousin Badre Alam. He turned the place upside down in his search. A number of villagers swore that they had seen Badre Alam being flung into the river from a Pakistan army jeep. No matter how late at night it is, the ears of village folk stay alert; their eyes are like torches. They keep minute accounts of losses. They had not seen Badre’s dead body floating up to the surface, though they had seen other dead bodies doing so.

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Some said that one afternoon when the bright sun drove people crazy, when the heat of the sun shrouded the place like thick fog, someone had seen a person resembling Badre Alam wandering about in the southern forest. After that he had not been seen for these three and a half months. Hearing this, Muktijodhha Imtiaz Ali got people to comb the forest. At least he had to get proof that Badre was no longer alive. The jungle was searched. Thickets were trashed, tins and drums were beaten, horns were blown, frightening off the tigers and deer as Imtiaz Ali searched for his paternal cousin Badre Alam. Then, finally, one day, he did find him. One afternoon, Imtiaz Ali saw Badre Alam sitting on a branch of a pussur tree biting into some fruit. Badre Alam’s long hair and overgrown facial hair did not prevent Imtiaz Ali from recognizing his cousin. Badre Alam was astonished to see Imtiaz Ali in front of him. Imtiaz said, Badre, come down. Let’s go back home. Phupu has almost gone blind weeping for you. Seeing his cousin, Badre Alam hid himself amongst the branches. He called from above, You go back, Imtiaz. I will return after the war is over. Hearing him, Imtiaz laughed. He said proudly, The war? The Liberation War is over, Badre. There is no more war. Last month, on December 16, the country became free. Ninety-eight thousand Pakistani soldiers are now in jail. What do you eat in this forest? In reply Badre Alam said, You are wrong, Imtiaz. The muktijuddha is not yet over. I will continue to remain in this forest till the war is over. This forest is much better than the town. Do not believe people who say that the country is free. You say the war is over. Are you mad? Can the Liberation War be over so quickly? How can the injustices of generations, killings, daylight robberies, destruction, slashing of ligaments, beheadings end

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so easily? Can they? No. They can’t. The muktijuddha is still on. At this moment, do you know in how many countries, for how many years, liberation struggles are still going on? Have those wars come to an end? Imtiaz Ali said irritably, O Badre, don’t be foolish. Our war is over. Come down from the tree, Bhai. In reply, Badre laughed aloud. Imtiaz was taken aback. Why are you laughing, you mad man? From his hiding place in the sundari tree, Badre said, You crazy fool. It took the Indians two hundred years to get rid of the British. And you got rid of the Pakistanis in nine months? Do you know how strong they are? Every country recognizes the military might of Pakistan. Go back home, Imtiaz. When it is time for me to return, I will do so. Making one last effort, Imtiaz said, You moron. Everyone has returned home. In fact, Bangabandhu too returned on the tenth of last month. You alone are hiding in this jungle. Badre Alam gave a start on hearing this. The leaves of the tree in which Badre was hiding started shaking violently. It was not clear whether it was because Badre was hiding there or because a fierce wind had started blowing. Alas, alas, Badre said, what did you say? Bangabandhu has returned? Go quickly and tell him to go back. The Pakistani jail is safer than this country at present. At least the Pakistanis cannot kill him now. I see that he has fallen from the frying pan into the fire. No, Bhai, you must go tomorrow to Bangabandhu and tell him to leave this country and go elsewhere. If he can, let him go back to Pakistan. There are thousands upon thousands of razakars in this country now, Imtiaz. They are surrounding him. He is a simple man. He understands politics. He does not understand treachery. They will annihilate him. Go quickly and tell him to leave the country.

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Anwara Syed Haq

Hearing Badre’s words, Imtiaz remarked angrily, You mad fool. Returning home from the forest, Imtiaz described what had happened. He’s gone mad, Badre Alam’s mother wailed. Badre Alam’s father said, Just bring him back. I will pay whatever is necessary. The next day, everyone entered the forest again. But where was Badre Alam? He was nowhere to be found. There was only dense forest all around. Unknown terrors gripped the searchers. They couldn’t even think of venturing deeper inside the forest. The thick clusters of trees in the distance swayed in the breeze. The tigers of the Sunderbans sheltered amidst these trees. Still, raising the loudspeaker to his lips, Imtiaz shouted, Badre Alam, Bhai Badre – He suddenly felt that someone was staring at him from behind the clump of hogla plants, eyes shining brightly. But it was only for an instant. Then the eyes disappeared. Was it some tiger, cheetah or lion? Who knows? Muktijoddha Imtiaz Ali had fought against the Pakistani forces; he had not fought against tigers. It could even be Badre Alam looking at them. Would he jump up on seeing them? Or would he rush at them raging? No one knows. No one knows. Dwelling inside a wild forest can turn even a human being wild. Is Badre Alam well? Is he still sane? Or are we – who dwell outside the deep forests, amidst the bright lights of town – insane? Pondering these questions, Imtiaz slowly left the forest. Translated from “E Galpa Amar Shona Galpa” by Niaz Zaman

RASHID HAIDER (1941- 2020) retired as Director, Bangla Academy. He also served as Executive Director of the Nazrul Institute from 2009 to 2014. He wrote short stories, novels, and plays. Among his collections of short stories are Nankur Bodhi, Antare Bhinna Purush, and Megheder Ghar Bari. His novels include Khanchay, Nashta Jochhanay Ekon Aranya, and Andha Kathamala. In 2013, National Book Trust, India, published a selection of his short stories in Brihonnola O Ananya Galpa. In 1984, he received the Bangla Academy Sahitya Puroshkar for his contribution to literature and, in 2014, the Ekushey Padak.

Rashid Haider

A D DR ESS

UNC ER TA IN

The two of them met again after several years. Three days ago, at this very place. There, Baset made the proposal to Nantu Bhai who had been a friend of his elder brother Majed. Nantu Bhai accepted the proposal. I shall give you some details so that you will have not the least bit of trouble finding my house. For one thing, you will be coming at night. If there is a power cut and there are no lights, you will have to grope blindly all along the way. You may ask directions from anyone you come across, but there is no guarantee that person will know the street you are looking for. Besides, they may pretend to know and lead you to the wrong street only to point a knife at your chest and say, “Come on, you wretch, out with what you’ve got.” I know you will be simply making a social call at my house. You may have twenty or twenty-five takas – or perhaps a hundred takas at the most – in your pocket. But I can swear that there will be a packet of costly cigarettes and an expensive lighter. That villain may let you go unharmed for the expensive lighter if not for the cigarettes, although I have my doubts about it.

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He may not believe that a person carrying such a lighter will have only such a small amount of money in his pockets and impatiently drive his knife into your chest a couple of times. That is why I feel that if you know the directions well you will face no such risk. With these details you should be able to reach the right place even blindfolded in daytime, also at night if there is no power cut, and if there are indeed no lights you will just have to keep your eyes and ears open. I wonder, Nantu Bhai, why you looked at me with a frown like that when I spoke about keeping your eyes and ears open? I know that the frown means three things. Sometime ago you had been so greatly annoyed with a man that the look in your frowning eyes narrowed like the pointed tip of a pencil. Another time you felt so amused at the foolishness of one of your friends that your eyes squinted with suppressed laughter. And once when I heard a not so close acquaintance making a suggestive proposal to you, I noticed that suspicion also made your eyes lose their natural look. You were unable to understand whether the man was trying to do you a favour or cause you trouble. The look in your eyes at the moment makes me feel that you are thinking, “Baset does not really want to take me to his house, he is merely planning to create trouble for me.” What a shame, Nantu Bhai! You were a friend of my elder brother. I had often heard my elder brother saying, “If I have one bosom friend, that’s Nantu.” Do you remember, once you had been to our village home for a visit? I was a school student at the time. As soon as we heard that Majed Bhai’s friend was coming, the whole family excitedly began preparing to greet him in style. I deliberately missed school on that day and swept the courtyard of the house, cleared all the weeds, spent half the day dusting and cleaning the outer room where Majed Bhai and you would sleep, and when I finished making everything clean and tidy I was no longer looking like myself but like a dirty little goblin. I still remember

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that when the rickshaw carrying the two of you turned from the main road towards our house, we were all standing and waiting for you nervously as though the king of the land was paying a visit to one his insignificant subjects. Now whatever you say, Nantu Bhai, you will find the same royal welcome waiting for you at my house even now. Sometimes I think, while merely a visit by an ordinary landlord to the house of one of his ryots would be the cause of great discomfiture for the whole family, if a subject was visited by the king himself the poor fellow would be half-dead with fear lest even the slightest mistake offend his royal guest. Kings, of course, exist only in the pages of history books today, perhaps as an appendage to someone’s name and more recently in advertisements for family planning. Please do not be offended, Nantu Bhai, I did not mention family planning in any disagreeable sense. When I uttered the word “king” a minute ago you quickly raised your eyes to my face once, but I did not feel that you were thinking of the picture of a king on packets of condoms. However, the way you looked at me with steely eyes on hearing “family” and “planning,” I realized that you were interpreting it differently. Please believe me, your present position makes you not only a king to me but a great king, a monarch, an all-powerful emperor. I see you are smiling quietly. But this is no smiling matter, Nantu Bhai. You are one of the most important men in the country now. I am confident that everyone will recognize your name. If such a famous personality visits the house of a very ordinary man like me, just imagine what that can mean to others! What’s that you say? Oh, you mean that ruffian? Well, you must know that one should not expect any fairness or justice from a villain like that. If he recognized you and you were the President, his hand might have trembled a little, but if he did not recognize you then the President or Rahim, Karim, Ram, Shyam would all be the same to him. Don’t you worry about that. Just listen carefully to the directions for reaching my house so that you can go there straight without asking anyone’s help.

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Just then the telephone rang. Baset stopped speaking. Nantu Bhai rose lazily and went to answer it. Baset could not hear what the person at the other end was saying. He only heard Nantu Bhai saying “No, no” once. After ending the conversation, Nantu Bhai came back and said: “Do you know, Baset, I just cancelled a programme for tomorrow because I am going to your house.” Oh, why did you do that? You could have come to my place the day after tomorrow just as well. No, that can’t be, Baset. I have been thinking of going to your place for a long time but I simply haven’t had the time. Just think – if I had received that telephone call a few minutes before you came, I would not be able to go to your place tomorrow. You are, of course, an intelligent boy, you understand that it is not possible for me to go to many places even if I want to, but people think otherwise. They think I have grown rather vain since I became a leader, that I deliberately refuse to recognize my own kith and kin. Yet, believe me, I do want to go to the people, listen to what they have to say, do something for them. But do you know something – most people expect so much that it will never be possible to satisfy them completely. I shall only end up by earning a bad name. Oh, no – I can’t even dream that you have come here to ask something from me. You are like my own younger brother. I can never describe in so many words how much I valued Majed’s friendship. The memory of my visit to your village home is still bright in my mind. Your mother put food on my plate with her own hands. Believe me, my own mother never served me food like that. By the way, how is Khalamma now? Mother passed away in January seventy-six. What! You don’t say? She died so long ago and you never bothered to let me know? No, no, Baset, you should have. It was awfully wrong of you. Actually, there must have been some reason why I could not inform you.

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Truly, Baset, have you ever thought how tender are the hearts of the mothers in Bangladesh? Sometimes when I think of that I feel so amazed. Who am I to your family, after all? No more than a friend of your elder brother, isn’t that so? Yet, your mother gave me more affection than she gave her own son. What are you thinking, Baset? No, it’s nothing, Nantu Bhai. You were talking of Ma. That distracted my attention for a moment. You know, Ma used to speak of you sometimes. Nantu Bhai, you again looked at me with those narrow eyes. You should no longer have any misgivings. Because I said that Ma used to speak of you, perhaps you are thinking that I am trying to make an excuse to remind you of Majed Bhai. That’s certainly not my intention. In fact, human beings always tend to pass judgment on what’s good and what’s bad on the basis of their own understanding and feelings. You did the right thing according to your judgment. Since you looked at me with such narrowed eyes, I am telling you if you had saved Majed Bhai simply for the sake of friendship you would probably become tired of trying to make excuses to your own conscience for the rest of your life. Yes, yes – you are absolutely correct, Baset. I have given the matter a great deal of thought. Every time I decided that I should have to save Majed, I shuddered at the thought of betraying the country. Again, when I look at the country I feel strangely confused. Majed was my friend of such long standing; his mother was as fond of me as if I were her own son. Look, Baset, let me tell you something very frankly today – those young men, I mean the gangs you and some others like you would call muktibahini or muktijoddha – they were really going beyond the limit. Well, my dear boys, I understand that you have many arguments to present, but so have we. You want us to listen to you but you refuse to listen to us. How can that be? What I would have liked to say to them is – Come on, friends, let’s sit down and talk things over. We’ll

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certainly be able to reach a solution. But no, all you want is just to turn up and shoot us down. So we too had to take a stand. Nantu Bhai, that’s exactly the thing no one wants to understand. I have decided to forget what happened to Majed Bhai and that’s why I am now inviting you to my house. It gives me a lot of pleasure to think that you have accepted my invitation. I told you again and again that I would come to fetch you but you did not agree. Of course, I accept that you enjoy taking risks in almost all that you do. So I did not insist. Finding our village home is not at all difficult, but finding my house in the town at night might be something of a problem. But I am confident you will find it, you certainly will. Baset, your words seem to suggest that I don’t know anything about this town. But not only do I know this town, I know the whole of Bangladesh well. We have to know all these matters, otherwise how would it be possible for me to become one of the most important men in the country as you called me yourself? Give me the directions. I shall find the way to your house all right. The lights went out at that precise moment. And the confidence that could be sensed in Nantu Bhai’s voice just before the lights went out suddenly seemed to falter. Baset called, Nantu Bhai! Yes, I am here. The lights going out so suddenly startled me. And I feel so suffocated in the darkness. I fear that someone is lurking around waiting for the chance to pounce upon me. Baset could not help laughing. Why did you laugh, Baset? Such fear does not become you. People have all changed so much these days, you know! I always look at people’s eyes when I talk to them, and I often notice that it seems as if their very eyes will devour me whole. Baset laughed softly. Have you seen something like that in my eyes?

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What did you say? I said, Have you noticed something in my eyes? As a reply did not come readily, Baset thought that perhaps there was no one in the room. Not even the sound of Nantu Bhai’s breathing could be heard. Baset waited and thought of striking a match in order to make the situation normal. Just then Nantu Bhai replied, No, I have not noticed any such thing in your eyes, but I have a feeling that you are always looking for something. What is it that you are looking for, Baset? Forget it, Nantu Bhai, don’t bother. Sometimes I don’t know myself what I am looking for. All of a sudden in a crowded street I see Majed Bhai walking past. I know that’s impossible, that can never be, but I keep searching for him desperately. Whenever I come across an old woman in the street, I look closely at her face to see if it is my mother. And the strange thing is that, as you know, neither Majed Bhai nor my mother exists any longer. You won’t believe me, Nantu Bhai, but whenever I see a dark-skinned youth dressed in payjama and punjabi I feel that must be our Lokeman! Who is Lokeman? You would not know him. He was my classmate. The soldiers killed him by throwing him into a tiger’s cage. Where? At Thakurgaon. He was entering the country across that border after his training. Nantu Bhai made an impatient sound. Baset realized that he was getting annoyed. You had better tell me the directions to your house. Baset took a deep breath. He wanted to have a drink of water. He wanted to clear his throat and then give an accurate description of the route leading to his house, but, as he tried to speak, the voice that came out his throat was not his own. Nantu Bhai also noticed the difference. Who spoke, Baset?

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I – Baset, Majed’s brother. From where will you start? Well, let me guide you from the three-point crossing. You must have noticed a road leading to the north, another to the west and yet another to the east. You should take the one leading to the east. About fifty yards down this road, you will see a small field on the left-hand side. But don’t bother to take a good look at that field. If you do, you will see four or five men lying there. It’s not really a place where you would normally find men lying around, but if you go closer to them you will see their chests riddled with bullets, their faces battered almost beyond recognition. Nantu Bhai, these men are Altaf, Mizan, Sabu, Dulu and Nousher. You have surely been to the other bank of the river? They had been hiding in the catkin bushes on that side, waiting for a chance to attack the military camp. You did not do anything, of course, but Osman Ghani supplied the information to the camp. You surely knew Osman Ghani? Yes, I did. He was the secretary of the Peace Committee. As an intimidation to the general public, the military killed all of them and left their dead bodies in that field in the middle of the town. They didn’t even allow them to be buried. Nantu Bhai, on the nights when the moonlight is very bright, I have seen the five of them strolling about in the field, holding one another’s hands. As they walk, I have seen the leafy branches of the trees bow down their heads, the grass not trod upon by them weep with the pain of being neglected. Even when there is no wind, you can smell a sweet scent in the air; nearby the fairies sing softly, playing on harps. Do you know, Nantu Bhai, once I went very close to them, but they did not allow me to join them. Only Nousher said, You have been able to come so close simply because you are Majed Bhai’s brother. Once they abruptly stopped walking. I pricked up my ears to catch the sound the wind was carrying and could hear Enam’s mother crying mournfully a little farther to the East in the field.

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Altaf and the rest of them were angry when I could not at first understand what that sound was. “No wonder you don’t know what it is now!” As soon as I heard their words, the house where Enam used to live with his family seemed to become clearly visible to my eyes. Nantu Bhai, you need not look carefully at that house. A very ordinary house with a tin roof, which does not shine in sunlight, nor glitter in moonlight. Rather, the blackened roof made with the tin of discarded kerosene oil containers looks even more gloomy under a cloudy sky. Yet, when quite late at night the stars gleam more brightly in a cloudless sky, when not a single living soul is seen walking the streets, just then, Nantu Bhai, just then – the gods and goddesses descend from heaven and stand around Enam’s house doing obeisance at first, then the goddesses go inside and tell Enam’s mother, “Why do you cry, Ma? Your Sufia is no more, but we are with you.” Forgetting her tears, Enam’s mother looks up at them. The most beautiful of the goddesses, the youngest among them, crawls into the bosom of Enam’s mother and plays there like a little child. Can you believe such strange doings, Nantu Bhai? Enam’s mother also coddles and fondles the child goddess, calling her by all sorts of endearing names, showering kisses upon her, and the goddess too gurgles happily like a baby. Enam’s mother forgets everything else, forgets that Secretary Osman Ghani’s son Farouq had forcibly kidnapped her daughter in broad daylight and handed her to the soldiers. Nantu Bhai, that’s what Majed Bhai had gone to protest against. But he did not come back for hours. We waited and waited till our eyes were hazy with tears and apprehension, yet Majed Bhai did not come back. At long last I ran to you for help. Baset realized that Nantu Bhai was becoming restless. He called, Bhai, are you angry? Baset, please believe me, Baset – more than once I took three steps forward to save Majed, but retreated two steps. I knew that

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Majed would be released as soon as I sent a note to the Major, but every time I took up a pen to write that note I could not help asking myself, Is it my Pakistan that should have priority, or is it my friend? But you had better give me your address, Baset. I have promised to go to your house, and I certainly will. Let’s leave other matters aside for now, shall we? I have lost my friend for the sake of the country, but I have not lost my friendship for him. You are the brother of my friend Majed, why shouldn’t I go to your house? Nantu Bhai, it’s because I do have that claim on you that I have invited you. I offered to come and fetch you but you didn’t agree. You are also not willing to come during the day, so unless I give you all the details of the route, how will you find your way, Nantu Bhai? In fact, people often forget many familiar paths, make mistakes in finding their way through very well-known routes, that’s why I must provide you with all these details so that you may have no problem at all picking your way through familiar and wellknown territory. Just forget the story of Enam’s mother. You don’t have to listen to the lamentations of Sufia’s mother – you only need to follow your nose as soon as you pass that house. Why, is there a garden of sweet-scented flowers nearby, Baset? There’s nothing, Nantu Bhai, nothing at all. About twentyfive yards ahead of Enam’s house there are some bushes of bhat flowers, a few betel nut trees, thorny acacias, a small madar tree, and yes, an arjun tree as well – you’ll see everything. None of these gives out any scent, but I have smelt a heavenly aroma from exactly that area. Even when no wind is blowing, one’s nostrils fill with the scent. One cannot breathe. Once when I tried to keep the sharp scent at bay by pressing a handkerchief to my nose, my cousin – my maternal cousin Babul – cried out anxiously, “You too, Baset Bhai?”

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“Babul, please believe me, Babul – I do not have the capacity to absorb such intense, holy scent. I have heard that the virtuous have access to the various heavenly aromas in their mortal lives, but I have done nothing to be worthy of that.” A faint smile played upon Babul’s lips. That smile lit up the horizons, and, in that light, I could clearly see Babul bound with a rope fastened to the rear of a military jeep being dragged behind it. Nantu Bhai, Babul’s house was about a mile from that area. The same Farouq, Osman Ghani’s son, had informed the military that Babul had come back after receiving training in guerrilla warfare, and that very night they arrested him and, after binding his hands and feet, dragged him away, tied to the rear of the jeep. The sweet scent starts at the spot where Babul died. Nantu Bhai, if you get that scent you will then realize that the house of Majed’s younger brother Baset is not much farther on. Baset, why are you repeatedly calling yourself Majed’s brother? Not deliberately, Nantu Bhai, it’s just that I can’t stop even if I want to. But do you have to remind me so frequently? Please do not be offended, Bhai. I feel that you are getting excited. But although my brother has left this world, how can I deny that I am indeed his brother? And if I did not have a brother, how could you have become so close to us as his friend? Baset, please stop for a moment. You know, the doctor cannot find the trace of any illness in me. Yet, sometimes I have so much trouble breathing, I feel as though a heavy weight is pressing down upon my chest. Do open the windows, will you? All the windows are already open. Oh! But will you be able to survive breathing that scented air? The whole stretch of road touched by Babul’s body has become imbued with the scent of purity, every particle of dust has turned

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in the darkness of the night into the pollen of miraculous flowers. Nantu Bhai, I think you should consult the doctor once more before going to my house. Ask him, “Does my heart have the strength to survive such intense scent?” What! What did you say? You are startled again. No, no, I don’t mean to question whether you are qualified to gain exposure to that sweet scent. Ma used to say, “Not everyone can see everything, not everyone can hear everything. I have not seen her father – my grandfather – I have heard from Ma that he was a very virtuous person, that he used to converse with the angels deep in the night. You said yourself, “Pakistan had priority over friendship,” so why should you be blamed for anything? Nantu Bhai became impatient: How much farther is your house, Baset? Not much. But you must not blink even once. If you don’t, you will see opposite the arjun tree a garden full of the most wonderful flowering plants in the world, swaying and swinging in the air like the hanging gardens of Babylon, singing and strewing one another with petals. If you blink once even by mistake, you will find that the whole gardens has vanished before your eyes. Baset, I have never heard of such a garden! Are you speaking the truth? Will I really be able to see it? Baset remained silent. He could not reply readily. Why are you silent? The doctor has not been able to detect any illness in me, yet I cannot smell anything, cannot see anything clearly. But I do want to see. Please don’t keep quiet, say something, anything. Whose garden is it there? Malek’s and Khalek’s. Malek and Khalek! Who are they? The two sons of your school teacher. No one knew what they were up to, but Farouq managed to find out that the two brothers had gone to sleep, clutching sten-guns to their chests.

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The military poured petrol on the house and set fire to it. Nantu Bhai, are you listening? Nantu Bhai – I am Baset, Majed’s brother, Baset. Can you hear me? Nantu Bhai replied in a dry voice, Baset, lead me to the front of your house. Isn’t there anything at all that will help me to recognize it? But how can you reach unless you walk the whole length of the road? Take just a little trouble, keep your eyes wide open like me. Because I kept my eyes open, I was able to see the oily and fatty secretions from the scorched remains of Malek’s and Khalek’s bodies slowly blending with the soil of their deserted homestead. And I saw with great wonder that wherever these substances were blending with the soil, flowering plants were springing up, flower petals were strewn over each and every spot they touched. O Nantu Bhai, it’s more wonderful than all the fairy tales. The beauty of that garden defies all imagination. Nantu Bhai rose from his seat and stepped forward. Baset was sitting only a few feet in front of him, but Nantu Bhai began to grope around and run his hands over the chairs and walls in the room like a person bereft of all sanity. Baset, Baset, O Baset, my brother, I want to see that garden, I want to breathe the scented air on that road. Once, just once, give me the chance to do that. Please believe me, I shall carry with me all that is holy, I shall do whatever you ask me. I want to go there once, just once – Baset laughed and asked, What are you looking for like that, Nantu Bhai? You. Where are you? I am sitting right in front of you. Why can’t I find you? But I can see you all right. You can see me clearly in this darkness?

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Why not? I can see your face has turned pale with fear. The hair on your body is standing up in fright. You are trembling violently, swallowing again and again with a dry throat. I can even see the rise and fall of your chest. And what else – what else can you see? The sal tree in front of my house. Suddenly Nantu Bhai’s restlessness ceased. He sat down abruptly on the chair nearest to him and said in a faint voice, Please call someone, Bhai. Who shall I call? My wife, son, daughter, a domestic help – anyone. Baset called loudly, Is anyone around? No reply came. He rose from his seat and, stepping towards the interior of the house, called in a louder voice, Is anyone there? There’s something wrong with Nantu Bhai, I think. Baset listened carefully for a reply, but none came. Only a short while ago, just before the lights went out, he had heard cars driving along the road, rickshaws passing with their bells jingling, someone at the paan shop singing a Lalon song with rapt attention, loud Western music playing through the amplifier at a distance, but nothing at all could be heard now. Even the soft rustling sound made by the door and window curtains fluttering in the wind had ceased. Baset looked at Nantu Bhai and saw him sitting silently with his head clutched in both his hands. Nantu Bhai! Yes, I’m listening. Will you be able to recognize a sal tree when you see it? I think I will. No reason why you shouldn’t. It’s a huge tree, with large leaves, raising its head towards the sky arrogantly. If you go near it and listen carefully, you will hear Atahar calling you. Which Atahar?

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The most ferocious fighter in the Liberation Army. Don’t you remember, the eldest son of Aftab Mia who used to sell milk? You too have drunk Aftab Mia’s milk. That man with a darkish complexion, with a face bearing marks left by smallpox, completely bald, don’t you remember? Yes, I remember now. You had given the order directly from the town that Atahar must be buried alive. Remember that? The sal tree stands at the very spot where Atahar was buried. Baset, hasn’t anyone come? I called them, you heard me. Call again – louder. I called them so loudly that this entire locality – why, the entire nation – could have heard and responded. Pressing hard on the arms of his chair, Nantu Bhai stood up and shouted: “Is anyone there?” He again sat down, exhausted, then gasped, “No one answered!” Nantu Bhai, I need to go home now. Nantu Bhai screamed in fear: Don’t leave me alone! I have got to go back. Now listen – as you stand at the foot of the sal tree and look straight to the left, you will notice a house with a corrugated tin roof. That’s our house. Even then, if you want to, ask anyone about the house in front of which the fighting took place. Anyone can show you. Did the fighting actually take place in front of your house? Baset replied with a slight smile: You tell me. Is there any place in our country where there was no fighting? Do try to remember! Translated from “Ei Kon Thikana” by Sagar Chaudhury

MANOSH CHOWDHURY is a Professor of Social Anthropology at Jahangirnagar University, Bangladesh. He also has experience teaching in programmes of literature, architecture, photojournalism, and media studies. He writes across genres, mostly in Bangla. He has served on the editorial panel of an art quarterly and has been a Visiting Professor at Hiroshima University. His books of short stories include Kaakgriho (2008), Moynatodontoheen Ekta Mrityu (2010, republished in Kolkata 2014), Aainate Nijer Mukhta (2010), Panshala Kingba Prem Theke Polayon (2014), Jolpori Aar Jolatongko (2020), Manosh Chowdhury’r Nikristo Golpo (2020). He has also published a few scholarly books.

Manosh Chowdhury

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I lie under the blanket. Yet I feel it is the blanket that lies over me and presses me beneath its crushing weight. This heavy, oppressive material causes me to wake up in the middle of the night whenever I am under it. I feel suffocated. It is very difficult to accept it just as a blanket. Despite all these years of living with it and despite all the explanations I’ve offered to myself, I have not been able to accept it as a blanket at all. The blanket was bought for fifty takas. Ali Bihari, along with his wife, came to our house one afternoon. There was a mat spread on the verandah. Baba asked them to sit on the mat and called Ma to come out. Perhaps to take a look at the blanket. Or perhaps Baba wanted Ma to bargain. I was sitting on the mat and looking at Ali Bihari, at his eyes, to be precise. His wife was preparing to say something upon seeing us – me and my sister. However, she didn’t say much. Just asked Baba, “Only these two?” Baba said loudly, “Yes, with your blessings.” Ali’s wife started to say a prayer in Bangla but couldn’t complete it as Ma came outside.

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The folded blanket was on the left of Ali’s wife, Sufiya. She had made Ali recline against the wall on her right. I was sitting on the mat, with my legs dangling outside the verandah. Baba stood facing Sufiya, leaving the front door free. My sister, who sat on the chair next to him, was also dangling her legs. Ali’s stick was beside her chair, leaning against the door frame. Ma came out and squatted down on the ground. Except for Sufiya and Ali, all of us had our eyes riveted on the blanket. Sufiya was looking keenly at Ma’s face. The keenness of her look made her small eyes look even smaller. Ali was not looking at anything at all – he seemed eager to hear what Ma had to say. He was sitting up straight then. Ma unfolded the blanket a little and tested it with the back of her hand. Then she asked Sufiya, “Do we have to pay fifty? Can’t we pay a little less?” Apparently, there had already been some agreement between Baba and Ali on the price, and Sufiya did not reply. Ma stood up and told Baba, “Unfold the blanket and check it properly.” Ali relaxed against the wall again. Ma went inside. I knew Ma was cooking semolina for them. Though the blanket was bought for me, I had no say in the purchase. For the entire span of the negotiation, I looked at it from the corners of my eyes, sitting where I was on the mat. After Ma stood up and I understood that there was no chance of the blanket not being bought, I exhaled a deep breath and looked at my sister. She was the only uninvolved spectator of the incident. She did not even notice my frustration. Just half an hour before, I had been wishing that Ali Bihari would not come. Then again, I had thought that may be the blanket would be a nice one. I was the one who first saw Sufiya enter our place holding the blanket to her chest with one hand. Since then, I could not sit relaxed on the mat.

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I guess I don’t have to explain that I didn’t like the blanket at all. When the dhunkar, the quiltmaker, had come to our house last time, a quilt had not been made for me. That was some years ago. My sister was too young then, and there was no need for a separate blanket for her. I had something of a blanket back then. My parents’ quilt had lost it fluffiness, so the dhunkar had been summoned. He sat on a hogla reed mat in the courtyard with a grave face and started undoing the stitches of the old lep. He kept his sponge sandals beside him. The worn sandals exposed the ugly blue of the sole at the heels and at the depressions caused by the big toes. The heels were worn the most. The right one was torn in places, and I wondered whether his heels touched the ground there. The strap of the left sandal had perhaps snapped in the middle and been joined by a wire. I too was wearing sponge sandals and was sitting close to him. I had on a sleeveless Sando singlet. I would look at him unpicking the stitches and at his sandals by turns. The dhunkar also glanced at me from time to time while doing his work. After he had unpicked the stitching of the quilt, he started undoing the pillows. There were four pillows. Baba or Ma could not sleep without two pillows each. I cannot remember where Ma was then. But as soon as the dhunkar started undoing the pillows, she came from nowhere and said, “Go in. You will start sneezing now!” I did not intend to go in, but had to obey Ma. And then I would come out again and again on some pretext or another and watch the man at work. He stayed almost till the evening. He plucked at the cotton with his long, stringed instrument so that it became fluffy. Then he stuffed the pillows with the cotton and sewed the edges. Then I saw Ma give him a new quilt cover made of red cotton. The dhunkar stuffed the fluffy cotton into the red cover and produced a new quilt. It took him a very long time to stitch the quilt. All this happened very long ago.

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Whether I liked it or not, my sister had her cozy place to sleep, snuggled up in that quilt with my parents. I had my quilt all to myself. It was a small one, but a quilt nonetheless! It was made of printed cloth and had a markin, unbleached cotton, cover. It was well stuffed with cotton. It had been made for me when I was much smaller. I had the habit of wrapping myself from head to toe with it. It became a daily routine for me to cover myself like that and for Baba to come and uncover my face and nose. Baba would do this for fear that I would suffocate. Soon, however, my feet began to poke out from under the quilt. If I tried to cover my head, the feet would poke out. Gone were the days of wrapping myself up in the quilt. My parents should have been happy that I was unable to wrap myself completely with the quilt. Quite the contrary. The fact that I needed a new quilt became their headache that whole winter. Seeing them so worried, I tried to console them now and then, pretending to be a wise member of the family. Not that they were consoled, but neither could they afford to call in a dhunkar right then. It was not that the dhunkar was the only factor. Some extra cotton would be needed as well if my quilt were to be made large enough to cover my feet. I could comprehend the problem right then as much as my parents could. Besides, the case and cover would have to be changed too. Some days I would hear Baba saying, “I heard that karpash cotton is 80 takas per seer.” Baba had no liking for shimul cotton. Just once, when we were crossing the abandoned field at the end of our locality while going to the market, with me holding Baba’s hands, he showed me the riotous shimul blossoms and said, “See, what beautiful flowers!” “Baba, that is a shimul tree I know. Doesn’t it produce cotton?” “Yes. There will be fruits after these flowers. When the fruits ripen, cotton will be produced. Cotton will fly about in the air from the cracked fruits.” “Cracked fruits will produce cotton?” I asked in surprise.

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“You thought that cotton itself is a flower, right?” Baba understood what I had been thinking. “Then how do people catch the cotton? How do people sell it?” There was a curiously funny expression on Baba’s betel leafstained mouth. I have heard that, since my birth – except for when I was yet to learn to talk – he had to respond to my queries of this sort. “Only a little portion of the cotton flies; the rest is collected from the trees. When the cotton flies, it looks beautiful. You will see.” He would explain while guiding me through the lanes. Eagerly awaiting the season when cotton would fly, I would continue walking, holding his hand. All that belongs to a time long past. One day Baba came home with a possible solution and discussed it with Ma. “The blankets that come as relief goods are quite thick. And warm too. What do you say?” “Where will we get such blankets?” “First tell me what you think.” “That would be good. But who will give us one?” Ma wanted to reach a solution quickly. “If it had been after the trouble, I could have asked for relief. Nobody would give me anything now.” Baba was remarkable for his humour at such times. Ma too. “Go and stand in line.” “Then what do you say? Shall I try to get one?” “That is what I said.” “I will talk with Ali. He gets one blanket every two or three seasons. Let’s see if he can spare one.” Baba said these words in a tone that sounded very uncertain. But if one knew him well, one would understand that on this

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occasion Baba was quite certain about it. Ali was the peon at his school. The blanket was the colour of a bear. Its uneven bristles were like coconut coir. It was clear on touching it that it would be impossible to use without a cover. We had no objection to using covers either. So, a new markin cover appeared. But the bristles would prick even through the cover. If someone stretched the blanket against the wall, it would easily pass off as hardboard. It was hardly recognizable as a blanket. It seemed to have no consideration for the skin of the person who would take shelter under it. Rather, it would bend as much as a sodden hardboard would and would remain on you. If you heaved it over yourself, you were sure to feel that you were lying under a piece of randomly sliced wood. Both air and cold could pass through it unrestrictedly. I came to understand all of this after using the blanket. I must confess not having felt any great affinity with it when I first used it. Yet, it had been acquired for me. I had to carry that piece of sliced wood to Dhaka along with another innocuous blanket. There was no other option. As a university student in dire straits, there was no alternative to that blanket. It was an appendage and yet it was a necessary commodity. Year after year passed. The blanket remained with me as my destiny. It was my reality, my haqeeqat. Even when I took up a job, Ali’s blanket continued as my companion. I knew I had to buy a soft comfortable blanket to rid myself of that one. Five years passed before I could find the opportunity to pamper myself with a new one. Then one day a pair of colourful blankets were bought from the footpath shops at Gulistan. At last I summoned Jamal’s mother and gave the thing away. She was very happy to receive it. I was also happy about this arrangement with the blanket. Indeed, it is a blessing that there are people like Jamal’s mother in our lives who can help us out to dispose of our waste. After much hesitation, I wrote

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everything in a letter to my mother that night. I was sure Ma would not be happy, but what really mattered to me was that I had been able to rid myself of Ali’s blanket. One fine day, I went to the Mohammadpur Bihari camp to have chicken tikka kebabs with Sarita. The joint there was my favourite. The ambience was no different that day with Mehdi Hassan’s mellifluous voice wafting through the air from a speaker connected to the cassette player: “Mujhe tum nazar se gira toh rahe ho, mujhe tum kabhi bhi bhula na sakoge. Yes, you have stopped seeing me, but you will never forget me....” Rashid came and spoke to me in a dry tone. “You have come at a good time, Bhai. What will you have? Chicken again?” “Yes. But what has happened to you?” “They have killed Muntaqim Bhai.” I instantly looked at the opposite shop. “Bismillah Kebab” was still written on the signboard. Muntaqim’s brother was carefully marinating meat. A bright two-hundred-watt bulb shone on his impassive face. “Who killed him?” “The mastans.” “When?” I stormed him with questions. “On the fourth. We called a strike for one week. Today we have opened.” “Any results?” “They came again during the strike. They beat up some of us. Then they forced us to open the shops. We had to fry chicken for them.” Two young men with eyes narrowed were listening to Rashid. Sarita and I were dumbfounded. Rashid did not ask what we would eat a second time; he was staring at the ground. Very slowly he said, “It is impossible for us to live here anymore.”

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Oh yes, it is impossible to live here anymore. But where does one go? We don’t want to keep them, and Pakistan will not take them back. Life in the Bihari camp has become so familiar to me that I don’t even notice anything these days. Just last month Rashid informed me of the rape of two girls. Sarita and I did not eat there after that. We came home with takeouts. The dead Ali Bihari returned to me in my thoughts. This time without the blanket. I had never asked why Ali Bihari was blind. He was very tall and thin and his stick used to be carried by Sufiya who was half his height and who would walk in front of him. That was how we had seen Ali Bihari since our childhood. Obviously, blind Ali was no longer the peon at the school. That was an identity he carried from his past. Then what did he and Sufiya live on? They used to live in the municipality colony. But that colony had been destroyed long ago. Then where did they live? And Ali had become blind after liberation. He did not have eyeballs in his empty sockets. They had been gouged out.... Well, had Ali ever wanted to go to Pakistan? But why would he? He had not come from Pakistan in the first place! Baba said that Ali had died long back. Sufiya must have been receiving the blankets they doled out for relief. But where was she now? I fall asleep while thinking of Ali. My sleep is disturbed in the middle of the night and I feel stifled. I sweat and perspire. I have this inherent desire to remove the heavy blanket off me. But it is a soft and sophisticated one that covers me now! Every night I sleep under a soft blanket. But I start suddenly in the middle of the night only to feel I am buried under a plank. Then I drink water and, leaving the red blanket, I take the blue one. After those two blankets from Gulistan, I had even owned a deep red satin one. Ruma had left that one for me before she went

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abroad. Then I got yet another of a deep blue colour. Ma had made a new quilt for me and sent it. Now I have five soft, comfy blankets. Adrita took me to the market once to buy me a sixth. But the blankets and quilt have not helped. None of them could free me from the oppression of Ali Bihari’s blanket. The whole winter I dream of summer. After summer, in early winter, when I open my collection of blankets, tall and lofty Ali becomes my regular mate. His eyes without the balls penetrate through me. And I think of having a seventh blanket next winter. Sometimes I think, may be Jamal’s mother can rescue me. Perhaps I should take back Ali’s blanket from her. If I keep Ali’s remnants here, I might not feel suffocated. I don’t know. I just think such things. However, I must give Jamal’s mother a soft blanket if I want to take mine back and I am ready to do that too. But I do not know the whereabouts of Jamal’s mother. Translated from “Ali Biharir Kambal” by Sabiha Huq

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KHADEMUL ISLAM is a writer, translator and editor. His short stories have been included in anthologies, and he has published two books of English translations of Bangla short fiction and poems. He is a frequent contributor to national and regional publications. From 2011-2019 he was the director of Bengal Lights Books publications and the editor of the literary journal Bengal Lights. He is currently working on a non-fiction book to be published by Bloomsbury, UK, and is a member of the judging panel for the 2021 Commonwealth Short Story Prize Award.

Khademul Islam

LUN C H “Lunch,” called out the umpire as he delicately tipped one bail from the top of the stumps to the ground. The batsmen walked off the field with the two umpires and the fielding team following them. Farid slowly brought up the rear of the team. He had dropped a catch. Posted on the leg side boundary, he had been distracted by the paramilitary lorry going by on the main road, its top half visible above the boundary wall encircling the field. Farid saw the faces beneath the green peaked caps sitting inside looking curiously at the cricketers. Some among the hardened faces had looked fresh from the villages, too young to be in battles and gunfights. When the ball had come toward him, falling from a long way above, he had still been thinking of them, and had pushed off late. Amid shouts of “catch it, catch it,” the ball had grazed his fingers before hitting the ground. As Farid picked it up, he had glanced again at the road. The lorry was gone. November 1973.

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Dhaka University’s inter-departmental cricket tournament was in its mid-season. Today’s scheduled match between Farid’s department and Geography had been cancelled. A student of Geography had accidentally drowned while on a class river trip. Farid’s team had arrived at the university sports ground to learn that there would be no cricket. They had milled around for a while, unsure of what to do, disappointed. Then the captain of Farid’s team had spotted Momin, vice-captain of Economics department, among the early spectators and had proposed an impromptu match. Momin had immediately taken up on the idea, assembling a team from the already sizeable crowd that had turned up for the match. The assistant sports director, a trim man with a small moustache, had obligingly agreed to the use of the field. As luck would have it for him, History’s pace bowler Shaheen had been there too, and Momin had gleefully inducted him. Shaheen, snapped up by Wari club for the league matches, had been fearsome in the departmental matches so far. “All right, boys, see you all in whites in half an hour,” Momin had barked at his makeshift team, clapping his hard hands. It was a perfect day for cricket, bright and cool. When they had first arrived at the cricket ground, a lingering fog had blurred the sun poised above the row of coconut palms at the far edge of the field. By the time play started, the mist had mostly been burnt off. A number of students from Farid’s department had turned up in anticipation of the match, and were seated at the front of the left pavilion. Farid loved best the pre-match warm-up, the running and the jogging, the practice catches, the raillery and back-and-forth, the rummaging through the black tin trunk of village newly-weds with its load of cricket bats, gloves, guards and pads. “If I win the toss, I’m going to take fielding. The air’s still damp, Shaheen will swing the ball,” Farid’s captain had informed his team before walking out for the coin toss. One of the two

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umpires hastily drafted for the job had tossed the coin in the air and the call had been made. As the teams had looked on from the gallery, Farid’s captain had turned toward his teammates and flashed them the V sign. Toss won! Fielding! She had not been there initially among the cluster of classmates. A sandal strap had torn, Sultana had informed him when he had asked, so she had gone back home to change sandals. The stands had filled up rapidly as the 8:20 and 9:20 classes ended and disgorged their inmates, who had made a beeline for the cricket field. He had spotted her later when he was fielding, seated amidst her friends, a candle flame in her yellow sari with the thin green stripes. In the gallery away from the pitch, the crowd’s chatter was loud. On the topmost row of the stands a beggar was taking a nap, stretched out on the concrete. Paan-cigarette-wallahs, peanut vendors and jhal muri sellers stationed at the boundary line were doing a brisk business. Street children ran among them, savouring the excitement. Farid climbed the several steps up to her. A mass of curly hair, sharp cheekbones, eyes that danced all over the place and a loose “Santiniketan” style of wearing a sari that she copied from her elder cousin studying music over there. The two Bengals knotted in intimate ways impossible to untie! She looked at him and smiled. “You could have walked around barefoot,” Farid said, sitting beside her. “Yes, I could have.” “Did you see me miss the catch?” “Yes.” Then she laughed. “Well, we all saw you looking the other way.” Sultana sitting beside her laughed too. “That damn truck had to come by just then.” He looked at two of his classmates unloading brown paper bags and a crate of Coca-Cola bottles from a rickshaw. Burgers from the corner shop at Shahbagh for lunch.

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“What do you think of this?” she asked, extending a foot encased in a green-and-gold sandal. “Very nice.” “Bought them last week.” A dazzling light lay upon the deserted pitch, and a light breeze tickled the ragged fringes of the palm leaves. Over the boundary wall the noontime traffic was slow, with the occasional car or bus curling around the roundabout. “Farid,” called out his captain, ballpoint and paper in his hands. “I’m putting you down at number four in the batting order.” “Okay.” He glanced again at the paper bags. Burgers meant lentil patties inside small, crusty buns, the whole thing so dry that only generous swigs of the warm Coke enabled one to swallow them. “I don’t feel like eating a burger,” he said. “We can go over to Tuli’s,” she said. “There’s always food at her place.” Tuli was her aunt, her father’s sister. “All the way to Magh Bazar?” “I’ve got the car. We’ll be back before they start play again,” she said, her eyes dancing and shimmering. Beauty, he felt, was the most mysterious thing in the universe. It had no reason to be, yet there it was, incandescent, casually erupting out of nowhere, and equally casually dying in a squalid lane somewhere. “Come on, let’s go.” She stood up, impatient now. A house amid the narrow, winding lanes of Magh Bazar. Where, just two weeks back, in the front veranda enclosed by green wooden latticework, with dusk falling among the entwined madhabilata, she had grasped him by the upper arms and kissed him. Eyes closed, her lips parted. Rickshaw bells had tinkled in the street outside the front yard as he had felt her shapely body go liquid, acquire a lush, humid weight to it. And when she had opened her eyes, there had been a strange, heavy-lidded light in them.

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They went down the steps and walked up to his captain. “We’re going to go have lunch somewhere else,” Farid said. “Why? We got lunch for everybody,” the captain replied, looking at her. “That’s not it,” she said, dimpling at him. “We just want to have lunch somewhere else.” “Oh, okay. But we start at 2:00 sharp. Don’t be late.” “We’ll be here.” The paramilitary seemingly had come out of nowhere. The troubles had accelerated: Shootings, assassinations of MPs, reports of widespread smuggling and fortunes being made. Massive political rallies, processions and demos in the streets. The extremists, the state said, had declared war in the countryside. Then had appeared the armed paramilitary, trailing in its wake stories of midnight knocks and arrests, of hunting down political dissidents. At the university, the rowdy members of the dominant party student wing sprawled on chairs, shouting and merry-making. As monsoon rains whipped at classroom windows, demos and counter- demos raged in the corridors, shutting down lectures. While the lorries wheeled through the streets surrounding the campus. At that watchful, steady speed. They got out of the car at the small wooden gate. The driver drove off to park in the side alley. She pushed open the gate, and they stepped inside into a large front yard. “Let’s go by the side door,” she said, stepping on to the red-bricked path lined with pink-and-white periwinkles winking undying in the sunlight. At the side of the house, she thumped with an open palm on the old, green, double-paneled door secured from the inside by a cross-bar, shouting for the servant boy, “Kalam, Kalam.” Footsteps sounded inside and the door opened. Kalam was a sturdy, cheerful-looking teenager.

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“Ki ray,” she said cheerily to him as they stepped inside the guest room, “is Tuli home?” “No, she’s gone to the bank.” The house was actually her father’s, who had given it to his only sister. In June 1971 the aunt’s husband had been picked up from this house by the Pakistan army and had never returned. “Can you give us a quick lunch?” “I just have to do the rice. There’s plenty of chicken from last night.” “Quick then. We have to be back.” Amid a volley of her rapid-fire instructions, they disappeared through the other door leading inside. A plainly furnished room with cracks on the red cement floor like a miniature Meghna emptying into the sea. A rough bed with a thin mattress. An old wooden clothes rack. A worn jute mat on the floor in the corner with a much-used harmonium and some songbooks on it. Farid took off his shoes and walked over to the bed, the floor cool under his bare feet. It was through the side door that the army had entered, across that front yard that the army had taken her aunt’s husband. He stretched out, sighing, on the fresh, coarse-weave bed sheet and looked up at the small square of blue framed by the window high on the wall. Fielding was a hard thing to do, with its alternating pulses of alertness and relaxation, watching the ball and the swing of the bat, the sudden hot sprint, the odd tumble on the uneven ground, the fear of dropping a vital catch or letting the ball through your hands. The war had ended, but men were still dying and disappearing, no promise was ever true, certainly no promise of human freedom... She came back into the room and tossed off her sandals. “The rice will be done in no time at all.” “All right.” She came over and lay down beside him. “Have you locked the door?” he asked.

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“No, you do it.” “But it’s on your side of the bed.” “So. . . .” He pulled her to him, nuzzling his nose deep into the curly mass of her hair. She made a soft, yielding sound, then pushed him away, rose in a shower of loose yellow, went to the door and locked it. She came back, sat by the side of the bed, looked down at him. Small sweet damp patches had formed on the thin cotton of her underarms. She leaned forward and kissed him on the lips. They came back, driving through empty noontime roads, just in time. The umpires were walking out on the field. Sultana gave them a knowing glance as they seated themselves among their classmates. Though she had taken care to smooth out the creases in her sari after the kissing and tussling, there was no erasing an indolent, blinking vulnerability in her eyes, a heightened colour in her face. The two batsmen walked out onto the ground to much clapping, whistles and catcalls from the crowd. Farid’s captain was the opening bat. Shaheen waited at the top of his mark, tossing the shiny red ball from hand to hand. The captain cast a look around at the field – the keeper and three slips standing way back, a packed offside field – and then settled into his stance, tapping his bat on the ground. As the umpire dropped his upraised arm, Shaheen began his run with jerky strides that belied the speed with which he could bowl. The rolled-up sleeve of his shirt flapped loose as his arm whipped down to release the ball. The first delivery was a snorter, pitched just short of a length and seaming past the outstretched bat through to the keeper. The slips jumped up and raised their hands, but did not appeal. “Ooooooh!!!!…” rose the accompanying cry from the crowd. Shaheen at the end of his follow-through made a show of

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glaring at the batsman before turning to walk back to the top of his mark. There was a slight swagger to the way he began to roll up his shirtsleeve again. Farid took out the single stick of cigarette he had bought from the vendor, lighting it with matches borrowed from Javed sitting in front of him. He took a deep drag. The system beat you in the end. No matter what you did, there was no escaping it. The Man got you in the end. Any day you could vanish and never come back. He blew out the cigarette smoke and watched it whirl away in the bright air. 118 runs to win. Zero on the scoreboard. Farid leaned back against the steps and studiously focused on the figures arrayed on the cricket field. The match had resumed. In right earnest.

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HUMAYUN AHMED (1948 – 2012), novelist, dramatist, screenwriter, filmmaker, songwriter, and academic, taught for several years at the University of Dhaka while also writing. He wrote in several genres: novels, short stories, television plays, movie scripts, songs. His debut novel, Nandita Narake (1972), was written while he was still a university student. He was remarkable in creating characters who have a life outside the writing, among them Himu and Misir Ali. His television plays and serials were very popular. Ahmed was the most popular writer during his lifetime. In recognition of his contribution to literature, Ahmed received the Bangla Academy Literary Award (1981) and the Ekushey Padak (1994). In his memory, EXIM Bank and Anyadin, an entertainment magazine, have initiated the Humayun Ahmed Sahitya Puroshkar, which is conferred on two writers every year.

Humayun Ahmed

JALIL

SAHEB’S

PETITION

He said to me smilingly, “I am the father of two shaheed muktijoddha. Both my sons were killed in seventy-one.” I looked at him in surprise. The man looked quite honest. He must have been about sixty, but he seemed fairly able for his age. His eyes were pretty keen. He wasn’t wearing any spectacles, which meant he could see quite well. I asked, “What do you want with me?” The man kept sitting as he was. He said in a calm voice, “I found one body. I buried him in the Malibagh Graveyard. My younger daughter lives in Malibagh.” “Is that so?” “Yes, Malibagh Chowdhurypara.” “Why have you come to me?” “Just to chat. You are new in this area. Just to find out if everything’s all right. You are my neighbour.”

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The gentleman kept sitting cheerfully. I thought to myself that perhaps he wasn’t really as cheerful as he looked. Perhaps it was just the cut of his face. The man said calmly, “I live in the next lane.” “Is that so?” “Yes. 13/2. There’s a coconut palm in front of the house. You must have seen it?” I hadn’t seen it. Still, I nodded. The man’s nature had become quite clear now. Most probably he was retired and had nothing to do. His one problem now was how to pass the time. Which is why on holidays he had to go around looking for neighbours. “My name is Abdul Jalil.” I tried to tell him who I was, but the gentleman wouldn’t let me. In a loud voice he said, “Yes, yes. I know who you are.” “Would you like some tea? Shall I ask for some?” “No, thanks. I don’t drink tea. I neither smoke nor drink tea. I have one bad habit. I chew pan.” “I’m sorry I can’t give you any pan. No one takes pan here.” “I always carry my own pan,” the gentleman said, reaching into his shoulder bag for his pan container. It was quite a fancy container. Like a tiffin carrier, it had three or four separate units. I hid my sigh. The gentleman had planned a long visit. Perhaps he intended to spend the whole morning here. He would bring up the story of his two sons. Many people like to tell sad tales. The man bowed slightly and said, “Professor Saheb, would you like a pan?” “No thanks.” “Pan is good for health. It cools the bile. Pan eaters do not suffer from bilious problems.” “Is that so?” “Yes. Pan juice and honey is the best medicine for bilious problems.”

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I glanced at my watch. Half past ten. There were no university classes today. It would have been good if there had been classes. I could have said, “I am sorry, but I have class at 11. Come another day when you have time.” On a holiday one couldn’t make those excuses. The gentleman opened his pan container and took out several ingredients. He smelled each and every one of the items. He prepared pan for himself with extreme care. A person who prepared pan with such extreme delicacy had plenty of time to waste. It was quite evident that he had no intention of leaving before noon. But, surprisingly, the gentleman got up immediately after he had tucked the pan into his mouth. He smiled and said, “Goodbye. I have wasted a lot of your time.” I hid my astonishment and said as sincerely as I could, “Please stay. What is the hurry?” He did not sit down. I reached him to the stairs. As I returned, I saw the landlord standing on the verandah with a frown on his face. He said gravely, “So he has managed to catch hold of the Professor now. Have you signed his paper?” “Signed what?” “You haven’t signed Jalil Saheb’s petition?” “What petition?” “I don’t have to tell you. You will soon find out for yourself. He’ll make your life miserable. Don’t encourage him.” I returned to my flat, slightly perturbed. There are a lot of problems when one moves into a new locality. One has to get to know new faces. Many of these new acquaintances are not very happy ones. But there was no need to be frightened of Jalil Saheb. After that first meeting I met him twice more. He seemed quite simple and ordinary. Once, I met him in front of Green Pharmacy.

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He came forward smilingly, “Professor Saheb, how are you?” ‘‘I’m fine, thank you. I hope you are well. What happened? You didn’t come back.” “I didn’t find time. I’m very busy. With the petition.” I didn’t prolong the conversation. Giving classes as an excuse, I boarded a rickshaw. The second meeting was in front of a New Market newsstand. He was sitting, head down, speedreading one newspaper after another. The hawker was glancing at him angrily. “Hello, Jalil Saheb. What are you reading so carefully?” Jalil Saheb looked at me. It seemed as if he had not quite recognized me. He was wearing glasses. “You’ve taken glasses, I see.” “Yes, every evening I was getting a headache. Plus power. I hope you are well, Professor?” “Yes, thank you.” “I’ll visit you one of these days. I will show you my petition. I have managed to get fourteen thousand three hundred signatures.” “What petition is this?” “You’ll understand when you read it. You are an intelligent man. You will not take long to understand.” I thought it must be a petition to the government asking for some financial help. But I couldn’t quite understand why he needed fourteen thousand signatures for this purpose. I didn’t want to show any interest on my own. There was no dearth of mentally ill people on earth. If collecting signatures was his obsession, why should it matter to me? But it did matter to me. One evening Jalil Saheb landed up at my place with his file of fourteen thousand three hundred signatures. He said cheerfully, “Read it carefully, Professor Saheb.”

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I read it. The subject of the petition was that in the last World War ten lakh Jews had been killed. Each perpetrator of that crime had been tried. Who had let off the murderers who had killed thirty lakh people in this country? Why wasn’t anyone talking about this crime? Jalil Saheb in his lengthy petition had approached the government to do something in this connection. I glanced at the gentleman. He continued calmly, “I am not doing this because two of my sons have been killed. My sons were killed fighting. I am not asking for justice to be done in their deaths. I am asking for justice for those who were killed in their own houses. Do you understand what I am saying?” “Yes, I do.” “I knew you would. You are an intelligent man. A lot of people don’t understand. Do you know that a lot of people talk about forgiveness? They say, forget about all that. Forgive them. Is forgiveness that easy? Yes, is it so easy?” I said nothing. Jalil Saheb took out his pan container and started to prepare a pan. He said calmly, “Do you think that I will let things go so easily? No, I will not. My two sons fought. I too will fight. I will fight till I die. If necessary, I will collect the signatures of each and every Bangladeshi. Thirty lakh people were killed and no one uttered a sound? Are we human beings or no?” I opened the signature file and leafed through it. It was very well organized. Next to the signatures were the permanent as well as present addresses. The names and particulars of relatives who had died in the Liberation War were all neatly listed. “A lot of people think that I am mad. I went to a newspaper office. The editor didn’t even meet me. A young lad asked me, ‘Why are you bothering about old matters? Forget about it, brother.’ I am old enough to be his grandfather and the fellow calls me brother!”

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“What did you say to him?” “I said, ‘Don’t you want these people to be tried?’ The young man said nothing. He didn’t even have the guts to say, ‘No.’ And these very young men fought with such courage. Didn’t they?” “Yes, they did.” “Take the case of your landlord, for example. One of his brothers-in-law was abducted from his home and killed. And he refused to sign. Thirty lakh people were killed and there has been no justice done. Whenever I think of it, I get this shooting pain in my heart.” I waited uncomfortably. The gentleman tucked another pan into his mouth and said, “I have met a lot of government officials. They don’t even want to listen to what I have to say. One of them said to me, ‘Ask for an abandoned house. Two of your sons have been killed. You have a right to a house.’” “What did you say?” “What could I say? Was my petition for a house? What will I do with a house? Were my sons’ lives so cheap that a house will compensate for them? What audacity, just think! I want there to be a trial. I want justice to be done. Nothing else. A trial as in a civilized society. Do you understand?” “Yes, I understand.” “People like you are intelligent. It doesn’t take you long to understand. Others don’t want to understand. For just one signature I have to go thrice. Not that I mind. I am not one to give up easily.” The gentleman left after getting my signature. Then he didn’t come for several days. I became somewhat curious about his progress. Whenever I happened to meet him, I asked, “How far have you progressed?” “I am continuing, Professor Saheb. Pray that I may complete my work.” “People are signing, aren’t they?”

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“Not everyone. They are afraid.” “Of what?” “Is there really any reason why people are afraid? Those who are timid will always find something to fear. Understand? I am going ahead. I intend to succeed in bringing them to justice. What do you say, Professor Saheb?” “You’re right.” “I have divided up the districts. Now I will go to all the districts. It will be difficult but there’s no alternative. What do you say?” “It’s a good idea.” “Nor is it enough just to collect signatures. There must be enough evidence to conduct a case. We have to prove that they picked up innocent people and killed them, don’t we? They will give us good lawyers. Won’t they?” “Of course they will.” “Do you know any good lawyers?” “I will see what I can do.” “Of course you will. You aren’t blind. You understand the wrong that has been committed. Most people don’t. This is a country of fools.” I didn’t see Jalil Saheb for many days after that. Perhaps he was really going from one district to another, carrying heavy files under his arms. Perhaps the number of signatures had increased. From twelve thousand perhaps it had risen to fifteen thousand. From fifteen to twenty. Perhaps he had truly managed to get forty or fifty lakh signatures. The demand of fifty lakh people was something to be attended to. At the beginning of the monsoons I got the news that Jalil Saheb had fallen ill. He was suffering from asthma as well as rheumatic fever. The landlord said, “He’s a mad man. He has never looked after his health. He doesn’t have long to live.”

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“What are you saying?” “Yes. That’s what the doctor of Green Pharmacy said. I went to see him myself.” “Is he really bad?” “It is doubtful whether he will see the monsoons through.” “What are you saying?” “His condition is really bad.” He survived the monsoons. He started his rounds again with his files tucked under his arms. I couldn’t recognize him; he was so changed. He came forward himself, “How are you, Professor Saheb?” “What is the matter, brother? What have you done to yourself?” “I won’t live too long now.” “If you don’t, what is going to happen? You have taken up such a large project.” “That’s why I have survived so long.” “How many signatures have you collected so far?” “Fifteen thousand. I can’t collect more than three or four hundred a month. After all, I am growing old. But I’m not a person to give up that easily.” “Of course you aren’t. Why should you give up?” “I am going to see those scoundrels in the dock. The Jews could do it. Why can’t we? What do you say?” “You’re right.” “It’s not just one or two that they killed, but thirty lakh. The people of Bangladesh won’t give up easily. I’ll teach them a lesson.” I lived in that part of Azimpur for about two years. During that time I got to know Jalil Saheb quite well. Occasionally, I would go to visit him. The house was his own. He had rented out the first floor. The rent covered his household expenses. He had lost his wife. His eldest daughter-in-law stayed with him. She had

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two lovely daughters. They appeared to be twins. They were very lively little girls. I quite liked going to their place. The daughterin-law was a good hostess. The two girls were also quite knowledgeable about the petition. One of the girls said to me gravely, “When grandfather finishes his book, the people who killed my father will be tried.” This wasn’t something for a little girl to understand. Jalil Saheb must have explained it to them very well. After leaving the locality, I occasionally returned for a visit. Then my visits gradually grew fewer. Then I went abroad for a considerable period of time. Before leaving, I paid him a visit. I learned that he had gone to Faridpur to collect signatures. No one knew when he was to return. The daughter-in-law was quite upset. And she had every right to be so. After all, if the only man of the house doesn’t look after things, it is difficult to manage household matters. When one is abroad one has a different feeling for one’s land. Perhaps that was why I kept thinking about Jalil Saheb. I thought that he was right. Those who had killed thirty lakh people shouldn’t be allowed to get away so easily. Jalil Saheb was doing the right thing. This wasn’t the middle ages. In today’s world such a crime could not be ignored. On weekends Bengalis would gather at my place, undergraduates along with Afsaruddin, Professor of Mathematics at Moorhead State University. They all agreed that Jalil Saheb should be assisted in his project. If necessary, the case would be brought by the people of Bangladesh to the International Tribunal. Articles would be written in the foreign press to elicit opinions of the international community. One evening we met at the city of Fargo and set up the Committee for Abdul Jail’s Movement. I was its convener. Professor Afsaruddin was its president. It’s always pleasant to think about one’s homeland when one is abroad. One also wishes to do something for one’s land.

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I returned to my own country after six years. Even though Dhaka had changed considerably, the condition of Jalil Saheb’s house had not. The same patchy plaster. The same coconut palms. As soon as I knocked, a very pretty young girl of around fifteen opened the door. She looked at me in some surprise. “Are you Jalil Saheb’s granddaughter?” “Yes.” “Is he at home?” “No. Dadu died two years ago.” “Oh. I was your grandfather’s friend.” “Come inside. Do sit down.” I sat for a little while. I wanted to talk to her mother. But the lady was not at home. They had no idea of when she would be back. As I got up to leave, I asked, “Do you have the file in which your grandfather collected signatures?” “Yes, we do. Why?” “The work your grandfather started must be completed. Mustn’t it?” The girl seemed somewhat surprised. I said smilingly, “I’ll come back another day.” “Please do.” The girl came up to the gate to see me off She said in a soft voice, “Dadu used to say that one day someone would come to take the file.” I never went back. I lost interest. There were many problems in the country. Bombs went off in all sorts of places. One had to keep quiet. In the midst of this I had no wish to resurrect old matters again. I am not Jalil Saheb. I have to think about the future. I have to meet all sorts of persons in connection with an abandoned house I’m thinking of buying. Where do I have time to wander

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around with Jalil Saheb’s file, collecting thirty-two thousand signatures? Perhaps Jalil Saheb’s granddaughter is still waiting for me to return. She carefully dusts Dadu’s file and keeps it back carefully. Girls of this age believe what people tell them. Translated from “Jalil Saheber Petition” by Niaz Zaman

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URMI RAHMAN is a journalist and author with a Master’s degree from Chittagong University, Bangladesh. She was awarded a UNESCO Fellowship to Michigan State University, USA and to Press Foundation of Asia, Manila, Philippines. After working with a number of newspapers and journals in Bangladesh, Urmi joined the Bengali Section of BBC World Service in London as a Producer-Broadcaster in 1985. Urmi has a number of publications to her credit, both fiction and non-fiction, which include, among others, Atmakothone Somoy O Srijonkatha, Edeshe-Bideshe, Bilete Bangali – Sangram O Safolyer Kahini, Brick Lane – Bileter Bangalitola, ‘B’ Is For Bangladesh, Culture-Smart Bangladesh, several collections of short stories as well as her debut novel, Dui Nadir Galpa. At present she resides in Kolkata with her Indian husband.

Urmi Rahman

W O M A N

There were still a few minutes to go before the meeting was due to start. Akram had another assignment before it, but his work there had finished early and so he was here a little before he had planned to be. The hall was still quite empty. The organizers were moving busily around. Leena noticed him and stepped forward. “So you’ve come, Akram Bhai?” “Did you think I wouldn’t?” “Well, the likes of you rarely come to women’s functions! Are you here today because the minister is going to be present?” Leena spoke the words looking straight at him. “Don’t be cheeky. Sit down.” Leena sat on a chair next to him. Their organization, in their own words, worked for the cause of deprived women. Today was their Foundation Day anniversary. “Do you know, Akram Bhai, Rokeya Ahmed is coming.” “Rokeya Ahmed?”

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“Don’t you know about her? She is the one who received the Bangla Academy Award last year. She teaches Social Science at an American university. A highly qualified woman. “She has also written several books on society and culture. She is here on holiday now. We had great trouble trying to persuade her to come here today.” “Why? Is the lady of a nervous disposition?” “Don’t be silly, Akram Bhai. Why should she be nervous? She just doesn’t normally attend any functions.” “Is that so?” “Yes. We are all eagerly waiting to hear her speak.” Akram noticed that a few other journalists had also turned up, as had a TV camera with its crew. There were one or two familiar faces in the crowd as well. He thought he would go and sit with them. The Minister for Social Welfare was coming. Everyone knew what the Minister was going to say. Ministers hardly ever said anything new after all – the same old hackneyed stuff over and over again. As he got to his feet, he saw Ria coming in through the door. She was wearing a white sari with blue-patterned borders. Her hair, tied in a loose bun, was hanging just below the nape of her neck. She had glasses on, and she seemed to have gained just a little weight. Akram stared at her – he was seeing Ria after such a long time, virtually after ages. He had never been able to erase the last picture he had of her in his mind, although he had tried very hard. And he simply could not match that picture with what he was seeing before him now. Ria was coming forward slowly, but her steps were firm, not hesitant at all. Akram was a little surprised at himself – why did he think otherwise? Had he expected something different then? No, that could not be. He had never really thought about Ria all these years, although the vision of her face as he remembered seeing it last had now and then intruded into his consciousness.

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But in reality, that chapter of his life had come to a close. As Akram continued to look, he saw Leena, another woman and a gentleman quickly going up to Ria. She smiled at them. That smile so intimately familiar to Akram, that had once been an integral part of his life. For many, many days. Until that terrible, unbearable incident! Ria and the other three were coming forward. Reaching him Leena said, “Akram Bhai, this is the lady I was telling you about. Rokeya Apa, this is Akram Khan, journalist.” Ria smiled again. A polite smile. Then, turning to Leena, she said, “Where do we have to go?” “The others are inside. We will begin shortly. But you can sit here for a few minutes if you like. We’ll call you later.” “No, let’s go. I would like to get acquainted with the rest of you.” Nodding briefly at Akram and smiling faintly, Ria, alias Rokeya Ahmed, passed on. And just then the reasonably wellknown journalist Akram Khan felt the sharp bite of being ignored. Was this Ria’s revenge then? Akram sat down again at the same spot. Ria! He had simply forgotten that her other name was Rokeya. When they had been living in adjacent houses in their childhood and growing up together, they had never bothered to know each other’s formal names, not even when in their adolescence they had begun to feel the first overtures of love. Later, he used to call Ria by so many different names. Those days had been full of such innocent childishness. Akram had grown up in a more or less joint family. One of his uncles – his father’s elder brother – used to live in the same house as them. His younger uncle lived in Chittagong because of his job. And his aunts – his father’s sisters – were married already. Although they were in Dhaka, they lived separately. His elder uncle’s children – two girls named Ruma and Jhuma and a boy named Chhoton – and Akram and his younger

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sister, Seema, grew up together. Ria, the only child of her parents, lived next door. The two households were almost like the same family. She was of the same age as Jhuma and Seema. Ruma was a year older than Akram. It was she who had first guessed at their relationship and warned Akram, alias Khokon, “Just you wait. I’ll tell father and uncle.” He had never dared to ask why Ruma Bu disliked Ria. But Ruma Bu had not carried out her threat and so their relationship was not cut short. His mother, however, used to like Ria very much. Even today Akram sometimes thought that perhaps that was the reason his mother did not like his wife, Shirin, so much. But Shirin was much more beautiful to look at and she was a decent woman as well. She possessed all the qualities of being an ideal wife and daughter-in-law. There was no open hostility between his mother and Shirin and, yet, for some reason, his mother was indifferent about her. The function was being delayed. Akram looked at his watch. Clearly the Minister was the cause of the delay. The very thought that he was going to be forced to listen to the Minister’s speech irritated him. It would be one of those meaningless speeches and exasperatingly long. A little commotion near the door made him turn that way. The Social Welfare Minister had arrived. He did not feel like confronting the Minister just yet, so he quickly stepped out on the balcony beside him. A few girls and boys stood there chatting. He went to stand by their side, looking down at the busy road below. Hundreds of rickshaws, cars, buses and trucks. Crowds of people. Glitteringly bright sunlight. He had a strange feeling of lassitude. Would it be possible to speak to Ria? He would ask Leena, thought Akram. The function started. Akram took a seat at the back of the auditorium. There was a reasonably good crowd, so it was possible to sit in peace without being noticed. The Minister was in a hurry and so he was invited to speak first. Today Akram’s

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brain could hardly register anything. The young man who was the Minister’s PRO was a great admirer of Akram’s. He would be able to get a briefing from him later. But now Akram was not listening to anything, neither was he seeing anything. No, that was wrong, he could hear voices from the past. Ria, Ruma Bu, Jhumu, Seemu, Chhoton. All friends from his childhood. Especially Ria. How had she looked in those days? He had to make an effort to remember. Every time he tried to remember, he could recall only a pale face, streaked with tears, from the last time he had seen her! But what about before that day? Had she been calm, or restless? No, he could not remember. But their relationship had deepened in those tumultuous, terrifying days of ’seventy-one. They were in hiding together in the village. Ria had come very close to him during that period of uncertainty; he too had felt that without Ria his life would lose all its meaning. He had thought that both their lives had become entwined together, in an everlasting bond. Then he had not known that there was something called Fate, which rendered human desires totally ineffectual, and men and women had no other roles to play than those of puppets. The war came to an end. The country was liberated. It did not take long for the wild enthusiasm, the passionate ardour of those days to diffuse into hard reality. Then came the days of wanton destruction – human life, existence, dreams, desires and hopes were all sucked into the black hole of terror and despair. Crimes like hijacking were on the rise, lives of innocent people were being obliterated by others on a senseless killing rampage. And...! Yes, a single incident with the same devastating effect of a raging storm turned Akram’s life completely upside down. A terrified Jhumu brought the news that Ria had been abducted by some unknown persons on her way back from college. Akram’s mother and aunt rushed next door, but no sound of wailing was ever heard from that house. Only Ria’s father

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was seen going out very early in the morning and returning with tired steps in the evening. Akram could not bring himself to go there even once. Only he knew what was going on in his mind. His father, uncle, everyone walked around with dark, brooding faces. The women were not allowed out of the house for several days. The suffocating atmosphere was unbearable to Akram. But where could he go? He did not dare to go and sit in a park or some similar place. So he went up to the roof of the house and sat there silently for hours. Sometimes he lay there on a mat all night, staring up at the stars in the sky. He often thought: What’s the point in going on living? One evening he was lying on the roof as usual. Hearing footsteps he looked around to see Seema standing at the door leading to the stairs. For the past few days their faces too had been looking drawn and haggard. Akram did not say anything. Seema said in a voice barely audible, “Ria has come back.” Akram sat up with a start. Before he could ask anything further, Seema said, “Dinner is ready” and ran back down the stairs. No one spoke at the dinner table either, as though a great tragedy had taken place in this house as well. It had been the same atmosphere for the past few days. Akram heard later that some people had found Ria lying unconscious by a roadside and taken her to the Medical College Hospital. Her identity could not be ascertained at first, because even after Ria gained consciousness several hours later, she either wept or just kept her face buried in the pillow in abject terror. The police visited her as she was a victim of rape. An elderly, sympathetic police officer managed with a lot of effort to get her home address out of her and informed her family. No, Ria did not know her abductors; even if she had known them it was highly unlikely that the police would be able to do anything.

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In the morning, at the breakfast table, Akram’s mother said simply and gravely, “I am going to the hospital now.” His aunt too said in a low voice, “I shall come with you.” Returning from the hospital, Akram’s mother did not speak a word. She only spent a little longer than usual on the prayermat. Akram did not ask anyone anything, neither could he gather up enough courage to visit Ria at the hospital. It was the time of the long summer vacation. His father and uncle said one day that they had taken leave from work and proposed that the whole family should go to the village home to spend the holidays. Akram understood that everyone wanted to escape from the city. He met Ria one day before they left, however. He was lying quietly in his room. Outside it had been raining incessantly for some time. His body and mind seemed to be possessed by a strange listnessness. He was not even thinking anything. At that time he heard Ruma Bu calling his name, “Khokon. . . .” He looked around and saw Ria. She was standing at the door, gripping one side of the door-frame with her hand. She was dressed in a freshly ironed cotton sari wrapped loosely round her body. Her hair, done up in a long braid but slightly dishevelled, lay on one side of her bosom. Her eyes and face looked swollen. She stood absolutely still, looking at the floor. “Khokon, Ria has come,”Ruma Bu said. Akram sat up on the bed, but made no other move. He kept looking at Ria. A long stretch of time seemed to lie between their immobile bodies. Then Ruma Bu’s voice cut sharply through that silence, “Khokon, Ria has come. Haven’t you got anything to say to her?” A stranger’s voice seemed to come out of Akram’s mouth, “No!” Akram could remember even to this day, Ria had lifted her eyes and looked straight at him. He saw that her eyelashes were wet with tears. That expression on her face continued to chase

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him around for many years to come. Akram never knew what that expression had meant – surprise or pain! Ruma Bu pulled at her hand, “Come away, Ria.” Dragging Ria away from the room,Ruma Bu turned back just once to say, “Shame on you, Khokon, shame!” Since then Ruma Bu never spoke to him again. Not even after all these years. Yet she loved Shirin very much. Seeing Shirin for the first time she said, “I was looking for someone exactly like you for my brother.” Ruma Bu always remained a mystery to Akram. She did not actually like Ria. Yet she put Akram on the dock of sharp reproach because of her. Then she seemed to have erased Akram’s name from the book of her life. “Akram Bhai.” Leena’s call startled Akram back to the present. “Leena, the very person I was looking for. Would it be possible to meet your Rokeya Ahmed once?” “I’ll ask her and let you know. But after the function is over.” “All right.” “Why don’t you go and sit in the front?” Akram moved a few rows forward. The Minister had left. The compere was speaking about Rokeya Ahmed. A lot of adjectives. Words of praise. Ria stood up to speak. Akram looked at her with steady eyes. This woman had occupied a special spot in his life in the very distant past – but today she looked so utterly unfamilar. Ria – no, Rokeya Ahmed – began to speak. Her pronunciation was distinct and her voice firm: “Many choice words have been used here about me. Perhaps I am not worthy of them. I am an ordinary person. Yes, I am not describing myself as a lady or a woman. I look upon myself as a human being. I have the same feelings and emotions like hunger and thirst, pleasure and pain as a man. We women have the same needs and desires as men do. Yet women as a class are ignored, neglected, oppressed. And do you know what is more surprising than that? The oppressors are

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not the culprits in the eyes of the society – it is the oppressed who are placed in the dock as culprits.” Rokeya paused for a moment. Akram thought that she looked even more different in the artificial light on the dais. The soft, tender texture of her face seemed to have disappeared, having been replaced by a kind of hardness. Her eyes seemed to rest for a moment on Akram’s face. “I am not going to speak at length. I have no wish to impose upon your patience. But you have done me an honour by giving me the opportunity to speak. I would like to use that opportunity to tell you this – this society is rotting at its core. This society has got to be changed. This society stands on a foundation of fragile aristocracy and fake civilization. In this society the oppressors strut around openly and the oppressed are punished. . . .” Her voice seemed to take on an almost imperceptible trace of hardness: “Years ago I was raped. . . .” The whole auditorium was holding its collective breath. Rokeya’s eyes seemed to be burning. “Today I no longer feel any shame or pain when I speak of it. I was not responsible for what had happened. I had to suffer this punishment because of the sin committed by a few savage beasts in human guise. For no fault of mine this society had rejected me, cast me away. Today, so many years later, I ask myself the same questions once again – How much right do I have over my own body? Can my body become unclean so easily by being mauled by such brutes? That again gives rise to another question in my mind – What then is my position as a human being? I do not seem to have solid ground beneath my feet. Can I take this decision of my own accord, when or how many times do I wish to be a mother or if I want to be one at all? The child who is my own flesh and blood – the child I bear in my womb for days and months together and give birth to – do I have any rights over that child? I do not want the right of possession, I want the right

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of love. But I remain just a caretaker. Then what rights are we fighting for in reality? What rights will this society grant us? My one plea to you –– Demand your rights not as women, but as human beings. Unite to get rid of the injustices of society. . . .” Akram kept sitting quietly in his seat. That constricting feeling in his heart from years ago seemed to have come back again. Much later Leena came over to him, “Akram Bhai.” Akram looked up. “Rokeya Apa says she won’t give any interviews.” Akram spoke in a very low voice, “Do you know her address?” “I can get it for you. I have got your telephone number. I’ll call you tonight.” The drawing room had a neat look about it. Akram sat down and glanced around. It was easy to understand that while those who lived in the house might not have affluence, they did not lack in good taste. Shelves full of books lined the walls. There was only one calendar. Wickerwork chairs and a table. A reading desk with an embroidered cover stood in one corner. The curtain on the door leading to the inside of the house was also of a pleasing hue. A gentleman pushed the curtain aside and came in. He carried a tray on which were a cup of tea and two plates bearing savouries like salted biscuits and chanachur. “There’s no one at home except Keya Apa and myself. My wife is at work. So the tea – I hope it’s not too bad. Please. . . .” Akram smiled. “You made the tea?” “Yes.” Akram picked up a couple of peanuts from the plate of chanachur and put them in his mouth. Then he lifted the cup to his mouth and took a sip of the tea. The gentleman was eyeing him eagerly. Akram said, “Excellent.”

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“Good, I’m relieved. Otherwise, I would have to try making another cup. Well, let me introduce myself now. I’m Raihan. A doctor by profession. Not unemployed, mind you. I’m on duty tonight, that’s why I’m at home at this time of the day.” Raihan extended his hand. Akram quite liked the young man. Raihan said again, “Keya Apa is coming. Please have your tea. I have to go to the market to get a few things. My wife wants to cook ilish paturi, mocha-ghonto and murighonto for Keya Apa.” Raihan shook hands with him once more and went out. Akram got up and ran his eyes over the books arranged on the shelves. So Ria was going to see him. Raihan had said, “Keya Apa is coming.” How was Raihan related to Ria? Was he a cousin brother? He had never heard the name before. And the young man was referring to Ria as Keya Apa. Everyone in Ria’s family called her “Ria.” Anyway, why should he bother about such a thing? There were both Bengali and English books on the shelves. Books on literature, sociology, some on medicine. Akram could also see a few books written by Ria. Serious books on sociology written in English. Published abroad. He had not known about these at all, or had not really noticed them although he might have seen them before. After all, he had never had the occasion to make any connection between Ria and Rokeya. Akram took down one of the books and turned over the pages. He glanced at the contents of a few pages. Then, as he put the book back in its place and turned round, he saw Ria. Suddenly, for the briefest moment, the face of the scared, injured, tearful young girl, who had stood at the door of his room in another life, flitted across his mind and vanished. No, the woman before him was not the same person. Rokeya Ahmed was dressed in an ordinary mustard-coloured sari. Her hair was loose. She had no ornaments or make-up on. The expression on her face was one of indifference. Akram did not know what to say.

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Ria said, “Sit down.” Akram sat down mechanically. Ria took another chair. Her posture was erect. “How are you?” “Well.” “You are a journalist these days?” “I have been one from the beginning. . . . Don’t you want to know about my family?” “No. I’ve seen Ruma Bu. I know about all the others.” “Do you live in America?” “I used to. I’ve come back to live here.” “I see.” Both remained silent for a few seconds. Akram broke that uncomfortable silence to say, “I did not think you would see me.” “Why?” “You did not agree to see me the other day.” “On that day you were there as a journalist. I had already said what I wanted to say at the meeting. Today you’ve come as an old acquaintance and neighbour. Although I don’t know why you have come.” “Ria, there are so many things I wanted to know.”Akram’s voice sounded slightly miserable. He was feeling weak inside. Ria’s voice had an edge of hardness in it.“I too had many things to say to you on that day. If Ruma Bu had not taken me there, perhaps I would have come myself. But on that day you turned away from me. Today there’s nothing I have to say to you.” “Ria, I came here today to beg your forgiveness.” “Forgiveness?” Ria smiled. A somewhat bitter smile. Akram seemed to shrivel before that smile. Ria went on, “I forgave you long ago. In those days of my unbearable pain and humiliation, I needed you more than anything else. But you did not stand by my side then. You turned away. I spent those days in acute distress. Pain, agony, tears, humiliation –

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I passed through all these stages, and a great anger built up within me. There comes a time when anger built up over the years turns into a kind of strength. At that point of time, I realized that every human being is in fact alone in this world. So a person has to walk the paths of life alone, fight all battles alone. On that day I made the promise to myself that I would fight back. I would make the society that had once punished me for a crime not my own accept me, honour me for myself. I have fulfilled that promise. Today, your society has been forced to recognize my value as a human being. Today you have come to stand before me asking my forgiveness.” Akram could not find anything to say. Ria sat looking out of the window for a long time. Then she spoke again. There was no harshness in her voice. Her words came out normally, “Khokon, I have no anger, no complaint, whatsoever against you. But the same realization as I had on that day many years ago still lives within me. No one in this world belongs to anyone else. I belong only to myself. So, you had actually done me a good turn by not standing by my side. Otherwise, I would have perhaps tried to live by holding on to you. Then I would never have been able to reach where I am today, walk in this world as a human being with my head held high. Today, you and I have separate ways to go; our worlds are separate too. If, somewhere in the future, our paths cross again, we will have nothing to exchange between us except common civility.” Ria stood up. So did Akram. Without a word, he moved towards the door. Before going out he turned to look back once. Ria was standing motionlessly. She looked as unreal as a portrait done in muted colours. Then Akram stepped out on to the road under the bright, burning sun. Translated from “Aham” by Sagar Chaudhury

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SHAHEEN AKHTAR who works at Ain O Salish Kendra, a human rights organization in Bangladesh, writes both novels and short stories, many of them inspired by her work. Her novel Talaash is about birangonas (literally heroic women) of Bangladesh – women who were raped during the Liberation War in 1971. Talaash won the Prothom Alo Literary Prize in 2004. It was subsequently translated into English as The Search and published by Zubaan in 2011. It was also translated into Korean and won the Asian Literary Award 2020. Her other novels include Palabar Path Nei, Sokhi Rongomala, and Moyur Shinghashon, which won the Akhtaruzzaman Elias Kothasahitya Award 2015 and the IFIC Bank Award 2015. Her latest novel, Ashukhi Din, about the Bengal Partition, received the Gemcon Literary Award in 2019. Sokhi Rongomala was translated into English as Beloved Rongomala and published by Bengal Lights in 2018. For her contribution to literature, she received the prestigious Bangla Academy Sahitya Puroshkar in 2015.

Shaheen Akhtar

AMIRJAAN BIBI’S RECEPTION News about a reception finally arrived from Dhaka when all the little scars underneath their clothes had faded away so that only the deep scars left behind by the bayonet charges remained, and when the waters dried up so that the rivers and ravines were on the verge of disappearance. That too wasn’t from the government; it was the undertaking of a nongovernmental organization. When she was a young woman, Amirjaan Bibi would point to the marks left by the military men’s scratches, bites, and cigarette burns and tell her visitors, “It’s not what you think. These are all pockmarks.” As soon as people’s curiosity started dying out, those marks started vanishing. There is no trace of Amloki Bridge and Boro Bridge today. Beneath Nimtoli Bridge, people grow winter crops in season. The little boys in the village play with marbles and draw courts to play ha-du-du. Even if you hand them cotton candy or lollipops, they won’t believe you if you tell them there was a time when, in the dead of one night, these bridges were demolished to hinder the Pakistani forces.

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In this state, without evidence and with no one to back her up, Amirjaan Bibi got on the microbus to go to Dhaka. With her were senior journalist Shujon Sikdar and his assistant Sohrab Hossain. They would spend the night travelling in the car. The next day, at ten in the morning, there would be a colourful programme in the auditorium of the Liberation War Museum. There would be a reception for three freedom fighter-birangonas, thirty years after the war. Each would get ten thousand takas cash in addition to a certificate of honour. Invitation cards had been printed, souvenirs had been made, and yet two out of three of them were absent. Shujon Sikdar was scraping the skin off his forehead with his fingers every now and then. On this wintry night, with a handkerchief that he pulled out of his pocket, he was wiping off the invisible sweat on the nape of his neck and his head. Sohrab said, “Don’t worry so much, Shujon Bhai! Did you lie to them? No, you didn’t. You’ve sent the photographs and biodatas of the other two. And Amirjaan Bibi is going with us, of course.” If it had been Mohona Begum in place of Amirjaan, Shujon Sikdar wouldn’t have worried. That woman could talk. She could shout on the stage and create a commotion. Hearing her would give everyone a jolt. Last year, she had come for a public meeting at the Prime Minister Sheikh Hasina Town Hall maidan. Mohona Begum breached the security barricades and got in – Shujon Sikdar was a witness. The journalists, on the other hand, were cheering her. “Let her pass, let her through. If you don’t let her in, we will report against the government. The elections are coming up, you know.” The security personnel raised their sticks and said, “Move, move out of the way or else we’ll shoot.” Mohona Begum moved the policemen and guards away with her hands, as if they were water hyacinths, and walked straight towards the Prime Minister’s microphone. “Madam, I want to tell

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you something before I die. You must hear me out – one second.” Sheikh Hasina had said, “Let her sit, help her sit.” From the back, the police were saying, “If you don’t sit, we’ll shoot.” But who had the audacity to make Mohona sit? She said, “Madam, in ’71, under your father’s leadership, I fought in the war. Fighting under your father’s leadership has destroyed my life. My earnest request to you is name a metalled street after me, Madam. Just one new local street.” Mohona Begum always aimed high. After working at the Family Planning Office for twenty-five years, she accumulated coins the way ants collect and store tiny little bits of food, and eventually built a house for herself and, that too, like a grave. Once you got in, there was no way out. There was a pond on the north. A fence on the south. On the east and west were two antagonistic neighbours. They planted nails and spikes in the ground, and, like Abu Lahab and his wife, they stood and watched the show. The Holy Prophet (PBUH) would smile while walking down a path full of thorns. But the nails and spikes didn’t make Mohona Begum smile. She bottled up her wrath; and no matter which government came to power, she demanded a metalled street – the name of which would be: Bir Freedom Fighter Mosammat Mohona Avenue. There would be no mention of “Birangona” on the street’s nameplate. Mohona Begum didn’t have any children. She had married twice. But on the first night of both weddings, the husbands fled after hearing the stories of what the Pakistani army had done to torment her. She was now floating in the middle of the river of life. If she looked intently, she could see the foggy banks on the other side. Under such circumstances, if she travelled to Dhaka City to collect money from the reception programme, her photograph would be published in the papers. Instead of writing about her heroism, in order to increase sales, the papers would fabricate a horrific story of half-truths about an unheard-of

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birangona’s anguish at the hands of the Pakistani army. As a result, stories of bygone times would resurface like dead fish floating in a pond. Foul odours would spread in all the neighbourhoods. The money she would get for all this wouldn’t even be enough to get sand for a street, let alone brick dust, coal-tar, and concrete. After thinking things through, Freedom Fighter Mohona Begum was not interested in a birangona reception at this point. The second person was Razia Begum. She had a shy disposition. She covered her head with the end of her sari at all times. It was a matter of wonder how such a girl could fight in the war. How did she bear the torture of the Pakistani army for five months after getting caught? If she went to Dhaka, the number of birangonas would increase by one, but the quality of the programme would not improve. A few days back, upon hearing the news of the reception, Razia Begum’s crippled husband, Bodor Ali, would not give a definitive answer. All through, he sat with a pensive expression on his face. Shujon Sikdar sat on their porch and growled like a tom-cat. Bodor Ali would repeatedly throw pieces of paper that were in his hands on to the floor. Was the lame fellow human? If you hit him, a maund of dust would stir up, and yet he posed like a philosopher. The moment Shujon Sikdar left the place, Bodor Ali picked up the cane leaning against the fence. Razia Begum peeped through her veil and saw her crippled husband navigating the dirt road, using his cane like an oar, going towards the homes of the village elders. This scene was very painful for Razia Begum. After fighting for independence and being tortured at the hands of the Pakistan army, she ended up with a crippled husband. After all these years, could the people of Dhaka alter her life by giving her a reception? Where were they on the day when Razia Begum stood motionless at the village dump, in her arms, the six-day-old bastard son of the Pakistan military? The entire village folk were on one side and

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crippled Bodor Ali on the other. He used his cane like a wing, flew over to the dump like an angel, and said, “Don’t drive out this unfortunate woman. I swear to God, I will marry her – I give my word.” A sungrass-thatched hut was built next to the dump; a bed of straw was put on the damp earth floor. The crippled man would tie a jute sack at the head of his cane and go to other villages to beg. At present too, Bodor Ali was a beggar. And Freedom Fighter-Birangona Razia Begum was a beggar’s wife. It had been ten years since the people of Ramkrishnapur village had lifted the economic blockade. Beggars, prostitutes, and thieves were social outcasts. What else was there to say about it? Now, in Bodor Ali’s eyes, charitable and generous-hearted people were the only virtuous ones, be they razakars, members of the Al-Badar, or freedom fighters. And that too depended on how magnanimously they could offer a portion of their reaped paddy as zakat, during the two harvesting seasons. That was why Bodor Ali’s identification of virtuous men kept changing biannually. He navigated his way on the street and decided that he should visit the virtuous men of both seasons because the problem at hand was colossal. If they got ousted again, at this age, he wouldn’t be able to go to distant villages to beg. Six months ago, the bastard son of the Pakistan military had left the village and started living in a rented house in the city with his wife and children. In this situation, husband, wife, and their younger daughter would starve to death. Taking everything into consideration, Bodor Ali would listen carefully to what the virtuous men had to say, and then come to a decision. One elder heard everything and said, “If your wife goes to Dhaka, your family will prosper.” Another’s advice was, “Hey, you want to sell your wife for food? What justification will you give to God Almighty on the Day of Judgment? You beg and sustain yourselves. Keep it that way. We’re here for you too, of course.”

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After pondering for a while, the next person said something vacuous: “If I were you, I’d neither tell my wife to go, nor would I tell her not to go.” Then, he handed him two shiny fifty-paisa coins and bade him farewell. Perhaps out of gratitude, Bodor Ali found the third elder’s words to be agreeable. He put his weight on his cane, hobbled along, and went to Shukkur Ali’s shop in the bazar to buy bidis with the pair of fifty-paisa coins and get some change afterwards. There, he met the drunkard Keramot, who had a BA from the Pakistani era. He had fought in the Liberation War as well. Now, he spent all day hanging out at Shukkur Ali’s tea stall. In the evening, he went to Methorpotti, guzzled local liquor till he dropped, and then hugged their pigs to sleep. To get his alcohol, Keramot even took money from people like Bodor Ali, a beggar by profession. As soon as Bodor Ali stepped into the tea stall, Keramot grabbed his cane, started pulling at it and said, “What’s up, buddy? All good at your end? How much did you earn today? Touch Shukkur and tell the truth!” Keramot was already drunk at midday. His body reeked of alcohol. It seemed as if his eyelids were glued shut. When he got to know the reason behind Bodor Ali’s haste, the man took the initiative to stammer out words expressing such deep philosophy that it was impossible to make head or tail of it. “Thirty or thirty-two years later, who is going to get any appreciation? Tell me, which freedom fighter will get a reception? There’s a huge difference between then and now. Back then, in the war-ravaged Bangladesh of the dying Bengali race, people could get a freedom fighter’s certificate in exchange for one bag of cement.” Bodor Ali lit his bidi with the lighter that was fastened to the end of a hanging cord and hurried home before he could forget the words of the third elder. Behind him, Mr. Keramot kept on yapping with his eyes shut, “That doesn’t mean I have any regrets. I don’t have any joys,

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I don’t have any sorrows. I neither get any pleasure, nor do I get any peace. I don’t have any satisfaction. This nation has been liberated for those who were against it.” When Bodor Ali returned home, he saw a stranger on the porch. Bodor Ali couldn’t exactly remember which season’s virtuous man he was. Besides, he felt he had never seen the man in his life. Perhaps he was from a different village. He had taken alms from so many people in his life. How could he remember every single one of their faces? He entered the house from the back and whispered to his wife, “I will neither tell you to go to Dhaka, nor will I tell you not to go.” Razia Begum was surprised. All that money! Had the cripple gone senile? And yet he was puffing on a bidi in exchange for money! Seething with rage, she shouted at Bodor Ali. The man from a different village listened to the couple’s brawl attentively. He smirked. He managed to have the last word. “Bodor Ali, I am telling your wife, if you take that money, you will not be able to pay back the loan in your lifetime. When you die, your son, and then his son will have to repay this debt. This money is going to be given by an NGO. Don’t take it. It’s a trap.” And then, the only one left was Amirjaan Bibi. An illiterate woman. On top of that, she was not quite right in the head. Who knew what she might not say on the stage! Perhaps she would hold out her hand in front of the microphone and beg from the respectable persons in the audience. “Baba, I am a freedom fighter. Baba, I am a birangona. Give me four paisas. I want to buy some pithas to eat.” Five years ago, on a December afternoon, journalist Shujon Sikdar was cycling on the path in front of a graveyard. He heard the words while on the move, despite the whooshing sound of the north wind. He wasn’t hearing it wrong, was he? His ears and

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head were covered with a muffler after all. He stopped pedalling, got down from the bicycle and found himself standing in front of a dented aluminum bowl. “Baba, I am a freedom fighter. Baba, I am a birangona.” It was the month of victory. When God gives, He gives in abundance. Publishing an interview with her in the papers would receive an overwhelming response from all over. Journalist Shujon Sikdar poured out all the coins and loose change from his pocket into the aluminum bowl and then stood there with pen and paper in his hands. Right next to him, the hot rice cakes that were stuffed with jaggery and coconut shavings were being lifted off the pot on the stove and dropped on to a bamboo basket, one after another. Having received some paisas, all of Amirjaan’s attention went in that direction. Shujon Sikdar reached into his pocket again. He dropped rice cakes into the aluminum bowl and then tried speaking to her. At this point, the bystanders, with their boundless curiosity, surrounded them. In such a situation, it would be futile to waste any time there. Wheeling his bicycle, with one hand on the handle, he led Amirjaan to the newspaper office. The crowd followed for a little distance, but slowly dispersed one by one. But that was a local newspaper. It wouldn’t attract as much attention as it should. Even the heart-rending lines fell flat in one corner of a national daily. But Shujon Sikdar was not the kind of man who gave up easily. Due to his efforts, the names of Amirjaan Bibi’s three companions were salvaged. All four of them were freedom fighters and, at the same time, birangonas. The perfect combination. Being written about in the papers attracts attention. Among the four birangonas, one passed away due to lack of medical treatment. That didn’t strike a chord within the nation’s consciousness. However, a journalist from Denmark came and took a video interview of the rest. Amirjaan alone received a lump sum of one thousand takas. A single person. One stomach to fill. She had gone from being a beggar to a grocer overnight.

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“Brother, I want to die with respect. I don’t want the title of Birangona.” What was she saying? What were these words coming out of her mouth, when, only a few days back, she would beg to have rice cakes! People have this habit – when they come into possession of some money, they become desperate for extra respect. On the other hand, the soles of Shujon Sikdar’s shoes were wearing out, travelling back and forth between their homes and Dhaka for their sake! Today for one of them, tomorrow for another. Copies of documents and letters went from one hand to another. With a change in the government, there came a change in the people who believed in the ideology of the Liberation War. Now that all arrangements had been made, Amirjaan’s whim was inexplicable. Shujon Sikdar spat out a lump of spit through the window and told Amirjaan that she didn’t have to worry about those issues. Sohrab would take the responsibility to prepare what she would have to say or not to say on the stage. There wouldn’t be any time tomorrow. The speech had to be finalized by that night, during the car ride. As soon as Shujon Sikdar’s eyelids shut for the night, Amirjaan Bibi’s rehearsal for the next day’s programme began. Sohrab said, “Listen to me very attentively first. Like a parrot, you must repeat what I say. One, two, three. We’ll practise ten times. Understood?” “I am Mosammat Amirjaan Bibi. In the great War of Liberation, four women, including myself, fought shoulder to shoulder with men. On the twelfth of the month of Sravan, while at the battlefront, all of us became prisoners at the same time.” What a dark night. There are no stars or moon in the sky. There are four blind-folded women at the river bank. Blood is dripping from their bodies. There are guards in front of them and behind them. An executioner is with them. On the other side of the river is a dot-sized

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person – he is beckoning with his hand and calling out. He is not visible. He is like an angel whose distant, trembling voice can be heard. Hey, will you kill them? Aww, they’re only little children. What do they understand? Illiterate and ignorant. No, no, they understand everything and they know everything. We’ve seen it for ourselves. No, you don’t have to kill them. Deliver them where needed. Don’t kill them. This is a political case – a case of political prisoners. Killing them would be a crime. Sohrab said, “If you keep staring into the darkness outside, you will forget what I am telling you. Now, let’s hear you saying it once again. In the great War of Liberation in 1971 – then?” “Then?” Amirjaan Bibi mimicked him like a parrot and said, “We fought under the leadership of Sheikh Mujib.” “No, no, you say it without mentioning under whose leadership.” “Why? That’s what we did. This is not a lie, Bhai. I don’t know if you were in your mother’s womb then or not, but our fathers and uncles were all supporters of the Awami League.” How could Sohrab make this woman understand that then and now were not the same? If she had been educated, she would have known. On the one hand, she was illiterate, and, on the other, she was unpredictable. You never knew what she would do next. How did she end up fighting in the Liberation War? He did hear it from Shujon Bhai’s mouth, but he somehow couldn’t bring himself to believe it. Shujon Sikdar was snoring away. Taking this opportunity, Sohrab wanted to ditch the rehearsal, hear the old story from Amirjaan Bibi, and verify for himself. On a scorching afternoon in the month of Chaitra, a sepoy from the Bengal Regiment and two jawans of the East Pakistan Rifles (EPR) advanced in the wrong direction and appeared at Ramkrishnapur village. They came and told the youth of the

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village, “Those of you who are ready to sacrifice your lives for the country – go and stand at attention on the west side of the courtyard.” Before that, Amirjaan, Mohona and Bina Saha had already been standing on the west side of the courtyard. They had been sent there to serve chira and jaggery to the guests. Before they could realize what was going on, they became part of the group that was ready to give up their lives for the nation. While the sepoy, Torab Ali, was happy to accept them, the other two strongly opposed the inclusion of women into their group. They said, “Ustad, the losses will be greater than the profits. You’ll be in trouble.” But these words didn’t have a lasting impact due to Torab Ali’s obstinacy. The girls’ parents were made to understand that, as it was, they wouldn’t be able to keep the girls at home during the war. The soldiers would take them away and rape them. It would be better for them to take up arms, lead the country to its independence, and keep their honour intact. Then, with a large following, they looted the firearms at Alinagar Police Station. The three girls received rifle training shoulder to shoulder with their brothers in arms. Guerilla warfare began. They teamed up to tear down bridges with iron bars and axes. But they were three – an odd number. All three of them thought of Razia Begum at the same time. They felt sad for her. If the three of them could give up their lives for the country, why couldn’t the remaining one? What was lacking in her? With this reasoning, Mohona Begum, the only literate one among them, approached Torab Ali and said, “Sir, we have another friend. Her name is Mosammat Razia Begum. Sir, if she can join the liberation army, we won’t be an odd number anymore.” Torab Ali smiled and said, “Why would you be an odd number? If she wants, bring her.” This is the beginning of the story that eventually led to Amirjaan Bibi becoming a beggar, Razia Begum getting married to a handicapped beggar, Bina Saha dying due to lack of medical

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attention, and Mohona Begum’s enduring incessant agony. Afterwards, they would never stand on the west side of the courtyard – not even by mistake. But what has happened cannot be undone. Amirjaan ended her narration with: “What is lotted cannot be blotted.” Their microbus was then speeding over the Kumarkhali Bridge that had been newly built. Sohrab was preoccupied. What country? A story from which era? Everything seemed like a dream. He couldn’t believe it despite hearing it multiple times. Since he was born three years after independence, he hadn’t seen or understood any of it. Suddenly, Amirjaan said, “This bridge is as strong as a giant monster. It can’t be torn down with iron bars and axes. You need dynamite to blow it up.” What was she saying! She wanted to blow up bridges! A work of vandalism. According to Bangladesh’s penal code, the maximum punishment, including a fine, would be five years of rigorous imprisonment. Sohrab shifted in his seat and said, “Don’t say anything outside of what I’m telling you. It will be an unnecessary waste of time.” But, teaching Amirjaan Bibi “The declaration of liberation was made by Ziaur Rahman” took him till midnight. The microbus crossed the river by the ferry and got on to the Aricha Highway. Their journey had nearly come to an end. But his prepared speech and Amirjaan’s own speech were like oil and water that wouldn’t blend. Shujon Bhai had entrusted him with a responsibility. Who knew what sort of mishap would take place the next day? Dear brothers and sisters, it was raining heavily then. There had been a lot of flooding that year. There was a massive flood in our area. When we heard that the Pakistani military would be scheming to get into the villages, oppress the women and torment them, we teamed up to get

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trained. We got involved so as to lead the country to its victory or to bring peace to the land. Amirjaan Bibi craned her neck, looked to her left and right like a perplexed duck separated from its companions. She had much to say. But, lacking the vocabulary, she could not say what she wanted. She rummaged for the words that Sohrab had taught her but it was like diving into a fathomless sea, scouring for snails and shellfish. Her search went in vain. On the other hand, it was as if the audience’s nostrils had become filled with snot. One coughed deliberately and the entire group resonated with fake coughs. We could plunge into the river. We could dive into deep waters and come away too. We spent so many days in the water. Our nights were also spent in the water. In exchange for these sufferings, in return for the blood that was shed, our country was liberated. We tore down three bridges – Amlaki Bridge, Boro Bridge, Nimtoli Bridge.... “Shujon Bhai, she is blabbering on about herself. When is she going to talk about politics?” Sohrab whispered into Shujon Sikdar’s ear. They were seated in the front row. It was unseemly to be whispering there. There was pin-drop silence even at the back row. That didn’t usually happen because those seats were generally filled by NGO employees working at the grassroots level. Shujon Sikdar felt that Amirjaan Bibi’s speech was better understood by the audience seated in the rows at the back. The language was simplistic. The narration was lucid. Rustic. He stopped Sohrab with a gentle wave of his hand, as if he was shooing a fly away. When we got caught, they took us to the cantonment, with our hands tied behind our backs. And since then, we have had to bear people’s

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taunts, insults and torments, for which I have become physically ill. This body is of no value anymore. Now, even dogs don’t want to turn to look at me even once, let alone humans. Everyone in society says we led the life of whores. Is there no one in this world who can conceal or seal up this subject? You tell me, is there? (Applause) If there was, he would say: Why do you feel disgust towards them? They are humans. They do not deserve such contempt. I’m still fighting a war since then. “What did I teach her, and what did she say, Shujon Bhai?” Shujon Sikdar tried to suppress his laugh at Sohrab’s words. Poor Sohrab was still immature. He had to cross the graveyard and come to the Liberation War Museum auditorium, against the tide. His hard work had paid off to a great extent. His annoyance and anxiety had evaporated. Shujon was just happy that Amirjaan had managed to say something and had ended her speech. Razia Begum didn’t even make it to Dhaka, since she gave in to people’s conspiracies. For Bina Saha, death was an escape. Mohona Begum didn’t care for money; she wanted her name to be known. Freedom Fighter Mosammat Mohona Avenue. Ever since Bina Saha passed away, Mohona had contracted a new disease. She went around looking for her own place of burial all day. “Shujon Bhai, I came across a new graveyard in Mugdapara yesterday. It is such a beautiful place. On its south is a beel whose waters never dry up in any month of the year, the wind blows whoosh whoosh, the birds sing and chirp all day, and there’s a concrete mosque towards the north. Muslims call out Allah’s name all day and all night there. I need a grave in such a place. Bhai, I don’t ask for anything else from this country or its people.” It’s difficult to save someone who is obsessed with death. But Amirjaan Bibi was surrounded by the flashing lights of immortality. There were heaps of garlands around her neck. On

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the table in front, there was a pile of gifts given as tokens of reverence. It was so sad that the other three could not get all that. But what if she failed at the final hurdle? Amirjaan Bibi blocked the flashing lights by shutting her eyes. She was able to get off the stage without breaking her limbs. Now, all would end well if she could ward off the tyrannical questions of a bunch of journalists. Shujon Sikdar was a man of the press himself. This was a public event. Who knew with what motives these people had come there? He stood there restlessly. Making his way through the crowd to reach Amirjaan was an accomplishment of the past. Journalist’s notebook You fought in the Liberation War, yes? I did. What proof do you have of having fought in the war? Can you fire a gun? That I can. We would carry .303 rifles. After we loaded the cartridge in the chamber, we would wait for Torab Ali to command us to fire, and then we would lock the rifle butt against the shoulder, aim, and fire away. The left hand must be at the middle of the rifle; the right hand must be at the base of the rifle. Who is Torab Ali? Sepoy Torab Ali. Martyr, Freedom Fighter Torab Ali. There was another one – Mosharof Hossain. He has become very skinny now. He sells water at a gas station. Now tell me – where did the Pakistan army take you, and what did they do to you? You know how there are separate rooms an the grassy lawns within the cantonment? No one goes there. We were kept there secretly. We had no food, no sleep, and no showers – that is what we were subjected to. My body has scars from the mosquito bites. Now I have a disease – allergy. It itches. It gets aggravated

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with allopathic medication. It goes away with homeopathic medication. A small packet would cost four annas. Now the price has increased to five takas. Was it only the mosquitoes that bit you? Didn’t the army do anything to you? I was held prisoner there for five months. I could eat on some days; on other days, I couldn’t. Back then, our lives were at stake. Who will be killed? Who will survive? We were in a constant state of anxiety. Didn’t the army do anything to you? I never met another soul while I was there. I never mingled with anyone. I was stuck. In that life of darkness, there was no hope of seeing another face. I’d eat whatever I’d get. You keep talking about food. Didn’t the army loot your honour? You’d know better about what men do. There would be times when I couldn’t eat for three days. They would go in different directions. They’d rarely be seen during the daytime. They’d secretly come at nighttime. What did they look like? Like you – healthy, handsome. Oh, really? Whom do you hold responsible for your misery today? It’s no one’s fault. It’s all my fate. Does that mean that you feel that the Pakistani military are not guilty? They’re innocent? Why would I make them out to be innocent? They’re the ones who tormented me and left me in this state. If they hadn’t tormented me, I would have been able to have a husband and a family of my own. I would have been happy. I would have lived in peace with my children. But they left me a dishonoured woman.

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Shaheen Akhtar

“Tea or Coke?” Amirjaan Bibi was rescued from the hands of the journalists. The problem was that those who were having tea weren’t having Coke. Amirjaan was dying of thirst. She wrapped the bottle with her saree anchal and sat down under a colourful umbrella. She sipped on her Coke with a straw. “How many children do you have?” The Coke bottle that was wrapped in Amirjaan Bibi’s saree anchal trembled in her hand. The straw that was in her mouth slipped from her lips and fell to the ground. Who asked the question? A woman who had an enormous bindi on her forehead and who was wearing beautiful attire was staring at her. Since her begging days, Amirjaan Bibi had acquired the habit of not letting anyone’s words get to her. She looked straight ahead, over the woman’s head and at the top of the mango tree beyond. She would always ask herself these sorts of questions and then answer them herself too, in make-believe conversations. “How many children have you got, Amirjaan Bibi? How are they doing? Do they eat when you serve them rice? Or do they give it away to the crows and kites?” “No, no, they do eat. The children of the poor. They don’t have the luxury to not eat. They aren’t naughty.” Amirjaan smiled to herself. The woman was surprised and left the table. Amirjaan Bibi’s gaze fell from the treetop to the ground. The woman was standing nearby and was looking in her direction frequently. Perhaps she wasn’t willing to let go before getting to know about Amirjaan Bibi’s children. How can one have children if one never gets married! It had happened so many years ago. In the village of Ramkrishnapur, someone came forward with a marriage proposal and five others made sure it never happened. “Why would you want her? Have the Pakistanis left anything of her?” With much care, Baba had extended his hospitality to the potential groom’s family and fed them by selling off assets. The next day, they left. A month passed by, and there was no news of them returning.

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Thus, Baba lost two acres of land for making food arrangements for all the suitors. Towards the end of his life, the old father kept working on others’ lands and eventually died. Amirjaan Bibi never got married, whereas, in the surrounding villages, there was no match for her in terms of appearances and stamina. She could singlehandedly operate a dheki to thresh four maunds of paddy before getting off. After her parents passed away, she was driven out of the village with nothing but the clothes on her back. She was banished by her own biological brothers. Since then, she had had skin allergies and gastritis. The weight of the garlands made Amirjaan Bibi writhe. She was allergic to flowers. The itch on her neck shot up to the crown of her head and rapidly moved downwards again. She frantically began to pull off the garlands, but she got entangled in them even more. Seeing her helpless state, Shujon Sikdar pushed through the crowd to get to her. Sohrab helped her remove the garlands. When they left the place, Amirjaan Bibi had only one garland around her neck – one made with tuberoses, with a red rose at its centre. The rest were tied together with strings and carried by Shujon Sikdar and Sohrab Hossain. They would be divided on the way. Three equal shares. Razia and Mohona would get a day-old, stale flowers and some gifts. Amirjaan Bibi would be the only one to get money and honour. The planning was done by Shujon Sikdar. At the crack of dawn, Amirjaan Bibi got off the microbus. Dense fog enveloped her surroundings. It was as if dew was dripping down from the skies. Thirty years later, with gifts in her hands and in the garb of a hero, she returned. But there was no one there to see her. She walked till she reached the foot of Nimtoli Bridge. The bridge was made of concrete, but one could cross from beneath the bridge by pulling one’s clothes up to the knees. Whether it be from over the bridge or under it, why would she go home this way – keeping herself out of view, like a thief?

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Shaheen Akhtar

She is a hero, a birangona. The people in Dhaka had gone through books and explained, “The female form of bir, hero, is birangona. There’s no shame in the word.” Amirjaan Bibi dressed as a birangona, with garlands around her neck, sat at the foot of the bridge, waiting for an audience. Above her head was the lush foliage of a banyan tree. The dew that had condensed on the leaves dripped down on her. Razia Begum and she, Mohona and Bina Saha had all come and stood under this very banyan tree the day they were released from the cantonment. The bridge was broken in two in the middle and hung in midair over the river. The waters below seemed deep. There were no boats to ferry them across. They were unable to bear any further delays. Four sore bodies with barely enough rags to cover them. They covered each other up. The chill wind made them shiver. When a boatman appeared, he smelled their stench, and, turning his boat around, rowed in the opposite direction. Another person spat when he passed them. There seemed no hope left for them. At this point, news reached their fathers and brothers and they came running. The entire village came to see them. There was terror and contempt in their eyes. Thirty years had passed since they became the subjects of that contempt. Casting a sideways glance at Amirjaan, someone passed her and went towards the mosque for the dawn prayers. Her father and brothers did not rush out to where she stood, like they had done when they had heard the news on that day. Where was the crowd of people that had gathered there thirty years back? The early morning fog disappeared as the day grew warmer. Morning turned to afternoon. Amirjaan Bibi waited for people to come to meet her. As she waited, she started feeling drowsy. Hundreds of people began gathering on the bridge. Swarms of panshi boats full of people approached the bridge. It was clear that all the people had come to welcome Amirjaan Bibi. The pride of Ramkrishnapur village, the luminary of Alinagar, Freedom

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Fighter-Birangona Mosammat Amirjaan Bibi of independent Bangladesh. Long live Amirjaan Bibi. The procession nearly got out of hand and would have run over Amirjaan. She shut her eyes, and, like a blind person, somehow managed to clasp her gifts to her bosom, get off the road and stand on the path along the river bank. In her hurry, her garland had torn off and had fallen in the middle of the road. The men in the procession trampled on it and moved forward. Amirjaan Bibi saw that the river was empty. There weren’t any panshi boats. A just-released criminal, who had been convicted of murder and rape, was being carried on the shoulders of sycophants who were taking him over the bridge, shouting slogans vociferously. The political leader had garlands heaped around his neck. Translated from “Amirjaan Bibir Sangbardhana” by Noora Shamsi Bahar

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SYED SHAMSUL HAQ (1935 - 2016) was born in Kurigram but moved to Dhaka for his studies. He got enrolled in the Department of English, University of Dhaka, but did not complete his Honours owing to a disagreement with his head of the department. Along with a number of his contemporaries, he participated in literary addas at Beauty Boarding. However, unlike his contemporaries, he decided early on in life to be a fulltime writer. Apart from a brief stint at BBC in 1971, Haq remained a writer throughout his life. He was a versatile writer and wrote in different genres: poetry, short stories, novels, and verse plays. His early collections of short stories include Tash (1954) and Rokto Golap (1964). Among his novels are Khelaram Khele Ja (1991), Neel Dongshon (1981) and Nishiddho Loban (1990) – the latter two about the Liberation War. He wrote a number of critically acclaimed verse plays, including Nuruldiner Shara Jiban and Payer Awaj Pawa Jai, based on the Liberation War. His Baishakhe Rachita Ponktimala (1969) is reminiscent of T. S. Eliot’s The Wasteland. Haq received all the major literary awards from Bangladesh, including the Bangla Academy Sahitya Puroshkar (1966), the Ekushey Padak (1984), the National Poetry Award (1997) and the Swadhinata Padak (2000).

Syed Shamsul Haq

ANOTHER ONE OF OUR MARTYRS We all know how the story ends: the guards threw Kasimuddi out of the museum, calling him crazy, and Kasimuddi died in the end. He was run over by a blue bus roaring down the university road. The driver was yanked out and beaten severely before landing in a hospital, and finally in a police station where he made a confession. He said that the man had appeared suddenly in front of his bus, as if he wanted to commit suicide. There was neither time nor means to stop the vehicle. Hence, the inevitable happened – the man died. Sadly, we could never know Kasimuddi’s side of the story, since he is above all questions and answers now. What we know is that Kasimuddi was a simple man who never prayed but often got stoned and frequented brothels. Hence, not a devout person to come into someone’s dream to tell the real story as some people tell us how certain huzurs appeared in their dreams on certain days. But why did Kasimuddi get so riled up in the museum? And why did the guards throw him out?

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I know the director of the museum personally. But I heard about Kasimuddi first when a couple of boys from Jaleswari paid me a visit, perhaps because I am from Jaleswari too and they wanted me to attend their programme on 21st February. I could not go there, but that is another story and has no significance to the current one. Anyway, when I told the boys that I would not be able to attend their programme, since I had already committed to two speeches and one poetry recital on the same day in Dhaka, I sensed their disappointment. They might have even deemed me a heartless man, reluctant to respond to the call of his own home town. So, I tried to win them over by ordering tea and homemade snacks and regaled them with stories. This is one kind of treatment. Soon, the food was laid out. But the boys still felt shy and hesitant, so I served them on their plates which made them feel even more awkward. Good food has a unique quality: it makes people fall in love with life even if it is for a short while. Good food whispers into the ears of men that life should be lived to the fullest. And then again, life is surely the other side of death. Still, we hardly talk about death, even though we come across it every day. We witness it. We read about it in the newspapers or hear about it on the radio, and sometimes we remember our dead family members. Foggy dawns especially remind me of those loved ones who are no longer with us. It feels as if the shrouds have slipped off their bodies and are now fluttering in the misty air. After polishing off the good food, the boys burped and at least one of them ventured towards death from life. “Do you remember anyone named Kasimuddi?” he asked. “Kasimuddi?” “The day was 21st February. . . .” The boy could not finish his sentence. I asked him, “What happened on 21st February? And who is this Kasimuddi?”

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“He was from Jaleswari. He sold vegetables. He used to sit on the steps of Chandi Babu’s shop.” They rattled off a list of identifications. I still failed to recall him. The main reason I could not recognize Kasimuddi is because I left Jaleswari three decades ago and even though I visit it once a year now, it’s not possible for me to know the man who used to hawk his vegetables, sitting on the steps of Chandi Babu’s shop. It made me curious though. Why were they so keen to discuss a poor vegetable seller? What did he do to be linked with 21st February? Another boy leaned towards me and said, “It was published in Ittefaq with his picture. It was also mentioned that Kasimuddi hailed from Jaleswari. Can’t you remember any of it?” He sounded a little hurt. I do not read Ittefaq every day. I probably did not see the paper the day it featured the news along with Kasimuddi’s picture, and, even if I had come across the piece, I do not think I would have remembered it. Jaleswari is no longer the least developed, the poorest and the remotest colony of the British era. It is a fullfledged district now. Today’s Jaleswari town is a district town and if not daily but weekly news of the town comes out in the paper. Hence, every bit of news cannot possibly make an impact in my mind. Is it even possible? But how would the locals of Jaleswari understand it? I asked in a sad voice, “Did Kasimuddi die? In Dhaka?” It was then that they acquainted me with the story of his death. “But why did he shout in the museum?” I could not help but ask. “We know nothing about it.” “Didn’t it come out in the newspaper?” “No, nothing much. The report said that Kasimuddi went to the section where ancient coins were displayed in the museum

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and shouted suddenly. And then he was kicked out. The guard at the entrance did not let him enter the museum again. He scratched his head several times and bellowed something. Then he gave up his life under the wheels of a minibus.” Saying this much, the boy stopped. By then, the tea had turned cold. I refilled their cups and asked, “Do you have any idea what Kasimuddi muttered near the gate?” The boys exchanged glances with each other. A representative was soon selected and he began, “We do not know what Kasimuddi said at that precise moment. Dhakaities sometimes find it difficult to understand the dialect of Rangpur. Perhaps, in a fit of rage, Kasimuddi blabbered in his own dialect something incomprehensible to others.” “Why did he come to Dhaka on 21st February?” I enquired. “It was his long-cherished wish. Kasimuddi’s younger brother has a food stall which sells dal puri, next to the vegetable shop. Nowadays he runs both the shops,” the boy continued. “We used to go there for adda. Kasimuddi would join us sometimes, sitting on a worn-out mattress next to his piled-up vegetables.” I should have written this story with more care, or, maybe, I should not have penned it at all, because what I came to know later touched my heart. There are two sides of this narrative and both cause my heart to bleed. Kasimuddi’s visit to Dhaka was not a pleasure trip. He wanted to see the observances of 21st February. It all started when Syed Abdus Sultan, the current khadem of Hazrat Syed Kutubuddin’s mazar, pronounced a fatwa. “Going to the Shaheed Minar on 21st February is akin to puja. Those visiting the memorial will go to hell where seventy thousand snakes will bite them. And, when they feel thirsty, they will be given the poisonous pus of sinners.” At this point, the

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boys admitted cautiously that Kasimuddi had a foul mouth. So, when Kasimuddi heard the fatwa, he protested and called Abdus Sultan his pubic hair. He said, “Listen, Huzur, I have seen people coming to this mazar and prostrating themselves before you. Isn’t this puja too? How come you never warn them of seventy thousand snake bites? I have seen you taking their money willingly. You place your hand on their heads, you bless them, and you ask them to come again because, without your help, they have little chance of securing the next life. You never feel for once that let alone Kutubuddin, all the huzurs and pirs of the world have no power before Hazrat Muhammad (S.A.W.) At those times, you, yourself, Khadem Sultan Saheb, brag about Kutubuddin Baba, the great huzur of Jaleswari in such a way as though no one in this entire world is above him.” Syed Abdus Sultan, the sitting khadem of Syed Kutubuddin’s mazar, replied, “You are a kafir!” Surprising everyone, Kasimuddi retorted, “I am a human being.” The two men then repeated the same dialogue a couple of times, and, as the argument escalated, so did their voices. Finally, Kasimuddi leaped up and announced, “This time, I myself will go to Dhaka on 21st February and I’ll take flowers to the Shaheed Minar. I have seen pictures in the newspapers – how the memorial fills up with flowers and looks like a slice of heaven. I will visit the memorial and give my regards to all the martyrs of our country. Even if I am bitten by seventy thousand snakes in hell, I will have no regrets.” He spoke in his local dialect. As soon as Kasimuddi stormed out, Syed Abdus Sultan declared, “Kasimuddi will have leprosy. You will all witness it. And if he doesn’t get infected with the disease, the sun and the moon will vanish from the sky.”

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Later, Kasimuddi truly went to Dhaka and visited the Shaheed Minar. Surrounded by the crowd of people, he begged to be allowed to stand on the steps of the memorial. We came to know about this from Kasimuddi’s companion, his elder son, Jasimuddi. Jasimuddi told us that a woman came to his father’s rescue, asking him to follow her to the steps of the memorial. Leaving a procession, she guided the duo to the spot. I presume that the woman might have been taking part in a women’s procession of a political party. And, moved by Kasimuddi’s plea, she left the procession for a while and took the father and son to the steps of the memorial so that they could place the flowers. We get to know about the last few hours of Kasimuddi’s life from his son. After they placed the flowers, they went out and bought snacks from a stall in front of the Bangla Academy. Kasimuddi relished the food. He smiled, shook his head, and kept saying, “Yes, seventy thousand snakes will bite me.” Kasimuddi spotted fear in Jasimuddi’s eyes. As they strolled about in Ramna Park, Kasimuddi said to his son, “Why are you getting scared, my child? If snakes in hell do flick their tongues to bite, those mountains of flowers we saw in the memorial will form a wall to protect me from their bites. I couldn’t care less, my son.” Then, in the afternoon, they visited the museum where Kasimuddi told his son that this country of theirs, Bangladesh, was not a new country. He also said that before coming to Dhaka, a local teacher, who came to his shop to buy vegetables, advised him to visit the museum. “You have taunted that Sultan Sahib bravely. What a scoundrel!” said the teacher to him. From Jasimuddi’s narration we learn that he was wandering about the museum with his father. When they entered the Liberation War section, Kasimuddi said, “Son, there was a freedom fighter named Mohiuddin in Jaleswari. The Punjabis stabbed him

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in the stomach, gouged out his eyes and, after torturing him some more, they killed him. I want to go to hell to see how thousands of snakes are biting those Punjabi soldiers.” And then, the major incident took place. They stepped into the room where the ancient coins were displayed. And the story in short is that Kasimuddi let out a shout on seeing a particular coin that both father and son recognized at the same time. It was a silver coin. They had no clue how old it was, but generations of Kasimuddi’s family had safeguarded it. Attaching a loop to the coin, it was made into a pendant for a chain and worn by the eldest daughter of the family. When she got married, she wore her wedding jewellery and took off the pendant which was passed down to the next daughter. Kasimuddi remembered the day when his daughter, Kajli, returned home sobbing her heart out. “Why are you crying, my child?” He came to know that Kajli had gone to play in the garden of the Dak bungalow where a few government officers from Dhaka were staying. One of the officers summoned Kajli and asked her about the coin-pendant, strung on a black thread around her neck. “Where did you get it?” he enquired. Kajli was frightened. “Give me the pendant. I’ll give you money.” Kajli tried to run away. It was getting late. Just then, the man snatched the coin from her neck. Kasimuddi could not summon up courage to go to the Dak bungalow to accost the officers. What if they turned out to be ministers? So many of them came to stay in the Dak bungalow nowadays. Kasimuddi approached a few people who sympathized with him and accompanied him nervously to the bungalow where the guard told them that the sahibs could not be bothered. He made a gesture indicating that they were drinking inside. Having

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heard them out, the guard asked them to come in the morning. If someone had taken his daughter’s thing, he would get it back. At dawn, Kasimuddi went back to the Dak bungalow. He found wheel-tracks on the muddy soil, moistened by the rain of the previous night. There was no sign of the jeep though. The porch of the Dak bungalow was empty. The sahibs from Dhaka were all gone. That had been five years ago. Some people suggested that he should file a case at the police station. A few tried to scare him. “Do you know Zia Sahib, the man with the black sunglasses? If you make a complaint, you will be caned.” Then, on 21st February, when he visited the museum in Dhaka, he suddenly discovered the coin, gleaming within a glass box. It was the same coin that his daughter had worn. The loop was still attached to the coin. The coin still bore the chip on its rim, perhaps the result of the carelessness of one of his ancestors. Kasimuddi let out a cry. We know the rest of the story. There was one thing I didn’t know. The boys informed me that, after hearing about the sad demise of Kasimuddi, Syed Abdus Sultan, the khadem of Hazrat Shah Syed Kutubuddin, addressed the people at the Friday prayer: “Kasimuddi went to the Shaheed Minar. He placed flowers there. Allah has not forgiven him. He took his life as a sign of punishment. No sooner had the poor man laid down the flowers than he came under the wheels of a bus. His life was snatched by Malakul Maut. Listen, Muslim brethren, you should be careful. Be careful, be careful!”

The wary locals of Jaleswari scuttled back home, their heads down. Like each of us, they too have overlooked the fact that one single incident of one man’s life cannot refute the validity of millions of others. From 1952 until this year, millions of people have laid down flowers at the Shaheed Minar and, amongst them,

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only one person has lost his life in an accident, only one, one only. And should we not pay heed to the real reason he got killed: a family heirloom robbed by an educated man from Dhaka, clad in a safari suit and wearing a pair of black sunglasses? After all this, we come to believe that Kasimuddi is another one of our martyrs. Translated from “Aro Ekjon” by Marzia Rahman

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SOHANA MANZOOR is an Associate Professor at the Department of English and Humanities at ULAB. She has a PhD from Southern Illinois University Carbondale. Her area of expertise is nineteenth-century British literature. Her short stories, non-fictions and translations have been published in Kitaab, Asiatic, Borderless, The New Age, The Dhaka Tribune, The Daily Star, Bengal Lights and Six Seasons Review. Currently, she is also the Literary Editor of The Daily Star, Bangladesh.

Sohana Manzoor

THE HAWK WITH GOLD-TIPPED WINGS Everybody in the household was busy. No, not just busy, but extremely busy. Polash’s grandmother had gone to bed later than usual the night before since she had been preparing a feast for her homecoming son. She had also risen very early in the morning and Polash could now hear her yelling at Sakhina’s Ma for not being prompt enough. Tough and sprightly even in her late 70s, the old matriarch still presided over the household, which comprised of her widowed daughter (Polash’s mother), her eldest and youngest sons, their wives, four grandchildren, and two servants. It was her middle son who was arriving today for a long overdue visit. “You were supposed to have done it last night, you lazy wench! What were you thinking?” his grandmother was shouting. Polash heard a mumbled reply, and then his grandmother again: “Shut your mouth. If you talk back, I’ll throw you out of the house!” Polash smiled wryly. He always felt uncomfortable hearing his grandmother utter such threats, even though he knew she would never do so. She was all bark and no bite, and never actually executed any of her threats.

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Well, almost never, he amended. She did turn her elder daughter out when she decided to marry someone she did not approve of. It happened long before Polash was even born, and nobody in the house ever mentioned her name. Polash heard about it from his cousin Tiasha, an inveterate eavesdropper. Polash often wondered what atrocious marriage his aunt had made that he never even got to know her. He had asked his mother after he heard about her last summer. Polash’s mother Nishat had just looked at her son and said, “You’ll know when you grow up.” “Get up, Polash. Why are you still in bed?” His Boro Mami entered the room with a pile of folded bed sheets. She glanced at him with knitted eyebrows, placed the sheets carefully on a chair, and went back to work. Polash sighed and stretched a couple of times like a cat before finally getting up. After completing the morning rituals, he strolled out to observe the chaos in the house. Nobody would probably take much notice of him – everybody being so occupied with Mejo Mama coming. Mejo Mama was his mother’s older brother by two years, and the most brilliant among his siblings. He was a renowned physicist at the CERN in Switzerland. But that wasn’t the only reason why everyone was so excited; it was also because he was visiting Bangladesh after an entire decade. When he was last here in 1993, Polash was just a toddler, so he couldn’t remember much about his famous uncle. He could vaguely remember a spectacled face smiling down at him. But then he was not sure if it was a real memory at all, or the result of stories he heard from his Boro Mami and the photos sent by email. Polash walked through the spiral verandah of their old house in Wari toward the dining room. He bumped into a chair which was out of place, and then realized that the tables and chairs were all out, being given a thorough dusting even though they had been cleaned just yesterday. He was rubbing his knee

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when his stomach growled and he wondered about breakfast, and if he would get any. “Breakfast is in the kitchen, Chhutti.” Polash turned around to find Tonu Bhai brushing his teeth, white foam around his mouth. Tonu was his Boro Mama’s second son. Polash’s eyes widened. “Nanu will kill you. Why aren’t you in the bathroom?” “Bah, she won’t see anything today. Let’s have breakfast and figure out what to do later.” He winked. “No school today since Mejo Chachu’s coming.” Polash nodded. Boro Mami had told him the same thing. And since tomorrow was Friday, they would get a long weekend. Gobbling up the paratha and halwa, Tonu went on, “Oh, have you seen the menu for dinner tonight? They’re making mustard-hilsa, bhuna khichuri, mutton chaap, Dadi’s special coriander chutney, and a bunch of other things. Amma has made her special roshomalai… yum.” Polash nodded. “They’ve been talking about what to cook for a week now. It’s going be serious feasting for the next three days!” Then he added solemnly, “Nanu also invited a couple of other people for lunch tomorrow. Rani will be here too, with her parents.” Tonu hiccupped and spluttered, and eyed Polash suspiciously. “So?” Polash sighed. “Rani told me that you sent her a note with red roses.” Tonu went beet-red. “Why would she tell you that?” he growled. “She told me to tell you that she has it safe, and has not shown it to her mother.” Polash grinned impishly. “She is my friend, and of course she would tell me.” Tonu was suddenly grinning too. Polash felt overwhelmingly protective of this cousin of his. He had failed the S.S.C. exam last

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year, and was preparing to sit for it again. He was not so bad, actually, but had flunked in math. Boro Mama had got really upset that his son had failed in math. Tonu had fled to his maternal grandparents’ place after his results were published, and stayed there until his father’s temper had cooled off. And here was Polash, way ahead in everything. He was barely fourteen and already in tenth grade. He was the youngest in his class, set to appear for the S.S.C. next year. Sometimes Polash thought that probably because he had lost his father at an early age, he saw and thought about things differently from those around him. Now he whispered to his cousin who was three years older than him, “You have to do well this time, Bhaiya. Rani really likes you, you know. But if you want to marry her, you have to do well in your exams. And you are very intelligent – it’s just that you don’t like to study.” Tonu huffed. “Easy for you to say. I’m not brilliant like you. Tomal says you have Mejo Chachu’s brain. Mind it, I’m not jealous of you, but he’s right. You are brilliant.” Polash didn’t reply immediately. He liked to believe that he was like his father, and not like Mejo Mama. His father had been Mejo Mama’s classmate in college. Both of them had gone abroad for their PhDs, but, whereas his father had decided to come back, Mejo Mama had not. His father had worked diligently as a professor of physics at Dhaka University. He had been humble, energetic, and very popular among his students. Some of his former students still came to visit them. However, since Polash didn’t really know his Mejo Mama, he could not comment on this observation which he had heard before. But what he said to Tonu was completely different. “Brilliance is only 20 percent. But 80 percent is hard work. I work hard. My performance has little to do with being brilliant.” Tonu was thoughtful. “I am awful in math,” he confessed. “And Salam sir, the math teacher, scares the hell out of me.” Then

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he added a little shamefacedly, “Will you help me, Chhutti?” Tonu always called him Chhutti. Polash nodded gravely. At this point the cook snapped, “When will you two get out of here? I have work to do.” She had seen them in their nappies, and therefore did not bother being polite around them. Tonu and Polash finished their breakfast hastily and scurried out of the kitchen. On the way downstairs, they saw more bustling. The large room that had belonged to their grandfather and which remained unused throughout the year had been cleaned and the furniture polished. Mejo Mama and Mami were going to stay there. Their daughter Della would take the room usually occupied by Tonu’s sister Tiasha. Tiasha was not very happy about giving up her room to her European cousin, but she complied. She was quite different from her happy-go-lucky brother Tonu, and was always finding faults with people. Right now she was busy washing her combs at the sink in the verandah and making faces at some invisible foe. At the gate, Polash saw his Boro Mama and Chhoto Mama in deep conversation. Apparently, Tomal Bhai was supposed to go to the airport with the driver. But he had gone to a friend’s house last night and got stuck there. He was always helping out people in need. And now he could not be reached as his mobile phone was also switched off. Chhoto Mama was trying to appease his brother. “Relax, Boro Bhai. He’ll be here. The plane lands at 1 pm. It will also take some time at immigration and baggage claim. It’s only 9 in the morning. No need to rush off right away.” Polash’s Boro Mama was a doctor, and Polash often wondered if he knew anything beyond his hospital, chamber, and patients. He was also absentminded about everything but his work. Using shaving cream for toothpaste and yelling about its bitter taste was a regular occurrence. As it usually is, the wives have to make up

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for their inefficient husbands, and sure enough, Boro Mami was a strong-willed and resourceful woman. It was Boro Mami and Nanu who kept the household running smoothly. Polash’s mother, Nishat, had changed since her husband’s death. She used to be a spirited and vivacious personality. She was also a singer. But after being widowed twelve years ago, she withdrew into herself and stopped singing altogether. Only on certain rainy days Polash could hear her humming in the small verandah outside her room. *** When Mejo Mama finally arrived with his wife and daughter, it was after 5 o’clock in the afternoon. The youngsters, Polash, Tiasha and Tonu, had eaten their lunch, but everyone else was waiting for the guests. Tomal had received them at the airport after all, and he proudly presented his guests to the assembled crowd. Yes, the traffic was terrible, but, finally, they were home. Mejo Mama looked a lot like Boro Mama, noticed Polash, except that he was leaner and fairer. He was also clean shaved, whereas Boro Mama had a moustache. He looked around the house and smiled. “You haven’t changed anything. . . the house is still the same. Amma, do you remember how the three of us used to slide down that banister? Nisha was too young then. And she used to shake her fist at us.” He laughed heartily. After they had rested and eaten several courses, Mejo Mama and Mami sat down in the drawing room to chat. They thanked Nanu and Boro Mami profusely for the feast they had prepared, and talked wistfully of not having had such delicious hilsa and bhuna khichuri for so many years. They could not even think of mutton chaap where they lived. It is a distinctive delicacy of old Dhaka. And Boro Mami’s roshomalai was absolutely the best – better than what was available at the best sweetmeat shops in the city. Soon Della went off to bed, feeling tired and jet-lagged. But

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everybody else was in the drawing room, and Polash was mutely observing the brilliant and mythical uncle he had heard so much about. His Mejo Mami had been looking at Polash curiously, and finally said, “He looks exactly like Abeer Bhai, doesn’t he?” Mejo Mama sighed. “Yes, he looks like Abeer. Not much of Nisha in him, is there?” he said thoughtfully. “And his eyes are just as bright. . . .” His voice trailed off. “We ought to take him with us. He deserves a better education. What’s the point of living here?” Mejo Mami asked. Boro Mami said quietly, “He’ll go when the time comes. I’m sure he will go abroad for higher studies at some point.” “I think this is the prime time,” said Mejo Mama. “He should be out of this country as soon as possible. If he is anything like his father, he’ll find excuses to come back. But his mind is still fresh, and he’ll be able to adapt better now to a foreign school system.” “He is only a tenth-grader,” protested Chhoto Mama. “At least let him complete his HSC. He needs to know about his country, too.” “What’s in this country, eh?” Mejo Mama almost barked. “It’s a swamp. All you have is pollution, corruption, power outage, murder and blasted traffic jams! Don’t tell me about your high ideas. You’ve not seen Abeer’s golden hawk lately, have you?” he sneered. Suddenly, everybody went very quiet, and Polash froze. Was that the hawk he was talking about? But the hawk was not golden; it was supposed to be deep brown with gold-tipped wings. Mejo Mami tried to lighten up the atmosphere: “It’s a matter of choice, dear. You cannot really impose on others about where and how to live their lives.” “And look where Abeer ended with his choice,” said Mejo Mama in a gruff voice. “Killed in a car accident in his prime, at age 37. No, he was murdered, I should say. The driver was

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some minister’s drunken son. And he went scot-free. When there were demands for his arrest, he was sent abroad by his influential father.” Polash went numb. What was Mejo Mama talking about? He knew his father had been killed in a car accident. But the rest he did not know. His mother, who was sitting quietly in a corner, raised her head to look at her son, but did not say anything. His Boro Mami interrupted the awkward silence. “We should send the children to bed. It’s getting late,” she said firmly. At this point, Boro Mama stepped in. He looked at his wife sombrely and shook his head. “No, Sonali. I think Polash needs to know. He’s not a child anymore.” He looked at Polash sadly but steadily, and said, “Your father was one of the most brilliant scientists in Bangladesh. He was also one of those very few who chose to return home in spite of a great future abroad. He was a great intellectual and a wonderful teacher. His death was untimely, unwarranted. It shouldn’t have happened the way it did. But we are all very proud of him.” Polash suddenly had a very tight feeling in his chest. Was it pain? Pride? He didn’t understand. How was he supposed to feel at this revelation? Shouldn’t they have told him earlier? Killed in a road accident! And the driver went scot-free? His Mejo Mama said, “I only want the best for him. I don’t want him to end up like his father. There’s so much he can do and learn.” He looked around the room at all of them. “I cared a lot for Abeer too. He was my best friend,” he said quietly. Polash’s grandmother opened her mouth at last, “Let Polash complete his HSC first. Then we will discuss it again.” All this while, Polash’s mother, Nishat, did not utter a single word, as if the future of her son did not concern her at all. ***

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A few days later Tiasha confided in Polash that she did not like Della. “She’s so artificial. Look at the way she shrugs and bounces her hair,” observed Tiasha. Then she lowered her voice, “And I’m sure that she’s not a good student either. Della says she is going to attend a modeling school... Can you believe it?” asked a wideeyed Tiasha. Polash did not know how to respond to such information. So he asked, “Are you jealous?” Tiasha glared at him. “Why should I be jealous? I don’t want to wear mini-skirts and strut down a catwalk.” Polash laughed. “So, I suppose you are jealous. But why? I thought you wanted to be a writer.” “I do.” Tiasha held her head high, and waved her right hand in a dramatic way. “I do want to be a writer. There are so many things to write about. Even in our family there are so many stories.” She lowered her voice. “Did you know Mejo Chachi had a crush on your dad?” “Now, where did you get that idea from?” Polash was totally taken aback. “I listen, of course,” Tiasha replied imperiously. “Mejo Chachi’s father was a professor who taught both Mejo Chachu and your dad. She was crazy about your father. He was so handsome and brilliant too. Did Phuppi ever tell you that he was called ‘Prince Charming’ by his classmates? But after his PhD, instead of rushing into the arms of the lovely daughter of his former professor as everyone expected, he met Nisha Phuppi and fell in love with her. So Mejo Chachi had to settle for her father’s other brilliant student. But, apparently, she was devastated, and didn’t talk to Nisha Phuppi for years, even after she was married to Mejo Chachu. On the other hand, she always wanted to settle abroad, which your father didn’t, so perhaps Mejo Chachu was the better choice for her, anyway.”

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“Where do you get to hear these tales?” asked a wondering and smiling Polash. “I listen when people talk,” shrugged Tiasha, imitating her foreign cousin. “You have to if you aspire to be a writer. Ammu and Chhoto Chachi were talking. They thought I was asleep.” Polash smiled. Trust Tiasha to be an eavesdropper. “You don’t believe me!” accused his cousin with her lips pouting. “I write stories, but I don’t make them up. They are real.” Then her tone changed, “It’s good that Mejo Chachi wants to take you to Switzerland. Perhaps she’ll get you married to Della. Then you’ll suffer, because she is a dull-witted, stupid girl!” She added the last sentence with spite. Polash started to laugh helplessly while Tiasha stormed off. Even though he shrugged off Tiasha’s blabbering, Polash could not help watching Mejo Mami furtively when she was around. She was a charming lady, elegant and poised. Yet something about her made Polash uncomfortable. She was polite with everybody, and laughed and chatted with her sisters-inlaw. But Polash felt that, in a subtle way, she tried to hold herself superior to others. For example, when Boro Mami was serving her roshomalai, Mejo Mami bit delicately into one of the syrupy balls and said laughing, “I was never very good at cooking. But time passes fast for me. Three evenings I spend walking the dog. And there’s so much to do around the house. Also, Shahed prefers it that way.” She shrugged like her daughter and turned to Nishat who was reading in a corner of the room. “I see you still read a lot, Nisha.” Nishat just nodded and continued reading. Mejo Mami sighed and said, “There are a lot of books in the house, but I just don’t get time. And my cooking is not great, but edible. But, still, I have a busy schedule.” All she had left out was to say that she had done very well for herself, thought Polash.

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Chhoto Mami, who kept silent most of the time, suddenly smiled brightly. “Everybody has a hobby. Nisha Apa’s is reading, Boro Bhabi’s is cooking. For myself, I love making dolls. I’m sure you have something too. Is it still chatting on the phone?” Polash was surprised to see two bright red spots in Mejo Mami’s cheeks, and his Boro Mami started humming. He thought he saw Mejo Mami narrowing her eyes just a little, and then she laughed and looked away. He wondered what they were all aiming at. He also suddenly realized that neither of his two aunts was particularly fond of Mejo Mami. And there was some kind of verbal fencing going on which he could not quite catch. Whatever had happened years ago, his aunts seemed to have remembered and memorized well. But what he could not fathom was why Chhoto Mami did not like Mejo Mami. She had been married to Chhoto Mama for only about four years, so she had not been in the family very long. Was there anything else going on? Polash stepped out into the backyard, pondering the mysteries of his household. He still had not figured out what to do with the information regarding his father. The arrival of Mejo Mama and his family was certainly bringing a lot of hidden things to light. Polash looked at the gloomy sky and wondered if he could take a rickshaw to school the next day instead of taking the car. He did not enjoy being dubbed his grandmother’s pet. He knew those kids were just jealous and petty, but it hurt nevertheless. He also knew that even if he did not take the car, they would find some other means of taunting him. He was a loner in his class, being the youngest and the brightest. There were only a few like Rani who were friendly towards him. But they treated him as a little brother or a genius, and not as a peer. He felt uneasy either way. ***

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A couple of days later, Polash sat quietly in the veranda, wrapped in his own thoughts. The sky was clear that evening, the stars were out, and the night was very still. He heard Mejo Mama and Nanu talking. “Did you know that Isha is in the US now?” he heard Mejo Mama saying. “I don’t know anything about her,” replied his grandmother. “She is. I met her some three years ago. And we’ve met up a couple of times since then.” Polash’s grandmother did not say anything. He ploughed on, “It’s been years, Amma. You should forget and forgive.” “I don’t want to discuss her,” replied a stern voice. “Amma, she’s your daughter.” “Exactly. That’s why I can’t forgive.” “It has been such a long time! Okay, so she married a Pakistani. Not all Pakistanis are bad, you know. Whatever happened in ’71, happened during warfare. I’ve friends and colleagues who are from Pakistan. And some of them are really nice folks.” Nanu was silent for some time. Then she replied in a quiet voice. “Shahed, you condemn Bangladesh for killing Abeer, but you are willing to forgive your father’s murderers?” There was a pause, and she continued. “Well, I can’t accept that a daughter of mine chose to marry one of them. Ishrat has made her choice. She has to live with that. Just as I have to live with mine.” “How can a mother be so heartless, Amma?” Mejo Mama accused her with pain in his voice. “I told Isha that I would reunite her with the family.” Nanu remained silent a while again. “I’m sorry, but you made a promise you didn’t have the right to make.” “And what about you making the choice for everybody?” cried her son in an agonized voice. “Don’t we have a say in this? How can you just erase your own flesh and blood like that?” Silence.

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“At least tell me that you still love her.” His mother refused to answer. Polash’s mind was in turmoil. Did things have to be so complicated? He didn’t know who to talk to. He wished Tomal Bhai was around. Even though he often treated Polash in a highhanded way, Polash still remembered how he always stood up for him in the playground. But he was away at his friend’s house again. And Tonu was a hopeless case. These days his brain was full of visions of Rani. Polash almost felt like telling him that this was only calf love. In a year or two both of them would forget each other. As Boro Mami said, it was part of growing up. Polash was taken aback to learn that Boro Mami knew about Tonu Bhaiya’s infatuation. But his Mami was probably the one more surprised when Polash mumbled that nothing would come of it and she did not need to worry. After grilling Polash for about ten minutes she let him go while shaking her head. “You are such a precocious child! What are we going to do with you?” He decided to approach the one person who he thought could set his heart at ease. She was embroidering blue and white flowers on a black shawl. She looked up at him questioningly. “Why didn’t anyone tell me? You could have told me.” “There is a time for everything, son. You wouldn’t have understood. You would have been angry and resentful.” “I’m still confused.” “I understand.” “But you still won’t explain. . . I mean, why. . . ?” His heart was full of questions, but he could not articulate a single one. He wanted to bury his face in his mother’s lap. But Nishat avoided physical contact, and so he just stood before her and stared with tears brimming in his eyes. “Ma, O Ma!” his heart screamed. Nishat looked at the half-formed blue lotus on the shawl. “He loved his work and his students. His dream was to build up

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a really good laboratory for research in Bangladesh. And you, you were the embodiment of his hawk with gold-tipped wings, the spirit of freedom.” She looked up at him and smiled. “Death comes to everyone. But we should all do what we want to do, Polash. Don’t ever let anyone else make decisions for you.” She paused and whispered, “You don’t have to accept everything that your loved ones believe in. Learn to be responsible, but also free. Free to make your own choices.” Polash suddenly felt as if he was seeing his mother for the first time. It was a strange sensation – really seeing her. He had always thought that his mother was different, but isn’t that what every child thinks? Now he knew that he was right. Her pure spirit glowed in her eyes with an intensity and effulgence he had never seen before. It was almost too much to bear. When Polash stepped out, he could hear her humming, “Shokatore oi kadichhe shokolay, shono shono pita….Everyone is crying in so much pain, O listen, O Father....” He wondered what father was there for the million suffering souls of his country. His parents believed in great things. Free will suddenly seemed like a burden to his fourteen-year-old shoulders. *** A week later, it was time for his Mejo Mama, Mami, and Della to leave. As the good-byes were said, everybody hugged and cried and laughed at the same time. Mejo Mama left Polash a very costly watch, and winked at him. “Until next time,” he said. The watch was too big for him and Nanu thought it was too grand for a young boy. He might wear it when he went to university. Polash watched them taking leave. Tiasha was with him, gnawing on a guava. “She’s still jealous, you know!” she commented.

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Polash looked at her. “Who? I thought you’re jealous,” he smiled mischievously. Tiasha gave him a reproachful look. “I was talking about Mejo Chachi. She is jealous of Phuppi – your mom.” “You and your fanciful stories!” Polash sighed. Then he asked half-teasingly. “And who told you that?” Tiasha shrugged. “No one. I guessed as much. After all Nisha Phuppi got what she had wanted. She still sees it that way.” Polash looked over his twelve-year-old cousin carefully. Tiasha stopped chewing, and said, “She always wanted to marry your dad. If he had not married Phuppi, she would have liked to marry him even though he stayed in Bangladesh. But since she could not, she settled for the second best. Women like her don’t like to lose, but have to marry, you see.” “And Boro Mami thinks I’m the precocious one,” muttered Polash to himself. “So, what will you do?” asked Tiasha. “About what?” asked Polash absent-mindedly. “About going to Switzerland, of course,” replied Tiasha, rolling her eyes. And then she winked. “You should make your own decisions.” Polash glowered at her. “Do you have to eavesdrop everywhere?” Tiasha said something indiscernible, and loped off laughing Now that the guests were gone, Polash went up to the rooftop to be by himself. He felt restless. He thought of his grandmother and her old-fashioned, stern, arrogant, and protective ways. He surely loved his grandmother, but at the same time, he felt a rush of emotion for his banished aunt whom he had never seen. He promised to himself that he would find her some day and bring her home. He smiled as he thought of his Boro Mama and his

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forgetful blunders. He thought affectionately of his cousins: lovesick, math-phobic Tonu Bhaiya; Tomal Bhaiya who looked out for him at school and fended off bullies; Tiasha and her silly girlish antics. He loved them all. And of course, he adored his mother and her quiet, reserved ways, even though his heart yearned for more. His thoughts turned to the mysterious hawk with goldtipped wings. What was that elusive creature, and where was it to be found? Did such a thing really exist? He gazed at the sky, as though straining to see a small dark speck somewhere among the clouds. The drifting clouds seemed to him a hundred different things: a face, a pillow, an ice-cream cone, a castle, a chariot, the head of a dragon. They grew stranger and more fantastic the longer he looked. In the boy’s imagination, the hawk was magnificent but also terrifying. It could leave a man dead, a woman scarred, a family torn apart. But Polash knew it was his legacy – his father’s legacy. You must be free, his mother had said. The boy stood alone in the glowing twilight, and, even as a band of sweat blossomed on his forehead, he was not afraid. The hawk was somewhere just beyond his field of vision, he was sure – preening, watching, and waiting for him.

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ANISUL HOQUE Associate Editor of the Daily Prothom Alo, is also a novelist, poet, and playwright. He is the author of more than a hundred books, including novels, collections of short stories and collections of poems. He has written screenplays of three feature films. The film On the Wings of Dreams, written by him, won the Best Young Director Award at the Shanghai Film Festival in 2007. He was nominated for the best screen-play award in Asia Pacific Screen Awards 2014 for the film Television. He is the editor of monthly Kishor Alo, for young people. He is a fellow of International Writing Program, IWP, University of Iowa, USA. His works have been translated into English, Spanish, Japanese, Orya, Persian, Arabic and Hindi. HarperCollins published the translation of his novel, Ayeshamangal as The Ballad of Ayesha (2018). For his contribution to literature, he received the Bangla Academy Sahitya Puroshkar in 2011.

Anisul Hoque

ONE OF THOSE NIGHTS: NINETY-ONE I am standing in the veranda of Sheba Clinic. He will be here to visit Satya Da at half past nine. The month of Bhadra has just started; the evening now seems more like one in autumn – the skies are clear. A rickshaw stops in front of the clinic at 29 past nine. I come down from the balcony and stand by the rickshaw. Dada Bhai has never in his lifetime reached an appointment even one second late. Rather, he has always been one minute early – this habit of his was proven true once more today. Dada Bhai asks me, “How is Satya Babu?” “Good.” Fulltime party member Sadek accompanies Dada Bhai. Sadek and I help Dada Bhai off the rickshaw, and support him as he climbs up the steps. It seems as if all of the insects in the world are circling around the light hanging from the veranda ceiling. There is a strong smell of the by-now-familiar phenyl pervading the air. I lean close to Dada Bhai and say, “But Dada Bhai, I am not doing well at all. You might even call my state deplorable.”

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Silver-haired Dada Bhai, in his long jelaba, asks me with eyes full of apprehension, “What has happened to you?” I have kept the answer ready for him. “I can’t sleep at night. My ears ring from Satya Da’s incessant talk. He keeps me awake all night with his stories. He asks me things like ‘How can Perestroika be true Marxism?’ I have to listen to many other stories. I have to respond with a ‘Hu’ after every statement he makes. On top of that I have to ask him ‘And then?’ after every three statements. I can’t even pretend to have paid attention as there is nothing else to do but listen to his lectures. I haven’t slept for three days and three nights in a row. I listen to his gibberish all the time and comment ‘Hu’ and ‘Ha’.” Dada Bhai looks at me. For three whole days and nights I have been doing duty at the clinic, looking after Satya Da, that is, Satyendranath Dutta. As a junior member of the party, it has become my duty to become the unwell veteran revolutionary Satyendranath Dutta’s attendant at the clinic. I truly have not slept a wink in the past three days – the reason why my hair is unkempt. Dada Bhai is the party president. Everyone in the party calls him “Dada Bhai,” so I do too. His experienced and ancient eyes see the truth behind the young party-worker’s words. With concern in his voice, he says, “You must then be replaced by someone else, but it is not possible tonight.” Dada Bhai has come from the party office to pay a brief visit to his revolutionary comrade and friend in war. We both know that it is not possible to get a substitute so late at night. I get a new idea. I say, “Dada Bhai, Satya Da is not supposed to talk at all – doctor’s orders – but he does not listen. The old man is not in his senses. You could tell him that the party has decided that he should speak as little as possible.” Dada Bhai looks at me scornfully. It is clear from his face that he does not like playing with party decisions. Naturally, he

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will not be fond of such ideas – he is the party president after all. Even though the position is more of a trophy than anything else, as old age has crept up on him, rendering him fairly disabled, his contribution to the party and to the nation has been so great that inducting anyone else to the post is unthinkable. It is obvious that such suggestions will seem stupid to him. We open the door and enter cabin 23. Satya Da is lying in one of the two beds in the small cabin. I pull the single chair in the room towards his bed. Dada Bhai sits and extends his hand to clasp Satya Babu’s hand. He utters softly, “Comrade.” Satya Da opens his eyes and lifts his head. “Comrade, why did you take the trouble to come so late at night?” Dada Bhai reaches into his khaddar bag and brings out around a dozen bananas. I place them on the table by the bed. Satya Da finds a new reason to start his lectures. “Why did you have to buy so many bananas at once? When purchasing fruit, you always do it in pairs. Buying so many together means they all will ripen together and most of them will go waste. I do not see any reason why more than one banana should be consumed daily. Who will now eat all of these twelve bananas? Communists must never waste . . . .” After each statement, he asks, “Did you understand?” Dada Bhai keeps on saying “Yes, yes.” The lecture does not seem to end. Satya Da is notorious for his ability to give lectures. He had led one of the training camps back in 1971. The food was carefully rationed in that camp. Satya Da had specifically instructed the person who used to distribute the food, “Always fill the spoon to its fullest capacity while doling out the first spoon of rice. Give them one quarter of the spoon the second time, but make it look like as if you are bringing out the rice from the depths of the pot – as if it’s still a full spoon of rice. Half the hunger of a human being comes from within his stomach while the other

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half is his imagination. Notice how, if you follow this method, no one will have gone hungry and you will have saved a lot of food at the same time.” The method really worked. There was never a shortage of food in that camp throughout the whole war. On top of that, he had brought back ample supply of rice, pulses and firewood in truckloads back to the country. Dada Bhai is listening to Satya Da, who is talking nonstop, not giving Dada Bhai a single chance. It is getting late. Dada Bhai has to return home, but Satya Da is not letting go of him. He is clasping him with both his hands, blabbering on about the true communist’s role. “Tell me, comrade, how many items of clothing do you possess? We are revolutionaries! Tell me, does it become us to own two different sets of clothes, does it? All our lives, we have taken off our clothes, washed them ourselves, dried them in the air under the sun, and then put them back on. Have I said anything untrue here?” Sadek and I have come out onto the balcony of the cabin. There has been much agitation going on in the Soviet Union for the past two days. There is only one piece of news in the papers: Communist bigots have forced Gorbachev to abdicate. I asks Sadek, “If the bigots are going to take power, then why are they saying that the vice-president will take over as Gorbachev is ill?” Meanwhile, Satya Da is rambling on non-stop though his doctors have strictly said that he should not speak at all. He had developed a throat infection – his vocal chords needed absolute rest. By now Dada Bhai has understood the importance of my suggestion and says, “Comrade, I have come here to deliver important orders from the party today.” Maybe Satya Da feels that he has to stop talking for a while, for he has gone absolutely quiet on receiving the news. We are intently hanging on to the conversation that is unfolding.

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We enter the cabin. Sadek says, “Let us go now, Dada Bhai. It’s very late.” After seeing Sadek and Dada Bhai off downstairs, I come back to the cabin with a guilty feeling. But there is no reason to feel guilty; the white lie was necessary to protect Satya Da. Calling me close, he starts to complain, “Hah! The party has decided that I can’t speak anymore. Hah! We are not communists any more. Only they are communists! Our party finds it important to pry into the private lives of their members as well.” Truth be told, the party members really do not have any private lives of their own as they are all dedicated towards the well-being of the party, of the country, of the people. I had attended a party meeting once, while stationed in Natore where the agenda was “Is revolutionary Kamruddin an asset for the party or a liability?” The revolutionary was 75 years old then, nearly blind, did not have an income of his own, and barely lived on the pension given to him from the party. The party had to provide a fulltime member to look after him on a daily basis. Kamruddin was present at the meeting that day, being one of the zila committee members. It was decided at the meeting that he was no longer an asset to the party, but a liability. Even back then we all had known that Kamruddin’s father, Shamsuddin Choudhury, was a zamindar from the area. Even after the zamindari system had come to an end, commoners from the area were not allowed to walk across the threshold or in front of their house with shoes on or with umbrellas over their heads. The young Kamruddin had sacrificed his status and wealth, cut off ties with his family, and first joined the anti-British movement and then the movement for equal rights. His relatives were alive and were mostly well off. One of his nephews had even wanted to take him and care for him at his own residence. Kamruddin would not hear of it and did not accept.

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The veteran revolutionaries that we had were of such strength, they were made of steel – not soft iron. Our present leaders are all very intelligent. They have every luxury in their houses: colour television, fridges, sofas, carpets – everything. Party workers who visit these leaders’ houses do not want to return a second time because of their hypocritical attitude. Various questions arise in our minds because of these reasons. A rebellion rises within me every now and then. I cannot continue to lie through my teeth explaining to other party members how we need communism so that they too can enjoy the same luxuries that the leaders are enjoying. “Jashim, come here,” calls Satya Da. “Sit beside me.” I sit in the chair beside his bed. The burden of the lie has somehow hypnotized me to take the seat. “Tell me, Jashim, are we not communists? Tell me, are we not?” “Yes, Dada, we are communists.” “Then why does the party want to shut me up?” I am very sleepy. My whole body is giving in to tiredness. I lean close to Satya Da’s ear and tell him, “Dada, you are transgressing the party discipline. You are speaking even when you have been asked not to.” Satya Da falls silent and quietly lets go off my hand. Lying down in the other bed, I notice that Satya Da is completely silent. Though it is very late at night, I am unable to sleep with the thoughts circling in my head. This one man had made many sacrifices for the party, for its principles, for one dream. Can anyone deny the amount of sweat and effort Satya Da had expended for this party, for its principles? It had been so long ago, sometime towards the beginning of the 20th century, that he had heeded to the calls as an adolescent boy, joined the revolution raging in the country. He had witnessed its processions standing in the doorway of his primary school. As

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Anisul Hoque

soon as he enrolled in high school, he had swiftly joined a rebel group, becoming a very active member. He was put behind bars for nearly four years. Then he had given up the path of terrorism and taken up Marxism and Leninism. He had been in and out of jail innumerable times. He had spent thirty years of his life in solitary confinement. He had always been moving from one place to another. He had lived in a fisherman’s hut in Sandwip and then in a tea garden in Sylhet, joining in any and every revolt he saw taking place. And even through all of that, he never flinched from the weight of all the tyranny, all the intolerable harassments, the insurmountable mental pressure, even when all of his family and relatives left and crossed the border finding life uncertain if they stayed back. Only he remained on this land, filled with dreams of independence of the people, unfaltering in his stance, in his cause. He is now bedridden in this clinic, without family, without anyone to look after him. The revolutionaries used to think of marriage as a luxury. Even at present, when members are taken in as full-timers in our party, they have to obtain permission from the seniors to get married. The marriage is scrutinized before being sanctioned to ensure that the party member getting married does not forget his duty to the party or give his marriage priority over the party. It seems as if Satya Da is already asleep. He has not uttered one word. I raise my head to observe if he is truly sleeping. The light in the room has been turned off. The strict accountant Satya Da does not keep the light on unless absolutely necessary. Even then, the light from the balcony falls on his eyes through the open window. He is awake, but is not speaking. The orders of the party hold great value for him. These veterans had all sacrificed their happiness but wanted recognition. However, what is happening in Russia where all their principles were born? They are announcing new agendas through

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Perestroika and Glasnost, saying the communist way of Stalin was inhuman. They are saying that, behind the scenes, the Soviet Union is actually empty and void. The word “communism” was dropped from the Soviet name last year. They said Perestroika and Glasnost represented true Marxism, and now they have discarded Marxism and Leninism. And I cannot even start to explain all that has been going around in my party recently. The love for the party had turned into a chronic disease for some of the members. There was a professor in the University of Chittagong, not long back, who used to scout for meritorious boys eligible for the party. He had devised methods by which these good students would fail to appear for their exams. By not passing out of the university and making a living on their own, they would have to remain within the party forever. Success comes not from individual prosperity, but from redemption of the oppressed! But the professor had been exiled from the party folds. I don’t know when I dozed off, but I am awakened by Satya Da’s summons. He is calling, “Jashim, Jashim, get up! We have to go rob the police station! We have to join the rebels! We need arms!” I am startled and say, “What are you saying, Dada?” I wonder if he is having a dream, but he ends up saying, “No, Jashim. The party secretary has told me of the fund crisis. Let’s go! We need arms!” “Dada, maybe you were just dreaming,” I start to say. “Please calm down.” “Calm down? Why should I calm down?” “It’s the central party’s decision. Dada, you are breaking the party discipline once again.” Satya Da grows silent. I fall asleep once more. It is pretty late when I wake up from my slumber. I am embarrassed. The sun is high in the sky.

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Anisul Hoque

It can simply be said that Satya Da does not sleep at night. And if he does, he always wakes up early in the morning. His motto is “Less sleep, more work.” I open the door to pick up the newspaper. The paper is lying there neatly and unopened. I can read the headlines: “Gorbachev brought down,” “Yeltsin the real hero,” “Yeltsin addresses millions standing atop a tank,” etc. I am taken aback after reading: “Citizens have vandalized Lenin’s effigy.” Satya Da will want to know what has happened. It is one of my duties to read the news to him. I go back inside, contemplating on whether or not to keep the news secret from him. Satya Da’s eyes are closed, his lips black as carbon. Surprisingly, he is not saying one word – he has finally remembered the orders of the party. I put my hand on his forehead. It is cold. I understand that the revolutionary Satyendranath Dutta has accepted the decision of the party for all eternity. He will never speak again. Translated from “Ekti Ratri 1991” by Hasan Ameen Salahuddin

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NIAZ ZAMAN who retired from the University of Dhaka, is at present Advisor, Department of English and Modern Languages, Independent University, Bangladesh. Her significant publications are The Art of Kantha Embroidery and the award-winning A Divided Legacy: The Partition in Selected Novels of India, Pakistan and Bangladesh, the first booklength study on the subject. She is also a creative writer. Her story, “The Dance,” won an award in the First Asiaweek Short Story Competition and is included in her first collection of short stories: The Dance and Other Stories. She has also written the novel A Different Sita, about the Liberation War of Bangladesh. Among her other awards are the Bangla Academy Award for Translation (2016) and the Anannya Sahitya Puroshkar (2013).

Niaz Zaman

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Perhaps she should have worried more, she thought, as she read Surah Yasin over and over again, the lines in her head running before her eyes could follow the Arabic script in front of her. It is the surah that Muslims read or recite from memory when someone is very ill or dying. The reading and recitation do not always bring the dying back to life, but one consoles oneself by saying that it was God’s wish and that the recitation eased the passing of the dying man or woman. Perhaps she should have worried when Nafis started growing his beard – just a small one. Like most men from their area, Nafis and his father did not have much facial hair. She remembered how, as a small boy, Nafis used to stand on a stool next to his father in the bathroom and watch Nasir shave. Nasir would sometimes smear a little of the shaving lather on Nafis’s face and, after he had finished shaving, would use the back of his comb to “shave” Nafis. How delighted Nafis used to be, to feel all grown up.

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And after father and son had finished shaving, Nasir would splash some aftershave on his son’s face, as well. She still remembered how her father had smelled after his shave. But no one used Old Spice anymore. “When will I be able to shave?” Nafis would ask. And Nasir would laugh. “You don’t want to start shaving,” he would say. “Because once you start, you will have to shave every day. But perhaps we men from Feni are lucky. Perhaps it is the Mongolian blood that gives us these ‘chhagla dari,’ these straggly goat beards.” She remembered how Nasir had given Nafis his first shaving kit – replete with aftershave and balm – on his fourteenth birthday. Then father and son shaved together, standing in front of the bathroom mirror. “Wouldn’t it have been better just to trim it with scissors,” she had asked. “It’ll start to grow faster,” she added, “and he will have to shave every day.” “Not if he has my blood in him,” Nasir had replied. “I don’t think he will have to shave regularly until he is twenty or twentyone. That’s how old I was when I had to shave regularly. And the real reason I started shaving was because I had started working and couldn’t go into work with a seven o’clock shadow at nine in the morning.” But when Nafis was twenty, he had started to keep his beard, the “chhagla dari” they had laughed at years ago. Of course, he had trimmed it so it was just a little dark fuzz on his chin. Where had things gone wrong, she wondered, as the words of the surah tripped off her tongue. Where had she and Nasir failed? She hadn’t been able to have any more children after Nafis. An incompetent, nervous doctor had attended her rather than the gynaecologist to whom she had gone during her entire pregnancy. So she had had to give up the idea of a brother or sister for Nafis. But what a loving, happy child he had been! He almost more than made up for the absence of other children.

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She remembered how her mother had smeared a little smidgen of pure Sundarban honey on Nafis’s tiny tongue. “To sweeten his tongue,” her mother said, “so that only sweet and loving words emerge from his mouth.” Other new mothers had told her that doctors frowned upon this age-old practice, believing honey could make a newborn ill. But nothing happened to Nafis and afterward she wondered whether the reason for the honey was not really to sweeten the mouth but to help clear the infant bowels. She had been lucky that Nafis slept through the nights, unlike other babies whose mothers claimed that they did not have a wink of sleep at night because the babies had not only remained awake the whole night but screamed most of it. And even when they had finally fallen asleep and been put back to bed, they had woken up and insisted on being carried and walked about the whole night. Nafis had been a delightful child, growing up plump and cuddly, always with a loving smile for everyone, even strangers. And she had worried that he would not fear anyone and even allow himself to be picked up and kidnapped. So, unlike other children, whose ayahs and maids took them out in the afternoons, Nafis stayed in the verandah playing with his toys or going out only with his mother or father. When he was about three, like the mothers of other threeyear-olds, she had striven to get him into the best nursery school in Dhaka, perhaps in the whole of Bangladesh. She had been lucky when Nafis was admitted to one of the top English medium schools in Dhaka. She remembered how Nasir would drop off the two of them on his way to work. Because they lived in Banani, she had not gone back home but waited with the other mothers outside the school, under the shed that the school had thoughtfully provided for mothers who had to wait for their children. Though it should have taken half an hour from

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Banani to Dhanmondi, where the school was located, because of the increasing traffic on the roads, the trip could take an hour or more. With the short school hours for playgroup children, there had been no point in going back home. She had tried to run errands instead of just waiting like the other mothers did. Of course, many of them also found things to do other than gossip. They knitted, shared patterns and recipes, and a number of them had also got together to supply snacks to the school canteen. One day, when she had been waiting outside the gate, the principal had passed by and picked up a conversation with her. The school had been looking for a mathematics teacher – somehow mathematics teachers didn’t seem to stay for long. Learning that she had completed her masters in mathematics, the principal had asked her whether she would be interested in teaching the middle school children. She took the job, after convincing Nasir that the house would not be neglected and that she would have something to do instead of just waiting or gossiping with other mothers. When many of her university classmates started to work after their examinations, she had gotten married; thoughts of working had been far from her mind. Teaching ten- to twelve-year-olds had been difficult at the beginning, but she got used to teaching, relearning many of the things she had studied and learning the new methods that were now required. Nafis had to stay a little longer after class while she finished her classes and completed other duties that were occasionally required. As Nafis’s schooldays became longer, so did hers. She had always thought that once Nafis finished his O Levels, she would stop teaching and go back to being a full-time housewife instead of a part-time one. But she had been persuaded to stay. She had quite enjoyed the hours spent outside the house, and she had made good friends with some of the other teachers. The extra money, too, had been welcome. The house seemed to

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run by itself. She had always seen to it that her staff were the best she could get so that she did not have to rush home like many other working women to prepare lunch or dinner. With Nafis grown up, there was also much less work. In his senior classes, Nafis had started having his own friends, spending time with them outside school hours. All parents of teenagers worried about drugs. She and Nasir worried, too, but Nafis used to laugh. He told them that he would never do drugs. He liked playing football, being in the open, not hidden in a dark room and back alley injecting or smoking injurious substances. The school had started offering A Levels a couple of years ago, but Nafis had opted to take courses with tutors – as many of his friends were doing – and sit the exams privately. The A Level coaching classes were in the evening, often ending late at night. Was that when things started to go wrong? she wondered, as she came to the end of the surah. She had lost count of the number of times she had read Surah Yasin. What did it matter how many times she read it? Why did people at quls, the Muslim ritual three days after someone’s death, always note the numbers of times the Quran had been read, Surah Yasin completed, or the first kalma recited? She had always found it senseless that a person engrossed in counting the tasbih would raise her finger and insist that the young girl who was keeping a tally write down the number of times she had recited the kalma. For Nafis’s nineteenth birthday Nasir had given him a laptop. Before that he had a computer but grumbled that everyone his age had a laptop. Was that the beginning? The laptop and the hours that he spent alone in his room? The maid complained that Nafis had his breakfast very late, often skipping it altogether to have lunch with his mother when she returned from school. They would let him sleep late on weekends, and it would be lunchtime when Nafis would show up at the dining table. She didn’t remember having had breakfast with Nafis in a long time.

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Nasir did not pray regularly – though she did. Nor did Nasir go to Friday prayers at the mosque. He would go on the two Eids and made it a point at least once every Ramzan to offer iftar at the neighbourhood mosque and arrange a prayer and a meal at an orphanage on his father’s death anniversary. Then, one Friday, Nafis had surprised them by appearing in his white, spotless kurta and telling them that he was going for Friday prayers at the mosque. Did his father wish to accompany him? Nasir had changed reluctantly and gone with Nafis. But that was perhaps the only time they had gone to Friday prayers together. She had grumbled. Pointed out that it was usually fathers who encouraged their sons to maintain the rituals of religion. She had been happy when Nafis had started going to the mosque for Friday prayers and saying his five prayers a day. Nafis would often tell her how some of the things she believed about religion were wrong. When she asked him how he knew, he would tell her that it was on the Internet. She had not wanted him to become a religious bigot and so had been happy that, along with his prayers, he continued to play football with the neighbourhood boys. Nafis sat his A Levels and passed – not exceptionally well but well enough to qualify for admission at a private university, one of the top five private universities in Bangladesh. The fees had been high, but they had been able to manage. One day, Nafis came home and told them that he would not be continuing his studies at his current university. He had been accepted to the Malaysian branch of a well-known Australian university and would be leaving in September. She had felt a pang. Her baby had grown up and was leaving home. She remembered how she had hugged him when saying goodbye – but the sidewalk, with its milling passengers and

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trolleys, was no place to say a proper goodbye. They stood as long as they could beside Nafis in the line of passengers with laden trolleys, waiting for the ones before him to show their passports and tickets to be allowed to enter. “Write,” she said, as Nafis was about to wheel his trolley in. “Call when you can,” she said. “I’ll email,” he replied, with his passport and ticket in one hand and his other hand on the trolley handle. At the gate, Nafis raised one hand and waved and then he was lost in the lines of passengers inside the airport. The first few days he had emailed regularly – once a week. He occasionally mentioned a few friends from Dhaka who were also studying at the university. She missed him. The apartment had been strangely empty. There was nothing for her and Nasir to talk about when he returned from work. She started to teach a few weak students at home to fill up the long empty afternoons. Then one day the mother of one of Nafis’s friends called and asked her if it was true that Nafis had left his university and asked if she had any news of him. “I hope he is all right,” she said. She had not thought too much about the question. She still got emails from Nafis telling her how he was doing. She must have misunderstood the woman, she thought. But when she tried calling Nafis’s number, she found it unreachable. Perhaps she should have worried then, but when he emailed saying that something was wrong with the phone, she stopped worrying. She remembered he had not replied to her comment about his friend’s mother. At school, she gradually started hearing stories about boys Nafis’s age who had gone missing for several months. “You are lucky,” her friends said, “that Nafis is in Malaysia.” Then one day Nafis emailed, saying he was moving to a smaller, cheaper accommodation but they were not to worry. He was fine.

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When was the last she had heard from him? A month ago? One of her friends had called and asked if Nafis was back. She said that she had seen someone who looked like Nafis some days ago in Gulshan. But Nafis wasn’t back. Perhaps she or Nasir should have gone to Malaysia, visited Nafis and seen if he was all right instead of letting him manage all by himself. They had planned to go when Nasir could get leave. Maybe during the long Eid holidays. They did not tell Nafis. They would surprise him. They had managed to get two tickets for the last Sunday of Ramzan. They would stay for ten days after Eid. Once Ramzan begins, the month is soon over. Almost before she knew it, it was the last Friday of Ramzan. They would be leaving in two days to give Nafis a surprise. She broke her fast and, though Nasir wasn’t fasting, he had joined her at the iftar table. Malaysia was an Islamic country and she had seen pictures of people sitting down together and having iftar. She wondered whether Nafis had attended any of these gatherings. They had almost finished dinner when Nasir’s cell phone rang. “Who is it?” she asked. “He said to switch on the television.” Unlike most families, their television was in the drawing room. She was still at the table when Nasir said, “Ya Allah,” in a strangled voice. Wondering whether he was ill, she got up and went to the drawing room. The television showed pictures of firefighters, uniformed policemen, and black-clad Rab officers milling around outside floor-length glass windows in what seemed like a garden. There was an attack inside a café. No one quite knew who had carried it out. All the news said was that there were several foreigners inside. The same scene kept being replayed again and again. She knew the café. Nasir, she, and Nafis had been there a number of times. Nafis had occasionally gone there with his

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friends. She was glad that Nafis was not in town. He too might have been there. She had been tired after the fast and gone to bed. Nasir had remained in the drawing room. Sometime in the early morning, Nasir had gently shaken her awake. “You need to see this.” There were five young men on the screen, four of them with small beards, one of them clean-shaven; all five had redand-white checked keffiyehs on their heads, cradling guns in their hands, with smiles on their faces. But how could that smiling boy in the middle be Nafis? Nafis was in Malaysia. How could someone look exactly like Nafis? She tried to call the last number she had but only got a recorded reply, which she could not understand. Then the aliases and the names of the boys in the photos were flashed on the screen. How she had screamed and wept. “We should have gone with him! Why did we let him go alone? Why didn’t we go at least once to see him?” She hit Nasir and scratched his face when he tried to calm her. “Where did we go wrong?” Finally, the doctor had come and given her a sedative. The security guards below were told not to let anyone up to their apartment. Neither friends, nor relatives, nor the media. But they could not remain in hiding forever. Someone always managed to come up or waylay the driver or cook and ask questions. They stopped watching television, but news filtered in. A newsman met Nasir as he was on his way to the bank to tell him that the other families had refused to accept the bodies of their sons. The other families said, “They are not our sons. They are monsters.” What about him? After emerging from her drugged state, she had begged and pleaded with Nasir to bring Nafis’s body back, give it a decent burial. He had refused.

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So she had gone alone to the morgue, wearing a borrowed burqa so that no one recognized her. Nasir asked what the formalities for getting the body back were and asked someone to help her. He had also arranged the ambulance. But he would not go to the morgue. He would not bury the body. Someone asked her, “Where is the father?” She had just shaken her head but finally had to say it. “He will not come. He has no son. I am the mother. I gave birth to him and though he might have become a monster, I remember the child.” She filled out the forms they placed in front of her and finally they gave her the dead body in a wooden box. She had asked her brother to arrange a funeral in their village home. “They cannot refuse to bury him,” she said. “Every dead body must be buried.” So she had gone in the ambulance alone with the body of her child – the monster, the militant, the terrorist – all the way to the small village that she had not visited in twenty years. She had stood several yards away while she watched the grave diggers and the imam say the funeral prayer. Her brother had not come. When the grave diggers had gone down into the newly dug grave – next to the graves of her parents – and started lowering the body onto the rough bamboo mats, she had gone forward. She took a handful of soil, as she had done for her father, and threw it into the grave while tears streamed down her face. She had not seen the photographer. But the next day the photograph of the lonely funeral and the woman in a black burqa had been in all the newspapers with the headline: “Mother of Militant Attends Funeral.” The news item mentioned her as a school teacher, who had taught mathematics at the same school her son had attended. They did not give her name, but everyone knew the school, knew who taught mathematics there.

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She had not gone to school for all these past months. The principal had informed her that they had been able to find a replacement. She continued to read Surah Yasin from the beginning. She had all the time in the world now. She tried hard to forget the smiling face she had seen, cradling a rifle and wearing a red-andwhite checked keffiyeh. She tried only to remember the little boy who had been her delight. One day she would have to leave the apartment. One day she would, if nothing else, have to go to the bank, to the doctor. It was hard to accept that from now on everyone would look at her differently.

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SABRINA MASUD is a doctoral candidate at Queen’s University in the Department of English. She has a BA in English and MA in Applied Linguistics, ELT from the University of Dhaka. She also received an MA in African American Studies, from Temple University in the US as a Fulbright Scholar. At Queen’s she is specializing in Environmental Humanities and Ecocriticism. As a creative writer she was the regional winner for the BBC International Radio Playwriting Competition 2001. She attended a BBC playwrights’ residency in London in 2003, and participated in workshops with writers like Joe Dunthorne and Linh Dinh at the University of East Anglia in 2006. She has acted as project coordinator for the British Council and the American Center and is best known for her contribution in supporting emerging writers while promoting performance literature in English in Bangladesh.

Sabrina Masud

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Shakti fingered through the peanut shells – half empty, broken, and burnt bits, congregated inside the crook of her palm. She was searching for the whole ones. The furrow between her brows deepened in concentration in conjunction with Mohsin’s rising tone. She was getting annoyed with every other empty nutshell posing upside down, empty with the illusion of fullness in its hollowed groove. His pitch increased with the three other high schoolers in their circle by Dhanmondi Lake. The late afternoon light amplified the crease on the concrete pavement under the shadows of the trees outlining the boundary of the park to the traffic-loaded Dhanmondi lane. The white noise of car horns, rickshaw bells, angry pedestrians, ardent nut-sellers, persistent tea hawkers, cajoling beggars, basking dogs, and the chit chat of hundreds crowded in the square were co-conspirators in Shakti’s hunt. She finally shook off her palm. The nutshells joined the discarded pile underneath her dangling feet, next to the circle of friends congregated on the concrete stairs leading to the open-air performance space right by the lake. Shakti reached for the crumpled newspaper that held the rest of the nuts.

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The headline buried under the nut-carcasses hid an image. It was an archived picture of graffiti of sorts dated back to 1952. The writing on the wall in the image read: Rastra bhasha bangla chai. We demand Bangla as our national language. Shakti hesitated for a second. Mohsin’s voice cut through her concentration, “Take Shakti for instance.” Shakti was not ready to be drawn into the conversation. She refused to look up. “Her grandfather, who is still alive and kicking, such a serious maulana. Who is to say he did not belong to the razakar bands?” The bodies around him shuffled; the unease cascaded through the slumped shoulders, averted gazes, and sudden bouts of coughs. Polash said, “That is BS. You are being vulgar now, dude.” “Well, ask her. See what she has to say about it. Huh, Shakti?” Mohsin raised his voice as if he could force the girl’s downcast eyes to rise to his own. “Shakti doesn’t wear a hijab. Obviously, her family doesn’t force her. That should be your cue.” Polash was losing patience. He reached for his backpack. “It’s not like they don’t want to,” Anila muttered under her breath, making sure her voice at least reached Shakti’s ears. “There you go. What do you think, Shakti?” asked Mohsin one more time. Shakti was engrossed in hunting for new nuts. “Let it go, man. I brought her out to get some fresh air. Why are you ruining the mood?” said Rikto, Shakti’s cousin. “Here,” he offered Shakti some of his peanuts. “Have these.” Shakti avoided his hand and dusted off the nuts to better see the image. “Stop littering! It’s getting all over me!” yelled Anila, getting off her perch and brushing her jeans.

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“As I was saying, just because someone has a beard and wears a tupi does not make him a Jamati fundamentalist,” cut in Polash. “And I am not saying it does. I am just saying if you get in trouble, Hindu boy, a maulana won’t help you because of your….” Mohsin completed his sentence with a gesture of scissoring the air. “Ha! You are worried about his privates, aren’t you?” laughed Rikto and slapped Polash’s back. “You guys! Get a room!” said Anila, shouldering her backpack. Polash neither engaged in the hilarity nor registered any annoyance. “So, you are saying we should label people based on their dress code?” “You can’t tell me a bunch of bearded young mullahs in panjabis don’t make you nervous, dude!” Mohsin’s voice faltered, his smile tapered off. “That is beyond the point, though. You were making a judgment call on Shakti,” said Polash, “You called her grandfather a razakar, a traitor of the worst kind. You didn’t hesitate to brand her kin the worst possible title, something that can get someone killed today.” His tone became more intense with every sentence. “Calm down, Polash, not a big deal,” Rikto intervened. “Yeah, it was just a passing comment.” Mohsin tried to laugh it off. “You don’t mind, do you, Shakti? Huh?” He tried to engage her attention once more. “What does that make you then, huh? How are you any different from a mullah policing people?” hissed Polash. Shakti did not respond to the storm brewing around her. She had retrieved the paper and was dusting off the nut bits from it. The image was black and white, captured before the digital age. Instagram filters were a science fiction then. The writing was done in black on a whitewashed concrete wall, not so different

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from the boundary wall of the Bangladesh Women’s Sports Federation at Dhanmondi. The handwriting was impeccable. The strokes on the Bengali letters were masterful. Four words: “Rastra bhasha bangla chai.” “What gives? When did I step on your toe? You got a bone to pick with me?” Mohsin was enraged now. His voice rose. He took a step towards Polash. Rikto wedged his body between them and pushed against their chests. “Cool it, friends! No biggie!” He tried to pacify the boys. He did not expect the situation to escalate. He just wanted to make his friends happy by bringing his stupid pretty cousin, whom all of them admired. He just wanted to score some brownie points. But things were now turning sour. If Shakti would only speak her mind. Suddenly Shakti found herself brutally pulled to her feet. “Let’s go!” growled Anila as she dragged Shakti out of her reverie. The pull had Shakti jump off the curb. One of her sandals dislodged from her foot and her bag came off her shoulder. The newspaper escaped from her hand and drifted off. She made a quiet, “Uff!” The boys had stopped their jostling and looked at the girls. Anila still had an iron grip on Shakti’s arm, a bone fragment almost, dusk brown skin taut against emaciated flesh, easily graspable, easily forcible. Shakti was off her balance again when Anila pulled her a second time. “Or are you enjoying them idiots squabbling over your skinny ass?” spat Anila. Shakti did not retort, only pointed at the ground, and spoke, “sandal.” She then adjusted her shoulder bag, folded back her chiffon stole across her chest, and slipped her foot in the sandal. Anila pulled again to make her leave but Shakti gently but firmly freed herself from Anila’s grip. “I can get a rickshaw.”

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The boys had come to their senses and immediately intervened. Mohsin said, “I have my bike. Let me give you a ride.” “I think you have done enough already,” intervened Polash. “Rikto should take her home,” he added. Rikto was scratching his head. “I was supposed to tag along with Mohsin.” He had no horse in the game. “She will come with me,” cut in Anila. “I can take a rickshaw,” whispered Shakti. “Yeah sure, and get Rikto in trouble. Why don’t you? When were you ever allowed to do anything by yourself?” snapped Anila. “I can just drop her off in a sec and come get Rikto,” added Mohsin. “That will work! Her getting off your bike in the middle of her neighbourhood. You got over that mullah scare pretty fast,” Anila added. “Stop this nonsense.” She then addressed Shakti, “I will drop you off.” She turned away from the boys and began to walk towards the rickshaw stand. “Don’t tell aunt, ok?” begged Rikto. He was feeling guilty not acting responsibly to his charge, but he did not expect Mohsin to sneak away with his elder brother’s bike. The temptation to ride it was too much to resist. Shakti smiled and turned away to follow Anila. Polash stepped up. “Shakti.” He hesitated. Shakti hesitated, eyes on the ground. “Sorry,” he apologized. Mohsin cut in, “Yeah! Me too! See you soon!” Shakti did not see Polash pushing Mohsin away or Mohsin keep watching them leave. She walked towards Anila, who had already got on a rickshaw and was looking away. The rickshawala, a young man of barely twenty, began to speed through the half-empty Dhanmondi lanes with rushing private cars driving on the opposite side. In between his dodging of the other

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rickshaws and cars, he hummed the tune of a recent Bengali band song. Shakti tried to draw the hood for something to hold on to. Anila protested, “Leave it!” Shakti gripped the edge of her seat and quietly added, “Uncle, do pedal slowly.” The man laughed and said, “Can’t ride slower than this, Apa.” They continued in silence. Eventually, they came to a standstill with the traffic creating a bottleneck next to the Women’s Federation complex. Anila cursed at the traffic. “This will take ages now.” Shakti was quiet. Anila gave her a side glance, and then muttered, “I am guessing you don’t like either of them.” Shakti opened her bag and was rummaging through it. Anila added, “I don’t expect you to fess up. It’s not like I would tell them if you told me.” Shakti took out her phone. It was an old Nokia, the pushbutton kind. The pictures one could take with it would not be so good. She sighed. “Just…I don’t want them to fight,” almost whispered Anila. She brushed some invisible dust off her backpack on her lap. Then, she noticed Shakti’s arms stick out next to her, trying to adjust her phone. “What are you doing?” asked Anila, irritated. Shakti had not paid attention to Anila’s words. “Sorry,” apologized Shakti and withdrew her arms. Anila followed Shakti`s line of vision and noticed a graffiti on the wall of the Federation. A dark, spray-painted bearded man was holding a cage with a trapped sun inside it. The graffiti included, “Subodh run away. The time is against you.” “You want a picture of that?” asked Anila, noticing the Nokia in Shakti’s hands. Shakti withdrew her hand the moment Anila’s eyes caught it.

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Anila laughed, “What is that?” and tried to grab it. Shakti shielded the phone in her hand. Anila smiled and looked at Shakti’s downcast face. Strands of loose hair fell across her gaunt features; the rest of her waistlength hair was tucked away in a long braid. Shakti had dark skin with no makeup, a straight glossy nose, plump dry lips with no lipstick, shallow cheeks framed by sharp cheekbones, and two huge eyes like those from anime with messy eyebrows. What was it that attracted the boys so much to her? Was it her silence? Her inexperience? Her affluent family? Her very loose, out-of-season shalwar-kamiz? Was it because the boys were drawn to these Bengali cinema-type tragedy queens? Anila frowned, then looked back at the graffiti. Shakti whispered, “Banksy, do you think?” Anila was startled by Shakti’s words. She was staring intently at the graffiti. Her eyes were glittering and scanning every shade of the image. Anila hesitated, “Maybe, more like inspired by him.” Shakti drew out her phone again and was attempting a picture. Anila interrupted, “How... so do you know his work?” Shakti nodded. “Your drawing is similar.” Anila was silenced. A Bengali cinema tragedy queen…may be not. “I have never shown you my work.” Anila brushed her hand across her backpack, her sketch book inside. Shakti smiled. “Polash has shown me pictures.” The traffic was beginning to move again. The sun had set for a while now. The streetlamps were lit. The smile dropped from Shakti’s face. She checked her phone. The images were useless in her Nokia. Anila suddenly yelled, “Uncle! Wait.” The rickshawala stopped. The cars behind them began to honk. “Apa, they will kill me,” complained the youth.

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“Just a second.” Anila drew out her latest Samsung and quickly took some snaps. The driver behind them barked, “This ain’t a tourist spot!” “Shut your mouth!” snapped Anila and then gestured to the rickshawala, “Go.” Their rickshaw began to fly again. Anila said, “Check your email when you get home.” Shakti was holding on for dear life. She managed to utter, “Ok.” They hit a pothole and the rickshaw jumped. Shakti was pulling on the hood and begged, “Can we just…?” Anila cut her with a determined, “No.” The rickshaw slowly cruised through the jostling crowd and traffic at Mirpur. It was quite different from the lanes jammed with the latest model private cars and rows of modern private apartments in Dhanmondi. The bright lights from roadside shops, fruit carts, tiny tea stalls, tailors mingled with the wafting smells of tandoori chicken and shingara shops. Confectionaries and convenience stores lined the narrow alleyways packed with pedestrians. The rickshawala barely got a chance to fly there. Anila was oblivious to the attention her body-hugging tunic, skintight jeans, and crew-cut hair was drawing. Shakti drew her stole across her neck more securely, concealing her neckline. One of the neighbourhood uncles was staring at them. Anila nodded at him with a smirk: “We are kids, uncle, not your type,” said she. The guy turned away. They slowly rolled into a blind lane and stopped at the main iron gates of Shakti’s Dadubhai’s house. The house was the only two-storeyed one with a lawn and trees shading the driveway. All around it, apartment buildings, as high as twenty floors, huddled over it like catacombs. Shakti jumped off the rickshaw and said, “Thanks for the ride.”

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“Pay for it! It ain’t a charity,” yelled Anila. Shakti stood there, suddenly very contemplative of the pebbles by her feet. “Are you serious?” More silence prevailed. “You don’t have money?” “I will pay you back,” said Shakti looking up. “Yeah, sure. Let’s go, Uncle.” Anila gestured to the rickshawala. Shakti took a step forward and halted the rickshaw. She tried to assure Anila. “I will ask Rikto Bhaia.” Anila stared back at her. Shakti kept eye contact. It was new, no doubt. Shakti barely ever let those corneas go so wide in urgency. Anila said, “It can’t be Mohsin. Make sure you never pick him.” Shakti hesitated. Then she muttered, “I would never ask him for money…. ” “Not this, forget about this. In life, you cannot choose him.” Shakti fell silent. She adjusted her stole. “Polash Bhai…he really likes you….” Anila cut her short, “Get real. I can’t date a Hindu boy.” Shakti’s hand felt cold. “Why would you care…? You are free to make the choice….You do so many things freely….” Anila laughed. “Yeah, sure. You don’t know my parents. Also, this…” she shook her phone, “and everything else, don’t come cheap.” She then gestured at the rickshawala, “Let’s go.” The rickshaw sped away. Shakti was, as usual, hovering around the dinner table. The food was laid out according to the requirements of the occupants of the house. Salad and pita bread for Ma along with lentil soup, shutki bhorta; rice and curry for Dadubhai and Shakti; baked

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chicken breast, fruit juice, and veggies for Baba. As usual, the seats were empty and would remain so as no one ever sat down together to eat. Shakti had her plate ready with some rice, lentil, and curry in it. Her father’s voice in her grandfather’s room was switching tempos, based on the need and level of exasperation. “You barely need the lawn anymore. It is getting difficult to get ground keepers nowadays,” said her father. His voice was shaking; he was out of breath. “Developers are crooks,” protested Shakti’s grandfather. “Abba, that is not the point. I will finance it,” responded her father. “Fresh oxygen from the trees is good for Shakti,” said Dadubhai. “You do not expect…I need more….I mean, Abba, think about the property value,” her father pleaded. Shakti’s mother walked into the dining room and saw Shakti with her plate. She was in her starched and pleated white cotton sari, her straight hair in a loose bun kept in place by a half-chewed pencil, her bare long neck caressed by a pair of light jhumkas, dangling from her earlobes. A big, black half-moon tip adorned her fair forehead. Kohl-heavy eyelids surveyed Shakti’s physical stance while the light fragrance of Nivea lotion and hasnahena from Ma caressed Shakti. Ma’s quartz ring twinkled in the demure light off the domelike chandelier from the dining hall as she reached out to draw her fingers through Shakti’s loose mane. At five feet eight, Ma towered over Shakti. “Don’t get caught by Papa, Billu,” Ma warned. Her voice always reminded Shakti of the distant thunder after a storm had passed. She wondered what it was like to sit in her class and listen to that voice lecture on some long-lost Bengal maharaja.

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“I wasn’t trying to…,” Shakti tried to deflect Ma’s cautionary warning and attempted to fumble with one of the chairs to sit down. “Did you say your asar prayers? You look like you are about to go to the club. You will miss the waqt,” drifted in Dadubhai’s very mild and concerned tone as if Baba had forgotten to feed little Shakti. “Abba. . . ,” Baba began and then lowered his tone, “I really hope you understand that this is difficult for all of us.” “Why not eat at the table today, hmm?” asked Ma. She was rummaging through the pile of books and files she was cradling. She was ready to retreat to her nest upstairs, her study corner by the veranda, where the canopy of their mango and neem trees provided shade. That was her retreat after a day of teaching college kids history they did not care for and attending meetings at her theatre club that her husband called a nuisance. Shakti did not answer her and traced a lentil river through her bed of rice. The maid who had followed Ma’s voice and had come out of the kitchen, spoke, “Shall I heat it up for you Apamoni?” “Do see if the driver is ready, Doyel,” Ma said to the maid. Baba’s footstep could be heard closer to Dadubhai’s door. “This year, again, they have invited you to the gathering at the Shaheed Minar for the 21st February Remembrance Day. If not for us, for Shakti’s sake, join, please. I am tired of receiving these phone calls from the committee chair and making excuses for you.” Ma hurried off towards the landing, trying to avoid Baba as always, her sandals flapping against the granite mosaic. “Don’t forget your homework, Billu,” said Ma and walked away. Shakti repositioned herself so that her back would be turned towards the corridor through which her father would appear. She became engrossed in the chicken bone.

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His footsteps moved closer and then stopped. No doubt he had noticed Shakti perched at the dining table. If nothing else, the unusual placing of a body by the usual empty space would catch his attention no doubt. “Shakti...,” rang his voice, an alarm clock of unknown misdeeds and forbearing. Shakti barely turned towards him and whispered, “Yes, Papa?” Baba got closer. He was fully attired in his gear. Today was tennis day. “You came home without the car.” It was not a question, rather the passing of a sentence, a conviction. “I…forgot,” said Shakti, failing to come up with a reasonable excuse. Mentioning Rikto would backfire on Ma. “Is this your way of protesting against the fact that you are not allowed to move about alone?” asked Baba. His tone carried disappointment. It always confused Shakti, his disappointments. She could not understand in what way she could stop functioning so that he would not find some faults with her. She did not respond; her hair was always useful in shielding her from him. “Ah, the silence. Your Ma should be proud,” said Baba. The impatience penetrated his assumed control over his demeanour. The disappointment grew. “Not an issue. You simply don’t need the car, is that it?” It was now an accusation. Shakti grew more confused with the turn of the conversation. When did she say that? Not knowing how to act, she scooped some rice and stuffed her mouth. Somehow, that turned out to be more offensive. Baba thundered over her, “Driver! Get the car out!”

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He then walked out, his movement sucking the air out of the room. “Give me the keys.” And the storm disappeared. But the barrenness continued. Baba just left without eating. He was going to drive by himself. He might drink at the club, might drive back alone, might get in an accident, might get hurt. And all, all of it, would be Shakti’s fault. It was, after all, what he implied by his actions, by deciding to drive by himself over his habitual use of the driver in his nighttime outings. Shakti was left with the silence that followed. The maid’s voice cut through. “Apamoni, Dadubhai is asking for you.” Dadubhai was the one who had tagged her with the name Shakti, the Bengali word for strength, an irony of sorts. Shakti got up and walked into his room with her plate of food. The musty smell of old books on shelves lining Dadubhai’s room along with the waft of camphor, a lingering fragrance of attar from his Friday Jumma punjabi hanging by the mahogany almirah, the dampness of the prayer rug opened by his bed, the freshness of the roses drifting in through the open doors from the adjacent veranda, the pittar patter of the age-old ceiling fan, the tasbih clicking between his fingers, the creaking of the easy chair as he shifted his weight to sit up, everything cleansed the air for Shakti. She could breathe again. She walked towards him and handed over her plate. Then she got the bowl from his reading desk and poured water from a bottle while he cleaned his fingers. Afterwards, she dragged a rickety chair next to him and reached for one of the books buried under newspapers, miscellaneous papers, discarded tupis, and medicine bottles on the side table on his right. She needed to elongate her neck and bend a little while Dadubhai had to reach

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higher for her to receive the food as he made squishy rice balls mixed with the lentil and fed her. “So, Didi, how was the visit to the park?” asked Dadubhai like a co-conspirator. “I ate nuts,” said Shakti, while flipping through the pages of her book. “It was a bit expensive. You should have given me thirty.” “Oh-ho, we used to have nuts for a paisa that you could carry in a chadar back in the days,” tsk tsked Dadubhai. “It’s fine. Most of them were duds. Rikto Bhai ate most of them, ” added Shakti. “Didn’t you share with your friends?” asked Dadubhai. “I don’t think Anila likes nuts. But Mohsin and Polash ate some.” “That is good! Well-fed friends are always good allies… aha don’t…it’s hardly there!” Dadubhai interjected in dismay as his intent to hide a piece of liver inside one of the rice balls got intercepted. Shakti vigorously shook her head and discarded the liver bit on the corner of the plate. “Trust…Bhaia, trust makes good allies,” grumbled Shakti, poking Dadubhai’s nose with her finger, as she returned the gesture she had picked up from him. “How about strength then? What are you going to conquer with these skinny arms?” complained Dadubhai holding off the rice balls. Shakti reached out and dragged his hand to force-feed herself. She muttered through stuffed cheeks, “Strength in conviction not of brute force, comrade!” Dadubhai’s shoulders slumped. He then began to ferret out some hidden liver bits from previously prepared rice balls. “Nor do we show it or exercise it on the weak but cultivate in restraint and master inter…intergrity…” fumbled Shakti with the tough word.

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“Integrity,” huffed Dadubhai and attempted to silence her by stuffing her mouth with another ball. “…inf…Integrity over instinct,” Shakti completed the dictum. “My little bidrohi,” crooned Dadubhai, “who is scared of chicken liver.” “Well, you said bidrohis are always scared. You cannot rebel if you don’t understand fear,” Shakti retorted while ditching her book and opening her laptop. “Bidrohis also need to feed themselves. Dadubhais can’t feed them forever,” he coaxed her with the last rice ball. “Papa hates that you do it, too.” Shakti refused the last offering, her face lit up by the screen as she clicked through the interface. Dadubhai put the plate down and sighed. Then he ate the last ball himself and cleaned his hands in the bowl. “Should we stop and grow up then?” he asked. “I refuse.” Shakti cut it short and turned the laptop towards Dadubhai. “Look! What do you think?” It was the picture of the graffiti of Subodh. Dadubhai put his glasses on. It took him some time to adjust to the glare. Anila had taken a nice picture. “Someone doesn’t like colour?” said he. “Oh, really? How about the ones you guys did in 1952? You didn’t like colours either?” Shakti was irritated. She was waiting for a bit more enthusiasm. “That was then. This is now,” he muttered. “Hmm. . . . What’s he got against the sun?” “You don’t like it?” Shakti was defused. “Well, it is not for me, is it?” smiled Dadubhai and reclined back in his armchair. “I like it,” Shakti grumbled. “What? Running away? Or the bearded guy?” asked

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Dadubhai. “What if you didn’t have anywhere to run?” He stared up at the ceiling. Shakti did not respond. The light in the room grew dimmer with the increase of the cricket concert outside. The distant white noise of a city of 8.6 million people hummed in the night. “Dadubhai,” cooed Shakti. “Hmm?” “Are you disappointed?” After a brief pause, Dadubhai said, “Of you? Never. Of your Baba, maybe a little. Of myself, now and then. But it is no biggie, is it? Disappointment is good for our health.” “Yeah, only you would think that.” “Well, if you are never disappointed you must be too damn sure of yourself. Who would want to be around someone who is always sure of themselves?” “Then why do you avoid the Remembrance Day events? Don’t tell me that is not disappointment?” A silence fell and suddenly Shakti could swear she could even hear the launches whistling on the Buriganga river. The stories of the city from Dadubhai’s days dropped from the shelves in the congealed light of the room. She waited in expectation of a full-on history lesson. She was ready for it. “Tell me the truth,” she said to herself. “Jamati,” Mohsin whispered. Dadubhai caressed his face. The folds of his damask skin branded by laughter, anger, concentration, dismay, shock and much more glowed in its fair tint. His glasses rose up and down on his T-shirt covered chest. His fingers stopped at his white beard and laced through the tangles. The faint outline of a dark patch on his forehead marked the years of doing sijda on the prayer rug. The receding white mane crowned a broad head. “Sometimes. . . the heart breaks, and you need time to heal,” said Dadubhai.

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“The days you painted those walls with your friends, you got what you wanted. What more do you need?” asked Shakti. “Or did you really do it?” she added. She could not help herself. The way Baba left after the argument with Dadubhai made Shakti question Dadubhai’s story. She wanted Dadubhai to be guilty of something, anything! There was some accusation in the way Baba had left the house. She was tired of always being the source of everyone’s disappointments. Dadubhai smiled and looked back at her. His eyes were dark and muffled in the reflection of the dim light. “I sometimes ask the same question, Didi. Did we really do it? Did the people I knew, knew them to be closer than you, burn out in flames so brightly that even their memories are never to be found. What has happened to all their names? Where did they go? Where are they? I do not know. I cannot find them,” he said. His hands trembled as he dragged a diary from the pile next to him. His fingers, dyed by the residue of turmeric from the curry, carefully caressed the worn-out pages. He muttered names as his fingers fumbled. “I need my glasses,” he whispered. The skin around his eyes creased and uncreased in his need to see what he couldn’t see. He bowed his back and brought the book closer. Still, he couldn’t see. Shakti reached out and took the glasses that had fallen in his lap. She blew on the glasses and wiped them with the end of her kamiz and offered them to him. Dadubhai was holding the diary too close to his face, stubbornly pouring into the diary as if he wanted to bend and melt into its pages. “Dadubhai!” called Shakti. “Later…let’s play later,” said Dadubhai. His voice drifted in from a distant land, his eyes more intent in reading what was beyond him.

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“Dadubhai, listen.” Shakti pulled on his arm and made him look up. “Did I tell you there is a boy I like?” asked Shakti, while reaching for the diary. “Oh, no…who?” Dadubhai was in a daze and was trying to refocus. He was like a blind barn owl. His corneas spread as big as the pit of dark wells, he looked at Shakti as if he couldn’t recognize her. Shakti took the diary away from his clasp. He wanted to hold on to it, but his grip was too feeble. “Polash Datta. He is Rikto Bhai’s friend,” said Shakti. She dropped the diary back on the table and held Dadubhai’s hands in hers. The green veins were webs on the hands, the thin fair skin stuck to the bone with barely any muscle on them, the hands still trembled like a rain-soaked kitten – cold, longing for warmth. “Dutta…Dutta…does he have a barn?” asked Dadubhai. “Why?” It was the last thing Shakti expected. “Well, does he know my bidrohi only eats rice? He better be a farmer with a barn full of rice.” A smile pushed up the corners of a mouth half empty of teeth. Shakti flung his hands away and picked up her laptop. “You really don’t like the bearded guy?” “Reminds me of your Baba,” he joked. Their giggles melted into the sound of the distant ringing of bells in the city of rickshaws. Dadubhai’s diary was filled with names but no one could decipher what they were anymore. The writing drowned in doodles made by crayons and ball pens. Every page that had ever belonged to Dadubhai had been claimed by Shakti. It had been so since she held a piece of crayon for the very first time.

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NEEMAN SOBHAN a Bangladeshi writer based in Italy, teaches English and Bangla at the University of Rome. She did her B.A. in Comparative Literature and M.A. in English Literature from the University of Maryland. She writes fiction, poetry, and columns. Her fiction has appeared in anthologies and literary journals within the subcontinent. Among her published works are a collection of her columns, An Abiding City: Ruminations from Rome (2002), an anthology of short stories, Piazza Bangladesh (2014), and a volume of poetry, Calligraphy of Wet Leaves (2015). She is looking for a publisher for her first novel.

Neeman Sobhan

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S T O R Y

She is wondering how to enter the story, if she were to write it. The story she has been circumambulating in the last few days, ever since the encounter at the Bar in her piazza. Was it possible to enter any story directly, as if through a front door? It occurs to Naureen that there might be as many doors and windows to a tale, as there actually were in any house. Her own, for example, here in a suburb of Rome, as also in all those houses she had inhabited in her childhood and growing years, all over undivided Pakistan before 1971. In West Pakistan, there was the red brick colonial house in Multan of the late fifties, the modern bungalow in Nazimabad colony in Karachi of the early sixties, or in East Pakistan, the pink and grey two-storey house next to a boys’ school in Dhaka Cantonment, when the city was still written as Dacca, and the school founded by the powerful Adamjees, was not a college yet, and the momentous seventies had not started. East Pakistan was not Bangladesh yet, and still yoked to its bullying Western half.

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Naureen brushes off her thoughts about the past and returns to the story nagging her, which is not about houses. But isn’t every story like a house? The house of an amnesiac who enters it as if it were an unfamiliar space, till certain things make him realize that this might be a place he knows well: a piece of furniture, a smell, a view, adding up to a sensation of déjà vu. Or it could be an oddly familiar face. Or a voice, husky and wounded, whispering, even laughing, hiding its unspeakable pain. A week ago, Naureen adjusted her mask and entered the Bar in the piazza near her house. “Un caffè Americano, a tavolo.” She ordered her coffee at the counter and went outside to sit under the striped awning. The August heat, like clockwork, had turned after the middle of the month and it was cool in the shade. She opened her laptop but her eyes scanned the streets of her neighbourhood. Things were almost normal now, more people were out and about, wearing masks. Since the lockdown in Rome in March, her university had shut physically, but, till June, Naureen had taught on-line her classes of English and Bengali to her Italian students. Now, finally, she was free. A writer friend in Dhaka, editing an anthology dedicated to the fiftieth anniversary of Bangladesh’s independence, had requested her to translate into English a Bengali story submission, and Naureen had been happy to return to the world of fiction. The story, based on facts, the editor friend mentioned in his email, concerned the experience during the War of Liberation in 1971 of a teenage girl abducted from a high school in a district town by collaborators and brought to a military camp. A rape camp. A harrowing, yet ultimately redeeming story. How could such a cruel fate end in redemption? Naureen started to read.

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She had barely finished reading the first page of the story when she heard a voice across the street from the Bar. “Apu!” Naureen turned around. On the pavement, under the Nespole fruit tree, stood Sadia with a pram. She looked plump since the birth of her baby. The last time she had seen her young compatriot was the year before, when Sadia had regretfully announced that due to her pregnancy she could not continue the lessons of Italian and English that she loved taking with Naureen. Those two hours once a week were something even Naureen had enjoyed. Then came Covid. So, they had not seen each other for a long time, even though they lived in the same zone, different neighbourhoods. Standing beside Sadia was another Bengali woman, in shalwar-kameez. Despite the mask, and her head loosely covered in a scarf, Naureen could see she was an older person, Naureen’s age, or a bit more. Possibly in her late sixties. Sadia waved with genuine delight at Naureen and whispered to her companion, who took off her mask and nodded in Naureen’s direction. The woman looked strangely familiar. Where had she seen her? Naureen knit her brows, before she produced a polite smile. Meanwhile, Sadia left the pram with the other lady and crossed over. She walked up to Naureen’s table and beamed. “Apu, how have you been? You never came to see my baby.” “I know, Sadia. But with this Corona virus situation....” Naureen rose, saying, “But let me see the baby now.” “Oh! Stay where you are, Apu. Let them walk over. I’ll introduce you to my mother.” She signalled and the mother ambled over pushing the pram. Naureen cooed appropriately and forced a fifty-euro note into Sadia’s reluctant hands. “It’s for the baby,” Naureen said. “Your blessings would have been enough, Apu,” Sadia protested.

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The lady kept a smiling but dignified distance. They exchanged formalities, and the mother said, “My daughter has mentioned you often. How special you are, your home. . . .” Naureen kept looking at her, not listening to her words but absorbing that husky, bruised voice. “When did you come from Dhaka? Didn’t you have problems with the visa and with quarantine?” Naureen asked. “Oh! I don’t live in Bangladesh. I live in London. I have a small tailoring shop there in a Bengali neighbourhood. Brick Lane. I came to Rome early this year, before the corona problem started. I am now stuck here. But happily, of course, with the baby….” Naureen was only half listening. Somewhere, through a cloudy window she peeked into another era. Dacca, 1972. The year after Bangladesh’s tumultuous birth. Naureen and her young aunt Fahmida, a doctor and social activist, had gone to the Dhanmandi Rehabilitation Centre to interview some of the rescued rape victims…. The baby was getting cranky. Sadia was saying “Apu, you have to come over to my flat and have tea with us one day.” “I will,” Naureen said, then turned slowly to the mother. “Is your name by any chance, Shopna?” Sadia laughed, “No, her name is Shamima Akhtar Begum, Shumi.” The lady turned placid eyes to Naureen, a glint of recognition surfacing. They locked eyes for a second. She said, “Sadia, you can’t just ask your teacher to drop by. Invite her for a meal.” Sadia joined her effusively. Naureen said, “You should bring your mother to my place, too. But I will come over for tea very soon.” After they left, Naureen sat over her coffee, her laptop, and the world of stories waiting to be uncovered. She was thinking,

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after fifty years, everything becomes fiction: our past, our lives, our dreams, our struggles and pains, our joys and triumphs. It all transforms into story. Story. History. His-story. Her-story. Everyone’s story. All we can do is to preserve it by narrating and transmitting it to each other. Why the hell was she talking so much? The bitch. Spawn of bloody Hindus, or sister of some “Mukti” for sure. Traitors! Bastards all. “Shut the hell up!” He didn’t want to hear her voice, especially her pleading, broken Urdu. Nor look at those limpid, fraught eyes. Already it was diluting his rage, his fire. No. He had been told while being posted to Jessore, these Bengalis needed to be a taught a lesson. . . . His slap knocked her down, her head hitting the floor. “Oof! Allah!” She cried out, and instead of terror she looked up at him with wild, angry eyes, as if she would jump up to his throat, kick and slap him back. Just the way his younger sister, Laali, would as a kid. Lalarukh, far away in Quetta. Instinctively, he was on his knee. “Oh! God, I’m sorry.” In a flash the expression in the girl’s eyes changed from anger back to fear. Her cracked lips trembled and so did her hand as it lifted to wipe a trickle of blood from her forehead. But before he could pull her up, they froze on the floor, listening to heavy footsteps coming up the corridor outside. The boots stopped at the door next to their room. The door handle rattled as voices jeered. “Oye yaar! Let us in. Why is the door locked?” “How many do you have there? Come on, give us a share.” There were thuds, sounds of laughter, interjected with the sharp notes of women’s screams and wails. He pulled her up. She was shaking and clung to him. He held her for an instant then moved her away and said, “Listen, see that door at the back. It leads out. Just go.”

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She looked at him blankly. He repeated, “Go!” “Go where?” He shrugged, “Kaheen bhi. . . wherever. Just leave. Now.” She turned her face away. “Yes, and have a whole battalion of grizzly animals descend on me. I’d rather be protected by someone decent like you.” “I can’t protect you and I am not decent. In war, we are all barbarians.” He sat down on a chair, face in hand. She stood before him her shoulders sagging, her dupatta pooled at her feet. “And then? What happened?” Seventeen-year-old Naureen asked. Shopna gazed unseeing outside the windows of the Dhanmondi Rehab Centre and let out a shuddering sigh. Fahmida raised her hand. “It’s okay. Shopna, you don’t have to tell us more, if you don’t want to.” “It’s not that.” The dark eyes were strained but tearless. Her voice was low and scratchy. “It’s just that this is not a ‘story’ but things that actually happened to me, so in my mind it’s all jumbled up. Some parts are erased, others sharp as a knife. What we saw and endured... no language has words to describe these....” Shopna started to sway from side to side. “We were a dozen women, all herded like cattle in that room.... One woman was fortunate and died after being assaulted repeatedly. Her body was hauled away like a sack of rice....” Her voice was thin and low as a keening. Fahmida stroked Shopna’s head. “It’s okay, dear. We don’t want you to dig into anything you don’t want to. Unless it helps you.” Naureen wiped her eyes and whispered to her aunt, “Khala, I just can’t process what she went through! Imagine, her husband brought her, a newly-wed bride, to be safe with her parents in Dacca and went to join the guerrillas, and a neighbour betrayed her!”

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Shopna raised stony eyes to them and muttered, “Yes. I will never forget that morning. It started as any morning. How was I to know what destiny had in store for me by day’s end. . . ?” Yet the girl knew how lucky she was not to have been herded into the other crowded rooms where they took the rest of the girls brought in military trucks. She was deemed more educated and pretty, so reserved for officers. Thus, she was in a separate room. And she survived to narrate her story. Early the next morning, it was still dark when the officer opened the back door and smuggled her out to the compound outside. She hid behind a drum while he went and got a jeep. He backed to where she was and she scrambled in and lay low at the back. There was only one sentry at the check post at that hour, who saluted and then they were out. She stayed hidden till he stopped the jeep. It was near a road edged with paddy fields. This was the road going out of the cantonment. He asked her to sit up. She peeked out and saw in the distance two figures. Old men, farmers, watching them from the field. Nearer to them, across the road and beside a ditch stood a little boy. “O Ma! Military!” She heard him say as he ran into the grove of thatched houses. She hid her face in her hands. He observed her reaction and understood. It would not be safe for either of them. He drove further off to a more isolated spot, took his jeep down the earth track and stopped under a tree. He let her out. She barely had time to utter her gratitude before he turned the jeep sharply around, said, “‘Forgive me” and drove off. Teenaged Naureen let out her breath. She felt she had aged since she entered the Rehab Centre that morning. Fahmida whispered, “I wonder what happened to him.” Shopna was far away, silent. And within the silence, each moved further into the untold story.

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A month later the girl was in her uncle’s village home. It was a safe zone, far away from Jessore, near a Mukti Bahini training camp. Some freedom fighters including her brother and cousins had come to stash arms. She was in the kitchen boiling rice and dal for a quick khichuri for the men when she heard shouts. Then grunts, groans and sounds of jostling and kicking came from the courtyard. Her brother and his group of freedom fighters had captured a Pakistani soldier. They dragged him to the inner courtyard and were beating him with the butt of a rifle. One of the men held up his head by his forelock. She glimpsed his terrorized, bewildered eyes in his bloodied face. In an instant, she ran outside leaving the pot simmering on the fire. “Stop. Oh! Please stop.” She screamed and dashed between the attackers and the prone body. “Let him go,” she shouted, beating at the others. “What?” Her brother motioned the others to stop. “Don’t touch him. Please! He saved my life. A month ago, in Jessore. . . before I came here.” She sank to her knees and started to weep. The soldier’s left eye was puffed, a side of his face bloated and bruised. He looked at her blankly. The beating had stopped. “What the hell do you mean?” her brother shouted. The girl wiped her tears and said, “Bhaiyya. You have not been in touch with our mother, and when I came here I only told you that I was with my friend Mubina at her aunt’s house outside Jessore, and had come here directly to be safe. That’s true, and I told Uncle to tell Amma that also. But there was one day and night, earlier in Jessore town, when Amma was desperately searching for me since I did not return from school.” Her lips trembled. “Bhaiyya! I was abducted and taken to a military camp by someone. . . .” Her brother yelled, “Which haramjada bastard did this…? I’ll rip out his. . . .” “Bhaiyya! Listen. Nothing happened to me. It was the new chowkidar of the school. He said that Amma was seriously ill and

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had asked me to come home quickly. He whisked me away in a threewheeler. With his beard and prayer cap, I trusted him, Bhaiyya!” Instead of tears, her eyes were aflame with loathing. She continued steadily, “Luckily, I was spared, because this soldier saved my honour. He helped me to escape. I recognized him.” The brother, still breathing heavily, kept his rifle pointed at the soldier but told the others they needed to discuss. The others turned away, all shouting and gesticulating, and motioned the brother to follow. “Lies!” One of them spat on the soldier’s boots before he left. They stood not too far away, keeping an eye on the soldier. When they came back, they told the girl that they had decided to tie his hands and feet, blindfold him and set him adrift on a boat. “He will die,” she cried. “Oh! Don’t you worry. Every village, every riverbank, is crawling with collaborators. Some bloody razakar will find him and help him get back to his camp. It’s only important that we obliterate our tracks.” While the freedom fighters discussed the proceedings among themselves, the Pakistani soldier turned to whisper to the girl in Urdu. “I don’t know why you saved my life. I can never repay you for your humanity.” She put a warning finger to her lips and muttered, “This is what I owe someone.” He looked at her baffled. “You said I saved your life. I don’t understand. But God bless you, my sister.” The men came back with a bundle of rope and a thin, chequered gamchha. Before they dragged him away, he turned to the girl and said, “Khuda hafez.” “You too. God be with you. . . and with him,” she whispered. Naureen opened the windows of her study room wide to get some air to dispel the August heat and sat down at her desk computer to look at her translation so far. The rawness, the immediacy in

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the Bengali narrative was not coming through in English. It was sounding trite. The fault was hers. She could not improve it, because another story was fidgeting within her. She wished she could write that: Shopna’s untold story that Naureen could not even begin to imagine. Still, she was wondering how she could enter that tale, if she were to write the story. Not through doors or windows, but possibly by burrowing through like animals, tunnelling underground, and re-imagining the trench of captivity. The grave-like penumbra, the women not knowing if it was night or day, summer or winter. A dozen half-naked ravaged females with unseeing eyes lying like corpses, wishing they were properly dead and buried, and not awaiting the shame of light, of discovery, the world outside. Naureen got up. She needed to talk to Sadia’s mother. Not to Shamima Akhter Begum, Shumi, but to Shopna. Naureen calls Sadia for directions. Her flat is near the Viale dei Caduti per la Resistenza. “The Street of Those Who Fell during the Resistance.” The Italian struggle against the enemies during the Second World War. Naureen finds these long street names both musical and moving. How painful must have been the path of those who fell during any struggle, whether men or women. But in Italy, the “Fallen” had been elevated and preserved in public memory, and they had shady avenues dedicated to them, lined with pine trees and flowering oleander bushes. In 1971, the struggle for freedom was fought not just by men; countless women had made sacrifices. Remembering and honouring them was of fundamental importance. Naureen feels excited that today, this peaceful street named for the spirit of resistance was leading her to Shopna. For her Italian students of Bengali, she could translate that name as “she who dreams.” But how would she tell the story of dreams mutating into nightmares?

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Sadia’s flat is on the third floor of a well-maintained, middle-class apartment block between a supermercato and a shady children’s park. Naureen is welcomed by Sadia and ushered directly into the main bedroom. “Apu, the room at the front, we have rented to two Bengali bachelors who work in a restaurant nearby. We hardly see them.” The bedroom Naureen enters is well lit and airy. Next to the neatly made up bed is a two-seater sofa facing a TV on a laminated bureau. Once Naureen is settled on the sofa, Sadia goes to the kitchen to make tea. Naureen watches Sadia’s mother put the baby in her cot in another room. “I keep the baby in my room,” she says, coming back to sit on the bed. Without preliminaries, Naureen says, “So, Shopna, tell me your story since we last met.” Shopna’s head is uncovered today. She takes time to knot her loose hair into a bun. There are some grey strands. “Sister, I am no longer the person you met with your aunt that day in Dhaka, fifty years ago. That Shopna died in 1971 and was reborn since then. A cruel rebirth. Still, here I am, sitting before you, smiling.” She looks out at the view of the distant hills. Sadia returns with a mug of milky tea. It’s sweet. Naureen only drinks black, sugarless tea. But she sips it to not make a fuss. “Have you taken your mother to the hills?” “What’s there to see, Apu?” “You have never been there?” “Well, my husband is so busy all week working at the petrol station that on Sundays our only outing is to go shopping.” Sadia laughs. “Those hills that you see in the horizon, that’s where the Pope’s summer palace is. You know, the Pope? The Vatican? Anyway, in summer he lives there, overlooking a volcanic lake . . . .” Sadia is listening gravely, trying to absorb all the information.

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Naureen rushes on. “Anyway, it’s a scenic place. Go there sometime.” Naureen ends, feeling slightly foolish. Sadia says eagerly, “Apu, please write down the name of the place. I will ask my husband to take us next week. I always learn so much from you.” Shopna smiles. “Actually, even in London, I hardly go anywhere. Once a nephew took me on the bus and showed me the Queen’s palace. Otherwise, I only know Wembley and my area.” They are quiet for a while. Sadia goes to check on her baby, saying, “Apu, it’s her feeding time. I hope you don’t mind. It takes a while. You two chat.” After Sadia leaves, Shopna says, “Sadia’s father, my present husband, was a widower when I met him. He married me after my first husband abandoned me. Another day, I will tell you about my life. I had thought, the ordeal I went through with the army animals during 1971 was hell. But another fiery dozakh awaited me when my husband came to see me at the Rehabilitation Centre. He and his family could not accept me. To be fair, they tried at first, but could not when they found out I was pregnant. I, too, wanted to die, but failed. I recovered from the abortion. And the day after your aunt and you came to the Rehabilitation Centre, I joined a sewing course and decided to live in a women’s hostel. I started to work as a seamstress. One day, I met Sadia’s father. He had a small business in London….” Shopna pauses and looks towards the open window. “Some might consider Sadia’s father to be an ugly man. But I only saw a beautiful heart. He came like a fereshta, an angel, who took me away. I was granted a new life.” Naureen follows Shopna’s gaze, directed, she realizes now, not at the lofty faraway hills. Shopna, a smile like a tremor on her lips, is looking nearby, at a shard of sunlight on the open windowpanes, one of them reflecting a tiny balcony with baby clothes drying on a stand.

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That long ago February winter morning in Dacca was not as chilly as Shopna’s eyes were, as she recounted her ordeal, in bits and pieces. The room at the back of the Dhanmandi Rehabilitation Centre was quiet at this time. Fahmida put her hand on Shopna’s head and said, “You must allow the tears to come.” Shopna let out a hysterical laugh. “I watched my parents being shot dead in front of me, my mother’s blood and father’s brain splattered on the verandah by the military. I was dragged away to the hellhole of the army camp. For months we women underwent torture. All my tears dried up. Forever. Even on the day we heard ‘Joy Bangla’ shouted all around us and we were released and rescued by some Bengali brothers and kind Indian officers who wrapped us in blankets, I had no tears of joy. And the day my husband sent me the message to not return home, I had no tears of sorrow.” Suddenly Shopna burst into tears. Wild tears. She howled in fury. Her eyes were molten lava. “If only one day I could find that razakar, the neighbour who betrayed my family, led the military to our house as the family of freedom fighters, thrust me into hell fire… and if I could avenge myself, that day I would find peace.” “Do you know his name, where he lives?” Shopna sighed. “Yes. But he’s not there. He escaped.” Naureen blinked back tears and let out her breath. Fahmida said, “I wonder what happened to him… and to other devils like him….” Shopna was silent. And each of them burrowed into the silence of untold, unspeakable stories.

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SHAHNAZ MUNNI is Chief News Editor at News24, a private TV channel. She completed her Honours and MA in Sociology from the University of Dhaka. Despite her busy life as a television journalist, she is a prolific writer. She writes poems, short stories, as well as essays. Her first collection of short stories, Jiner Konnya, was published in1997. Much of her work reflects the contemporary social and political scene of Bangladesh.

Shahnaz Munni

THE SIX ARMS OF RUPMOYI She is Rupmoyi. Her father is the King of Hemnagar, her husband his powerful General. Hemnagar is a small, beautiful green country. While studying in a girls’ school and residing in the hostel surrounded by high walls, Rupmoyi had come to know about the virtues of Hemnagar. Later, on her honeymoon, she had caught a glimpse of Hemnagar’s scenic beauty out of her airplane window and had been highly impressed. Rupmoyi is famous for her beauty and cooking skills, as well as for being a collector of happiness. Everyone believes that Rupmoyi knows how to store happiness in big bottles with corks. When her husband comes for lunch or dinner or goes to rest or sleep in their bedroom, she uncorks her bottles. Though he is content with a moderate diet to keep himself fit and trim, she spreads some joy on the dining table. And when he goes to sleep, though he never sleeps for more than six hours, she sprinkles some happiness on the bed as well. If there is some joy left, she scatters it out of the window. This is why, perhaps, the unhappy people of the country are always found waiting below her bedroom window. They scramble over the left-over joy.

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Naturally, Rupmoyi is happy. Her father, King Bhubonmohini, had allowed her to smell the fragrance of education. He had once said to her affectionately, “Always remember, my darling daughter, the family honour and the teachings of religion. You are the daughter of a king. Be careful! Don’t be inquisitive and don’t speak too loudly.” Naturally, Rupmoyi is happy. Her husband, the General, smiles at her even when he returns exhausted from a full day of work. He praises the mole on her forehead, her eyelashes, her silky hair and her lovely fingers. He listens to every word of hers attentively. He even asks her about her mynah bird, sitting on its perch. “Did it utter any new word today?” Sometimes he asks, his eyes full of wonder, “How did you cook such a magnificent meal, my darling?” Overjoyed at her husband’s interest, Rupmoyi tells him every little detail. Looking up at him with her doe eyes, she asks, “What work do you do, darling?” “So many different things. Protect the country, guard the borders, formulate new laws. Yes, yes, it’s not easy. There are so many worries, problems, troubles . . . .” “Can’t you share them with me?” “Of course, I can, my moon. But I don’t want my worries to consume you, to darken you, to make you pale. No, my beauty, this is not what I desire. I would rather you were the dispeller of exhaustion and the giver of joy.” A happy Rupmoyi then lifts the stoppers of her bottles, and the bedroom is filled with the fragrance of happiness. The extra bits of happiness brim over and spill out through the windows. The unhappy people down below scramble to pick them. Night turns into dawn. Rupmoyi doesn’t know what’s happening beneath her window. She doesn’t know how the country is run, perhaps because she deems it a daunting task. It is her husband, the General, who advises his father-in-law, the King, who, in

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turn, keeps his son-in-law, the General, happy and vice versa. They hold secret meetings on how to rule the country. The decisions they take at these meetings are highly confidential. No one should know about them. You cannot even tell your wife, my daughter, Rupmoyi, any of this. Who doesn’t know a woman can’t retain the finest grain in her stomach for long, let alone news? In fact, Rupmoyi has no interest to know about either the country or the army. It is almost as if it were a sin to even ask questions. She is more interested in adorning herself and in laying out a lavish meal. She reads love stories and smiles or weeps by herself. On weekends, she attends the dazzling gatherings in the company of her husband and fills bottles with happiness. Occasionally, there arise some confrontations between father-in-law and son-in-law. They exchange hot words. They argue. However, they reconcile soon, as if this is common. No one knows about these secret manoeuvres. The people of the country gradually become indifferent like Rupmoyi. Still, they seem to be happy, they seem to be rich, though they are needy as well. In the dark corners of Hemnagar, there live some fierce, secret enemies of the state who slowly grow in number and strength, getting ready to attack. And then, one dreadful night, they launch their sudden attack despite the vigilance of the spies. The King is the first to enter the fray. The war rages through the dark sleepless night. The black-framed glasses fall from his eyes; his solid armour is shattered. His lifeless body rolls down the stairs. The walls are pitted with bullets. Blood gushes everywhere. The sun rises, but it is a lifeless morning which dawns. The entire country falls silent, gripped by an unknown fear. The King along with his son have been killed. Rupmoyi mourns. She burns in her sorrow; half her beautiful body turns to ash. She gets thinner and thinner.

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Now the General takes charge of Hemnagar. The fight with the secret enemies resumes. The sleepless war rages on in twilight and at noon. The impregnable fort, guarded by soldiers, is about to crumble. Seeing the interminable, ruthless war, the beauty of the lovely Rupmoyi dims. And who doesn’t know the exultation of blood spilling in war, the endless thirst of war, the rage, the piercing of babla thorns, and, yes, everyone knows that war is an endless sea of fire. One day, the General, too, is riddled with bullets, his strong body covered in blood and blows. All his proud boasts are wiped away. Rupmoyi turns smaller, the unopened buds of happiness fall off. The joyless bottles in her collection burst noisily in the raging fire of war. Rupmoyi laments, weeps, and loses consciousness. Everyone is shocked to see a handful of lifeless ashes lying on the ground instead of Rupmoyi’s body. The followers of the King and the General hide the ashes secretly in their shanties. The frenzied revel comes to an end or perhaps something of a different kind begins. The once lively Hemnagar is in ruins now, gasping to survive, shouldering both its losses and its gains. Pale and bleak. Meanwhile, a group of people gather around the ashes of Rupmoyi’s burnt body in one corner of the city. And it is there, sitting beneath the ancient stars, that they call upon God, wordlessly. And, then, one by one, they give away their precious treasures. “I give my eyes. I give my vision. I, my jewels. I offer my immeasurable strength and vigour. My dear, I give my life. I give my two feet, my speed. I give my hands. I give my heart.” Finally, God seems to take pity. On a full-moon night in the month of Falgun, a strange wind blows. The moon, the sun, the planets and the stars rummage agitatedly about the sky in bewilderment. And from the ashes, a

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new Rupmoyi is born, stunningly beautiful, spirited and majestic. Her faithful followers exult with cries of victory. At last, Rupmoyi stands up. Spreading her arms, she rises. The strain of rebirth seems to have tired her. Waking up from her long sleep, she gazes at herself in the mirror. Just as a young woman looks at her own body in amazement and wonder, so too does Rupmoyi. She stares at her face glowing with a new radiance, and then she turns her gaze to the two new pairs of arms, sprouting from her shoulders. She can easily recognize one pair of arms. They are familiar; she used them in her daily chores in the past, but what about the other two pairs? She looks at them in surprise and wonder and soon realizes that one pair of manly, hairy arms are her father’s. She remembers the loving touch of those hands. The other pair are hard, strict; they are her husband’s arms – those are the hands which once touched every part of her. Rupmoyi is startled and shivers. She is simultaneously happy and disconcerted. Meanwhile, the wild war brews again. The secret enemy, seething with rage, bursts out from hiding. Rupmoyi’s followers call out to her: “Come, O kind-hearted one, ward off this ghastly attack. Save us, Ma, save us.” Clad in full armour, the newly born Rupmoyi comes down to earth, an earth inundated with blood. This blood, perhaps, knows how to roar, this blood, perhaps, knows how to achieve something. With her leadership, the all-powerful Queen Rupmoyi defeats her enemies. Cheerful crowds of people come out on to the streets. Amidst the hullaballoo and joyous celebration, they look for their old happy city. For the first time in her life, Rupmoyi feels, “I have achieved this victory. The resistance was mine. This victory too is mine.” However, she remembers the cruelty of war. The sacrifices, the struggles, the deaths, the bloodshed! The tears, the hardships, the renunciations. And do you recall when the colossal sword

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of war tried to slash off Rupmoyi’s neck, who brought out the shields to protect her? Who saved this newly-born Rupmoyi? Behold, those were the strong, affectionate arms of her father, and those were her husband’s loving, caring arms. Though they were manly and muscular, they were protective and loving, performing their duty, though unasked. And then, a triumphant Rupmoyi, draped in sacred garments, sits on the throne acceding to the wishes of her people. She holds the kingly sceptre in her own familiar hands. Her name is preceded by the title of her father and followed by her husband’s name. Under her sparkling clothes, the dutiful arms of her father and husband stir clearly. Rupomoyi takes the oath, sombrely lays wreaths on the graves of her father and her husband. Her father’s and husband’s loyal officers run Hemnagar at the same old slow and conventional pace. Rupmoyi is talked about. Sometimes she is praised, sometimes derided. At the beginning, Rupmoyi thinks that this praise and criticism result from her deeds. Finally, after weeks, months and years, she weeps profusely one night, soaking her bosom with her tears. She then realizes that the two pairs of hard, hairy arms have been dictating everything. There is no way for Rupmoyi to avoid them. The two pairs of active arms belonging to two dead persons encompass her, front and back, encompass her present and future as well. These hands are very dear to her, but also redundant. Rupmoyi is faced with a wall of dilemma and indecision. It seems to her as if she has been climbing up a high mountain, struggling through a severe storm, crossing an unfathomable vastness and being battered by a turbulent whirlwind. What is it that causes her to bleed? She sinks into a deep depression. Finally, one day, she conquers her struggles and reaches a decision. This time her journey will proceed without her protectors, and the free dinghy will float with the current.

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Rupmoyi calls for the state physician. “Doctor, look at me. Look at these things in my body,” she continues. “See the two horrible pairs of extra arms. I want some peace and joy. I want them to be cut off. Make the necessary arrangements.” “But,” the physician falters. “This may prove very dangerous, Madam. Your wounds might not heal. You might even die of excessive loss of blood. The operation is unethical and harmful. I can’t guarantee your safety.” An indifferent Rupmoyi replies, “No matter how risky the surgery, you must perform the operation, doctor. I am determined. I don’t care if I lose my life during the operation. Start making the arrangements secretly.” The doctor hurries about, making the necessary arrangements. On her part, Rupmoyi settles things as much as possible. She acquaints only a few of her close companions about the impending surgery. Some of them are surprised. “Didn’t you love your father and your husband?” “Don’t you want the protective armour of your father and your husband?” “Do you believe in opposing your father and your husband like current intellectuals?” “Do you want a lonely life, deprived of the shadow of your father and your husband?” To Rupmoyi, these questions seem irrelevant. She knows now that love is no compulsion. It is light as air, intangible, felt only in the softest part of one’s heart. She knows that one is only protected by one’s work and beliefs. Rupmoyi now knows that hostility and liberty have two different meanings. Rupmoyi lies down on a wooden table under the physician’s sharp knife with some uncertainty. A group of physicians work on her for one whole day and night. Finally, they are successful. Due to the relentless efforts of the doctors, two pairs of kind

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but unwanted arms are severed from her shoulders. But, alas, Rupmoyi does not regain consciousness. Her heartbeats are barely audible. She lies lifeless in the dim light of the world. And then, after three long, uncertain days and nights, Rupmoyi slowly gains consciousness, white and pale, yet cheerful and strong, without a shred of doubt or confusion. She recovers fast under the autumn sun and clouds. Life and blood return to her face. She again takes her seat in the assembly room, without support and straight. She begins to rule the country herself. At first, she stumbles a few times out of uneasiness. She feels empty, naked, without the familiar appendages of her father and her husband. However, she gradually brushes off the need for protection, brushes off all the cobwebs and stands erect and radiant – the benevolent ruler of Hemnagar. Meanwhile, the news spreads. The Presidents of neighbouring countries who were once close friends of Rupomoyi’s father and her husband come to know of the recent events. They are surprised. What audacity this woman has! How did she become so fearless? Go and find out immediately what harm she is causing, what path she has chosen. Find out fast! What they find is that all the birds in Hemnagar have been set free, that the beautiful, colourful trees stay fresh in the clean air of Hemnagar, that the parched earth and smog have been replaced by a sparkling, green Hemnagar. Blessed by Rupomoyi’s warmth and kindness, Hemnagar is bright, lively, and sunny. “No, it’s not good.” Frowns appear on the smooth foreheads of the friends of Rupmoyi’s father and her husband. “Stop her. Stop her next move immediately.” Then, one dead winter afternoon, a man appears in Hemnagar. He is a sharp, keen-sighted, vagabond. He keeps talking about a goddess with six arms. He has hidden a resplendent golden statue of this goddess under his shirt, close to his heart. All his thoughts and words are about the glories and greatness of this goddess.

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The people realize that the goddess has a strong resemblance to their Queen Rupmoyi. Strangely, this man, this devotee of the goddess, can cure anyone: an insane person, a person suffering from a venereal disease, a chronic sufferer of dysentery. A mere touch of his can heal patients suffering from rheumatism, asthma, and epilepsy. How does this man have so much power? Where does he get such power? The man doesn’t speak in public nor does he share the source of his power. Still, the people seem to realize that this is the mercy of the goddess and this goddess is none other than their kind, motherly queen, Rupmoyi. The people now say that those who can see with their own eyes Rupmoyi’s two pairs of mystical arms will earn merit. And those who are fortunate enough to touch those hands will be blessed both in this life and in the hereafter. Before Rupmoyi can understand what is happening, the people demand: “O six-armed goddess, we want to see you, we want to touch you.” The suddenness of the event frightens Rupmoyi, turns her speechless, makes her angry and irritated. About that time, a special envoy, draped in a white robe, appears before her. He bears a kind letter in his hand from the friends of her father and her husband. Ah! They reveal their concern and sympathy for her; they utter their scorn for the illiterate people. They express their wish to help her; they are the friendly neighbours of Hemnagar. If they are given permission, they will send in their trained military to quell the unruly masses. Let us save you and Hemnagar, let us serve your people. Rupmoyi feels the walls closing in upon her, her world getting smaller. The wise counsellors give her plenty of suggestions. However, it is Rupmoyi herself who decides her own fate finally. She appears before the people.

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She says in a firm voice, “My dear people, I am not a goddess. I am just a woman. Like you, I have two arms. What you people believed for so long is not true.” Standing on the open stage in Hemnagar, Rupmoyi relates everything in detail clearly, without fear. She acquaints the people about her own decision to cut off her extra arms. The people assembled there suddenly turn quiet as if they can no longer register the simple truth. Someone cries out from the back of the crowd, “You are a liar. You are a sinner. You are an obstacle in our path to attain merit. Why did you get rid of the kind, powerful arms of your father and your husband?” “You are robbing us of our good fortune. You are the cause of all our woes. We want our six-armed Rupmoyi. We don’t want you.” Suddenly a wave of doubt seems to ripple through the crowd. The distinct voices fuse and heat up, ready to explode. Someone from the mob flings a sharp, envious stone at Rupmoyi. It strikes her forehead. Blood starts gushing. She touches the blood with her firm hand. “Ah, this blood is mine! This wound is mine alone!” Translated from “Rupmoyir Chhoyti Haath” by Marzia Rahman

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SALEHA CHOWDHURY who divides her time between London and Dhaka, writes in a variety of genres. Her short story collections include Atiprakriti Galpa, Ekti Japani Galpa Ebong Anannya, Cupboard Ebong Cupboard Jatiyo Galpa. Some of her short stories have been translated into English and included in Spiders and Other Stories. Her stories are inspired by her roots in Bangladesh and her present home in the UK. As an expatriate writer, she received the Bangla Academy Probasi Lekhok Puroshkar in 2012. (The award was renamed in 2015 as the Syed Waliullah Award.) Among her other literary awards are the Ashraf Siddiqi Gold Medal (2008), the Anannya Sahitya Puroshkar (2009), and the Lekhika Sangha Award (2018).

Saleha Chowdhury

THE DISAPPEARANCE OF GOPAL MAKER At Hili, on one side of the rail track was Pakistan and on the other, India. Gopal Maker was a bicycle mechanic. When Pakistan was born, all of Gopal Maker’s relations migrated to the Indian side. His maternal uncle, maternal aunt, his elder brother and his brother’s children. Even his wife, Komola, left. Only he didn’t go. He said, “This is my country. How can I leave my own home?” Dangling her nose-ring, his wife snapped at him, “If you get killed, what good will your country be?” “You go ahead! Don’t worry about me.” They didn’t have any children; his wife was infertile. Leaving with her belongings, accompanied by all their relations, his wife turned back to him. Covering her eyes with her anchal, she cried, “You don’t want to go today, but you’ll be forced to tomorrow when the Muslims make your life miserable.” “Wait for me. See when I come.”

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The parrot hanging in a cage in the empty one-room hut was delighted that there was at least one person left behind to feed it. “Happy? It’s just you and me. You will look after me and I will look after you.” Wagging its tail, the bird called out, “Gopal, Gopal.” Gopal watered the basil bush in the courtyard. Lying on his lonesome bed, he watched the posts of his hut absent-mindedly. Then, suddenly, he shook off his lethargy. He was about thirty. His real surname was Barui, but he was better known as Gopal Maker. He sat down in his cycle repair shop and began working as he usually did. Immaculate work. A few persons asked him, “Gopal,why didn’t you go?” “This country is mine. She is my mother. How can I leave my own mother?” Some were happy and some weren’t at what he said. Those who wanted to take possession of his business were disappointed. Panchu Katani said, “But you’re a Hindu. Go to a Hindu state. Why do you want to stay here?” Gopal Maker didn’t respond. He carried on with his work quietly. The matter didn’t end there. A number of people began frequently commenting about his caste and creed. Those who wanted to get hold of his business and his spick-and-span oneroomed hut were enraged. Gopal Maker ignored them. Although he ignored what people were saying, he realized that the issue of religion had now grown to be a big problem. With the new Pakistani zeal, verbal abuse pelted on him like stones from everywhere. However, even when his shop was set on fire one day, he was still determined not to leave. After repairing his shop, he went straight to the mosque to meet Maulana Hakimpuri. The maulana knew him well. He was taken aback to see him. “Malauns are not allowed to enter mosques.”

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Gopal Maker bent down and touched the maulana’s feet, “Maulana Hakimpuri, please make me a musolman.” The maulana was a little surprised. Converting a nonbeliever meant his seven generations would find a place in heaven! Their visas to heaven would be confirmed. Why should he let go this great opportunity? He converted Gopal before a number of witnesses. He made him recite the kalma, the declaration of faith in Allah and His Prophet. He distributed batasha, sugar candies light as air. He made him drink water from the holy Zamzam spring. A doctor’s compounder made him more of a Muslim through circumcision. Underneath his lungi he was a complete Muslim. In addition to this, he was given a new name – Mohammad Gopal Maker. A few persons started calling him Mohammad but his real name, Gopal, remained sticking to his body like skin. A prayer mat, a tasbih for reciting the holy words, and a bodna to perform his ablutions before prayers were sent to him. Hakimpuri gave him a Bangla translation of the Quran. “It isn’t enough that you converted to Islam. You need to understand this religion properly as well.” Those who had set fire to his shop were definitely defeated. They cursed him, “Shala! How are we to beat a malaun’s intelligence? Let’s chalk out another plan. How can we possess both his cycle repair shop and his house? He’s turned into the apple of Maulana Hakimpuri’s eye!” Gopal Maker came to say his prayers with a white cap on his head. When Hakimpuri led the prayers in scorching heat, Gopal would hold an umbrella above his head. He stood motionless behind Hakimpuri during the khutba, the sermon before Friday prayers. He never failed to hold the umbrella for Hakimpuri on large congregations such as Eid. Hakimpuri also enjoyed his services. One midnight, Gopal quietly brought out a Shiva linga from underneath his bed and prayed, “Shiva Thakur, please don’t

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be mad at me. I am a Muslim in name only. I had to become a Muslim to stay here. You’re everything to me. I cannot leave my country and ancestral home and live anywhere else. My umbilical cord was buried here after I was born. This is my own land, Shiva Thakur.” No one saw him praying to Shiva. Who could see what Gopal was doing in the middle of the night? The other gods and goddesses also quietly had their share of worship and flower offerings. Gopal’s ancestral faith remained hidden underneath his bed.The rest of the time he was Muslim. This was how Gopal survived the Hindu-Muslim conflict. He heard from people that his wife had fallen in love with a shopkeeper and had moved to Balurghat with him. Komola said, “The man who has renounced his ancestral religion cannot be my husband anymore. How could he? He must have been possessed. I know there was a petni, a female demon, on top of the tamarind tree next to our house. She must have done this.” Gopal heard all this but it didn’t make any difference to him. Nonetheless, he stood before the cage of the parrot named Khushi and said in a slightly choking voice, “They’ve all gone. I have closed the doors to that country myself. Please don’t leave me, Khushi.” Khushi wiggled its tail in assurance. “Gopal, get married again. Fatema is not that old.She has already lost two husbands. Marry her and give her shelter.” “Let her do my chores. I can’t marry her.” Fatema came to his house to do his chores. She swept the courtyard but she could not clean the interior of his house. Gopal warned her, “Fatema, don’t you ever go inside my room.” His personal treasures – the Shiva linga, Lakshmi and Durga’s icons – were all hidden underneath his bed. Those were his alone. “Why, what riches of seven kings have you hidden in your room that I can’t enter? Let me sweep your room. It needs to be cleaned. You keep your room so untidy! Clothes hanging on

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ropes and the floor not swept and wiped! Without a woman’s touch can a house be organized, foolish Gopal?” “No, you don’t! Let me be. Do the other stuff. You don’t have to worry about my house.” “What other work? Sweeping the veranda, collecting dry leaves from the courtyard as fuel – this is all the work I have. You don’t even eat meat. Just a little vegetable and fish curry. How much time does that take? A fine cow has been slaughtered today. Why don’t I fetch some meat and cook it for you?” “No. I don’t eat meat.” “You’re a Muslim only in name. You’re still a Hindu at heart.” “Why? One can’t be a Muslim if one doesn’t eat meat?” “Of course one can. But you haven’t really converted, that is for sure.” “Don’t talk so much. Water the flower plants and clean the cage of the parrot. Wash a few clothes. Sweep and wipe the place.” “Why aren’t you cutting down the basil?” “It’s good for curing colds. I will one day. What are you trying to say?” “Marry me. Then you won’t have to pay me for my chores. Just provide me food and clothes and I will be your wife. Wives have dignity. What dignity do maids have?” “No, I can’t marry you. Why are you saying this? Have I disrespected you somehow?” “Why not? Why can’t you marry me? Don’t you have a young man’s blood flowing in you, Gopal?” Fatema smiled in amusement. “Lie with me one day. You’ll be surprised to know how wonderful I can be!” “Just get lost. Never mention all this again.” “Why not? I see, you probably have some problem. I can fix your problem. I’ve given pleasure to two husbands. One of them had an accident on the rail track and the other died falling off a date tree while collecting date juice.”

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“That’s why. I might die in some mishap if I marry you.” “Can’t people sleep together without marriage?” “Now get lost. Don’t bother me again.” “I see, you can’t forget Komola. She’s never going to return. She eloped with a shopkeeper. They live in Balurghat now as husband and wife.” “Don’t ever repeat this again.” But Fatema did not let go so easily. Although she could never enter Gopal’s room, she longed for a chance to do so. “Gopal, what’s the matter? Why do you always hold the umbrella for me? No one does that for me.” Maulana Hakimpuri asked him one day after his prayers. Gopal did not respond. Just sat there, his head bent. “Rain or sun. Every time I stand up to give a speech or the khutba before prayers, I notice you holding the umbrella above me for hours.” They were sitting quietly under a tree. There was no one near them. “I have to pray on the terrace. When the mosque expands, I won’t have to pray there anymore. You do the same at the Eid congregation. Tell me the truth. Why do you do this?” “Huzoor, can I speak to you frankly?” Maulana Hakimpuri smiled. “Of course. Speak frankly. Say whatever you have stored inside. No one’s here.” “Huzoor, I was a Hindu for the last thirty-five years. You believe God is one. We need to fear Him. However, Hindus find their gods even in human beings. For example, a guest is our god. You speak of such beautiful things. While listening to you, I can’t help thinking you are my Allah. My Bhagwan.” “Tauba, tauba. Blasphemy! What are you saying? I, Allah? I am a sinner, an impure human being, Gopal.” “I do not know all that. You say not to worship anyone but Allah. But all I can say is I can spend the rest of my life under your feet.”

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“Hindus worship even cows. Would you still consider doing this after so many years of being a Muslim?” “I will not say that, Huzoor. What I will say is how can we kill the mother who gives us milk? Huzoor, how can one kill the mother cow which has given us milk since childhood?” “Have you read Sura Bakara? I gave you the Quran in Bangla. Did you read it? As soon as the prophet Moses left, the Israelites made a golden calf and began worshipping it. They had forgotten God. Do you think they did the right thing?” “I don’t think so. But how can we slaughter a cow that gives us milk, Huzoor?” Maulana Hakimpuri smiled slightly. He only chided the man who considered him a god and held the umbrella over his head for hours.“You need to understand the whole concept of Islam. You haven’t yet completely become a Muslim. Don’t talk about this with others. You’ll be in trouble if you do. You also worship rocks!” “But, Huzoor, through worship the rock one day turns into a god. It’s all about devotion, Huzoor. Everything is possible through true devotion.” “I will always remain Maulana Hakimpuri. I will never turn into your god, remember that. No matter how much you worship me, I am just an impure human being.” “Whatever you say, my devotion for you will never cease. Whenever I see you suffering in the sun or rain, I will hold the umbrella for you. If you feel hot, I will fan you. You are a sufi. You help others.” Gopal took off his shirt and began fanning Maulana Hakimpuri with it. “That’s enough. You don’t have to display your devotion any more. Go, read the Quran carefully tonight. See what is written in it. I will take your test in seven days. Are you praying regularly?” “Yes, Huzoor.” “What do you pray for?”

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“I pray for everyone’s well-being.” Hakimpuri smiled. “Read the Holy Quran. It is worthy of everyone’s faith and devotion. That is why it is so powerful.” “I will, Huzoor.” Gopal Maker held the umbrella above Maulana Hakimpuri’s head and reached him home. Wherever there was mud, he placed bricks on his way. In the evening he returned home, after doing his own work. He was taken aback. Fatema was standing in the moonlight-flooded courtyard like a majestic moon. She was wearing a red sari revealing the curves of her body. She had a red teep on her forehead. She had bangles on her wrists and a garland round her neck. Her lips were red with alta. Gopal Maker spoke curtly, “What are you doing here? Go home.” “I’m not going home. Today you will take me into your room. You will let me sit on your bed. And then. . . .” “Again you’re saying the same things. Didn’t I tell you not to say all this again?” “Why not? Am I ugly? Don’t you have a man’s blood flowing in your veins?” Gopal Maker chased her off and locked his gate. “Go where your tricks will work.” “I am not a whore, you know. I love you, Gopal! Why don’t you understand?” “Fine. Tell me this tomorrow in broad daylight. Not in the darkness of night. Now go. I won’t let you in if you ever repeat these things.” Fatema hissed like an angry cobra. “It is not good to be so proud. See what I can do to you. You will keep on humiliating me like this every day and I will continue to tolerate it? That will not be.” Fatema had decided what she would do. She would break the lock of his room and see what he had hidden there. Had he hidden another woman in his room?

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“O Shiva Thakur, O Mother Lakshmi, O Mother Kali, I have been neglecting you. I hope you are all right.” He sat down to do puja. He had also prayed earlier,“Dear Allah of the Muslims and Bhagwan of the Hindus, please bestow your blessings upon all human beings.” He also planned to read the entire Quran. Maulana Hakimpuri was a good man. He would not lie to him. The parrot seemed to be in a listless state. Maybe it had grown old. It was not eating anything. Gopal stroked the bird with affection. The next evening, when he returned home, he received a shock. His idols of Shiva, Lakshmi, Kali, Ganesh, Kartik were all rolling about in the courtyard. The parrot was dead in its cage. First, came Fatema and then, two or more persons came following her. “Shala, malaun! You keep all these things in the same room where you keep the Quran, tasbih and the picture of the Kaaba? Tomorrow we will tell Maulana Hakimpuri everything. Then we will pour whey on your head and send you to the other side of the border. You’ve become a Muslim? Can you become Muslim just by snipping that? How dare you?” Fatema smiled in amusement. “Today is Gopal Maker’s last day. I will see what punishment you receive before I go. You would not let me into your room and this is what you did. Shameful, disgusting!” “Shala, you worship the Shiva linga? See if we do not cut off yours tomorrow!” Gopal Maker remained silent and said nothing. The sky was overcast the next morning. Maulana Hakimpuri told them to send him across the border, but not to kill him. “What are you saying, Huzoor? We should crush his bones.” Maulana Hakimpuri said again, “Just do what I said. Give him one push through the barbed wire fence – the way sugar, rice, clothes, saris and spices are smuggled. Not through the legal path of the BDR.”

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Black clouds covered the sky. It would start to pour any moment. A number of lathiyal, skilled stick fighters, surrounded his house. They yelled at Gopal to come out if he wanted to save his life. But no one came out of the house. The door was open. The door had been locked from the outside. Who the hell had unlocked the door? The people next door had been awake the whole night; even they were unaware of what had happened. Gopal Maker had taken nothing with him. One of them had scissors to cut off his hair and another had a pot of whey to carry out his punishment publicly. Everyone agreed he couldn’t be sent across the border this easily! “Shala, is he anybody’s son-in-law that he can be sent all neat and clean?” Gopal was nowhere to be seen. He had been so terrified that he must have fled the previous night. But no one could tell which way Gopal had gone. The people who spent the whole night at the border smuggling saris, clothes, sugar and rice had not seen him. None of the border guards had seen him anywhere. “Shala, which way did he escape then?” Finally, everyone left in frustration. They helped themselves to his possessions and left, cursing him. When the racket had quietened down, Maulana Hakimpuri came and stood before the house. The basil podium was still there. Fatema had said that he wouldn’t let it be cut because it could cure colds. It was a neat house. The water in the well was ice-cold. So many people had quenched their thirst here. The cool water of this well was unparalleled. Specially, those who used to smuggle sugar and rice had quenched their thirst with a bucket of cool water so many times as they passed by this house. Gopal would tell them, “You will be punished one day by that Someone for your sin. He is watching us from above. You’re thirsty now. Leave after quenching your thirst here.” He had not flung himself into that well either. The well had been checked. Where did this whole person disappear?

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Maulana Hakimpuri kept standing there. The sky was overcast with black clouds. Rubbing his eyes, what was Maulana Hakimpuri trying to see? Where was Gopal going through the clouds with an umbrella over his head? The Being, who was believed to live up there, had never actually come down and shown the exact way to reach Him. Human beings had prescribed these paths according to their own preferences. And because of these different paths, there had been so much conflict, so much bloodshed. Rivers of blood had flowed at times. Maulana Hakimpuri glanced up. Mohammad Gopal Maker was not there. Neither was Gopal’s umbrella. Only clouds. Translated from “Gopal Makerer Ontodhan” by Masrufa Ayesha Nusrat

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RIZIA RAHMAN (1939 – 2019) was one of Bangladesh’s most renowned writers, winning the Ekushey Padak in 2019. In 1978, she received the Bangla Academy Award, the top literary award in Bangladesh. Among her other awards are the Bangladesh Lekhika Sangha Award and the Anannya Sahitya Puroshkar. After completing her Master’s degree in Economics from the University of Dhaka, she taught for some time. She was also for several years a regular columnist for some national newspapers. Since the late sixties she turned to writing novels and short stories, essays, literary criticism, belles-lettres, as well as juvenile fiction. While many of her stories are rooted in Bangladesh, in others references to international personalities and events reveal her global consciousness. Her novels include Ghar-Bhanga-Ghar, Rakter Akshar, Bong Theke Bangla, Ekti Phuler Janya, Shilay Shilay Agun, Harun Phereni, and He Manab Manabi. Rizia Rahman’s short stories have been published in several volumes. Some of her short stories have been translated into English and published in Caged in Paradise and Other Stories (2010). Her novel, Rakter Akshar, has been published in English as Letters of Blood (2016).

Rizia Rahman

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As soon as he stepped onto the banks of the canal, Taleb Munshi felt his temper flare up. The heat of his anger spread to his heart. After standing motionless for a few minutes, he stamped the stick in his hands on the ground and snarled at Adam Ali, the skinny fifteenyear-old acolyte standing behind him. “Adamaiya, what’s that? What’s that there?” A scared Adam looked around, trying to locate the cause of his agitation. Not finding anything, he asked in a baffled voice, “Hujur?” “What are you bleating ‘Hujur, Hujur’ for? Can’t you see? What’s that going there?” The “hujur’s” words frightened Adam even more. What on earth was he referring to? Bright sunshine spilled over everything. The paths and fields were all dry; there was no mud or slush anywhere. Even the canal was waterless, winding like a sari stretched out to dry in the autumnal sun. What had the renowned Taleb Munshi, the much revered and feared teacher of the madrasah, seen to so annoy him?

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Raising his stick, Taleb gestured towards the canal and spat out with a furious grimace, “Bloody fool, look on the other side of the canal. Who’s that there? Who is it that strides so boldly?” The woman at whom Taleb was flourishing his stick had no time to look around. She stepped forward on the dusty path with a load of paddy on her head, her weary figure draped in a dirty, tattered sari. Seeing her, Adam said in a low voice, “Hujur, that’s Hajera Bibi of Karigarpara. She’s taking home some paddy from the bazaar to make muri, puffed rice.” Adam’s answer angered Taleb Ali even more. Mimicking him viciously, he snarled, “Huh! Hajera Bibi indeed! When did that shameless slut become a bibi? Do respectable and decent women who deserve to be called ‘bibis’ walk about in broad daylight with loads on their heads?” Adam did not answer him for he had always pitied Hajera Bibi of Karigarpara, a young woman untimely widowed. Saddled with two children and an old decrepit mother, she had somehow managed to scrape a living, barely surviving without anyone being bothered about her existence. But now when loans from NGO banks had enabled her to improve her condition by earning money in a variety of ways – making muri, bottling pickles, embroidering quilts, and selling them to buyers from town – she had almost immediately become the focus of Taleb’s ire. Adam knew only too well that just the mention of an NGO was enough to set Hujur’s pate on fire. Of course, there was reason enough for it. Since arriving from Bhangar Char, Taleb Munshi had been fairly successful in setting up his trade of amulets and holy spells, but the pesky NGO health-workers had really damaged his market. However, his antipathy towards Hajera Bibi really stemmed from the affair of the mosque tubewell. Recently, there had been a drought in the locality and everywhere water was

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hard to get. There was certainly no harm in collecting water from the tubewell. But why did she have to start that insolent dispute with Taleb Munshi? Taleb Munshi stamped his stick on the ground forcefully. In a loud voice he demanded, “Have all virtue and decency disappeared from the face of the earth? Can everyone do whatever they please? Has the difference between men and women been totally wiped out? Have women turned into men nowadays?” The words spoken in a tone of intense outrage were actually directed at Hajera, but they were wasted for she had gone very far ahead with her load of paddy. There was no one to hear his fulminations except the boy Adam, who now reminded him, “Hujur, we’re getting late. People at the Mridha house are waiting for us.” The words brought Taleb back to more immediate concerns. The eldest daughter of the Mridha family had become possessed by djinns and, for the last few days, Taleb had been treating her with holy spells and phunks, breaths sanctified and strengthened by special prayers. There had, however, been no effect at all, and the senior wife of the family had announced yesterday that she would take her daughter to the city to be treated by doctors there. The memory made Taleb even more furious and, barking at Adam, “Step quickly, now,” he strode forward. The possibility that the Mridha girl’s case might slip out of his grasp increased his anger and spread towards the NGO workers. It was only because of them that even a penniless, starving destitute like Hajera dared to talk back to him. Those flighty city girls were at the root of all the trouble. The incident had occurred only a few days back when Hajera had come to the mosque tubewell to collect drinking water. Taleb Munshi had been cleaning his teeth after his midday meal in the room adjoining the mosque. Hearing the sound of the pump handle, he had come out to see who it was. The mild

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breeze rustled the dry leaves on that lonely noon and the cooing of doves came from the nearby bamboo grove. Taleb felt an unseasonable stirring in his heart. It was as if he was seeing the young woman by the pump for the first time. Her body swayed in rhythm with her shapely arms as she raised and lowered the pump handle. Although it had been a long while since he had felt like this, his interest in the opposite gender turned into the avid eagerness of attraction and desire. He came forward and stood very close to her by the pump. “Hey, girl.” Hajera was startled by Taleb Munshi’s intimate approach. She stopped working the pump handle and pulled the end of her sari over her head. “Are you speaking to me, Sir?” Her wary movement away from him did not sit well with Taleb Munshi. “Am I addressing spirits or ghosts, then? Don’t you have any shame at all?” “What shameless act did you see?” Her words now angered Taleb Munshi. What an unmannerly and insolent woman this was! She didn’t seem to have the least vestige of the humility with which respectable religious figures such as munshis and maulvis should be addressed. Nevertheless, he stifled his annoyance. The bloom of her youthful face, framed by her dry coarse hair, and her body, barely covered by her old, torn sari, suddenly seemed very sweet to him. In a low and familiar voice, he said, “Listen, cover yourself. Don’t show your body to men. It is a very sinful act.” As he spoke, Taleb moved even closer. His lascivious gaze seemed to run over her body almost tangibly. Hajera moved farther aside. Balancing her water pot on her hip, she turned to walk briskly away from him. Her voice rang out roughly, “Why do those men cast their eyes on women? Why

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don’t they turn their eyes away? If they can’t, they should just retire indoors and stay there.” Her words shook Taleb from head to toe like an electric shock. This was unthinkable! How could Hajera have detected any signs of that prohibited lust he was harbouring within himself and had barely acknowledged? Not finding words adequately strong to counter hers, he thundered, “Don’t you dare come to the mosque tubewell ever again!” Hajera turned her head, her lips curling in a gesture of disdain and total disrespect. “And who’s going to fill my water pot and deliver it to me? You?” She marched off without stopping. Taleb Munshi stood astounded for a moment, frozen with shocked incredulity. He then yelled at the top of his voice, “You insolent, shameless, unmannerly slut! I’ll see how you collect water from this pump! I’ll break your bones if you dare to set a foot here.” Garnishing the incident with a few details from his own imagination, Taleb Munshi reported the matter to the congregation after the asr, late afternoon, prayers. “Our world is rapidly becoming an abode of the devil. In broad daylight shameless women walk about everywhere, uncovered and unveiled. They don’t even hesitate to defile sanctified places like the mosque where pious and God-fearing men gather to say their prayers. It is impossible to endure this situation longer.” Taleb had already informed his chief supporter, the affluent villager Mr. Patwari, about the incident. It had been Mr. Patwari who, having heard the fame of Taleb Munshi’s spells and incantations, of the strength of his amulets and holy water, had brought him to this village. It had been because of Mr. Patwari that he had obtained the post in the local madrasah. Turning now to him for support, Taleb proposed,

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“From today Hajera Bibi should be prohibited from coming anywhere near the mosque compound. She should not to be allowed to collect water from the mosque tubewell and she must observe purdah. Tell us, Mr. Patwari, how did she dare suggest that I stoop to fill her water pot for her?” Mr. Patwari was probably not prepared to go this far. In a rather flat voice he said, “What can I alone say? Everyone here should decide the matter.” The influential villager Monu Bepari laughed off Taleb Munshi’s proposal. “Come on! Can she be really thought of as a woman? She’s more of a man! What prohibition or fatwa about purdah can you pronounce against someone like her?” Taleb Munshi’s bitterest foe, the imam of the local mosque, now joined in. “There’s truth in his words. Besides, it seems totally unreasonable to deny anyone water to quench their thirst in these drought-stricken days. No water’s to be found in any of the canals or ponds, and there’s only that one tubewell in this locality. How will she survive if she can’t draw water from here?” The argument died down, but when Taleb Munshi returned home he felt like tearing his hair and beard in rage. If only this had been his own home village on Bhangar Char! Wouldn’t he just have shown everyone what a fatwa really meant? That slut would have been stripped naked and whipped at least a hundred times before a hundred people. Then, draped only in a rag around her hips and her head covered with whey, she would have been paraded before the entire village. His devoted followers, Bosoira and Latu, who were notorious thugs in the area, would have dragged this evil woman and flung her at his feet for his pleasure. Even at this age of fifty-plus he was perfectly able to contract ten or more motahs, or temporary marriages! His resentment expanded to include Mr. Patwari. How did Mr. Patwari’s party win the last

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election anyway, getting all those votes? Making away with the ballot box, beating up workers of the opposition – hadn’t all these been accomplished by the underlings of Latu and Boshoira? Hadn’t it been Taleb Munshi who had hired them for these ends? Now that the hurdle had been crossed, Mr. Patwari had just turned away from him. Taleb was a little late arriving at the Mridha house. The senior wife sent him a message saying, “Tell Munshi Sahib we will not need his services for the djinn-expelling rituals. We’re taking our daughter to Dhaka by the morning steamer. The NGO lady doctor has said that there’s no djinn causing her illness. Even though we gave him a lot of money, Munshi Sahib’s treatment has only made her condition worse.” Muttering imprecations on the NGO doctor, Taleb Munshi returned in a state of bitter fury. Unless the village people could be distanced from these NGO nuisances, Taleb Munshi’s future seemed definitely bleak. But Taleb Ali Munshi was not a man to give in so easily. It was because of the money of the NGOs that these eternally downtrodden women had become infected with such audacity. One day Hajera Bibi carried home a headload of paddy from the market, another day Jolekha Bibi opened a fabric printing shop in her house! Only the other day two girls from Hajipara went off to the Middle East with jobs, thumbing their noses at everyone who disapproved. The NGOs were therefore Taleb Ali’s principal enemy at the moment. They had to be got rid of, expelled from the village. Taleb Ali spent a few days walking about the village, issuing various fatwas against the NGO workers, but to little effect. The very air of the village seemed to have shifted. Even the more affluent among the villagers were cultivating the NGO workers, not to speak of the

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destitute ones, who had been completely won over after getting money from them. All the poverty-stricken, eternally timorous women in the village had changed in their ways and attitudes. They showed no deference for the maulvis and munshis, nor did they bother much about amulets and incantations. Hajera, with an invalid of a husband who had died leaving not even an inch of land at his death, had been begging from house to house before the NGO bank came into the village. In her hunger she had lived on water plants and weeds from the marsh. Now she had formed a group through which she borrowed money from the NGO bank and had been repaying the loan every month from the money she earned through making and selling puffed rice. There was no shortage in Taleb Munshi’s stock of fatwas to condemn all these improper activities which encouraged women to give up the veil. The only obstacle in his way was that favourite of the Mosque Committee, that blasted imam, who was given to citing instances from the Quran and hadith, sayings of the Prophet Mohammed, at the least pretext, showing off his learning. At the moment, convincing Mr. Patwari seemed to be the first step. After discussing matters with Mr. Patwari, Taleb Munshi came back home to have his mood spoiled afresh. Adam had come down with fever and, wrapping himself in a quilt, had fallen asleep. No food had been cooked. Taleb Munshi would have to slave over the stove and make his own meal. But, as soon as he came to the tubewell in the yard with a bucket to get water, his rage rekindled once again. Hajera had occupied the entire pump area and was filling her own pot with water. He had intended to retreat as soon as he caught sight of her, but somehow he could not. The sensuous rhythm of Hajera’s arms pumping water stilled him in his tracks. But, suddenly, the handle came to a stop.

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In a clear unafraid tone, Hajera addressed him, “Munshi Sa’ab, go inside. You will be sinning by staring at women in this way.” For a few moments Taleb Munshi was too shocked to respond. Then, almost unexpectedly, he said, “Hajera Bibi, why do you get so annoyed whenever you see me? Don’t you understand? I feel truly sorry to see your hardship and difficulties. Poor girl, there’s no one to give you any help!” Hajera did not show any anger. Slowly and carefully raising her water pot to her hip, she cast a stern glance directly at his face. In a very measured manner she answered, “Hypocrisy is a very evil act. Fear Allah’s wrath.” Having thrown these words at him, she walked away at once. For a while, like a man cursed into stillness, Taleb Munshi stood unmoving. Then, coming to himself, he felt the old fires raging again. In tones of intense fury, he muttered, “You hellish bitch!” The next week, after the Friday prayers and before the congregation could disperse, Taleb Munshi raised the issue once more. In a full-throated voice, professional in its vigour, Taleb Munshi addressed the gathered villagers, “All you learned gentlefolk, maulvis and munshis, alems and pious servants of Allah, tell us now if the sight of a woman’s body defiles and spoils a man’s wudhu, his ritual wash, whose sin is it?” These words raised a low murmur of protest, but Taleb Munshi stopped it in a sharp tone. “Of course the sin lies with the woman. Women are impure and tainted. They are indeed the gateway of hell itself, obedient servants of the Devil. Be careful, all you faithful Muslims. If you do not judge and condemn the insolence and sins of women who are your real enemies, remember the deepest levels of Hell are burning for you.”

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Using the soul-stirring terms of ritual sermons, Taleb Munshi painted a vivid picture of the indecent and audacious ways of the wicked woman, Hajera. Then, in a grim and unrelenting tone, he proposed a scheme of punishment for Hajera. “She must be ostracized. The shops and markets must be forbidden to her. Neither Hajera, nor her children nor her mother will be allowed to draw water from the tubewell. No one will give them a drop of water. Any one doing so must be thought of as an enemy of the faith.” Taleb ended his pronouncements by suggesting that the NGO workers be prevented from entering the village. Someone from the congregation said in a low voice, “This poor girl has suffered and struggled all her life. She and her children make a bare living by selling puffed rice.” Taleb Munshi roared, “Make a living! Life is in the hands of Allah!” But another voice from the congregation now spoke in a louder and firmer voice. “Certainly Allah allows his creatures to live and survive. But a path or a means is required. The ways offered by the NGO workers have permitted the poor destitute girls of the village to earn a little money. It isn’t right to speak against this. Besides, denying water to them will definitely be a great sin.” Taleb Munshi flared up again. “Miah Sa’ab, do you know anything of the Quran and the hadith? Don’t talk vaguely and without understanding. Listen, Allah has made men the lords of this world. All women have been created as their slaves. Men have control of all laws.” His canonical utterances soon led to the incantatory tones of the qiraat, the musical recitation of the Quran. Almost chanting, he swayed and declared, “Listen, all you faithful, keep these slaves in control. Women have always to be taught and led; otherwise you will all be sinners.” Returning to a normal tone, he continued, “Women

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must live indoors. No one, not even the sun and moon may glimpse their faces. An unveiled woman is an indecency, an enemy of Islam.” Harsher terms, drawn from popular incendiary sermons, came to his lips. His real fury was, of course, directed towards that impertinent, insolent Hajera. The thought of Hajera excited him. The memory of the bare arms and the full figure of the buxom woman kept flashing through his mind. The lure of her body had been disturbing his sleep only too often. The memory of the flabby body, the sagging breasts and the betel nut-stained teeth of his elderly wife, who lived back in their village home, made him suddenly nauseous. “Hell, Hell itself! Hellish creatures, all!” The imam of the mosque had been watching Taleb Munshi’s antics silently. Now he called out, “Where do you see Hell, Munshi Sa’ab? Who are these hellish creatures you refer to?” In a voice blazing with fury, Taleb Munshi answered, “Women, all women are hellish creatures!” The imam stood up. “Munshi Sa’ab, your words will indeed get you into trouble. Your mother is a woman, isn’t she? Is she hellish too? That would make you hellish as well! Does the hadith not tell us Heaven for a man lies under his mother’s feet?” Taleb Munshi leapt up in anger. “You want to start a dispute with me? How dare you talk of my mother? She belongs to the race of Mother Fatema, the Prophet’s daughter!” “And are all other women of the tribe of Nimrod, the Biblical tyrant, then? No, women are all of Mother Fatema’s kind!” The barb in the imam’s pointed remarks seemed to pierce Taleb Munshi. This fellow had in truth become too audacious. The favoured treatment he received from the

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Mosque Committee had certainly gone to his head. Should Latu be called in to cut him down to size? Curbing his vengeful thoughts for the moment, Taleb Munshi grimly issued a warning. “Imam Sa’ab, watch what you are saying. My mother never had the indecent, sinful, unbelieving ways of the hell-born women of your village.” An angry murmur rose once again from the congregation. The imam now openly resumed hostilities. “Munshi Sa’ab, have you then experienced a meraj and travelled to Heaven to see who is heavenly and who hellish? Are you not an alem, a religious scholar? Do you not know that it is a cardinal sin to call a Muslim an unbeliever?” The debate rapidly progressed into a quarrel. Taleb Munshi’s insulting remarks had started an uproar within the mosque. Patwari Sahib came forward to stop the angry exchanges. Stepping up, Manu Bepari said, “This girl works ceaselessly to put food into the mouths of her children. What is there to pass judgement on in this? Let her be. Let her eke out the meagre living that she is able to.” Seizing this opportunity, the imam pronounced an opinion favouring this stand. “It is mandatory for a Muslim to earn an honest living and obtain the means to sustain his life. Allah has not differentiated between men and women in this regard.” The congregation broke up, leaving undecided the issue of Hajera’s judgement. To Taleb Munshi, it seemed Hajera had triumphed once more. He felt angry with himself for the intemperate words he had indulged in during his sermon. His fury did not let him sleep the whole night. There would be no rest until he could avenge himself on the imam by punishing this wicked woman.

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Waking Adam up in the middle of the night he told him, “Go to Hajera tomorrow with a proposal of marriage. I will marry Hajera Bibi and make her my junior wife. Then I will show everyone how women must be guided and controlled.” Adam came back the next morning to Taleb Munshi, his lord and master, with a crest-fallen face. Hajera had chased him away with a broom. She had yelled, “Damn the old devil and his wedding dreams!! A hundred curses on him!” Taleb Munshi exploded in fury. “I’ll whip her roundly. I’ll burn her alive. I’ll shame and humiliate her.” Adam was thoroughly frightened by his words. “How will you do that, Sir? By your prayers and spells?” “Shut up, you slave-spawn!” Taleb Munshi suddenly burst out in furious abuse at Adam and then fell into an angry silence. At this moment it wasn’t the NGO workers or even the imam who seemed to be his principal enemy but Hajera herself. Spells and prayers wouldn’t do at all. What was required now were the specials skills of Latu and Boshoira. Standing up agitatedly, he ordered Adam, “Pack up our things and get ready to move. We’ll be going to Bhangar Char immediately.” Taking leave for two weeks, Taleb Munshi left for Bhangar Char by the noon steamer. The next Friday it was the imam who stood in front of the congregation to deliver the sermon. “Water is Allah’s sacred mercy to mankind. All His servants have equal right to this mercy. He who obstructs this right is no more than a Yezid, a Shimar, those despicable tyrants who denied water to Imam Hussain, the beloved grandson of our Holy Prophet, and his followers.” Tears came to the eyes of the worshippers in the mosque. How heartless were those who killed the descendants of the Holy Prophet by denying them water to quench their thirst!

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The imam’s words seemed to waft a breeze from Heaven itself. “Allah created his servants with great compassion, and for them His Love is unending. One hundredth of that ineffable love He put into the heart of a mother for her child. He permitted only women a share in His divine love, not men. What greater honour can be conceived of for His creatures? This is why women are honoured by the Prophet and those who are true believers. “The revered lady, Bibi Hajera, ran like a mad woman between the peaks of Safa and Marwa, hills in the valley of Mecca, seeking a trickle of water to save her son, Ismail.” The imam fell into the rhythmical tones of a ritual prayer. “Hajis have to run seven times between Safa and Marwa, without which their Hajj would be incomplete. This ritual of running seven times between the peaks of Safa and Marwa is nothing else than respect for Bibi Hajera’s travails.” The voices of the congregation rose to a refrain of “Alhamdulillah! Praise be to Allah!” drowning out the faint sound of soulful sobs. Pausing for a moment, the imam continued, “All of you know how Mother Fatema, the wife of Hazrat Ali, the beloved daughter of our Holy Prophet (Peace Be Upon Him), would walk a long distance to bring grass for her horse. For her children she would carry water from far away in her goatskin. She got sores on her shoulders from carrying that heavy load every day. The palms of her holy hands would be stained with blood from her ceaseless turning of the grinding stone to grind wheat so that she could feed her children. Were these holy women indecent and shameless? Certainly not. They were granted a share of Allah’s love for His creatures. Indeed they were His honoured slaves. These girls in our village belong to the race of those holy women. Protecting their children, who are Allah’s creatures, with all

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their strength, they too share in Allah’s love. How hard they struggle! Who dares call them the doors to damnation, the path to Hell? Who dares sit in judgement on them? Who has the great audacity to issue tyrannical fatwas on those of Mother Fatema’s kind? The power to judge belongs only to Allah.” The congregation was stilled into a pin-drop silence. The imam’s words broke once again into the stillness. “Listen, O believers, there is no greater sin than the oppression and torture of Allah’s faithful slaves. Remember, Allah will certainly listen to the cries of mistreated and tyrannized women and their complaints against the men who oppress them. I swear that what I am saying is borne out by the Quran and Sunnah, the traditions of the Prophet Mohammed. If you believe in Allah and His Prophets, then you must believe also that Allah has not given you the right to issue tyrannical fatwas against women. Beware, O believers, for the flames of Hell await you....” The congregation broke up, and the imam came out of the mosque. On one side of the steps sat Hajera’s old mother, Fatema Bibi, with Hajera’s two children. Leaning on her stick, she now came forward, raising a trembling hand. “Father, may Allah bless and give you the joys of Heaven. Protect my poor daughter whose whole life has been full of suffering and grief.” The imam took a taka out of the pocket of his prayer robe and dropped it into her bowl. He said in a low voice, “Protection lies in the hands of Allah.” He did not linger longer for he would have to go to Dhaka on the evening steamer with Monu Bepari to pursue Government funds for the mosque. Two days later a group of masked miscreants swooped down on Hajera’s hut. Thrusting Hajera’s mother and children aside, they carried Hajera away. Before leaving, they doused the hut with kerosene and set it ablaze. The flames burned

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till dawn, turning into ashes the sacks of paddy and puffed rice stored inside. At daybreak, Harinath’s mother from neighbouring Kumarpara, where the potters lived, was the first to come forward. Hajera’s mother was huddled near the burnt-out hut with the two terrified, cold children clutched to her bosom. Harinath’s mother took them to her place. The next day, going to collect clay from the empty field at the end of the village, it was she who discovered the naked and bloodied Hajera lying there, still alive. Bringing a white dhoti, she covered Hajera and called the neighbours to carry her inside her hut. The news spread fast through the village, drawing many people to her hut. Mr. Patwari also arrived. Seeing him, Harinath’s mother broke down in tears. “Poor thing, a creature of Krishna, she’s of the race of mothers. Who could have done this terrible thing? God will not tolerate such a crime.” Mr. Patwari cut her off with a sharp rebuke. “Don’t create an uproar with your bawling. We’ll have the police down on us and there’ll be a big problem. Everyone in the village will get into trouble.” Harinath’s mother stopped wailing. “The girl is badly hurt. She needs to be taken to the doctor.” “I’ll send word to the doctor.” Mr. Patwari was apprehensive. Taleb Munshi’s involvement in this affair seemed strongly indicated. He issued a warning to Harinath’s mother as he left, “Don’t inform the NGO doctor about this and don’t let the NGO workers find out anything. I tell you, it’ll get you into a lot of trouble.” Taleb Munshi returned the same evening. Hearing of his return, Mr. Patwari himself came to see him. “You’ve heard the news, I’m sure. This really wasn’t the right thing to do. You shouldn’t gone so far.”

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Taleb Munshi sprang up. “What are you saying? I don’t know a thing! But if Latu and Boshoria have had a hand in this, what can I do about it?” Mr. Patwari understood immediately. He did not indulge in the folly of stirring up this nest of hornets. But what if this matter led to the police being called in? This thought was dismissed at once by Taleb Munshi. “There’s nothing to worry about. I’ll stop the police getting mixed up in this matter. Tomorrow I’ll convince everyone that this is a case of zina, adultery, and she’ll be buried up to her neck in the field before the mosque and stoned to death.” Mr. Patwari was appalled. “Heavens! What are you suggesting? You’ll be charged with murder then!” Taleb Munshi gave this a moment’s thought. Then, cheerfully, he said, “All right, she’ll be given a hundred lashes instead. That too will be punishment prescribed by the hadith.” “But the girl is in such a bad shape! She’ll not be able to stand even five lashes!” Taleb shrugged away Mr. Patwari’s squeamish hesitations. “To prevent the police coming in, I’ll issue the edict of lashes for her adultery after esha prayers tonight.” Mr. Patwari knew Latu and Boshoira only too well by this time. He did not have the nerve to take any action against them, and Taleb Munshi was hand in hand with them. Mr. Patwari totally lacked the courage to defy his evil plans. Taleb Munshi came back to the mosque in an ebullient and cheerful state of mind. Once he turned a case of rape into a case of adultery, the final triumph would be his. That pusillanimous Patwari was of no account at all. The weapon of fatwa was in his sole control. No one would dare open their mouths against him now. It was only left to complete the whole matter before that foolish imam and Monu Bepari came back.

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After esha prayers, Taleb Munshi started on the matter of the fatwa. Quoting verses and citing precedents from the Quran and hadith, he pronounced the punishment to be dealt out to the adulteress, Hajera. The next day after noon prayers, Hajera would have a hundred lashes inflicted on her in the field fronting the mosque. A wave of protests rose from the worshippers gathered in the mosque. How could Hajera’s dishonour be considered adultery? All present understood only too clearly what was behind this. Besides, how could Taleb Munshi be allowed to take the sole decision on a punishment as severe as this? A few more alems and munshis should be called in for deliberations. Decisions could and should be taken after extensive consultations. Taleb Munshi flared up again. Did the imams and alems possess greater knowledge than he did? If people were doubtful, they should open the Quran and hadith and read the verses themselves. The prescribed punishment for an adulterer was being stoned to death. That harsh punishment had, after all, been lightened considerably. Taleb Munshi now changed his tactics to become more persuasive. “Listen, O faithful and pious people, if an adult woman indulges in impermissible and indecent acts with an unrelated and strange man, that in truth is zina.” Taleb Munshi felt quite pleased at having managed to deliver this corrupted and grossly distorted version of religious doctrines. He added, “If I do not punish sinful acts, I will become a sinner myself. I am an alem, an upholder of the Quran and hadith. There is no way for me to go against these. This punishment is according to Allah’s laws. I have no way of defying or ignoring this.” At this the protest died down. It was the alems and munshis after all who had the authority to interpret the doctrines and laws of the Quran and hadith. It was they who had the power

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to issue fatwas. No one had the courage to go against this. The decision of punishment was finally agreed to. Hajera would be subjected to a hundred lashes in front of everyone in the field before the mosque. That night Taleb Munshi was unable to fall asleep because of his elated excitement. Triumph in this long-drawn out game was finally within his grasp. Finding it quite impossible to suppress his glee, he called Adam and blurted out to him, “Get it, simpleton? Success and victory have now been reached.” Adam stared wordlessly for a while and asked, “What victory, Hujur? Of your spells and prayers?” Taleb Munshi broke into a roar of laughter as if Adam had said something irresistibly funny. The bad news arrived the next day before dawn prayers. Hajera had committed suicide by swallowing rat poison. Hearing this, in rage and frustration, Taleb Munshi flung his badna, the spouted vessel that he used for his wudhu, across the yard. It was as if Hajera had succeeded in eluding Taleb Ali’s grasp finally. Clearly, her action had been directed at him. As day broke, people starting pouring into Harinath’s courtyard. As news reached the police station, constables arrived to take Hajera’s corpse away. Harinath and his mother were also taken into custody as material witnesses. Taleb Munshi again issued a fatwa after dawn prayers. “Funeral rites and burial are prohibited by the Holy Book for those who take their own life. The earth of this village must be forbidden to this hell-bound sinner.” Monu Bepari’s brother stood up to ask, “The body of Hajera is being brought back here after the post-mortem. What will happen to that corpse?” Taleb Munshi had made the right moves to bring the game under his control like an expert. In the arrogance of his victory he replied, “How do I know what is to happen to the

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corpse of this damned woman? Throw it into the fields to be eaten by foxes and dogs or put it in a sack and throw the sack into the river. Or else, the dom, who carries dead bodies for burial or cremation, can take it away. Alems and munshis cannot be held responsible for the corpses of these impious sinners.” On feet heavy with arrogance, Taleb Munshi stepped out of the mosque. Looking at Monu Bepari’s brother’s questioning eyes, Mr. Patwari silently shook his head and did not speak. That evening Mr. Patwari sent for Taleb Munshi. He said, “This really wasn’t the right thing to do. I heard that the girl’s corpse was taken away by the doms and burnt. And now the NGO people have also come to know about the whole affair. Looks like a big uproar is about to break upon us. Then, to add to the trouble, the imam and Monu Bepari are returning today. You better stay out of sight for a few days. Let’s see how things transpire.” Mr. Patwari’s advice did not sit too well with Taleb. He longed to see the imam’s discomfited and outwitted face. Besides, this was just the beginning – his plan would remain incomplete until he succeeded in caging all the women of the village by issuing fatwa after fatwa. Even so, he could hardly afford to ignore the orders of Mr. Patwari, who was his strongest supporter in the community. Later that evening, Taleb Munshi arrived on the river bank with Adam, his servant and disciple. The jetty was almost empty for the steamer was not due for a while yet. Since the previous evening Adam had lapsed into almost complete silence and had hardly uttered a word. Walking alone on the river bank, Taleb sent him to the nearby stall for cigarettes. Handing the cigarettes and matches to Taleb on his return, Adam suddenly broke out, “Did you hear the news? Imam Sahib has come back and has gone to look for Hajera Bibi’s body.”

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The news of the imam’s return startled Taleb Munshi. Putting out the match he had struck to light a cigarette, he said, “What was that? The imam’s gone to look for the corpse? What’s he going to do with it?” “He’s going to conduct the janaza, the funeral prayer, and then he’ll bury her properly in a shroud.” Not responding to this piece of news, Taleb lit a match for his cigarette again. He had no further concern about Hajera’s corpse. Smiling to himself, he reflected that not only had the remains been incinerated but even the burnt bones had probably been dragged off by dogs and jackals by this time. Enjoying his cigarette, Taleb Munshi strolled along the bank with complete peace of mind. Dusk had by now descended and the mist was thickening on the river. All of a sudden Taleb Munshi gave a violent start. Who was that weeping? Whose heart-rending wails were being borne by the chilly river breezes? As Taleb stopped short, the imam emerged from the curtain of mist to stand before him. “Taleb Munshi!” Somehow Taleb’s voice became tremulous. “Imam Sa’ab! Where did you come from?” “I have just conducted a gayebi janaza, an absentee funeral, for Hajera Bibi.” The words infuriated Taleb Munshi. “Hajera Bibi!” The imam pronounced the name with such solemn reverence that the veil of Heaven seemed to part to reveal Bibi Hajera herself running frantically between Safa and Marwa with her infant son pleading for water. The burning cigarette fell from Taleb Munshi’s hand. Grinding out the stub with his foot, the imam lashed out at him, “How could you do this dreadful thing, Taleb Munshi? How could you allow the body of a follower of the Holy Prophet to be burnt, to be disposed of without funeral prayers, without a proper burial or even a shroud?”

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Even though he wanted to sound defiant, Taleb Munshi’s protest took on a weak and querulous tone. “What was so wrong with that? After all, she was a hell-bound sinner. Did she not commit a cardinal sin by taking her own life?” “And are even cardinal sinners denied a shroud and janaza? Where did you get this dispensation from? What will happen to you in that case? Why did Hajera take poison? Who forced her to do so?” “What do I know of that? If anyone knows, it’ll be those malaun, those wretched Hindus, Harinath and his mother.” “Stop! Don’t you dare utter any more lies. Lying is indeed a cardinal sin. And do you not know what an enormous sin it is to give false interpretations of the Quran and hadith? May Allah’s curse descend on criminals like you. Shame, shame on you! Do you not call yourself an alem? Do you not know how severe will be the judgement of alems on the Day of Judgement? Do you not know how fiercely the fires of hell are burning?” Contempt and rage choked the imam’s throat. Like shadows, two children came silently to stand on either side of him. In fear, Taleb stepped back a pace. “Who are those?” The imam’s voice blazed with furious anger. “They are angels, they are Keramin Katebin, the angels who record man’s actions, good and evil. They are Hajera Bibi’s two children who were witnesses to your unspeakable crime.” Tremors overtook Taleb Munshi, and he collapsed on the ground. At that moment the cold breeze swept in again, bringing with it the thin sound of heart-broken keening. Frightened, he raised his head. “Who weeps thus?” The imam gazed in the direction of the worshippers returning in groups from the meadow where the gayebi janaza had been held. With them, leaning on a stick, walked an old,

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grief-shattered woman. Looking away from her, the imam said in a voice drenched with pain, “It is Hajera Bibi’s mother who weeps.” The imam raised his face upwards where the star-strewn sky had been hidden by the river mist. It was as if the sound of ripples from the river were reaching to the sky and tearing away the veils that concealed heaven. It seemed that the tearful visage of the most holy lady, Bibi Fatema, glimmered against that starry backdrop. The imam lowered his head. He seemed to hear the sound of crying from all around, a sound that rose from the earth and descended from the sky, that drowned all creation. It was Mother Fatema, the emblem and crown of womanhood, who wept for all women. Adam had almost dissolved in the darkness. He now suddenly gave a loud wail. “Do you all hear how Hajera Bibi’s mother weeps for her daughter? O you learned, faithful, pious worshippers of Allah, do you hear Mother Fatema weeping? The flames of Hell are surely blazing and leaping high for sinners.” Just then a meteor shot across the vast, mist-shrouded face of the sky. Translated from “Kandey Ma Fatema” by Shirin Hasanat Islam

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HASAN AZIZUL HUQ was born in the village of Jabgraam in the Burdwan district of West Bengal, in undivided India. In 1947, the family moved to Khulna, East Pakistan, where he went to school and college. After completing his MA in Philosophy from Rajshahi University in 1960, he joined the department and continued teaching there till he retired. Huq is basically a short story writer and has published several volumes of short stories, including Samudrer Swapna, Shiter Aranya (1964), Atmaja O Ekti Karabi Gaachh (1967), and Raarbanger Golpo (1999). He has written two autobiographies, Fire Jai Fire Ashi and Uki Diye Digonto. His single novel is Agunpakhi (2006), based on the Partition of India. The novel received the Prothom Alo Puroshkar in 2007 and the Ananda Puroshkar from India in 2008. Among his other awards are the Bangla Academy Sahitya Puroshkar (1970), the Ekushey Padak (1999), and the Swadhinata Puroshkar (2019).

Hasan Azizul Huq

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A few minutes after sunset, several boys were sitting with their backs against the tamarind tree. They had taken off their soiled half-sleeved shirts and had spread them on the ground to sit on. They sat in a circle with their legs stretched out before them, chatting among themselves. Suddenly, on hearing a sound like a screech, they turned round with a start. Something flew over their heads with a whooshing sound, shaking the dried-up branches of the tamarind tree and scattering its leaves. Like a deep black lump of living darkness it dropped, almost touching their heads, through the pale dusk on the deserted homestead before them. The boys jumped to their feet, shouting, and ran up to the homestead. At first, their eyes could detect nothing in the pale darkness except a lump of earth and a dark bush. But the leader of the boys understood that among the most commonly seen birds only the vulture had to run forward after landing on the ground in order to keep its balance. So he was the first to notice the dark lump running a few feet before it came to a confused halt.

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The younger boy among them asked in a scared voice, “What’s that, hey?” Another replied, “Can’t understand at all.” “Is it a bird?” “Yeah, could be a bird.” “Who knows what evil someone may be cooking up at this hour of the evening?” The boy spat on his chest. The lump of darkness remained motionless. It seemed to be trying to hide, if it could, in the hollow of an ancient banyan tree, in a hideous cavern fetid with the stink of excrement, or perhaps it was trying to conceal itself in a fox-hole under a clump of fragrant bena grass on the bank of the river. “Who knows what evil someone may be cooking up, who wants what, who comes in what guise? Come, let’s go home.” There was a boy in the group who grazed cattle, as there was a boy who went to school. There were also a couple who went to school but tended cattle, cut grass or sowed seeds when necessary. “You’re a coward – we’ve just come upon this thing. Let’s see it to the end.” “No, I want to leave.” “Then go, we’re not going.” “So you’re going home, eh! Try passing under the tamarind tree alone,” said the school-going boy. “We must look at this thing.” Nearly all of them stopped. Then the oldest boy came forward, very cautiously, treading on silent feet. The leader of the boys knew that it was an aged vulture. He stepped right up to the bird, so near that he could touch it by stretching his hand. The boy who grazed cattle was still muttering under his breath, “Who knows what evil someone may be cooking up, who comes in what guise –”

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A gust of wind made a large number of dry leaves flutter to the ground. There were mild ripples on the water of the pond, which became small waves. There was an ugly uncomfortable sound of a metallic object dropping from someone’s hand somewhere. The boy stepped closer to the creature and saw that it was really a vulture, which had failed to return to its nest when daylight still remained. Now it was night-blind. An awfully pungent stench came to his nostrils – the stench of carrion, as if the creature had just taken a dip in a bath of putrid animal flesh. A thick, rough, dirty feather sticking out of the vulture’s body was evidence that it had recently fought with a pack of dogs for its food. “The bastard has definitely fought the whole day. See, it’s still panting.” Paltu came forward, followed by Jamu, Edai and the others who were there. Paltu said, “Isn’t it a vulture?” “Yes, can’t you see?” “It’s not a female vulture, is it?” “Could be a male vulture too.” The cowherd Jamu said, “I bet you can’t tell whether it’s male or female!” The leader Rafiq said, “You are as foolish as a cow, so you speak like one.” The vulture was still standing motionless. Perhaps it did not like this disturbing situation. Rafiq shouted, “Come on, let’s have some fun – come, we’ll make it dance!” The boys hooted in glee. Even the boy who had wanted to go home but did not have the courage to pass under the tamarind tree alone shouted with the others. Rafiq grabbed one of the wings of the vulture. At long last the abominable bird grew excited; it was not ready to surrender

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so easily. Spreading its huge dirty wings and moving its two feet with their ugly talons, it started running along the narrow village lane. This is the way such birds prepare to take flight, running forward to lighten their body-weight. Perhaps that vulture too would have been able to fly, would have been free of these insufferable human children, away from the clutches of their cruel curiosity and fatal game. But its eyes had no sight, its running had no aim. The vulture’s head crashed again and again on the walls on both sides of the lane. And the group of malicious boys chased it like merciless little devils. But the bird managed to come out of the dark lane, because it was not a blind lane. If the snakes living in the holes on the walls on both sides of the lane had been poking their heads out to cool themselves in the heat of the summer, they must have pulled their heads back again. The creature was struggling to spread its wings and fly, running faster and faster along the path by the jujube tree, across two more deserted homesteads, ignoring the dry stretch of the plot of land strewn with bones, trying harder to find a way of escape. But it was weak, helpless. It did not know how to strike back. It did not have the strength to use its sharp beak in violent anger to put an end to the game of the boys. Suddenly, one of the boys cried out in pain. The sharp end of a piece of dry bone had become imbedded in his foot. “All right, let him sit there. We’ll definitely catch the vulture,” Rafiq shouted. “Yeah – you sit there. We must catch it.” “Or you go home.” “Ah, his foot is bleeding!” The one who had been hurt said, “Let it bleed.” Saying that, he ran off, limping after the others. There was a stagnant pond right in front. The bird leapt

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off the ground just as the path turned toward it, trying to fly. But it was too hesitant, the fluttering of its wings too uncertain. Perhaps it was out of breath, tired. Perhaps it had lost its sense of direction. It dropped into the pond, splashing the water around it. The ripples on the thick dirty water glistened darkly for a few seconds and widened lethargically to strike the sides of the pond almost soundlessly. The abominable creature dragged itself up the side of the pond to the other bank. An unrecognizable, muddy shape, dripping wet. The boys too had run up to that side. The congested dwellings of the village had become widely scattered at this end. Dark mounds sprang up here and there. The creature’s natural instinct led it out through the gaps to the field – to the wide open field beyond them. The boys could not see one another’s faces. They too were out of breath. “Let’s see how far you can run now, you bastard – we’ll follow you wherever you go.” “No more, my pet, no more.” “We’ve got it now.” “We’ll definitely catch it today.” “Yeah, we sure will.” The boys started running madly, leaping over the ridges marking the boundaries of agricultural plots, across the rough uneven field, over drains and infant crops – their clothes torn by the thorns of wild sialkool bushes, as though they were hell-bent on a desperate death-wish. Edai asked Rafiq, “What will you do, once you catch it?” “Nothing, only catch it. ” “And then? ” “Hmm –” “What hmm –? What’ll you do after that?” “Let’s catch it first, then we’ll see.”

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No one was speaking any longer. They couldn’t. They were just running, like ghosts, like horrible nightmarish creatures, rushing through the darkness. The wind blowing from the south did not touch their bodies. Their ears did not catch the cracking, swishing noise of mango leaves breaking near the distant babla trees. Nor did the sudden bark of jackals, or the crickets making a monotonous droning sound like stones grinding on a cemented floor, or the dried-up stubble being crushed to powdery dust under their feet, or the darkness turning increasingly denser register on their senses. But, finally, they all caught up with the bird. They jumped upon it and grabbed it, twisting its body under their combined weight. They felt against their own chests the panting empty sound bursting out from inside the vulture like wind blowing out of a pair of bellows. A sound like a desperate sigh – hollow, empty, like that of a creature caught with no prospect of escape. Could the bird also feel the excited heartbeats of the boys? “Is this the one – sure this is the one?” “Is it the same vulture we’ve been chasing all along?” “Why, don’t you believe it?” “Don’t know. It looks strange.” “Have you noticed how it smells?” “Smell? Say stench.” “Does that make a difference?” Perhaps he meant, does the other word make the stench less sharp? The soaked body of the vulture was giving out a fetid odour like rotting skin, as though a solid block of stench was melting and spreading everywhere. Liquid and suffocating stench. Rafiq said, “Come, hold it tight now – don’t grab the beak – it will choke.” The cowherd stepped forward. “I’ll hold the bastard. That’ll teach the wretch how we love it!”

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Jamu and Rafiq each grabbed one of the huge powerful wings of the vulture and pulled from both sides. “What huge wings – at least ten or twelve feet.” The folded, thickly woven feathers opened out. Their texture appeared to become thinner. The feathers arranged in layers should have spread wide side by side like an embroidered carpet unfolded – but the vulture was soaking wet. Caked with mud, its feathers were incapable of spreading. So, there were many gaps between them, the feathers no longer well-knit at all. Helplessly spreading its two wings, the vulture surrendered. Now it was time for another bout of running. “Run, run – run with your tail up.” The vulture’s legs were not able to keep pace with the boys’. But what did it matter? What if its feet were not touching the ground? The speed of the boys’ running pulled at it – dragging it behind them. “Ada, its head is hitting the ground. Can’t you see how you’re pulling? Mind that it doesn’t die first.” “Who cares if it dies? We’ll pull its dead body.” Shouting with a terrible glee, they were running and pulling. Screaming. Enjoying themselves enormously. Playing a strange kind of game. What would they gain out of it? Gain? “Our gain is, we’ll teach you a lesson. You’re a vulture, your body stinks, you eat the flesh of dead cattle in the carrion depot, fight with the dogs for your food. Why does just looking at you make us angry?” According to the boys, just looking at the vulture angered them, as though their own food was the vulture’s food, as though the clothes on their backs were like its stinking filthy feathers. The bird’s very appearance reminded them of a money-lender who thrived on usury. Why would a money-lender be called a vulture

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otherwise? Why should the vulture look as if it was suffering from indigestion? Why should its colour be so much like the grey which always filled the mind with acute depression? The barely alive, abandoned babies that the boys often saw dumped in the holes, drains and pits under the tamarind trees filled their minds with the unbearable anguish of not understanding. Why should the vulture enjoy devouring the flesh of these little ones? Someone said, “I am hungry.” “Haven’t you eaten anything?” “At noontime – meat curry and rice” “Me too – I’m also hungry.” “The colour of your shirt makes me angry.” “It’s as coarse as it’s rough.” “Just like the skin of this wretched vulture.” “Hamid’s father is going to die in a day or two. D’you know what he did all through the afternoon today?” “I know – he just kept on gasping – like this bastard.” Jamu said, “All these bastards have got the same disease – asthma. And you bastard of a vulture want to escape, d’you? You miserable usurer, Aghor Bostom.” Remembering the appearance of Aghor Bostom, they all burst into raucous laughter. They rushed on crazily, leaping across the ridges marking the fields, over high and low ground, their minds wounded and bodies sore, through sialkool and sainbabla bushes and the long dry grass, over pits and drains, feeling the warm damp wind blowing out of the cracked ground like the breath of snakes, sometimes crying out in pain as their feet were stabbed by the sharp spearlike tips of the stubble left on the field after the sugarcane and matar dal crops had been reaped. The vulture kept on moving, rolling like a clod of earth, past any feeling of strength and pain, as if sunk in a drowsy stupor. Even when the boys stopped and rested, talking among themselves, wiping the oozing blood from

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the scratches on their legs on their pants, the vulture stood still. It was no longer making the impossible effort to escape. “Look, so many stars have come out.” “But there’s no light.” “That’s because there’s no moon.” “A breeze coming up, isn’t it?” “Yeah, but a hell of a warm breeze.” “But I feel cold.” “You’re scared.” “How far have we come, eh?” “Ah, we’ll be damned. It’s the manushmari ground – we’re right in the middle of the place where dacoits kill people! That must be the canal bank.” “Let’s go to the canal bank. Let’s give another bath to this vulture.” It was difficult finding the path leading to the canal. The villages all around were shrouded in a misty haze. They felt totally at a loss; the sky seemed so big, so dark. Jamu said, “Haven’t you heard what happens here at midnight?” “Hey, don’t mention such things, mate, I beg you.” “You can see tamarind trees here and there all of a sudden. People suddenly leave their beds – be they male or female – and come right into the middle of the field, walking in their sleep. They see there’s nothing around except those blasted tamarind trees and black cats, black as pitch. Nothing but cats wherever you look. Who knows who comes in whose guise – ” Before their eyes the vulture suddenly appeared to turn into a black cat. The boys no longer had the guts to touch one another. They put their hands on their own chests, trying to feel their hearts beating.

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“Perhaps there can be something – suppose all of us are ghosts and have come here in the guise of people.” “No, no, I am not a ghost – Ada, I am human.” “Then touch me. If I am not human, I shall vanish into thin air. Come, touch me.” “I can’t.” Cautiously keeping one another at arm’s length, they sat down on the canal bank. Through the darkness, they glared at one another, then pinched their own hands. They had released the vulture. It was lying in an untidy heap on the ground, wings spread, legs bent under its body. “It’s past midnight, isn’t it?” “It could be just evening or it could even be midnight.” Perhaps it could be so. They could not keep track of it. The time was not the right kind of time. Their game seemed to have taken place outside time. Yet one of them said, “I heard jackals barking three times.” “Then it’s nearly dawn.” “Come, mates – let’s get into the water.” Madly the boys rushed into the canal. At the same time a breeze also rippled over the shallow waters touching their eyes and faces. The vulture was given another bath. “Won’t the bastard eat anything?” “What’ll it eat? Is there any carrion here?” Jamu said, “Get some straw from the field. That’s what we’ll feed the bastard.” Someone brought the straw. Rafiq said, “It’s not a cow that it’ll eat straw. But the wretch will have to swallow it now.” “Yeah, here – Make it eat.” “Hey – let’s have your stick.” “Yeah, force its beak open just like that – ”

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The vulture croaked in protest. The boys held its neck in a twisting grip, forcing its beak open and cautiously shoved bits of straw down its throat. “Eat bastard – die –” “I want a feather. I’ll make a crown out of it –” Rafiq tore the largest feather off the bird’s body. The feather noiselessly slithered out of its flesh. The vulture seemed to tremble once. Then everyone began to tear off the feathers. The bird began to look like an ugly, large cock which had been plucked. They were all returning. Staggering. Now sitting, now standing. Stumbling. Looking at their torn shirts. Thinking of tomorrow. As they entered the perimeters of the village, they noticed some whitish shapes in the faint shadow of the arch formed by a palm tree on one side and a bald wood apple tree on the other. Jamu said, “Don’t go that way – Let’s make a detour.” “Your house is that way – Why not all of us go and see who those two are?” “It’s because my house is nearby. I know who those wretches are.” “Who are they?” “Why d’you want to know?” “Come on, tell me –” “They are Jamiraddi and the widowed sister of Kadu Sheikh.” “What’re they doing there?” “None of your business. Come, let’s go home.” As a deep darkness descended upon the earth moments before a pinkish glow began to spread across the eastern sky, the boys lay on worn-out mats, on the damp earthen floor. Oblivious of all their hardship and anxiety, they slept like the dead on empty stomachs. Next morning, when the sun rose, daylight dispelled the darkness of the night before and the trees and the

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leaves began to glow. The scorching sunlight heated up the air, and the cattle in the fields moved about, sniffing at the ground and grazing on the withered grass. But, even then, the boys did not wake up. A little away from the bald wood apple tree, almost in everyone’s sight, the vulture from last night lay dead. Before dying it had vomited a little half-digested flesh. It looked so big! Bits of straw stuck out of its half-open beak. It lay on its back, wings spread, its two clenched legs pointing upward. Many other vultures were dropping beside it from the sky. But vultures do not eat the flesh of their own kind. Beside the dead vulture lay the half-formed body of a human baby. That was luring the other vultures down. One by one they were dropping down beside it. Screeching shrilly, like creatures gone crazy. The dead baby also attracted people from the nearby houses. “Who has done this wicked deed?” was the question on everyone’s lip. A crowd of men and women slowly gathered around the spot. Only the widowed sister of Kadu Sheikh could not be seen. She kept out of sight, looking sick and pale in the bright light of the day. Translated from “Shokun” by Sagar Chaudhury

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NUR QUAMRUN NAHER who earned her MA in Mass Communications and Journalism from the University of Dhaka, is a writer and poet. She is at present Deputy General Manager (HR) at Dhaka Power Distribution Company (DPDC). She has published several anthologies of short stories. Two collections of her short stories in English translation have also been published: A Death and a Morning from India and Whistling Night from Canada. The focus of her writing is the middle class, their woes and worries, their dreams and aspirations. She also regularly contributes articles on gender and other social issues to national dailies.

Nur Quamrun Naher

S A L I S H The do-chala house, with its two-sided roof, stands on half a bigha of land. The new corrugated iron shines brightly. On the western corner of the household is the half-broken tin-shed room of the kitchen with its spongewood fence. It is just three or four steps from the main room. The bamboo clump looks down on the roof of the kitchen. There is no boundary fence at the back. Just two mango trees and a new jackfruit tree. The uthan, courtyard, stretches before the door on the south. At the end of the yard are three fruit trees. On one side is a lemon bush and green pepper and brinjal plants. The rest of the courtyard is empty. The sunlight has made its surface dry and hard. On moonlit nights it looks white as if someone has spilled wax on it. Most well-off people have two rooms on two sides. Some three. This house has only one big room, so the courtyard looks big, like a paddy field. Big yards are good for drying paddy and pepper. Even neighbours use Karim Miah’s yard to dry their paddy and pepper in the sun.

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Hurbanu gets up after the fajr azan. She lets out the chickens from the roost. Three hens and two roosters scramble out. Another hen has hatched chicks. She comes out a little later like a queen with her little ones. Hurbanu covers the chicks with a wicker-basket and strews broken rice before them. Then she brushes her teeth with charcoal powder and pumps water from the tubewell to wash her face. She fills the small pitcher there with water. She also fills the small pitcher kept on the steps of the main room for ablutions. Then she picks up the coconut frond broom and starts cleaning the yard from the far end. The sound of the broom wakes Asma Begum up. She goes to the latrine with the full small pitcher kept near the tubewell. Then she takes the ablution pitcher, performs her ablutions, and sits to say her prayers. Hurbanu’s broom is still active. She does the job so nicely that one can even see a needle. Asma Begum spends some extra time on her prayer mat in the morning and recites extra prayers. Leaving her mother-in-law on her prayer mat, Hurbanu fills the kitchen pitcher from the river. Her father’s house is not near the river bank but on higher land. She never brought water from the river there. As a new bride she was shy to fetch water from the river. At that time her sister-in-law Nazma would fill the pitcher. But now Hurbanu does it. Nazma now studies. Domestic work harms her studies. River water is a must because it is not possible to cook with tubewell water. The curry looks black. After bringing water, she lights her chulha and starts cooking rice. She cooks the curry. Pori gets up by this time. Two and a half years old, Pori at times pisses in her bed. She has drunk Huzur’s water, she has an amulet around her neck but nothing has cured her. After Pori gets up, Hurbanu helps her with her toilet. She washes her face and gives her something to eat so that she will sit quietly. Otherwise, she will be complaining and walking about in the yard. If she has wet her quilt, Hurbanu will put it out in the sun. This is Hurbanu’s routine on God’s thirty days. On the nights

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Sharif Miah is at home, she has to wash her “impure” body in the Meghna in the morning. Then she cleans the yard. Asma Begum has told her, “If the feet of an impure woman fall on the uthan, one doesn’t feel like working.” So her strict orders are to purify herself and then do the other work. One doesn’t need to remind Hurbanu of work. She scurries around and completes her chores. Nowadays better-off women appoint poor women as helping hands in almost every household. They bring water from the river, sweep the yard. Hurbanu needs no helper. No one can take away even a dry leaf from her yard. She keeps the leaves and uses them as fuel, saves wood. If she has no work, she feels sad. After finishing all her work and her cooking, she even does needlework. She can make beautifully designed hand fans. Her sisters-in-law take these fans to their in-laws. She has studied in school. She has stitched flowers on handkerchiefs, embroidered lines and proverbs like “Bird, go and tell him not to forget me” and “The family is happy because of the woman’s virtues,” framed them and hung them on the wall. Earlier, Karim Miah couldn’t dry his own crops in his big and beautiful yard. He had some land but, during the marriages of his three daughters, he had to mortgage much of it. His son Sharif is a dull young man. He couldn’t study. After the marriage of his daughters, hardship forced Karim Miah to make Sharif work on other farmers’ land. Poverty was making life more and more difficult. Everyone likes to advise a poor man. People advised him to mortgage his last piece of land to send Sharif to Saudi Arabia. But he had to suffer more. The brokers couldn’t arrange a good job for Sharif. He stayed illegally for six months and returned home empty-handed. After he returned, he sat idle at home. People advised Karim Miah to get his son married. Hanif from a neighbouring village brought the proposal for Hurbanu. He said, “The girl’s family is well off. The girl is lucky. Accept her. Your family will prosper.” Karim doesn’t understand how much good

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luck Hurbanu has brought to his family. But the dowry he received from her father has enabled him to start his small stationery shop at the entrance of the village road. One of Hurbanu’s brothers works abroad. His remittances have enabled Sharif and his younger brother Shahjahan to get trained as mechanics. Hurbanu is dark, tall, lanky. She has a wide forehead. Two small eyes. Bushy eyebrows. A snub nose. She looks somewhat foolish. Neither her features nor her complexion is good. Karim Miah was sad and quiet after seeing her. He couldn’t decide what to do when Hanif again said, “The girl is very good but she is dark. This is nothing. She can work hard. Bring her, see how she works and keeps everything organized.” Hanif Miah had brought the proposal, so he would naturally praise her. But a few elders of the neighbourhood also said, “The girl is dark all right but how does your son look? And he is jobless, empty-handed. Your house has a broken roof. In such a situation who will happily give you his daughter?” The words were true. Sharif was not at all good-looking. His head was awkward and large in comparison to his body. He had a high forehead and sunken eyes. His lips were thick and black. He had a narrow chin, almost non-existent. He was short and stout, with a dark complexion. Karim Miah thought about all this, took the proposal seriously but commented, “The girl is dark. She is also taller than the boy.” But Hanif didn’t consider this important. “This will be good. The children will be tall.” The girl was not pretty, but she could work hard. What was most important was the amount of the dowry. Her father was well off, her brother worked abroad. So, adding and subtracting, the marriage took place. It has been five years and six months since Hurbanu came to Karim Miah’s house as Sharif Miah’s wife. Since her arrival, Karim Miah’s family has prospered. Everyone says, “The girl has brought good luck.” While seeing off his daughter after her

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marriage, her father, Lal Miah, was crying, “The good luck of my family is leaving. She has revived my family. See, Bhai, how your family revives now.” Not only Karim Miah but all the villagers understand more or less that the words are not untrue. Karim Miah’s family is doing well. The old roof has been changed. And the household looks like heaven because of his daughter-in-law. No other house in the village is so clean, so well-arranged. Even today Hurbanu leaves her bed after the dawn prayer call. After finishing her morning chores, she starts to sweep the yard. Asma as usual gets up on hearing the sound of sweeping. But, instead of picking up the small pitcher for ablutions, she stands in the middle of the yard and says, Why clean the yard today? Hurbanu does not reply. Asma stands arms akimbo and watches her daughter-in-law sweep the yard. Then she slowly walks to the back door. After cleaning the yard and finishing all her regular work, Hurbanu sits on the steps of the back door, the corner of her saree covering a part of her head, looking at the bamboo clump, looking upwards with her neck high. Her father-in-law has breakfast early and goes to their shop. Every day Hurbanu gets his hot rice ready. He signals he is ready for breakfast after he finishes his prayers by going to the back door and clearing his throat. Today there is no signal for Hurbanu from her father-in-law. She hears the sound of her mother-in-law bringing down the rice vessel from the meat-safe. She is getting the plate of rice ready. She looks back and sees her father-in-law sitting on the mat and eating. No words are exchanged; there are no sounds. Her father-in-law goes out through the front door after eating. The house is quiet. Hurbanu usually talks very little. She opens her mouth only to say the most necessary words. Answers to queries. She works like a machine the whole day. But she doesn’t look gloomy. If anyone asks her to do anything, she does it. You can’t understand if she has any needs. She neither buys

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anything nor wants anything. She wears whatever is given to her. She eats whatever is left after everyone eats. She doesn’t want to go to her father’s place. Her father comes to her house at times and brings nice things. Fruits from their trees, milk from their cows, pithas, pulses from their land, mustard, sesame, rice. Twice a year her father loves to take her back home. Asma Begum doesn’t want her to go to her father’s frequently. She does all the household work. Asma is lazy and loves comfort. She doesn’t like to work now. But if her daughter-in-law goes to her father’s place, she has to manage the household. But she never refuses her father. Asma’s relationship with Hurbanu is fixed like the water of the pond. No affection, no fights. And there is no scope of a fight. The girl does all the work before being told. Doesn’t say anything. Asma is also not good at quarrelling. She does not hinder Hurbanu’s work. But since she talks so little, Asma also talks to her in a limited way. Can you fight with a dumb pillar? And is Asma fond of Hurbanu? Asma doesn’t understand if they are mentally close. That lanky body and dark, foolish face don’t create affection in her mind. She is awkward, as if she doesn’t belong to this house. The bark of one tree has been given to another tree. A banana tree walks tall in the house. God has created her like that. What can human beings do? But her activities satisfy your heart. When her sisters-in-law come, Hurbanu works quietly all day. Listens silently to Asma Begum’s words. No extra word, no refusal to do any work. Never backbites. Her work pleases the eye. She works so hard the whole day that Asma Begum feels affectionate at times. She doesn’t regret that Hurbanu talks so little. Why should girls talk? After seeing all this, how can she not like Hurbanu? But she could talk a little more! They could talk a bit, mother-in-law and daughter-in-law, and unburden their hearts. Asma’s family is no longer poor. Sharif has learned the work of a mechanic and has been working in a garage in Dhaka for three years. He gets a good salary and earns tips as well.

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The younger son is a mechanic too but they work in different garages. They learned the job together. Now they bring money. Karim Miah’s shop at the entrance of the road is also prospering. Two years ago, they freed a piece of land from mortgage. Last year another. Now they get some crops. Father and sons want to turn the two-roofed house into a four-roofed one. If there is more money, Sharif would like to go abroad again. Now he won’t be jobless. He knows the work of a mechanic. Altogether they are plying their boat towards prosperity. The family is running smoothly. Sharif Miah loves to spend. If you have money in hand, you are mentally happy. Last month he brought a saree for his mother. Lots of toys for his daughter. Brings tasty food frequently from Dhaka. Everything is okay but he has no mental peace. The family is prospering at last. But he had to marry a dark girl. A fire of regret burns within his chest. His breast burns like a brick kiln. Asma has similar regrets. Other people’s daughters-in-law are so beautiful! They are so lovely! Their good looks fill the house with joy. But God has written such an awkward girl in their fate! Karim Miah also feels agitated inwardly. Since he is now better off, villagers remember him on important occasions. His name gets proposed to various committees. He mixes with important people now. The elders of the village sit in his shop, chew betel leaves, smoke. But such a dark daughter-in-law doesn’t allow him to talk with his head high. No, he can’t talk. Everyone knows why he brought this dark bride home. He feels uneasy. At times his son says, “I am not happy with a dark wife.” Karim Miah and Asma Begum don’t say much. Hurbanu’s father is well off. He has taken money from him. Asma expresses her regret in a slightly nasal voice. “What can we do? God wished this.” “Not God. You brought her.” Karim doesn’t reply to this. He had to bring the dark girl, didn’t he? There is nothing new to say about how they brought

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the dark girl when they were in trouble and why his family is now better off. That story is known even to the tree leaves. Asma speaks no more. Her sons neither get angry nor provoke her. “I am not happy with a dark wife” goes beyond the yard, is heard by many and now everyone in the village knows it. Sharif Miah wants to get rid of her. He wants to divorce her. This news is often talked about. Sharif Miah has become very impatient during the last three months. He didn’t talk much to his wife before. Now they don’t talk at all. They even don’t sleep together. These words spread quickly. The breeze of the village takes the news to Hurbanu’s father. Her father and elder brother come from there. But Hurbanu refuses to say a word. The two sides talk. Asma Begum and Karim Miah tell them, “We try to make our son understand. But our adult son doesn’t listen to us.” If you want to divorce her, it is not that easy. There are people in the village, there is society and society has members. There are relatives on both sides; they have something to say. Today is that day of saying. Today is the day of arbitration. Sharif Miah doesn’t want to continue to stay with his wife. He will divorce her. Today’s gathering is to decide why and how. The salish will take place in the afternoon. Its decision will decide Hurbanu’s future in this house. Asma feels sad that the girl is working even that day. Her heart trembles for her daughter-in-law – she is young but has no beauty. Who will take this dark girl? She will be a burden to her father. If anyone accepts her, it must be as a second wife. She must leave her little daughter. A girl’s life is strange, God is not fair to her. Who knows how she is feeling? Asma wants to listen to her heart. But she is quiet. So much has been said about her in the last three months but she has kept totally quiet. Asma goes to the back door and front door a couple of times. Then she thinks – Is this girl a human being or not? Working like a machine in such trouble. And she continues to sit at the back door. Her inside

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must be as dry as the sunlight of Chaitra. She has no sign of that on her face. Hurbanu prepares rice for Pori and feeds her. Then she tidies up the kitchen, washes the plate and bowls used by her father-in-law and again sits on the steps. The hours are passing. She must cook lunch. Every day Asma Begum fixes the menu. Hurbanu cooks according to her orders. Both Sharif Miah and Sajib Miah will come in the afternoon. Two of her sisters-in-law will also come. Hurbanu’s father and brother will come from their house. So she will have to cook a lot more today. Sharif Miah comes from Dhaka before noon. Sajib Miah comes after him. After coming home, Sharif Miah takes his bath in the Meghna. Asma Begum gives him his lunch. The two brothers sit side by side and eat. People will gather in the afternoon. So Hurbanu has started to clean the yard before the afternoon. Asma Begum stands by the door and says, “Why are you sweeping the yard again? Eat a bit now. “ Hurbanu finishes her sweeping and looks for Pori. The girl has fallen asleep. She is calm and quiet like Hurbanu. Doesn’t cry almost at all during the day. Only in the morning after getting up, she whines a bit. She sleeps after lunch and gets up in the evening. When Hurbanu takes her bath in the Meghna, it is late afternoon. Her father is sitting in the front room. Hurbanu eats near the back door. Water drips from her wet hair. Seeing her wet hair, Asma asks, “Why did you wet your hair at this time?” After saying this, Asma Begum thinks, “Today’s gathering will decide if she is going to stay in this house or not. Why show affection to her?” Two or three mats have been spread in the yard. People have already started to come. There are a few chairs for honoured guests. Hurbanu’s two sisters-in-law have arrived. Their in-laws live nearby. Will they stay overnight or leave? Will their dinner

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have to be cooked? Hurbanu has received no instructions. Will she stay in this house or leave for her father’s? No instructions about that too. After finishing eating, Hurbanu sits at the back door. Sisters-in-law, mother-in-law and five or six other ladies come near her. No one talks to Hurbanu. From here they can see the people gathering in the yard through the chinks in the bamboo fence. But the people can’t see these women. All of them have come. Member, Chairman, even the imam of the mosque has come. They are sitting on the chairs. Common people are sitting on the mat. Sharif Miah is standing nearby. The Chairman clears his throat and says, “Yes, Sabur Member, please begin.” Sabur Member also gives a small cough, clears his throat and says, “You have heard that Karim Miah’s son Sharif Miah no longer wants to continue to live with his wife. Haven’t you heard that?” The people say, “Yes, we have heard. We did.” “Is anyone from the wife’s father’s place here?” Karim Miah replies, “Yes. Her father and brother are here.” “Then it is all right. Listen, none of us wants a marriage to break. So saying that I don’t want to continue to stay together is not enough. Sharif Miah, come here. Don’t you want to live with your wife?” “No, I don’t.” “Why not? Does she have a bad character?” “No, not that.” “Can’t she do the household work?” “No, not that.” “Doesn’t your wife obey your parents?” “No, not that.” “Does she misbehave with you?” “No, not that.” “Is she stupid? Can’t work?”

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“No, not that.” “Then why don’t you want to live with her?” “She is awkward. I don’t like her. “ There is a little murmur from the crowd. “The girl is dark. Looks like a man in build.” The Chairman coughs and the murmur subsides. Moving his head from side to side and looking at every face, the Chairman says sternly, “If she is awkward, why did you marry her?” “My parents made me marry her.” “Did they force you? Where was your ability to speak then?” Keeping his awkward, big head down, Sharif stands quietly. The high bone of the forehead looks higher. People murmur a little more. “If the girl is dark, what is the boy like? If the girl is awkward, what is the boy like?” Before the words can spread, the Chairman scolds the gathering, “Please stop. Boys can be dark or fair, it doesn’t matter. Boys can be awkward or okay, what is wrong? Don’t you know that a gold ring is good even if it is out of shape?” The public say in chorus, “Yes, a gold ring is good even if out of shape.” The Chairman smiles with satisfaction at what he has said. “Any dowry during the marriage?” He looks at the girl’s father, “Bhai, any gifts?” “Yes, there were.” “How much?” “I gave one lakh takas in cash. Thirty-three grams of gold ornaments for the girl. A gold ring and chain for the bridegroom.” “Karim Miah, is all this true?” “Yes, true.” “Sharif Miah, true?” “Chacha, I shall return the one lakh takas. Return the ornaments. The ring and the chain. I shall return everything before this gathering.”

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“You know the rule of the village. If a man discards his wife, he must return everything taken earlier. Sharif Miah has agreed to return everything. In front of the gathered people. What do you say?” “We have nothing to say. Your word is final, Chairman Shaheb.” The Chairman turns towards the girl’s father and says, “Your daughter is awkward. She couldn’t win Sharif’s heart. What can be done? You can’t force one to like someone. You will get back your money. No injustice here. What do you say?” “She has a daughter. The little one has a future.” “Sharif Miah, how old is your daughter?” “She is two and a half years old. I shall look after my daughter.” “If Sharif looks after his daughter, you have nothing to worry about. What do you say?” “What do I say? This is my only daughter. My daughter is like goddess Lakshmi. She won’t have any lack of food. But you didn’t think about the girl’s heart.” The Chairman looks at the imam and says, “We want them to stay together. But what is to be done if the husband is not happy with his wife? What do all of you say?” The imam rubs his palms, lowers his head and says, “A marriage is a matter of the union of hearts and of love. God has created husband and wife for their needs. Their union is an example of heavenly bliss in this world. Now if your mind is not satisfied here, if there is no mental happiness, it becomes hell. In Islam you can divorce if there is reason. Allah is not fond of injustice. You can’t be unjust to anyone. If Sharif Miah can’t like her at all, he can divorce her according to our religion. But he must pay the money promised in the kabin, the marriage contract.” People murmur, “Yes, the kabin money must be returned too.”

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The Chairman clears his throat again and says, “How much was the kabin money?” Karim Miah says, “One lakh takas. Seventy-five thousand was paid before.” “Then pay the remaining twenty-five thousand in cash.” Sharif Miah keeps his head down and says, “Yes, we shall.” The Chairman turns to both sides, looks at everyone and says, “Sabur Member, we heard everyone. Listened to Sharif. Now we need to listen to the girl.” Karim Miah says, “What will she say? What can she say before the elders?” “No, it is not like before. Girls’ views are important too. Call your daughter-in-law.” Karim Miah goes to the back door and calls Asma Begum, “Bring Hurbanu to the gathering.” Hurbanu follows Asma Begum. With her tall, lanky body, she towers one and a half feet above Asma Begum. Hurbanu stands in one corner near the people assembled. The Chairman softens his voice and says, “Sharif doesn’t want to live with you. He didn’t speak ill of you. They will look after your daughter, will return your father’s money. The rest of the kabin money will be given, the ornaments will be returned. Now what is your opinion?” Hurbanu keeps standing. Says nothing. She is completely silent. After a while the Chairman says, “You will get back your money. They will look after the little girl. Why are you worried? There is nothing to worry about here.” The Chairman looks at the yard full of people and says, “What else is there to be said? Please speak out.” Collectively the people say, “No, there is nothing to be said.” The sun has almost set; the late evening light is faint. In the mild darkness Hurbanu keeps standing like a straight pillar with

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the end of her saree covering her head. Her face is not clearly visible in the darkness. Only the head above the lanky body, tall like a banana tree, can be seen. The people are quiet. The Chairman says, “You will get back everything. What else is there to say? We have nothing more to say.” Hurbanu raises her lowered head slightly. “I have something to say.” The people look at Hurbanu. The Chairman turns his head and tilts his neck up. He sees a woman’s towering head in the evening darkness. The Chairman looks at her. Rustling the leaves of the trees, a wind blows over the people assembled there. The fragrance of lemons spreads in the air. Hurbanu’s voice pierces the noise of the wind and the rustling of leaves. “Please turn me back into an unmarried woman.” Translated from “Salish” by Junaidul Haque

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AUDITY FALGUNI who completed her Honours and MA in Law from the University of Dhaka, writes both fiction and non-fiction. Her debut short story collection, Imanueler Griho Prabesh, was received with critical acclaim in 1999. Some of her other notable collections of short stories include Banialuka O Annanya Galpa (2005), Dhrito-Rashtrer Balikara (2014), and Nei Rajya Noi Rajya (2019). In 2020, she published her debut novel, Kromagoto Hatyar Serenadey, which traces the killings of free thinkers and social and religious reformers from the past to present-day Bangladesh. She has so far won four literary awards in Bangladesh, including the Prothom Alo Best Book Award (Creative Writing, 2011) and Lab Aid Women’s Day Award (Literature, 2020).

Audity Falguni

KAMALAKSHA BASKE’S SACRIFICE To Dwijen Tudu who lost one eye to a police bullet at Bagda Farm For whatever reason, unlike most of the other villagers, Kamalaksha’s father and grandfather had not converted to Christianity. They still worshipped the ancient gods and goddesses of the Santal religion. Kapil Acharya, the seniormost priest of the Hindus, had named Kamalaksha Baske Kamalaksha it is true. Kamalaksha had not yet forgotten that. One Ashwin morning, Kamalaksha’s father, Jayram Baske, who laboured in the Acharya’s fields, had left the six-year-old in his courtyard. The Acharya was surprised. “It would have been quite something if instead of a son you had had a daughter. The boy’s eyes are the colour of the blue lotus. He has got eyes like Ramchandra.” Perhaps he had. From birth until he sprouted facial hair, everyone referred to Kamalaksha as the boy whose eyes were like a girl’s. Who is Kamalaksha? The boy whose eyes are like a girl’s. Long, thick eyelashes, eyes that, at first glance, seem to have been lined with kajal like a woman’s, and dark pupils.

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What have you named your son, Jayram? I haven’t yet started sending him to school. At home everyone calls him Babul. Let me give him his formal name. Keep his name Kamalaksha. Kamalaksha? Yes. Don’t you know the story of Ramchandra? You do know why we observe Durga Puja in Sharat, Autumn, don’t you? In order to get the blessings of the goddess to kill Ravana, Ramchandra placed one hundred and eight blue lotuses in front of the goddess. To test his devotion, the goddess stole one of the lotuses. Rama was going to take out one of his eyes with an arrow in order to replace the missing lotus. The goddess was pleased with his devotion and blessed him. She told him that he would get Sita back. The story of the Ramayana is very beautiful, Babu Moshai. From then Kamalaksha Baske learned that his eyes were like blue lotuses. Who knew where blue lotuses grew? During the rainy season, when he went to his maternal uncle’s place in Singar village of Natore, he would pass by Chalan Beel where there bloomed vast clusters of blue water lilies. On rainy days, he would accompany his maternal uncle’s daughter, Karunmoni Hansdar, and her friend Shanichari Murmu and manoeuvre the boat through the waters with a punt-pole. Avoiding his cousin, he would steal away on some rainy days with Shanichari Murmu, clad in a striped sari, to look for blue water lilies on Chalan Beel. He was about thirteen or fourteen at the time. He had studied up to class seven when his father pulled him out of school and set him to work as a farm labourer. That year had been the last year of his summer holidays. The weather was starting to get hot, when the rains broke. Kamalaksha’s father told him that, after returning from his Mama’s place, it would not be possible for him to continue his studies. He would have to work in the fields. He hadn’t felt too bad on hearing this. Going to work meant that he was growing up, it meant that he would be able to get married,

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bring a wife home, become a father. He would become a man. How often had he not thought of being grown up and marrying Shanichari. One day during the summer holidays, Kamalaksha, whose facial hair had just started to sprout, had taken Karunmoni’s friend Shanichari out on a boat to the beel. Glancing askance at Shanichari’s unruly head of hair and her budding bosom, Kamalaksha had murmured while pushing the punt-pole. He seemed to be counting the blue water lilies. One – two – three! Are you counting the water lilies? Yes, I am. You are a real fool. Kamalaksha’s manly ego was hurt. Why are you calling me a fool? What will you achieve by counting water lilies? I sell water lilies in the bazar and get money. Or I bring them home to be cooked. Ma cooks well. Oof! Why is Shanichari like this? Doesn’t she think of anything but selling water lilies in the bazar and earning money or taking water lilies home to be cooked and eaten? Why? Why can’t Shanichari sometimes tuck water lilies in her long hair? Shanichari – why don’t you tuck some water lilies in your hair? Ish! Why should I wear water lilies in my hair? Ma has told me to pluck bunches of water lilies. Some bunches I should take to the weekly bazar, the rest we will have at home. Saying this, Shanichari plunged into the water. She looked like an alluring kingfisher pouncing on a tempting fish. Greedily, she grabbed bunches of blue water lilies. It had started to rain and Shanichari’s striped sari was getting wet above because of the rain and below because of the water in the beel. His cousin had told him many times that Shanichari’s family were very poor. Oh, Bhagwan, being a Santal means being poor.

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Almost no Santal owned any land. Their life was slogging in other people’s fields. They were happy to get their wages at the end of the day. Of course, Jayram had told Kamalaksha that his grandfather, Dukhiram, once had a lot of land. Almost fifty bighas of his land had been taken for a sugar mill. This was about the time when India and Pakistan were created. The shiny signboard of the sugar mill could still be seen. The Pakistan government had taken hundreds of bighas of Santal land for the sugar mill. Jayram still had his father’s documents. The sugar mill suffers a loss every year. If the sugar mill is shut down, we will get our land back. That is what is written in the document. You will die dreaming that dream, Kamalaksha’s mother, Budhiya, would screech in the middle of his father’s speech. There is no need for you to work. Drink two more glasses of toddy, dreaming about when the sugar mill will go bankrupt and you will get back the land. No matter how many glasses of toddy Kamalaksha’s father guzzled down after his tiring day’s work, he was, after all, the man of the house, the umbrella over their heads. Shanichari’s father wasn’t even alive. Her mother was a widow. That is why, during the rainy season, Shanichari and her mother would take a boat into Charan Beel to gather water lilies. During dry weather, they would work as day labourers in the fields or tend goats and pigs. That is how mother and daughter managed to survive. Look at Shanichari sniffling and gathering water lilies by the bunches. Why can’t Kamalaksha sprout up quickly and reach a man’s height to take Shanichari to his house? Would this poor girl then have to gather water lilies on rainy days despite her miserable cold and running nose?

2 Doya dulorey einolote Kidi meghe sanayan

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[I love you But I cannot say so for shame.] Who is singing this marriage song? Kamalaksha had married Shanichari and brought her to his home. The day he had married Shanichari, all the old women in the family, all the sisters and sisters-in-law, all the young girls, had joined in singing this love song, repeating these lines again and again. But who is singing today? They have been married for a long time. The young bride of that day is now the mother of three sons. After they got married, Kamalaksha had not allowed Shanichari to work outside the home even for a single day. Santal women are not like the daughters of Hindu or Muslim families who can stay at home. Side by side with their men, they have to work in the fields, planting lentils or paddy. But, Kamalaksha had worked as hard as twenty men for ten years after their marriage. He had kept his wife in loving comfort. He didn’t allow her to go out of the house. He didn’t want strange men’s eyes to fall on his wife. There is a Ravana inside every man. Staying indoors all these years, Shanichari has become as fair as the daughters of Hindu or Muslim families, fair as the Sitas depicted on calendars. But, after so many years, who is singing this marriage song? Why is it being sung? Right next to Kamalaksha’s head? You are regaining consciousness. Don’t move. Your eyes are bandaged. Who is speaking next to him? How are you feeling now? An arm wearing a conch shell bangle is placed on his chest. Another arm removes it. His back and legs are riddled with bullets. Don’t touch him, Shanichari. Both his eyes have been pierced with bullets. O Bhagwan, who has made my husband blind? Who has done this? Will the doctor babu be able to remove the bullets? The faint sound of a woman’s keening fills the ward. Where am I?

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Don’t talk. Don’t struggle. We are in Rangpur Hospital. We will take you to Dhaka today. Otherwise, you won’t survive. You are bleeding profusely. The bullets have pierced your eyes. You regained consciousness after one and a half days. Where are they? Sajal, Ajay and Peter? Their bodies have been cordoned off in the sugarcane fields by the police. Our homes, our fields, are burning. Murali Pishi’s knees have been injured by pellets. She hasn’t come to the hospital for fear of the police. A nurse says, Please do not crowd around the patient. An ambulance has arrived. He must be sent to Dhaka as soon as possible.

3 They had come back to Bagda Farm six months back. Someone named Bagda Soren had been the chief of this piece of land several generations ago. The area covered fifteen Santal villages, three Muslim villages and two Hindu villages. The entire region had been swallowed up by the sugar mill. Murali Pishi was Sanichari’s aunt-in-law. She was the widowed paternal cousin of Sanichari’s father-in-law. When Sanichari came to the village after her marriage, it had been this aunt-in-law who had adorned her for her nuptials. Murali Pishi had been widowed at a young age, with a small baby boy. The boy had died soon after, of cholera. Murali Pishi had explained to her that entering the life of a married woman was hard. The life of an unmarried girl was like that of a glass doll brought from the village fair. Frail, shattered in a moment. Being a married woman with a husband was difficult. Being a mother was even more difficult. From today your new life will start. Has the pain abated, Pishi? Uncovering Pishi’s knees, Sanichari applied a warm compress.

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Audity Falguni

Don’t press so hard! If I don’t, the pain will not lessen. About the time that Agrahayan was coming to an end and the month of Poush was beginning, many of the houses in the area had been destroyed by the followers of the MPs and Chairmen of Madaripur and Joypur, the police, and the workers of the sugar mill. Most of the people were forced to sleep under the open sky. Fortunately, Murali Pishi’s thatched hut was at the far edge of the village and the bulldozers of the police had not knocked it down. We believed those MP’s and Chairmen. We considered them to be our gods. We thought they cared for the people. They were the ones who told us when the sugar mill closed down after incurring losses to return to the lands of our forefathers. Otherwise, why would we have returned? Why would we, men and women, have planted lentils, planted paddy? Pumpkins, potatoes, eggplants, chillies, garlic? Why did they smash everything with tractors? Pishi, calm down. Your man went blind. Why didn’t you go to Dhaka? All three of my sons are small. My eldest sister-in-law went. Her daughters are somewhat mature. Ooh. You are pressing too hard, daughter-in-law. Go on, Pishi. Day before yesterday, when they set fire to our lands and homes, why didn’t my house burn down? It would have been better for a widow like me to have burned to death. Calm down, Pishi, calm down. You are very lucky, Sanichari. My brother’s son didn’t allow you to work in the fields even for one day after you were married. That day I was outside when the bodies of Sajal and Ajay were found in the sugarcane field. Even then my brother’s son did not go in front. But when that MP’s man put his hand on your shoulder, he came forward – and that is when the bullets hit his eyes.

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It was always like that, Pishi. Warming the pieces of cloth at the brazier, Sanichari wept as she continued giving warm compresses to her aunt. He would get upset even if someone looked at me. What did it matter if someone had pushed me? Was I unmarried, a young girl? I am the mother of three – I am old. He lost his eyes trying to punish the man for insulting me. Now it is just my three children and me. No old father-in-law, no elder brother-in-law, no younger brother-in-law. There is no one. Bhagwan will look after you, daughter. Have faith in him. There is no Bhagwan, Pishi. He resides only in the stories of the Ramayana. In order to free Sita, he was going to pluck out his eyes with his arrow when Durga returned the blue lotus. That is just a story, Pishi. When my Ramchandra came forward to protest against that tribe of Ravanas for pulling my anchal, his eyes were pierced by bullets. No one came to return his eyes. Despite the pain in her knees, Murali Bala managed to close her eyes.

4 Pellet bullets on both thighs and back. Bullet-hit both eyes. One eye impaired for life. The other eye possesses dull vision . . . . The prescription written in English was on the table beside the bed, under a glass. Even though he was unable to read the prescription written in English and in the doctor’s undecipherable handwriting, he knew what was written there. The vision in one of his eyes had gone. He would never get it back. Kamalaksha had been in a Dhaka hospital for one month now. At the beginning, lots of people had come to see him. Many journalists, lawyers, NGO workers. Now the only person near him was his sister, older than him by a couple of years. At the beginning, he could not go to the toilet alone. His sister, Amala, had lent him her shoulder for support. Fortunately, his sister’s

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three children were slightly mature. His brother-in-law was also understanding. Kamalaksha’s own wife had come for two days and then left. All three of their children were small. He had started to see faintly with one eye. He could see nothing with the other eye. Seven to eight policemen, shouldering rifles, surrounded his bed or walked about outside the ward twenty-four hours. Do so many policemen fear him? He was just a Santal daily labourer – his head felt heavy day and night. His illiterate sister would religiously put three or four different drops in his eyes. At the beginning, it had been every two hours, then every four hours, then finally every six hours. The doctor kept on postponing the operation to remove the bullet from his eye. It was a difficult operation and the doctors were worried. After the operation, Kamalaksha would return home wearing dark glasses. The word kamal means lotus; the meaning of Kamalaksha is lotus-eyed. When Kamalaksha returned home, wearing dark glasses and with a white cane in his hand, would the children clap their hands and call out, Blind man, blind man. And Shanichari? Would she despise her blind husband too? Would Shanichari stop loving her crippled, useless husband? Tears welled up in his blind eyes. Bhai, why are you crying? His sister, Amala, wiped the tears from the corners of his eyes. Don’t cry. I am going to put the balm in your eyes just now. As Amala put the balm on Kamalaksha’s eyes, he closed them in despair. By that time he had gone back to Chalan Beel in Natore, where his maternal uncle dwelt. On rainy days Kamalaksha, who had just started sprouting facial hair, and his friend Shanichari would cover their heads with arum leaves and ply their boat, counting blue water lilies, gathering them. Translated from “Kamalaksha Basker Akal Bodhan” by Niaz Zaman

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SYED MUJTABA ALI (1904-1974) was a writer, academic, linguist and polymath hailing from Sylhet. From 1927-1929, Ali taught French and English at Kabul. Subsequently, he went to Germany on a scholarship to do doctoral studies in Comparative Religion. In 1932 he received his PhD from the University of Bonn. From 1934 to 1935, he studied at Al-Azhar University, Cairo. He taught at a college in Baroda for several years. In 1947, after the Partition, he moved to East Pakistan but then moved back to India, where he worked at different jobs. From 1956-1964 he was on the faculty of Visva-Bharati University, first as professor of German and later of Islamic Culture. In 1972, following the Liberation of Bangladesh, he moved with his family to Dhaka. Ali wrote in a variety of genres: novels, short stories, essays and travelogues. His travelogue, Deshe-Bideshe (1949), has been translated into English. His international exposure gave him a broadness of vision, which, together with his humorous style of writing, brought him considerable popularity among Bengali readers.

Syed Mujtaba Ali

SWEET AND SAVOURY Barometers and papers tell you that the Red Sea is not that hot a place. Let alone Jacobabad or Peshawar, those who have suffered the heat of Patna and Gaya would not only not be alarmed at seeing the statistics of the Red Sea prepared by the weather bureau but also smile faintly. And a supercilious traveller might even ask, “Won’t a light ulster be necessary?” Yet every time I felt that the Red Sea was grilling me upon a spit on an open fire of a Park Circus hotel, turning me into seekh kabab. I am wrong; I felt that I had been put into a big pot, with its lid sealed, and being cooked like dom-pukth or putpokko. Footballers have a bogey team. Red Sea is my bogey sea. I spend the whole day in the ship’s drawing room, panting and rubbing the glass full of ice on my forehead, neck and nose, and all three stages of the night on the raised terrace, meaning the deck, counting stars. My belief is that God has created the Red Sea minus the fourth basic element – air. If there is ever a breeze blowing on that sea, it must certainly be paranormal.

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So that night I felt that the matter was very strange. I had fallen asleep on the deck chair. Not asleep, drowsy. Suddenly, I heard, on that Red Sea – far away from my land on one of the seven seas – the East Bengali language of Sylhet. It must have been a dream. I knew that the ship had no other Sylheti but me. Who was trying to say in such a heart-rending tone “Bhai, hi kotha jodi tulchas. . . . Brother, if you mention that. . . .” at midnight? There is no cost involved in tasting imaginary polao, smelling dream flowers, or listening to a song in your dream – so I thought, let me close my eyes and see the dream for a little while more. But there is one problem with dreams. Just when you think that the dream has become very interesting, you wake up. It was no different this time. I opened my eyes and saw in front of me two khalashis, their backs towards me, talking in hushed voices. Poor fellows! They get permission to come to the deck after midnight. Even then not in groups. Th rest of the day they have to suffer the unbearable heat inside the belly of the ship. It was not unknown to me that people from Sylhet and Noakhali worked as khalashis on board ships all over the world. But I had a belief that they worked on cargo ships. Meeting two pure Sylhetis – not men from Chittagong or Noakhali – but my own land, Sylhet, in this French passenger ship at midnight is something that happens in dreams, not in reality. They were talking very little. However, from what I could hear, I clearly understood that one of them had started working on board ship for the first time and he badly missed his village home. His companion was an old hand; his words sounded a lot like the comforting advice a maid-servant from a new bride’s paternal home gives the young woman. I listened quietly. Finally, when I saw them on the verge of getting up, I asked them in pure Sylheti, without any introduction, “From which village of Sylhet do you come?”

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The truth that Sylheti khalashis crowd like fishes all rivers of the world is known to all, but it is a greater truth that Sylheti gentlemen never go abroad as far as possible. So, on hearing Sylheti on the Red Sea, I felt that it was a dream, while they, on seeing a Sylheti gentleman on the ship, felt that Doomsday had come. The scriptures say that on that day we shall meet at the same place. People don’t jump so high even on seeing a ghost. Seeing the way they both jumped with the same speed and style, I felt that they had been rehearsing that act for many days. When both parties cooled down a bit, I opened my cigarette case for them. Both touched their ears at the same time and bit their tongues. They didn’t know me it was true – I had left my country in boyhood – but they had heard about me and they had touched the feet of my father and grandfather. God is kind. They were fortunate to see me that day. Smoke in front of me? Impossible. I firmly believe that the farmers of my country are much more civilized than European farmers. We also talked about the suffering of a khalashi’s life and various other sorrows and happiness. Sorrow was fifteen annas and three paisas. The other one paisa was happiness – meaning the salary; that one paisa was seventy-five rupees. With that money they would free their homes from mortgages, buy land. Finally, I asked the last question, “Meals?” It was very late at night by then. The senior man said, “That is our real sorrow, Hujoor. I am after all an old hand. Bread doesn’t get stuck in my throat. But this boy can’t do without watered rice. Watered rice! No rice anywhere, and he wants watered rice! The house is nowhere, but there are three doors on the east! Huh!” I asked in surprise, “How is that! I have heard that at least you are given a lot of daal-bhat to eat. No ship worker has ever returned home weak.”

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“You have heard it right, Sayeb. But there is a scarcity of rice in a few ports. The sareng is feeding us bread and hoarding the rice to sell in those ports. The sareng is from our own land. Otherwise, how would he know the art of stealing food?” I said, “Didn’t you complain?” The senior man said, “We don’t speak their language. Their language, French or something, only the sareng knows a bit. If it had been English, some of our elders could have informed our superiors. That is the advantage of the sareng. What a ship! We hear that they catch and eat large frogs! Salam, Sayeb, today we take your leave. It is quite late. Your words comforted our. . . .” I said, “Stop, stop!” They say that a midnight dream or a pre-dawn event is easily forgotten. I have a wonderful memory – I forget everything. So I remembered the rice story at noon, while seeing rice and curry at lunch. The ship was French and full of French men. It carried French officers and soldiers from Indo-China to France, stopping at Pondicherry on the way. Almost all the passengers were in the military; a few Indian civilians like me were strange exceptions. A young subaltern often sat at my dining table. I told him the story of the previous night in my basic French. He grew quite excited on hearing the story. I was surprised. Putting his knife and fork down, he spluttered angrily, “This is very unfair . . . serious injustice. . . unheard of. . . fantastic. . . fantastic . . . .” I said, “Wait, wait. Why are you so upset? This sort of injustice is happening everywhere in the world, all the time. Here you are, returning from Indo-China. Did you go there to be a kind Daniel, my boy? Forget the matter. Eat.” I was quite friendly with him, so I plucked up the courage to say this. One would rather say this to an Englishman. With

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a Frenchman there is every possibility of coming to blows, of bottles being broken. He became quiet, thought a bit and said, “Hum. But in this case the culprit is your countryman, the Indian sareng.” I had a hiccup and said, “Oh, no!” I haven’t yet seen any country in the world where people don’t take an afternoon nap if they get a chance. That is why I do not understand why Bengalis think that this is their right alone. In the company of five Frenchmen, putting a puttee on our eyes and lying on our own deck-chairs, I had just finished that job when a uniformed navy officer appeared. He bowed low and said, most politely, “Do I have the pleasure of talking to Monsieur?” Instantly I got up. More bowing. “Not at all. That honour is completely mine.” The officer said, “Monsieur Le Commander – the captain of the ship – has greeted you most warmly and prayed for your presence, which will make him very happy.” What had I been guilty of? I started in fear. What offence had I committed again that Monsieur Le Commander had issued a warrant against me? I swallowed and said, “That will be the greatest honour of my life. I am happy to go with you.” Although Monsieur Le Commander was the captain of a passenger ship, yet I saw another ship floating on his lips, full of modesty and praise. Calling him the epitome of politeness wouldn’t be an exaggeration. But the gist of what he said was that a scholar knowing so many languages like me was rare in this universe, even in Paris. I was thinking of asking him from where he had acquired this incorrect information when the flow of his words disclosed that after circling the world three hundred and ninety-nine times, he had finally discovered a great scholar, who could understand the babble of shipmates. Anyway, I could relax. Then there were

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lakhs of scholars like me in the district of Sylhet. After that he said he would be grateful if I explained why the shipmates were unhappy. I obliged by doing so. After that the shipmates and the sareng were called. They turned up, trembling like sacrificial goats. A captain and a judge are different types of living beings. A judge can smilingly spend a week discussing the age of a witness. A captain, I learned, could order a hanging in three minutes. Monsieur Le Commander very calmly and in lucid French told the sareng that if he ever heard about any similar complaint in the future, without uttering a word, he would throw the sareng into the sea and run the ship’s propeller over him. Thank God. If anyone dies, it will be the sareng! Badar Sahib is the saint of water. Saved by his mercy, I returned to my cabin repeating his name. A little while later the Chinese cabin boy came and informed me in his own French that the shipmates had requested me to kindly sit in my cabin today and have daal-bhat sent by them. You marvel over the ordinary rice and curry of Goalundo ships. If the cooks of those ships send you korma and kalia, then what happens? No, I won’t tell you. I have described my meals once or twice. As a result, I now have a bad name; people call me a voracious eater and a critic of everything. I only know how to criticize the cooking of others. I get very angry at this. I swear by copper and tulsi that – no, let it be. I give a last chance to the mothers and sisters in my house and yours. The captain was eternally grateful to me. So the khalashis fearlessly came to my cabin with food. In this manner the last night on board ship arrived. That night, after eating the gala banquet prepared by the khalashis, I was stretching in my bunk when the senior khalashi sat on the deck at my feet and said with folded hands, “Sir, I have a request.” After a mughlai meal I was in a happy mood. I announced in a mughlai voice, “Speak without fear.”

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He said, “Hujoor, have you heard about the Dheupasha village of the Ita Parganah?” I said, “Certainly. On the bank of River Monu.” He said, “Aha, Hujoor knows everything.” Quietly I told myself, “Alas! Only the captain and the khalashis understand what a learned man I am! Those whose appreciation could remove the fear of people to whom I owe money never understood.” He said, “Hujoor, I have come to tell you about Karim Mohammad of that village. Karim is a very wicked man. For fourteen years he has remained at the port of Marseilles. Meanwhile, his old mother has cried herself blind. She has sent him several many messages to no avail. He just will not return home. Letters were of no use, so we got down at the port and went to his residence to make him understand. His wife is a frogeater. She chased us away. We five men could do nothing but flee. However, we heard that the woman was affectionate to her husband’s countrymen at the beginning. The day she understood that they were trying to take her husband back to his land, she became an aggressive shrew.” I said, “You five strong men couldn’t do the job, how can I succeed? Do I look like Gama Pahelwan to you?” He replied, “No, Hujoor, she won’t say anything to you. If you go there in a suit and tie, she will think that you have come for some other work. Our lungis and our faces tell her that we are her husband’s kinsmen. Please, Hujoor, don’t say ‘No.’ Every khalashi knows what a kind man you are, that is why they have sent me. It was because of you that we have been able to eat rice. . . .” I said, “That’s enough. The captain caught me and asked me, that’s why I had to tell him. Otherwise, who would do that?” He said, “God forbid, even listening to such a thing is a sin. So, Hujoor, kindly don’t say ‘No.’ I touch your feet on behalf of his old mother.”

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He truly grabbed my feet. I started, “Hey, what are you doing?’ and freed my feet. They had fed me korma and polao. If I didn’t do that small job, it would be a serious betrayal. On the other hand, she was a French shrew. These Frenchwomen chased one not with a broom or a broken umbrella, but with a pistol. Which fool wants to travel around the world? Unnecessary difficulties, strange misfortunes. On disembarking, I found that there was no direct train to Berlin till the next morning. So there was no way for me to evade the task. Two khalashis got down with me – to show me the house of the Dheupasha lover. They wore lungis, colourful shirts, caps of date leaves, boots and wrapped red mufflers around their necks. Without that muffler, their dress was incomplete – like the silk scarves of Bengalis. The two took me to a suburb of the port. From a distance they showed me a small, beautiful house and left immediately. I proceeded in distress. There was no use calling upon Pir Badar; he was the saint of water. So I recited quietly the name of Pir Gazi, the saint of the Sundarbans – wasn’t I going to meet a tigress? I rang the bell quite firmly – the thief’s mother shouts the loudest. Who said she was a shrew? An innocent, harmless and gentle young lady of thirty or thirty-two opened the door. She appeared as harmless and gentle as a cow because my country belongs to cows! If I were to compare her with reference to “Mary had a little lamb,” I would say that the lamb stood in front of me in the form of Mary. And I had been ready for pistols, machine guns, hand grenades! Restraining myself, I followed the lessons in French etiquette that I had learned on the ship. I bowed and said, “Do I have the pleasure of talking to Madame Ma-o-mer (The French pronunciation of Mohammad)?” Deliberately, I didn’t mention my country. The French can’t

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differentiate between Chinese, Indians and Arabs. The way we find the Chinese, Japanese and Burmese similar. On looking at her face, I understood that Madame was confused. She said, “Entrez (please come in), Monsieur.” Feeling secure, I said, “Can I meet Monsieur Maomer?” “Certainly.” On entering the drawing room, I saw Sheikh Karim Mohammad, attired in a well-tailored French suit, looking intently at small pieces of cloth with various designs on the table. I spoke in French, “I have come from Madras. I shall be travelling to Berlin tomorrow. I thought of meeting the two of you.” I deliberately avoided mentioning that he was an Indian and how I came to know his address. He welcomed me in broken French. I struck up a conversation with Madame. What a beautiful port Marseilles was, so many varieties of hotels and restaurants, people of so many types going about with such different costumes, and so on. Meanwhile, a boy and a girl entered the room, shouting and screaming. Seeing me, they stood stock-still. What beautiful faces! Our Karim Mohammad was dark, his wife was also like all other French women but the two children were lovely. Who would say that they were not pure Spanish? I have seen such angelic children in the oil paintings of the artists of that country. I felt like taking them in my arms and kissing them. But I felt surprised, as I said before: the father’s looks were similar to that of other Muslim Bengali farmers and the mother also looked like ordinary French women. Three and three sometimes don’t make six. They can make ten – even infinity or fulfilment. The fruit of love doesn’t follow the laws of mathematics. Madame looked at them and said, “He is from the land of your father.”

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The boy immediately came and stood close to me. As I affectionately touched him, he said, “India is a fantastic land. I have seen many photos of that country. I want to go there but my father doesn’t agree – Oncle, please take me with you. . . .” I again expected a calamity. Seeing the direction that the conversation was taking, Madame might bring out a pistol. It was not difficult to imagine that the discussion was not a favourite of Madame’s either. She asked, “Monsieur, what would you like? Tea, coffee, chocolat or. . . .” I said, “Many thanks.” Finally, she got up to make coffee. Immediately, Karim Mohammad stood up and came to touch my feet in the Sylheti way. I realized that he had recognized my background. I spoke in Sylheti, “Don’t, don’t.” The way he looked at me, I understood that he was not touching my feet, he was touching the feet of the elders of his land, who included my father and grandfather; he was touching the dust of his land and putting it on his head; he was touching his mother’s feet. Who was I then to stop him? How presumptuous of me! Was he touching my feet? He asked me only one question, “Sir, which hotel are you staying in?” I told him the name. Near the station. I said, “Sit down.” He obliged. Then both of us sat stiffly. Neither of us talking. The girl came near me. I kissed her cheeks and said, “Honey.” The father smiled and said, “When on this birthday I asked her what gift she wanted, she said she wanted an Indian bridegroom. Girls in our country sweat when marriage is mentioned.” Sensing the hint of a complaint in his voice, I said, “Mentally, our girls also feel happy. In fact, they worry about what the house

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will be like, the place, the people. They feel shy to talk about stomach problems, we do not.” Meanwhile coffee came. Madame said, “Our daughter is Sarah, our son is Romain.” The father said, “Actually, Rahman.” I understood that he was intelligent. Sarah is also a Muslim girl’s name. And Rahman is roughly pronounced “Romain” in French. Poor Madame. Along with coffee came all kinds of cakes and pastries. I understood that she had brought the snacks from the neighbouring shop. But, surprisingly, she also had onion phuluris, made of chick-pea flour. Madame said, “My husband loves these.” The boy shouted, “Me too, Mummy.” The girl looked at me and said, “Me too, Uncle.” I couldn’t take it anymore. I remembered why I had come. Romain’s wish to go to India, Sarah’s desire for an Indian bridegroom had floored me considerably, but praising phuluri beside the best French sweets. . . . The coursing blood of my country overwhelmed me. I got up and said, “I should be leaving. I haven’t bought the ticket for Berlin. I can’t relax until I do that.” They all began to shout. The boy said, “But you haven’t seen our album yet.” Saying this, without paying heed to anyone, he brought the album and turned its pages. “Here, Bajan, you came here in such a strange dress, it is called lungi, right, Bajan? But very beautiful. Will you give me one, Chacha? Bajan’s one is too big for me. (Madame said, “Keep quiet.” The boy said, “Pardonnez moi.”) This is mother, before marriage, Cal and Johnny so pretty. . . .” Oh! The whole family turned up at the tram terminus for me. Everywhere in the world at least one tram runs, without any need to change, from the neighbourhood to the station. You just

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need to put the foreigner in that tram. Yet Madame very carefully made the conductor understand that I should be dropped at the right station. “Monsieur is a stranger, a foreigner.” She added in a whisper, “Can’t speak French. . . .” I felt very comfortable. Finally, I had found an intelligent woman who could comprehend the boundary of my French education. Madame and the children shouted, “Au revoir!” Karim Mohammad said, “Salam, Sayeb.” After dinner I was sitting in the lounge, thinking about retiring, when Karim Mohammad turned up. He was wearing his lungi and had a muffler round his neck! If you enter a hotel in Europe and start taking your shoes off, the manager will either call the police or an ambulance. He will think that you are angry. Karim certainly knew that; so his courage surprised me. Instead, I got frightened and quickly told him not to take off his shoes. But after that came another problem. He wouldn’t sit on a chair. I understood that outside his family he had become Dheupasha’s “Karimya.” Won’t wear his shoes, won’t sit on a chair, will touch my feet at the slightest pretext. I was annoyed. “What nonsense!” He was embarrassed. “Hujoor must be feeling uneasy talking to me publicly. So kindly let us go to your room. . . .” I was upset, “Not at all.” And then I added what every good son of Sylhet says, “Am I sitting in this room free of cost or am I some zamindar’s serf? But why are you behaving like this? Are you my slave? Let us go upstairs.” There he sat on the floor and smiled profusely. “Slave – why not? My paternal cousin Asmat was a domestic help in your house. Now when I send money to my mother it goes to your father. I have been to your residence. Your mother let me eat on a china plate. I know you, Hujoor.”

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I asked, “Have you come without informing your wife?” He said, “No, Hujoor. While we were eating, Romain’s mother asked me to meet you. She was regretting the fact that she couldn’t invite you to dinner. She truly said that you and I couldn’t talk quietly in our house, so she didn’t request you to eat. While I was coming, she told me that she would listen to what you say.” I asked, “If your wife didn’t permit you, wouldn’t you have come?” Without a pause, he said, “Certainly I would have come. But since I don’t want to hurt her for nothing, I would have come without telling her.” Saying this, he turned his face like a shy child. I liked that very much. I asked, “How did you come to know why I went to your residence? And I heard that your wife chased away people of our country. Why didn’t she chase me out?” He seemed somewhat ashamed. “That she does, Hujoor. She has heard that they go around saying that she has turned me into a hen-pecked husband. So she is very angry. In fact, she is a quiet woman. She doesn’t know what quarelling is.” “And can you expect any man to be hen-pecked? Not in Kamrup, not anywhere.” “Then hear everything, Hujoor, and then tell me what I should do. “At the age of seventeen I got down at this port along with five other shipmates. Why, Hujoor, I don’t know, suddenly some policemen started chasing us. We ran for our lives. I found myself in an unknown corner of the city. I failed to trace our ship. On that winter night I searched for it frantically. Finally, I got tired and fell asleep under a pole. When I came back to my senses, I found myself in a hospital. I was burning with high fever – at home I used to have malaria. I couldn’t keep track of how many days I drifted between consciousness and unconsciousness. At

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times I would faintly see doctors discussing something. After recovering, I learnt that none of them had seen the high fever of malaria patients and were scared. During my bouts of high fever, I saw a nurse at times. She would give me water to drink and wipe the corners of my lips. One night before dawn I had high fever, accompanied with shivering. When the nurse couldn’t stop my shivering despite all the quilts, she lay down, embracing me tightly. Like mother would do at home. Then again I became unconscious. “But when the fever left me after that, I started to recover. I would lie and think of my country and my mother and whenever I saw that nurse, I would feel very happy. She would caress my forehead at times and say the same thing every time in their language. Without understanding I would feel, she was saying, don’t be afraid, you will recover. “Then one day I was released. Immediately, I rushed towards the port. There I met a countryman. He was from another ship – our ship was long gone. After hearing everything from me, he said, ‘Escape, escape, escape right now. A warrant has been issued in your name. You have escaped from a ship. The police will put you in jail if they can catch you.’ “How many years? Who knows? Maybe one year, maybe fourteen. I didn’t know anything at all about law, Hujoor. “But where could I go? Wherever I looked, I saw policemen. “I had forgotten all about food, Hujoor. But where could I spend the night? “Finally, I remembered something. When I left the hospital that nurse had shaken hands with me and given me a note. I didn’t know till then what was written in it. Whomever I showed it made me understand with his hand that I was to go further north. Finally, one person showed me the gate of a big house and left. “On seeing me waiting there for an hour, a policeman of Ronde started to question me. From whatever I had learned of

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their language during my stay in the hospital, I understood that the policeman was asking why I was standing there – and why should he not? I understood that I was to go to jail. I thought to myself, there was nothing I could do. And anyway, I needed shelter. Even the jail would do. Many of my paternal and maternal uncles have gone to jail after village fights. I would go without any fighting. “Just then that nurse turned up. She said something briefly to the policeman and, holding my hand, took me to her flat. From the way the policeman left quietly, I understood that people in the neighbourhood respected her. “She gave me hot milk mixed with a raw egg. I don’t know what I took while I was not in my senses, Hujoor, but, after coming back to my senses, I didn’t take wine even as medicine. So she omitted the brandy. “At night she gave me bread and chicken stew. How I was dying to have a little rice, I can’t ever make you understand, Hujoor.” Remembering the khalashis, I told myself, “You won’t have to.” Outwardly I said, “After that?” He thought for a while and said, “If I tell you everything the night will be over, Sayeb. And what is the point? She fed me, dressed me, gave me shelter – on a foreign land where I was supposed to go to jail and break stones – if I don’t give these details, will their value decrease? “They won’t decrease, so I am telling you, Hujoor, Sujon works as a nurse. . . .” I asked him, “What name did you say?” He said a little shyly, “‘I call her Sujon – Sujan in their language.” I understood that it was the French Suzanne and grasped in addition that it was not difficult for those people who sang mystic bhatiali songs in our country to change a name to express gratitude. They had this much sensitivity and imagination.

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I asked, ‘‘What were you saying?” He said, “The one year that Suzanne looked after me, I did all her domestic chores. The poor girl had to do her own cooking – after coming from a whole day’s hard work in the hospital. I did all her cooking. She protested till the last day but I didn’t listen to her.” I asked, “But didn’t your neighbourhood police disturb you?” Lowering his head a bit he said, “I don’t know about other countries, Hujoor, but here they didn’t put hurdles in the path of love. And they knew that after coming to her house, we married within a month. “But, Hujoor, I used to feel very embarrassed. It was worse than being a ghar-jamai, a son-in-law staying with his father-inlaw. But what was I to do? “It was God who showed me the way. “On holidays Suzanne would take me to watch movies. One day she took me to a big exhibition. There in a room I saw looms of many kinds from many different countries. We were shown how they were operated and how cloth with various designs was produced. Among them I saw a loom a lot like the ones in our country. “My forefathers worked as weavers, farmers and even fought with sticks if necessary. “I hesitated for some time, then asked Suzanne, ‘How much does the loom cost?’ She understood that I wanted it. She was very happy because I had never asked for anything from her. She said that it was not for sale but she would get one made for me. “Who will buy dhotis, sarees, lungis or gamchhas here? I made scarves and mufflers. With our own deshi designs. Just seeing the half-completed design of the first piece, Suzanne was so happy! Before the scarf came out of the loom, she had gathered people of the neighbourhood to show them a strange object. All

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of them scrutinized it, praised it a lot. Suzanne was doubly happy, her husband was not idle, not a vagabond. An honourable man, a man of qualities. “At the beginning, the scarves were sold in the neighbourhood; then they started selling in different places. Money poured in. Then I went to a local weaver and learned how to work with silk and wool. Finally, Suzanne bought a lot of books for me, where there were not only Kashmiri designs, but also many other designs of different countries. The money that came in meant that Suzanne could leave her job. When I told her that, she happily agreed. She only said that if it ever became necessary, she could always go back to her hospital. Romain was in her womb then. Suzanne was ready to become a homemaker. “Maybe you are wondering why I am not mentioning my old lady. I am telling you about her. It is late. You need to rest. “You won’t believe that after we had earned some money, it was Suzanne who said, ‘Won’t you send your mother some money?’ I had been looking for an honest man in the port. Romain’s mother told me that I could send money to my country through the bank. “Every month I send money to my old lady. Sometimes fifty, sometimes one hundred. In Dheupasha fifty takas is a lot of money. I heard that she had built a mosque for the village. She has certainly no problem with food and clothes. “Money gets everything done. There is a saying in Sylhet, ‘Money is Joyram, it gets you everything’ but, sir, money doesn’t stop the flow of tears. I know this very well. My old lady has also sent me a message. She doesn’t need money; I should return home. “I was thunderstruck, Sayeb, when one day I learned that going home was not at all difficult but returning was impossible. Now I am one of the important men of my neighbourhood. I have a wonderful relationship with the local police. They often

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dine at my place. They have learned from Paris that returning is impossible. Whether I return as a traveller or a khalashi, the Paris police will catch me and deport me. They even warned me not to move about too much. If the Paris police come to know that I am staying here without a passport, they won’t show me the affection of the local police. They will turn me out of this country. What do you suggest, Hujoor?” How could I tell him a blatant lie? I certainly knew that France wanted tourists to spend their money in her land but in this time of unemployment she would surely prohibit someone coming and earning money here. As I sat quietly, Karim Mohammad lowered his head and sighed. After a long while he raised his head and said, “Romain’s mother knows everything that is in my mind. My countrymen make fun of me, call me henpecked – hearing all this she dislikes them but sometimes on waking up at dawn I find her awake too. Then she puts her hand on my forehead and says, ‘If you want to go to your country, you can. I can manage our two children alone.’ This started after she became a mother. “Today she mentioned you and said, ‘This gentleman is kind and affectionate. He was so nice to my children!’ I said, ‘Sujan, you don’t know how close the gentlemen of our land are to us! The father of this gentleman who came called my father his son. Here your gentry don’t talk to the poor.’ You tell me what to do, Hujoor.” His use of the word “close” was the only thing left. “Suzanne told me, ‘Go to him and see what he says. We shall act according to his advice. Now please command me, Hujoor.” I folded my hands and said, “Please forgive me.” He touched my feet and said, “Your forefathers advised my forefathers during a crisis and saved them. Please order me today.”

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I shamelessly refused to acknowledge past tradition and said, “Please forgive me.” He cried a lot. I remained quiet. When it was almost dawn, he kissed my feet. I didn’t stop him. At the door while leaving, he heaved a deep sigh, “Ya Allah!” Translated from “Nona-Mitha” by Junaidul Haque

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SYED MANZU ISLAM a British-Bangladeshi writer, fought as a freedom fighter in the 1971 War of Liberation in Sector 9. He moved to the UK after liberation. After earning his PhD from the University of Gloucestershire, he became a reader there. His first book was The Ethics of Travel from Marco Polo to Kafka, published by Manchester University Press in 1966. He worked as a Racial Harassment Officer in East London during the “Paki Bashing” epidemic in the ’70s and ’80s. He started writing fiction, mainly about Bengali settlers in the UK. Both The Mapmakers of Spitalfields (1998), a collection of short stories, and his novel Burrow (2004) are about Bengali settlers in the UK. Islam’s third book of fiction, Song of Our Swampland (2010), is based on the Bangladesh War of Liberation.

Syed Manzu Islam

THE MAPMAKERS OF SPITALFIELDS It was Friday afternoon and we were at the Sonar Bangla Café. There was a long queue, but that didn’t surprise us. It was always jam-packed at this time of the week with regulars looking for a moment’s respite from the toils and traumas of the week. Between gossiping about the playback song numbers and the dance routines in the latest videos, and between humdrum news from faraway home and savouring the spicy delicacies on offer, they drifted into another world. We sat squashed in a comer, under a painting of a boat coming straight down from the horizon, where the sun had just risen above a hazy line of trees. Badal was trying desperately to break through the cacophony of noise and catch the oarsman’s song blaring from the loud-speaker at the far end of the cafe. Shafique, in between spoonfuls of halva, was glancing furtively at a gourd which was protruding from his knitted jute shopping bag. I was leaning against the chair to fork a piece of kebab. At that moment, the front door flung open and two blond men in white overalls came following the cold wind which galloped through the length of the café.

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Sensing danger, everyone ducked into their shells, except the oarsman, who went on singing until he scaled down from the breathless heights he had climbed. Jaws tight, the two paced the whole length of the floor in their purposeful red doc-martens, looking for someone or something out of the corners of their eyes. Abruptly, they stopped behind a man wearing a flannel suit and a broad-brimmed hat, then went to the front of him to scrutinize his face. They shook their heads as they walked towards us. They leant over our table, inscrutable, except for a knowing twist of their lips, saying nothing, but like well-trained bloodhounds trying to sniff out an odour of a clue. We knew their game, so we too kept our mouths shut. Seeing that we hadn’t lost our nerves, the smoother of the two produced a photo from his pocket and laid it on the table. While he questioned us with the utmost politeness, his companion stood impassive in his towering bulk. When he saw that his smooth companion wasn’t getting anywhere, he lifted his heavy eyelids, giving us a menacingly inquisitive look with his pale blue eyes. We shook our heads and said we hadn’t seen the man in the photograph before. Nor had anyone else in the café. The bloodhounds didn’t look very pleased. Mr. Smooth lost his cool. He screwed up his eyebrows and thumped the table. Mr. Nasty thrust his bulk forward to redouble his menace. –It’s too bad, mate, said Smooth, the whole business stinks. I know the game you’re playing, but it sickens me, really it does. How far would you go to protect your own kind, eh? For God’s sake, the geezer’s a lunatic. An absolute nutter, you know. Have you ever seen the way he walks, have you, huh? We can’t let him roam the street like that, you know. We want to take him in for his own good. We still kept our mouths shut. Suddenly becoming thoughtful, as if he had hit upon something, Smooth paused to scrutinize my face. – What they call you?

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I gave him my name. – Don’t play games with me, mate. You know what I mean. What they call you around here? I again repeated my name. He snapped the photo off the table and they left together as hastily as they had come. For quite some time after they left, the silence wasn’t broken, until someone nervously struck a match and many of the regulars reached for their cigarettes. We didn’t want to hang around, so before the other customers could emerge from their shells and break into a cacophony of feverish questions and improbable answers, we hit the street. It was only four in the afternoon but already getting dark. We looked in both directions to make sure the guys in white overalls weren’t around and headed east along Hanbury Street. We walked briskly in the cold. Shafique, as he always did when nervous, whistled out of tune. Badal, between puffs of his cigarette, looked thoughtful. But I knew he was dying to ask me about Brothero-Man. We didn’t talk as we walked on, but I shuddered at the thought of the two men in white overalls catching up with Brothero-Man. When we were passing Spelman Street I thought I saw a silhouetted figure emerge from an alleyway and disappear into the maze of high-rise flats. Was that BrotheroMan? But I wasn’t so anxious for him now because I knew they wouldn’t be able to catch him at this hour. He had this thing about twilight and dawn. Each day, at those uncertain moments between day and night, he applied himself most skillfully. Not only did he outflank their hesitations with the supreme subtleties of his craft, but went onto a different plane altogether. Now that it was twilight they would be lucky to catch even a faint glimpse of his shadow. Yet, he never hurried, always laid one foot in front of the other with the utmost precision as he went back and forth, sketching delicately, with the skill of a miniaturist, a map at the very heart of this foreign city.

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We walked together as far as Commercial Street. Finally Badal’s nerves got the better of him, and, just before we parted, he asked me: – He isn’t really mad, is he? I almost said –Why do you ask me? How should I know? – but I didn’t say anything. Anyway, he didn’t push me for an answer. Badal and Shafique said goodbye and went towards Whitechapel Station. I came back the way we had come. I wanted to find Brothero-Man and warn him about the mad catchers in white overalls. Soon I found myself at the side of the high-rise complex that lines the middle section of Hanbury Street. When I looked up I saw the faint outlines of saris and lungis, festooned, fluttering from the washing lines. I couldn’t help laughing, because they looked as dashing at the task of flying the flag as the Union Jack had done in the olden days. Suddenly I saw some garment, cut loose by a gust of wind, floating like a kite. I watched it disappear into the darkness. Even before I reached the concrete playground in front of the tower blocks, I could smell burning spices escaping through crevices in doorways and windows. Within, the whole building oozed spices, an aromatic aura which made it seem like a secret zone in another country. I could have closed my eyes and still reached the tower blocks by following the trails laid by the spices. Looking at the clothes hanging on the parapet, I thought of Brothero-Man and his meticulousness for colours. For instance, if white was the chosen colour of the day, then the obligatory white flannel suit would be matched by immaculately polished white shoes and a white, broad-brimmed felt hat. The only contrast, apart from his own skin, would be added by a violet tie. Then he would be ready to walk the streets like a tiptop man. Irrespective of the season and the weather, he came this way every day, and more than once, to look at the washing lines, to breathe in the burning spices, and laugh, baring his gold

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teeth. Nights had their own routines, but in the day he would sit on the parapet, watching the children playing games and singing rhymes. How he loved the rhymes – oh what sweet rhymes they were. Those Bengali ones, learnt from the hums and lullabies of their mothers, were mixing with the hickory dickory dock of those English ones. At first the children used to throw stones at him, pull his jacket from behind and scream at him, Mad mad mad, there goes a stark-pagal-mad, who is madder than the hatter-mad. But soon they came to accept him as a permanent landmark in their playground, like the parapet on which he sat. Mind you, unlike the parapet, Brothero-Man had bottomless pockets, bulging with goodies beyond the children’s wildest dreams. When they were most absorbed in their games, Brothero-Man would tilt his broadbrimmed felt hat over his face, pretending to have fallen asleep. But the children knew it to be the signal for a more enchanting game and they would come rushing towards him. Seeing the children out of the corner of his eye, he would push the broad brim to the back of his head and say, Little brotheros and little sisteros, abracadabra, are you ready for Alibaba’s magic-jadu show? Then he would conjure up, with a deft play of his fingers, the latest models of toys, expensive sweets, and even puppies and kittens from the bottoms of his pockets. He would hand them to the boys and girls with a grin on his face. Ah, he was happy then – my brothero. Before I could emerge from the depths of thought that Brothero-Man always demanded of me, I had already crossed the poorly-lit playground, and was facing the lift. It, as usual, wasn’t working. So I took the stairs to the seventh floor. It didn’t bother me much because I was used to walking. Munir opened the door. I asked him if he had seen Brothero-Man. He hadn’t seen him around lately. Overhearing us, Soraya came rushing from the kitchen. Yes, she had seen him that very afternoon on his usual spot on the parapet, watching the children play. As

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usual every Friday, the theme of the day was yellow. But it was a new outfit, Soraya told me, and how handsome he looked in it. Before I could ask about little Tariq, he was already next to me, but, sensing the serious tone of our conversation, he stood silent. I was rubbing his head but not paying him any attention. A bit offended, he tugged at my jacket, looked at me with his huge dark eyes and asked if I had any sweets for him. I rummaged in my pockets but found nothing. He pulled a face, went to his mother and stood staring sadly at the floor, holding onto the edge of her sari. When I promised that I would take him to see giraffes tomorrow, he looked happy. He smiled saying loooong neck – and went back inside. Soraya offered to make me tea. When I said no, she asked if I would try some rice bread she had already made. I declined this too, saying I was in a hurry. She looked concerned, but didn’t ask me any further questions. I had taken my leave and was almost out of the door when Munir asked me why I was looking for Brothero-Man. I told him about the guys in white overalls. Knowing Munir well, I didn’t expect him to be sympathetic but I was surprised when I heard him say: – You know, it wouldn’t be a bad idea if he goes in for a while. Let’s face it, the guy’s utterly mad. Look at the funny way he dresses. My God – the colours! Tell me something, how can a sane person walk about all day so aimlessly? And where does he go? Absolutely nowhere. And his talk, God, the amount of rubbish he talks. Honestly, I can’t make any sense of his babble; I’m not even sure whether he speaks Bengali or English. You might not agree, but I think he needs treatment. The people you saw in white overalls must be professionals. We’ve no reason to be worried about them. I’m sure they came only to help. Soraya bit her lips with bitterness, as if something had finally snapped between herself and Munir. – I can’t believe I’m hearing these things from you, Munir. What’s happened to you? Have you eaten your head or what? I thought at least

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you’d be able to tell the difference between a mad man and a wise man. Have you bothered to listen to him? If you had, I’m sure you wouldn’t say these things. Oh Allah, what nonsense I’m hearing! You think him funny-like because he dares to speak the truth like the prophets. I was saddened by the widening gulf between them. But what could I do? So I left them to their arguments and once more took to Hanbury Street. The Sonar Bangla was buzzing again with regulars. Even from outside I could hear the oarsman’s song. A lonely shore had no doubt prompted him into full flight, dared him to climb an unattainable scale. I walked past quickly, slipped across the road and went into the youth club. There the wacko guy Jacko ruled the scene like an absolute monarch from the jukebox, funking BAD BAD beats. All around the joint, Bengali youths, all of them styling in cool leather jackets, hung around hyped on black-Afroman’s vibes. Between quick shuffles of their feet, they cued on the green tables, and crossed over to the other side. Where did they go? Harlem, Kingston, or just Brixton down the road? It didn’t matter to Brothero-Man. God, how he loved the place. If you could fathom his mumble, you would have heard him saying, Goodly goodly delectation, look-look, dhekho-dhekho, such a firstclass scene. From where they got the knack, nobody knew, but these youths had mastered martial arts to the black belt class. And kick for kick they faced the skin-headed boys in uni-jacks. BrotheroMan had a real thing for the boys. He once told me, Brothero, do you hear what them farty-wurty mouths say? Them say how the boys have gone kaput – neither here nor there – lost in the shithole of a gulla-zero. What a fucking-wukking talk that is, brothero. What do you say, eh? Laugh, brothero, laugh. Sure, them don’t got the brain, even the goat shit size. Aren’t they everywhere, brothero, aren’t these boys everywhere? Hey brothero, you’re looking at tiring miring biring the king Brick Lane piring. When the boys at the club

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heard Brothero-Man talk like that, they would laugh. What the fuck you’re on, Brothero-Man? We don’t dig you right. Sure, the boys at the club thought him a bit crazy, but they had a soft spot for him too. When Asad saw me from the table, he hurried with his shot and came over. – What’s up? I told him about the guys in white overalls. He went quiet, shook his head. – I tell you something: the fuckers are playing with fire. If they touch him, things will burn. And they’ll have a riot on their hands. He went back to his table and blasted the cue into the pack, scattering the red and the yellow balls in disorder across the green baize. Surfacing from the youth club I continued ahead, around the corner into Brick Lane. Suddenly I felt the cold like an icy syringe digging deep under my skin. But I had to keep looking. I put my hands, bluish from the cold, into my pockets, flung the long scarf over my head and walked on. Along the way I remembered the first time I had met Brothero-Man. How long ago was beside the point, but it was memorable for being one of those rare sunny days in winter. I remember waking that morning, opening the window and letting the soft sunlight drape me with the fragility of muslin. Unwisely, I put on only a light jacket and almost in a dream set off down the Brick Lane way. Before I could get my bearings, Brothero-Man had already leapt on me from nowhere on the springs of his legs. Good morning-salaam. Welcome, brothero, how do you do-doc, brothero? I must have looked at him with puzzlement, if not with fear, but even then I could sense that he was a brother. Almost immediately, before I could reply, he had left me, though he paused a second to look back and smiled at me, showing a glint of his golden teeth. I looked on as he, apparently untouched by the cold, melted into an alleyway. Later, much later, I learned that he had been walking these streets

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for the last twenty years. Before that, nothing was certain. But few doubted the rumour that he was a shareng on a ship from the Indies. He must have been one of the pioneer jumping-ship men, who landed in the East End and lived by bending the English tongue to the umpteenth degree. There are many who date the day he took to walking as the beginning of his madness. But others mark it as the beginning of that other walk when, patiently, and bit by bit, he began drawing the secret blueprint of a new city. It wasn’t exactly in the likeness of our left-behind cities from the blossoms of memories. Nor did it grow entirely from the soon-to-be razed foreign cities where we travellers arrived with expectant maps in our dreams. What do you say, brothero? Surely a strange new city, always at the crossroads, and between the cities of lost times and cities of times yet to come. I was still walking along Brick Lane and entered once more the zone of spices. But this time the tempting scents from the rows of restaurants were overlaid with gentle aromas from the sweet shops and smells of leather from the sweat shops. Ambling towards Aldgate East Station, I paused to look at the mannequins in a brightly lit sari shop, their plumpish bodies wrapped in the latest styles of silk, cotton and synthetic saris. I knew that Brothero-Man would have lingered here with his eyes fixed on the mannequins. Then he would have taken his hat off to comb his hair in the reflection of the window. Often, when the shop was open, he would go inside and run his fingers along the rows of saris. It would please him to see the fluttering colours and hear the secret melodies in the rustles of silk. Sensing Brothero-Man’s presence, the owner of the shop, Zamshed Mia – who never usually spent an idle moment not making a profit – would look up at the spy monitor and stay there rapt for minutes on end. These moments never failed to bring tears to his eyes because he’d never seen so much tenderness in a man’s caress before. Desperate to

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repay him in some way, but not knowing what to do, one day he offered Brothero-Man one of his most expensive saris. He told him that perhaps he could send it to his beloved. Brothero-Man flung the sari in his face and told him that his beloveds were right there in the shop window. After that he gave Zamshed Mia the full treatment of his foul mouth. Zamshed Mia didn’t understand exactly what he meant; such mysteries, he thought, were beyond him. From then on he would only look in silence at the miracle of love in the black and white video monitor. I wondered what topographical details the map-maker had been noting here, and moved on. Not far from here was a popular newsagent, selling imported books, magazines from Bangladesh, and Bollywood videos. I entered the shop, picked up a copy of the weekly Natun Din and went up to pay Kamal at the counter. I asked him if he had seen Brothero-Man. Of course, he had been there in the morning, as he always was, ever since the shop opened. He’d browsed through the latest magazines, Kamal said, and asked for his favourite songs to he put on. He seemed his usual happy self, but while reading a news item he had gone quiet and muttered to himself in his fucking-wucking, obscene language. Kamal told me, too, that two guys in white overalls had also recently been in his shop, asking questions about Brothero-Man. They’d told him that they would hunt him the whole night. Whatever it took, they wouldn’t leave without him. – He’s a bit funny-like, I admit, Kamal said. But my old man thinks he got some kinda special power. He sees some deep meaning in his walk. I don’t dig all that, but he’s harmless, ain’t he? I was once more on Brick Lane, walking its littered pavements. Night had fallen some hours ago and even the groceries with incredibly long hours were closing. But the flutter of cab lights would go on for the whole stretch of the night, and the restaurants and pubs still had a few profitable hours left to

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run. I wondered why the guys in white overalls were so desperate to catch Brothero-Man before the end of the night. Perhaps they’d got wind of his secret map-making. Yes, but why couldn’t they wait any longer than this night? Then it occurred to me that perhaps they had a hunch that he was on the last leg of his survey, and one more night would complete the map. Surely, they would do anything in their powers to prevent that. I felt a renewed urgency to find Brothero-Man before the guys in white overalls. I was moving briskly when I saw one of the regular tramps of the lane, soaked in alcohol, emerging from a dark recess. He staggered towards me, rubbed his mouth with his trembling hand and strained his half-closed eyes as if trying to tell who it was. But his drunkenness and the darkness of the lane prevented him from recognizing me. – I’ll let you in on a secret, Guv. You’re looking at the real Jack the Ripper. How about it? Give me a fag, will ya? I didn’t have any cigarettes, so instead I put a twenty-pence piece in his hand. He looked well pleased. I left him and headed towards Haji Shaheb’s grocery. It was closed but the lights were on. Through the glass front I saw the Haji counting what looked like a lot of money. The takings must have been good because he had a grin on his paan-red lips. When I knocked on the glass door, I saw panic in the Haji’s eyes. He dropped the money in the till and slammed it shut. He looked around, holding onto his long hennaed beard until he saw me. Only then did he look relieved and the grin came back to his lips. He opened the door and bid me a warm salaam. He locked the door behind us and offered me a cigarette. Twirling his beard he said: – Where is your friend, country brother? What’s his name –the one who calls everyone brothero? I tell you something, no one looks at my fish like him. Only Allah knows why he looks that way. But I’m sure they aren’t ordinary looks. What do you say, country brother? I said I hadn’t seen him for the last few days and was looking

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for him desperately. The Haji said that Brothero-Man had been there that morning, as ever devouring his fishes with his eyes. It was one of his rendezvous – a necessary stop in his walking routine. The last time I’d come, I remembered, I was with him. Together we’d stood in contemplative silence looking at the fishes. We were so absorbed that at first we didn’t notice the Haji standing just behind us, rubbing his portly belly. We were somewhat startled when he spoke. – Oh, what do you say, country brothers? They’re as desirable as houries, eh? If you gobble them up like this, with your hungry eyes, my customers will get bad stomach, no? Brothero-Man looked at him fiercely and gritted his gold teeth. – Look at him, brothero, look what a nasty piece of fussingwussing gob, I’m telling you, brothero, he was sure raised on hog-shit. Look, how he hides his wickedness under his beard. And his portly sack, look at it, how it hangs over his nasty thing. Who knows, brothero, how many bastards he raised with that thing. Sure, him’s as greedy as a shit eating-hog. Always fussing-wussing, I tell you, brothero, him eating too much rice. Hish, mish, bish, I’m the king kish. I had never seen the Haji looking so scared because he couldn’t quite decide whether Brothero-Man was a mad man or a holy man. In his confusion he offered Brothero-Man a cigarette. He took it, lit it and stormed out. Much later, he told me that the Haji had his own value because, like the fishes, he was good to look at. I told the Haji about the two men in white overalls. He shook his head and said that they would make a grave mistake if they touched him, because only Allah knew what would happen to them. – I wouldn’t be surprised, if they were mined for generations, country brother.

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I was back on the street and once more I was walking along Brick Lane. When I was passing the mosque I couldn’t help but stop, because Brothero-Man would have stopped here. Of course, I didn’t go in, because he never went in. Almost like clockwork he comes five times a day and stands outside. He stares at the gloomy facade of the mosque and chats with the regulars who go in for prayers. Once, one of these asked him why he never went inside the mosque. He paid dearly for asking that silly question because Brothero-Man was in good form that day. – Inside /Outside what a fussing-wussing talk. Have you any idea, you shit head, where that mosque be? Right in me inside. Well, well, now tell me, you mother-fucking donkey, how can I go inside of the inside? Bawkbawkbawk not knowing how to talk. It was late and the last prayer of the day had been said some hours ago. I stood in the cold wind that blew across the Lane and looked at the mosque. It was still there, my brothero, always there. Where could I go from the mosque? Oh yes, I could always go and see my friend the poet who lived across the road. So I crossed the road and walked ahead and within seconds I was outside his door. I pressed the button and waited. Suddenly I saw a blue van braking abruptly and skidding a little on the icy road. Out came the two guys in white overalls, walking slowly towards Commercial Street. Did they have a lead on BrotheroMan? I knew that they’d never find the pathways through the secret grids of his map. But if Brothero-Man – for some strange reason – wanted to be found? My friend the poet opened the door. I climbed the dark stairs behind his rumbling bulk and ancient odour. He once told me, between a roaring laugh and dropping ash from his cigarette, that he cultivated that stink as a protection against his enemies. We all laughed but there was some truth in it. If you weren’t seasoned in his friendship, you would puke the moment you went anywhere

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near him. But now the stink made me forget, at least for a brief moment, about Brothero-Man. Back in his room, the poet resumed his reclining posture on the divan and lit a cigarette. Closing his eyes, he blew smoke into air already densely clouded with smoke from hundreds of cigarettes whose butt-ends littered the room. Before I could open my mouth, the poet told me to allow him some time, because he had something on his mind. From the way he looked I knew he was spinning a new verse, so I kept quiet. I sat on the chair facing the divan. He finished his cigarette, lit yet another with the butt-end and withdrew into himself as if I wasn’t there. Between patting his thigh and picking his nose – and always that cigarette – he went on mumbling to himself. Suddenly he came out of his thoughts to tell me how wonderful tea would be. Before I could respond, he had already resumed his thoughts. Dutifully I went to make the tea. When I came back with it, he barely acknowledged me. I resumed watching him. Suddenly a pack of huge rats, raising a deafening uproar, zoomed diagonally across the room and disappeared in the pile of rubbish heaped next to the cooker. I told the poet what I had seen. He told me that I must be imagining things, because he hadn’t seen any rats; surely there couldn’t be any here. Yet I noticed that as he lit another cigarette, dug his elbow deeper into his pillow, he pulled the tattered sheet of his divan, protectively I felt, over his feet. Perhaps feeling a bit guilty for keeping me waiting, he said – Are you doing nicely, my friend? – but soon he went back to his poetic meditation. I didn’t want to disturb him because I knew he was thinking of Brothero-Man. How could you mistake the way he was curving his lips and blowing the air. He wasn’t so much mimicking Brothero-Man as he was riding with him in the same galloping motion. Then I heard him as the mumble got louder. Boy, wasn’t he there? right there, under your very noses

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an invisible surveyor marking cities as if through dense forest and uncharted savannahs like a white horse with a long flowing mane galloping through the veins of your city flickering the icon of his body & charting but you look through a microscope right into the very depths of his pocket “there there,” you say, “the map ought to be there.” how little you know that sizzling of a body dancing a pure force in twilight sprinkling ink like rubies along the way & between walking feet and clicking eyelids wearing a parchment of a map at one with his body now you will seize the body you do that as you please he laughs, glinting his gold teeth seeing the floating mirror of his body stamping space in the speed of his trails. my lords and ladies, I am afraid he has bitten off a chunk of your land & grinning gold with his teeth I heard a sharp cry from the street below and jumped to the window. I cleaned the steamed-up panes with my palms and looked down to see what was happening. The mist was so dense and the street-lights so dim that they were no more than drops of yellow in a bowl of milk, but there was no mistaking the van even though I couldn’t see the colour. Just in front of the van stood three figures in silhouette. Two of them seemed to be barring the way of the third. From their size I could tell that two

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of the men were the ones in white overalls. But the third? Since they were looking for him, who else could it be but BrotheroMan? The two guys in white overalls seemed to be talking to him, but he suddenly thrust his hands between them and pushed them aside as if cutting through water like a breaststroke swimmer. He began to walk away and then broke into a trot. The two men turned around and ran after him. One of the men in white overalls, the one of towering bulk, lurched forward and grabbed Brothero-Man’s jacket collar, while the other man, the thin and tall one, stood in front. Perhaps he was still trying to persuade Brothero-Man to come voluntarily. He, though, jerked himself free from the man who was holding him from behind and head-butted the man in front. This I concluded from the way the man in front was holding his head. My brothero certainly knew how to take care of himself. Now he began to trot again, with the man of towering bulk trotting after, grabbing for him, almost flying through the air. Brothero-Man seemed to be trying desperately to stay upright and shake off the man of towering bulk. But the thin, tall man came around and grabbed him by the neck. Brothero appeared to elbow him fiercely and drag the man of towering bulk along the pavement. The tall, thin man was hitting Brothero-Man with a truncheon-like object. He fell to the ground, curling up. Then it was all over and the two guys in white overalls were dragging him towards the van. I shouted to the poet that they were taking away our brothero. He jumped off his divan and we ran out to the street. As we reached the van, a policeman came out of the station, which was just opposite. He focused his torch on the scene and at last we could see clearly what was happening. The two men were indeed the mad-catchers in white overalls. But the third looked like a policeman. It wasn’t Brothero-Man. I cursed myself for not realizing that it wasn’t his style to fight that way. The third man was Jamir Ali. It was common knowledge on Brick Lane that one day, possessed by

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the evil bobby-spirit, he had stopped speaking and gone mad. He made himself a police uniform, bought a real-looking helmet and stood outside the station, as if he was a real policeman on duty. He wasn’t struggling now, but all the same they dragged him into the van through the back door, and slammed it shut. They told the policeman with the torch that there were others still roaming the streets who were madder than the one they’d caught. Then the thin, tall mad-catcher looked at me suspiciously. – You can be sure he won’t get away. We’re here to round up all the loonies. We’ve our job to do, you know. But specially him – the real Mr. Crazy. We’ll get him by the time the night’s up. We ain’t buffoons, we have our information. We know he’s planning something crazy at dawn. We can’t let that happen, can we? He was about to get into the van but came back to look me up and down closely. – What they really call you around here, eh? You don’t fool me, mate, we’re watching you. But one piece of advice; if I were you I’d stop this walking nonsense. Why did you have to come all this way here to do your bloody walk? It sickens me, it really does. They drove away, turning the corner into Fashion Street. The poet went back to his flat, and I walked on looking for Brothero-Man. On the way I met Allamuddin Khan – a deadly serious fellow, all-round guru and a nonconformist par excellence – buzzing like a queen bee through the haze, surrounded by his young followers. At first he didn’t notice me, he was so absorbed in his wise-man role. I caught the name Vatsyayana and thought perhaps he was pep-talking the boys on the delicate art of seduction. Suddenly seeing me so close, he froze with a start. Then, he said abruptly, as if to regain his composure: –We must finish our talk on the metrical form of Rabi Thakur’s work. He remained silent for a while, and then smiled wryly. But he was soon back to his old form again, laying on all sorts of esoteric wisdom to the bafflement and admiration of his followers. I thought if the two mad-catchers in white overalls got to hear

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him he’d be in real trouble. I told him about them and BrotheroMan. Allamuddin Khan, despite all his wisdom, looked shaken. – For argument’s sake, even if he is mad, what the hell they think they are up to? We have been living all our lives with so called mad people, even eating from the same plate. And certainly living in the same house and the same neighbourhood. It never bothered us. Anyway who can tell who is really mad? He wanted to come with me but I told him that I would rather look for Brothero-Man on my own. Anyway, he told me that he and his boys would go round looking for him too. I slipped my hands deep into my pockets, turned my lapel to cover my neck and walked on. I hadn’t gone far when I paused in front of what had been Naz Cinema. Sadly, these days it stood only as a monument to that bygone celluloid age. At this time of the night its entrance looked dead except for a few tramps who lay huddled up in cardboard and rags. But during the day, a different form of life unfolds in its precincts. Ever since the cinema had gone bust, there had been a bazaar here. At the centre of this bazaar was the stall of righteous things. And at the hub of this stall was the black-beard-and-no-moustache presence of the master of righteous arts himself – Mulana Abdul Hakim. As I stood there I remembered how Brothero-Man had rescued me from the trap so cunningly laid by the Mulana. I was green then in Brick Lane. It was a Friday afternoon and I was passing the bazaar when I saw the Mulana for the first time. Seeing him in his righteous pose against the display of Qurans, calligraphies of divine words, velvet prayer-rugs with images of Kaba-Sharif, toupees and tabiz, I sensed trouble. I looked away and quickened my pace, but the very moment I felt his salaam swoop down on me I knew I was trapped. I had to return his salaam and approach his stall. Whatever you might think of him, you had to agree that nobody had a tongue as diamond sharp as the Mulana. God, how he mows his customers down in a flash with a regular swipe of it!

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Then the poor wretches feel only too happy to buy his righteous merchandise at double its proper price. No sooner had I reached the stall than the Mulana unleashed the flourish of his tongue. First, he put me on the hair-thin bridge that one must cross to reach the gate of heaven. Underneath the bridge lie whipped up the full horrors of hell. I was balancing most unsteadily on that hair-thin bridge as he made me feel the heat of everlasting fire and hear the hiss of swarming serpents down below. The whole game was to do with righteous debt. If you were found short you’d really had it; no amount of trapeze skill would see you across the bridge to the gate of heaven. Sinner that I was, my legs shook. I had the distinct feeling that I had almost slipped from that bridge, though I still wasn’t prepared to part company with the few pounds I had for the week if I could help it. In desperation I looked around for someone or something to rescue me from the spell of the Mulana. Just to my right was a stall selling Bollywood posters, but the plumpish heroines in seductive poses and wearing bathing suits were powerless to rescue me from the hair-thin bridge. As I dug into my pocket, I knew my pounds were as good as gone. I could see the impish smile breaking on the Mulana’s lips as he spat out paan-red saliva, waiting to conclude yet another triumph. But then, as if from thin air, Brothero-Man came to my side. Mulana Abdul Hakim went pale and silent. Not daring to look at him and without saying a word, he offered Brothero-Man a paan from his small tin box. Brothero-Man snatched the paan off the Mulana most disdainfully and put it in his mouth. Then he turned his back on the Mulana and grinned, baring his gold teeth. – Brothero, what’s this bastard son of Iblish telling you? Can’t you see he’s a con-man fellow. Most wicked, you see. Always fussingwussing with his foul talk. Come, brothero, let’s run from his ass-like face. Yayaya Allah, what a bad-smelling fellow. I didn’t look back at the Mulana as we walked away together. After that the Mulana didn’t bother me any more, but Brothero-

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Man, despite what he said, always came back to see the Mulana several times a day and chew his paan. Perhaps, with his long black-beard-and-no-moustache, like the Haji, he was good to look at, especially in the setting of his righteous props. But who knows what meaning the Mulana held in Brothero-Man’s secret scheme of things. Perhaps, as my friend the poet once told me, in order to stamp his body on the face of this foreign city, he needed all these signs. Hearing me pass, a tramp peered from his cardboard box and asked me if the sun was already up. His friend next to him, the genuine Jack the Ripper, woke up to see what was happening, took a swig from his bottle and once more insisted on his identity. It was well past midnight and I was running out of time to find Brothero-Man before the mad-catchers in white overalls. So I hurried along from Naz Cinema, crossed the road and arrived in front of a pub, which had long since closed. Even on my first day in Brick Lane, this pub had struck me as an oddity. It was as I stood looking at it for that first time that Brothero-Man appeared, as he did on so many occasions, by my side. – Brothero, just like me, this place is not what it seems. You see, it’s an either-neither place. But most interesting. You’ve to lift the veil-bhorka to see the face. You know what I mean, brothero? He disappeared quickly again. Well, there’s no doubt that behind the veil of a pub it was a different place. Most unlikely and almost hard-to-believe but it was a solid thing. You mustn’t laugh when I tell you that the landlord was a puritanical turbanwallah, who served halal beer with samosas to a castaway clientele who outdid one another in bah-bah over oriental striptease. Through the rows of cash & carries, the unisex hairdressing salons and then more groceries and restaurants, I finally arrived at the mouth of Brick Lane, its name announced on a blackrimmed white plaque. But where was Brothero-Man? I knew that he wouldn’t walk beyond this point because it was the border

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line of his territory – and sometimes a territory which had to be defended. In fact, it was once a war zone. Yes, those were the days of cropped-headed-bovver-boots selling Bulldogs. They came like a pack of hyenas in broad daylight to raid Brick Lane. They drew blood, oh yes, they drew blood, and marched away watched by many panic-stricken eyes. But those were also the days when the workers surfaced from the twilight zones of sweatshops and from the steamed-up kitchens at the backs of restaurants. No matter what the danger, they stood their ground behind the barricade. But always in front, before the assault of the enemy, was BrotheroMan. He stood immobile in the chosen colour of the day with a giant rattan-stick in his hand. Then he was a commandante, my brothero. Since he wouldn’t go beyond this point, there was no need for me go any further. So I turned back. When I looked at the horizon I suddenly became aware that the markings of our city were no more than tiny dots in the sea of their strange city. There were the tall glass-faced skyscrapers of the city of London. Even in the mist and darkness they loomed menacingly over Brick Lane. Every time Brothero-Man looked up to see the skyscrapers, he became restless. He walked with renewed urgency as if constructing a battlement to safeguard his territory against an advancing enemy. On my return leg, at the corner of Old Montage Street, I met Asad and his boys in leather jackets. They were patrolling the streets against the raiders of the night. They told me that they hadn’t yet seen Brothero-Man but they had come across the two guys in white overalls. Some of the boys had wanted to teach the guys a lesson but Asad had dissuaded them, by reminding them of the power of the law. The boys moved on and I continued on my way. As I passed Chicksand Street, I saw the mad-catchers pissing against a wall. I slunk away like a cat. I was once more following the beaten tracks of Brothero-Man. First, along Brick

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Lane, and then the alleyways that merge onto it, but always checking and rechecking the spots he would have stopped and looked at. But he was nowhere to be seen, and as a man without fixed abode, there was no home that I could check. Nor was there any spot where he slept because he hardly ever slept. – So little time, brothero, he once told me, so little time for all the tasks that need completing before they come for you. How could I waste time in a rubblishy-wubbishy thing like sleeping. I went back to the tower block in Hanbury Street, took the stairs again, and arrived at Munir’s and Soraya’s flat. It was nearly two o’clock. When I rang the bell, Munir came blearyeyed to open the door. Soraya was just behind, looking anxious. She asked me if I had found Brothero-Man. I said no, but that the mad-catchers were still looking, evidently determined to get him before dawn. Munir asked me if I had eaten anything. I said I wasn’t hungry, but Soraya disappeared into the kitchen and came back with a plate of rice with an assortment of left-over curries and dhal and a saucer with two green chillies, pieces of onion, and some salt. I ate sitting on the sofa. Munir picked up an old newspaper and turned the pages absent-mindedly. Soraya looked cold and sad; she cupped her chin, hiding her mouth and stared down at the floor. Without lifting his face from the pages, Munir told me how much Tariq was looking forward to going to the zoo. Both of them insisted that I should spend the night at their place. But I said no, I had to go to my friend the poet’s place. You see, every day like clockwork, between two and three in the morning, Brothero-Man never failed to show up at the poet’s, bringing him curries and rice. With a grin he would produce biscuits, cakes, bananas and oranges out of his pockets. By this time of night, the poet would be so hungry that he would eat at a furious pace and Brothero-Man would always say – Sorry, brothero, I’m so late. Then they would talk and laugh together until dawn when the poet fell asleep on the divan. Brothero-Man

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would pull the blanket over him and set out to walk yet another day. When I rang the bell, the poet came rushing because he thought I was Brothero-Man. He was very hungry, pacing the room, puffing his cigarettes. – Why doesn’t he come yet? I’m so hungry today, my friend. Do you think something might’ve happened to him? If they take him what will become of me? I sat on the corner of the poet’s divan, waiting for BrotheroMan. An hour had passed. The poet was getting desperate; he was pacing the room, now and then looking through the window, still oblivious to the quarrelsome rats that had now taken over the room. God, he was so hungry that he even rummaged the pile of rubbish from where the rats had come. But he found nothing that he could eat, so he began licking some sugar from an almost empty packet. When he’d finished this, he burped loudly. – You take some rest, my friend. When he comes I’ll wake you up. I thought of little Tariq – how he must be dreaming of going to see giraffes. I mustn’t be late for that. Yes, I could do with some rest. I lay on the poet’s divan and looked up and saw the green and brown patches on the ceiling. The patches of mould were dancing in intricate geometric patterns. I couldn’t take my eyes off them because the sudden loops of their curves and the crisscrossing play of their lines were etching the passageways through which so many had come to map the new city. Armies of men, women and children marched shoulder to shoulder like columns of ants. Undaunted, they pushed their way through the mazes, but many lost their way and perished. Some, though, had found their way through the mazes and floated on the deep pools of their toils to arrive at the golden city they had mapped in their dreams. The rats had gone quiet, but the poet was still walking. I could hear

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the movement of his feet on the loose planks of the floor, making creaking noises. They had a rhythm like the lullabies of wind against the broken latch of the window. the poet is calm now after his dinner he lights a cigarette slumps back into the pillow at the far end of the divan Brothero-Man pulls the chair very close almost breathing into the poet’s face they are happy now they are whispering to each other and laughing pressing their hands against their mouths because they don’t want to wake me up they are so considerate my brothero how nice he looks today in his immaculate white flannel suit and a crimson tie polished white shoes and his golden teeth but no broad-brimmed hat today just as well because a white pagri with a long flowing tail suit him most handsomely he is so happy now sweet smile breaking loose on his clean-shaven face sweet smell of just a touch of musk by and by the time has gone the poet wants to embrace him to say goodbye but Brothero-Man will have none of it is too theatrical too much fussing-wussing he breaks into a huge laugh takes out a smooth green apple from his pocket and offers it to the poet saying take care of yourself brothero wipe that silly sadness off your face you’ll see me again sure you’ll see me again but in a different way now the poet extends his languorous arm to receive the gift gently touching the sinuous hand that offers the apple perhaps despite himself he can’t prevent a drop of tears clouding his eyes but Brothero-Man doesn’t have the time for all that now he needs to walk how he needs to walk because the dawn is breaking through the mist its soft light streaming through the windows with a promise of a perfect morning without any ceremony then and just as he has been doing for years Brothero-Man sniffs the air and lands on Brick Lane almost immediately he takes in his stride the empty thoroughfare the alleyways his nimble fingers habitually counting the crystal beads on his tabiz, and one by one he remembers Mulana Abdul Hakim’s stall Haji Shaheb’s grocery Zamshed Mia’s sari shop Turbanwallah’s pub the minaret of the Mosque children singing rhymes in the playground odour of spices claiming the alleyways boys cueing on the green table

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the purring of machines in sweatshops and so much more but the two men in white overalls have already taken to Brick Lane they sniff the air sensing Brothero-Man’s presence they pick up their pace pursuing him through alleyways like men possessed with a mission of pivotal importance they lose him for awhile so they run wildly and emerge on Brick Lane again through Hanbury Street whatever the madcatchers might think Brothero-Man is not one for running away it’s simply not his style within minutes he comes back to Brick Lane via Old Montage Street now heading towards the mad catchers in white overalls he’s already passed the threshold and the supple movements of his feet have reached their unreachable perfection whirling and almost floating through the air the tail of his pagri fluttering like a sail caught in high winds finally they see each other fifty paces apart the two men in white overalls pause a second then rush madly to catch their mad patient but Brothero-Man is not running away only advancing most delicately towards them in slow motion and melting in the ether first his torso then his hands then his legs and neck though his white shoes and floating pagri and his golden grin glide on their own through the air and almost touch the mad catchers at the corner of Chicksand Street before vanishing completely leaving the two men standing mute and frozen. In the morning I found the poet sprawled next to me on the divan. He was snoring raucously, an orange filter still squashed between his smoking fingers. I opened the curtains and let the soft sunlight drape me with the fragility of muslin, then drew them back again so the sun wouldn’t wake the poet up. I hit the streets. I don’t know why everybody seemed to be staring at me as I walked through the lane. I went to a corner shop to buy some sweets for little Tariq because I knew he would demand them as soon as he saw me. When I tried to pay, the shopkeeper wouldn’t take any money. He just shook his head in silence, not daring to look me in the eyes. It was getting late so I didn’t waste any time trying to pay him. Soon I was on my way to Soraya’s and Munir’s

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flat, to pick up little Tariq. He would be all worked up to see the giraffes. Still, there was time for a quick stop at the Sonar Bangla for a cup of tea. As I entered, a hushed silence descended on the café. I went to a lonely corner, sat facing the painting of the boat on the horizon. But the oarsman wasn’t singing any more. I was still puzzled to see that people were staring at me with the same melancholy eyes as they were in the street. Then Lilu walked in from the kitchen with a cup of tea in his hand. He set it on the table in front of me, leaned over and whispered in my ear. – Brothero, he said, two mad-catchers in white overalls were looking for you. You got to hide, brothero, you got to hide.

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PURABI BASU completed her Bachelor’s in Pharmacy from the University of Dhaka. She moved to the US in 1970, completing her Master’s in Biochemistry from Woman’s Medical College of Pennsylvania in 1972 and her PhD from the University of Missouri in Nutrition in 1976. Returning to Bangladesh, she worked at BRAC. Subsequently, she returned to the US with her husband, the award-winning writer Jyotiprakash Dutta. She has published extensively in her own field. She also writes short stories and has several anthologies of short stories to her credit, among them, Purabi Basur Galpa, Ajanma Parabashi, Ekada Ekhane Kanya Santan Janmo Nito, Josna Korechhey Aari, and Galpa Samagra. Some of her short stories, in English translation, are included in her anthology Radha Will Not Cook Today and Other Stories (2007). In 2005 Purabi Basu received the Anannya Sahitya Puroshkar and in 2014 the Bangla Academy Sahitya Puroshkar.

Purabi Basu

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I did not come from nowhere, nor was I swept ashore by a tidal wave. I did cross an ocean by a boat though. I too had a home, a house, rooms with doors, grilled windows. My aging parents were in that house. Dulal was there too. Nobody is there today. Nothing. Yet, that’s where I am going back. The tall, handsome young man sitting next to me has been listening intently to me. I have been talking for some time now. Tamal, too, came to this country looking for a better life riding the fortune of a DV lottery. He is going home for just three weeks to get married. That’s all he’s told me about himself. I know nothing more of him. It perhaps happens only to the fortunate ones. A lottery win puts you on your way to America! We couldn’t even dream of something like that in our time. Going home to get married? That, too, after only two years of coming here? For only three weeks? Are you mad? Where will one find the money? The time? The visa?

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The blue passport of the man whose ice-cold body I am carrying with me in the hold of this plane is inside my bag now with a similar passport of mine. That little blue book is the thread that connected us. Yet how easily he left that book behind and is gone now. Didn’t he know how precious that blue book was? Maybe he didn’t need it any more. My story, of course, is different. I did not come from nowhere, nor was I swept ashore by a tidal wave. I crossed an ocean by a boat though. I still remember the huge waves! The little boat almost sank before it came up again. My companions were all male. I was sitting in a corner of the cabin benumbed. I only knew Hasan and Biroo from among all the passengers there although they were mostly Bengalis. Hasan and Biroo had been with me from Germany. We flew in the same plane to the Bahamas. How time flies! It’s as if it happened just yesterday. Twenty-three years have passed. Just before I boarded the plane, Parul thrust a small package in my hands saying, “Don’t open it now. Look at it later. You might need it. Nobody knows how and where you will be living.” I opened the small brown package inside the plane lavatory and was stunned. My friend had given me three packs of the pill, although she knew better than anyone that I was a virgin. I easily recognized the pills and understood what they were for, even though the instructions were written in German. I couldn’t thank her when I met her in a Chinese fish and vegetables shop in New York many years later. I just hugged her with all my heart. She smelled of fish all over, maybe because she was working in the raw fish section. Mita was five then, Arnab three. I went to the Chinese store to buy shrimp and catfish for them. Parul still works at the same store but doesn’t handle the fish anymore. She is now a cashier. The agents didn’t cheat us. The living arrangements in the Bahamas weren’t bad. Since I was the lone woman, they even arranged for me to stay overnight with a local woman. She spent

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the whole night sitting on the balcony with her male companion, lost in the fumes of marijuana or something. I was scared stiff inside the corner room. No, they didn’t disturb me. I still remember that night, just like any other night with a full moon in the sky. The boat wouldn’t go close to the shore, they had already told us. We all had to jump into the water. I understood then why it was essential that we knew swimming. It was almost dawn when we neared our destination. The beach was deserted. If we could somehow walk across the sands in our wet clothes and enter the city, we would be safe. I had a lawyer’s name and address in my plastic bag. Not all of us were fortunate. Some of us got caught, some walked away. I spent two nights in a lock-up. I pretended not to understand any of the questions put to me. They even brought an interpreter. I wasn’t really afraid. I knew that once I set my foot on American soil, nobody could drive me away. Biroo, too, got caught. Hasan, luckily, escaped. He was the one who got in touch with the lawyer on our behalf, contacted the prison, the courts, arranged finances, and put us in touch with other Bengalis in New York and Germany. I could not thank Hasan enough – I was so grateful to him. While in the boat Hasan kept saying, “If I die, tell my wife I asked her to marry Anwar.” Much later, when I asked who Anwar was, Hasan and Reba laughed and told me Anwar was Hasan’s boyhood friend. Reba and Hasan guessed that Anwar had a soft spot for Reba. However, it was Hasan, not Anwar, who stayed in Reba’s life permanently, here in Miami. They never went to live in New York. Their eldest son died in an automobile crash last year. I did not come from nowhere, nor was I swept ashore by a tidal wave. I did cross an ocean in a boat though. Coming from the land of the mighty rivers Padma, Jamuna, Meghna, I wasn’t afraid of water. Yet I wasn’t altogether fearless. Days passed, nights fell. We kept riding the high seas towards that unknown destination, living on dry biscuits, roasted nuts, and water. We despaired of ever finding the shore. And the towering waves,

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one after another. Each time we thought the boat would give in, turn over, but it didn’t. The moon was full except for a tiny dark dent in one corner. Millions of stars twinkled in the night sky. Staring at them, I kept wondering if Parul was seeing the same sky in Germany, Dulal in Tarpasha, and Harun Bhai and his wife in New York. Would we ever be able to reach the shore? The silence was broken only by the slapping of waves on the dark water. We didn’t understand the sailors’ language; they didn’t understand ours. They knew only a few English words. Very much like us. Still, we managed to communicate somehow – and hoped to reach the shore. None of us had any college degree. Except for Hasan and another companion, Yunus, who had gone to college. There were three other dark foreigners huddled in another corner. We didn’t know what language they were speaking either. They were chewing pieces cut from long dry bread and talking softly amongst themselves. Harun Bhai was not my relative, but my neighbour’s really. I had his apartment address in Astoria and telephone number. I went to his place the night I reached New York. Considering one can’t turn back a helpless young Bengali woman and shut the door on her at night, he and his wife let me spend the night at their place. Next morning, they put four subway tokens, a fivedollar bill, and a copy of an irregularly published local Bangla fortnightly newspaper in my open hands and quickly left for work. Looking at the closed door, I understood, through these four subway tokens, that they were telling me not to expect any further shelter. I couldn’t go back to their place again. I was a little surprised reading the small classified ad in that paper, and at first didn’t really think I would personally present myself in response to the ad. However, by the time I reached the decision that I would do just that, I had almost reached the address given in the ad, getting directions from passersby. I had already spent one token. The address led me to a large red

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brick apartment building only two blocks away from the subway station. The middle-aged man was in the apartment – graying hair, unshaven face. He wore baggy white pants and a brown T-shirt. “What do you want?” he asked in Bangla on opening the door. I was a little astonished. How did he know I was a Bengali? “I saw this ad in the paper,” I explained. “Isn’t it stated there in the paper that one must telephone before coming?” He was clearly annoyed. I tried to read the ad. Well, where did I make a mistake? If one was to call ahead, why had he mentioned the complete address? “All right, doesn’t matter. Come in, come inside.” Perhaps he felt a little pity for me. I entered the room. Even though it was day, the lights were on. The apartment was dark. Perhaps it was at the rear of the building. Suddenly I felt a little apprehensive. I gave a slight shiver. “Who is the sick person? You?” “Why, doesn’t it show? I had a major heart attack. I have diabetes. My blood pressure is high. There’s some problem with valves, too. I can’t look after myself alone.” “Do you have a Green Card?” “Why just a Green Card? A citizen. And you?” “I came to New York just yesterday. I would like to stay in America. That’s why I came after seeing your ad.” “Oh, you are the bride, then,” he laughed noisily, baring his teeth and coughing a little. “Did you look at yourself in the mirror? How could you think an American Bengali who has legal citizenship would marry a woman who looks like you?” I recoiled. Although he wasn’t the first person who had made ugly remarks about my well-cushioned body and round face. I retorted, “What do you think of yourself? An old man, a scarecrow. A diabetic. With high blood pressure. You’re nothing but a barrel of diseases. Who do you think would marry you, except a lunatic?”

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I darted out of the room. The man tried to stop me, and then started walking to catch up with me. He wasn’t angry; rather he was laughing at my outburst. He took me to a coffee shop across the street, rather forcibly. He told me his life story over coffee and doughnuts. I saw no pretension in him. I still had a hard time calming down. I kept thinking of the things he said. He wasn’t a bad man after all, I later realized. The same day he found me a part-time job at a laundromat, folding clothes. A long twentythree years have passed since, living with him – in happiness and misery, in sickness and health, at rest or work. Mita is twenty-one now. Arnab nineteen. The relationship that started with the lure of a Green Card didn’t stop there. He talked rough but he wasn’t a bad man. Harun Bhai and his wife came to our wedding with two other families. Biroo came too. Even he never thought he would live for twenty-three more years with that diseased, frail body. Yet he lived and gave me not only the gift of a blue passport, but two living beings as well, the two he thought would look after me when he was gone. In reality, it didn’t happen quite that way. Arnab has dropped out of college and almost lives in a Jamaica mosque in Queens these days. All he cares about is religion and its rites. His long beard and dress hardly reveal that he was born and raised in America. From his behaviour and the way he carries on, he appears even older than me. Mita is just the opposite. She is busy with her friends all the time, all of them Native Americans. Between listening to music, dancing, and partying, she just somehow manages to stay in college. Arnab couldn’t accept his sister’s easy western ways. Differences with his mother and his sister, his father’s failing health, and the fall-out from the Iraq war finally broke his heart. He ran away from home and started living in the mosque. He doesn’t even answer to his nickname anymore, but likes to be called by an abbreviation of his formal name. Not Arnab, my son now wants to be called Asif. He has finally found his roots, he says. He enjoys looking backward. Not in any

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other direction. And Mita? Reacting to her brother’s behaviour, she is stubbornly trying to be more of a mainstream American woman. She is now living in Brooklyn with a fashion designer. “Living together,” they call it. A chain-smoker, perhaps does a little drugs as well. She stopped by just for the day when she heard about her father’s death. She went back in the evening. It is so strange that their father really believed they would look after me, when he was no longer around. I, of course, never expected that anybody would take care of me. I did not come from nowhere, nor was I swept ashore by a tidal wave. I did cross an ocean by a boat though. I had a home in a faraway land. I had a house with rooms and doors and windows with iron grilles. My aging parents were there in those rooms. My little brother Dulal was there too. And there was something else that we kept hidden from everybody. Not even our nearest neighbours knew about it. We had this houseful of solid, dark hunger – and poverty. Since we had been affluent once, poverty tiptoed into the house slowly and silently. Nobody could tell from looking at the doors, windows, or the clothes of those who lived there, that they would go to bed hungry that night. Mother, father, homestead – they’re all gone now. Dulal fled the country one day. There is nobody there today. There is nothing there. Yet, that’s where I am going back today, to that faraway land, because my husband always wanted to return home. Only his health didn’t allow it. He earnestly hoped someday he would treat himself back to health and go home. If that did not happen, his last wish was that his body be taken back home. I am returning home with his ice-cold body today. I did not come from nowhere, nor was I swept ashore by a tidal wave. I did cross an ocean by a boat though. People knew me. I had a home, I had a house with doors and windows with iron grilles. My aging parents were there. Dulal too. There is nobody there today. There is nothing there. Yet that’s where I am going back. Translated from “Abinash Jatra” by Jyotiprakash Dutta 399

MONI HAIDER works at the Bangla Academy. He is a prolific writer, with about sixty books to his credit. He writes novels, short stories, as well as plays for the television and stage. Among his novels are Meyeti Samudrey Dubey Jetey Cheyechhilo, Ek Tukro Kagaz, Bushrar Ek Raat, Khun O Ekti Prem. He also has several anthologies of short stories, including Ghashkonya, Ekjon Nari-Teenjon Purush O Ekti Chul, Jihbar Michhil, Itihasher Belphuli. He has edited several books, among them, Nabbai Dashaker Galpa and Muktijudher Galpa. He has written novels for children such as Ekattorer Koyekti Ghasphoring and Ora Majh Raate Eshechhilo. He received the Agrani Bank Shishu Sahitya Puroshkar twice, in 2010 and 2019, for his contribution to children’s literature.

Moni Haider

THE PROCESSION OF TONGUES One When he woke, the renowned politician Shamsher Ali had a strange feeling that something was missing. His mouth was feeling empty. Why? What didn’t he have? Money? Cars and houses? Women? Power? No, he had everything. Still, why did he feel when he woke up that there was something missing? What was it? He wanted to call out to his wife, Razia Begum, “What don’t I have?”But Shamsher Ali was horrified to realize that he was unable to utter a word. How astonishing! In his political career, how many speeches had he not given to an audience of some hundred thousand, his deep voice soaring, both his arms uplifted? He had said, If you vote for me on my symbol of the hurricane lantern, I will remove all poverty from this region. I will light hurricane lanterns when the sun is shining. Listening to Shamsher Ali’s promises, the voters of Ek Hajar Baro had voted for him in countless numbers. They had cast their votes not once, not twice, but a full three times.

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Once he had even been appointed Deputy Minister. At present, he was the representative of the constituency of Ek Hajar Baro. An Honourable Member of Parliament. When he addressed the National Assembly, there was no need for a mike. His voice was that powerful, his tongue that sharp. That same person woke up that morning realizing that he had everything. Only, he did not have his beloved tongue. He was unable to speak. How would he eat? Would he never be able to eat again for the rest of his life? Sad and unhappy, he went to the kitchen to meet his wife. Entering the kitchen, the beloved politician Shamsher Ali found Razia Begum, his wife of thirty years, weeping while rolling out chapatis. Glancing at his wife and gesturing with his head, he wanted to know, What has happened? Why are you crying? Razia Begum opened her mouth wide. Stupefied, Shamsher Ali saw that there was no tongue within the empty cavity of his wife’s mouth. He too opened his mouth. Equally stupefied, Razia Begum saw that her beloved husband, who had dedicated his life to the working poor, MP Shamsher Ali, too had no tongue. This was the first time in their life, in the thirty years of their married life, that the couple had seen each other’s face clearly. Their son Ratin and daughter Sharmin Shanu rushed into the kitchen. Both of them went to college. Entering the kitchen, Ratin clung to his father, Shamsher Ali. Sharmin Shanu clung to her mother, Razia Begum. Both the children were weeping. Shamsher Ali and Razia Begum looked at their children and, overcome with emotion, wanted to talk. But no sound emerged from their tongueless mouths. Only their mouths remained open. Immediately, Ratin and Sharmin Shanu opened their mouths. Neither of the four had a tongue. Instead, each of them had an empty cavity inside the mouth. The four of them clung to each other and wept.

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Before seeing his daughter Sharmin Shanu’s empty cavity, Shamsher Ali had thought that the children would be all right. But, after seeing her empty cavity of a mouth, he realized that no one in the family had a tongue. Their tongues had been removed. The question was, When had their tongues been removed? At night, when they were having dinner, their tongues had been there all right. The four of them had dined on chicken curry, swan’s eggs, thick masur daal, shrimps and fried eggplant. After dinner he had retired to his bedroom, closed the door, and brought out the Italian liquor from his small refrigerator. He had poured the liquor into a glass. Reclining in his easy chair, he had finished one glass and had just poured himself another when Razia Begum entered. You’ve started again? Didn’t you have two glasses in the evening. Move. Shamsher Ali laughed. Would you like one peg? She looked at him for a few moments. You want to make me your companion? Very well. Give me a peg. Shamsher Ali’s wife went to sleep after two pegs. She awoke in the morning to the catastrophe that had befallen the entire family. Shamsher Ali’s mobile beeped. Releasing his daughter, Shamsher Ali took out his mobile. He saw that he had received several messages. Nargis Ara from reserved seat forty-one had written, Shamsher? What is the matter? I can’t talk. My, my entire family have lost their tongues. Where did they go? How will you do politics without a tongue? There was a strong rumour in the political circle that MP Nargis Ara Mahmood and MP and former Deputy Minister for Fish and Livestock Shamsher Ali were having an affair. From constituency twelve of the capital, the General Secretary had messaged, Bhaijan, what is the news of the capital?

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No one in our village has a tongue. None of us can talk. The same message had come from Razia Begum’s father’s house. The heavens seemed to collapse on Shamsher Ali. What was the matter? Where had all the tongues gone?

TWO Additional DIG Police Rafatullah awoke from bed and immediately sat down with the newspaper. His promotion to DIG was supposed to come that day. He quickly turned the pages of the paper and even more quickly looked for the list of promotions. One, two, three . . . . He turned all eighteen pages of the paper but there was no list anywhere. Furious, he wanted to ask, Why? But he was astonished to realize that no sound emerged from his mouth. What was the matter? He tried even harder to utter the word, Why? But the result was the same. No sound emerged from his mouth. Why, he thought, in Bangla. He noticed that his mouth felt empty. He stood in front of the mirror. He opened his mouth and saw, to his astonishment, that he had no tongue. He could not believe what he saw. He was confused. Rafatullah was one of the most feared officers in the Police Department. At his command,the tiger and the cow could drink from the same pond but the tiger would not pounce upon the cow. It would not even have the courage to do so because Additional DIG Rafatullah was standing behind it, baton in hand. That Rafatullah was missing from the promotion list. What was even more astonishing was that the resounding tongue within his mouth was missing. He was unable to speak. For three years after getting his appointment, Rafatullah had been completely honest. But, surrounded by corrupt personnel, he could no longer remain honest. He started accepting bribes. After accepting bribes, a strange feeling enters one. Fresh notes arrive

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in bundles. The notes produced in him feelings of joy, of pride. He felt angry at having deprived himself of this joy for the past three years. In order to make up for what he had lost, Rafatullah started taking four times the amount of bribes to surpass the committee of bribe-takers. Very soon, as Police Superintendent, he left many others far behind. He bought several acres of land on the outskirts of the capital. He bought three apartments. He rented out two. He moved to a two and a half thousand square foot apartment in an upscale area of the city and started residing there with his family. Just as his power as DIG had expanded, so too had his wealth. He could not quite recall how much money he had. He had been Additional DIG for the past three years. He was unhappy with that. He would like to get promoted so that the word “Additional” before “DIG” might be removed. The sum of four crores had been mentioned to the top official in charge of the Police Administration. Last week he had paid him a cash cheque of two crores. The day before there had been a meeting of the Administration regarding promotions. At that meeting, the files of four Additional DIGs due for promotion to DIGs had been sent to the Minister. Last night, a responsible officer from the Minister’s office had told him on the mobile, The Minister has signed your files. I took the files myself. Is that so? Rafatullah’s voice had trembled with joy. Boss, I will send you abroad. Where would you like to go? Meaning? You have given me such great news. Can’t I do a simple thing for you? Tell me, which country would you like to visit? Thailand has better prospects than Malaysia. Specially where women are concerned. You can’t even imagine, Boss, how many different types of women you can get there for your pleasure. I myself go every two months. If I don’t go, I don’t feel good. Now tell me. When would you like to go? Where will I get so much money?

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Why are you worrying about money? You will go. I will provide the money. You have such an important position in the Minister’s office. It is my duty to serve you. Just give me an opportunity to serve you. Don’t worry even if one crore is required. Please give me an opportunity to serve you. All right, all right. Since you insist, I will certainly go. Alhamdulillah. Bhai, you are kind. Shall I make preparations for next week? Laugh, elder brother. Why are you so agitated? First get your promotion letter in your hand. We will see about other matters later. When you are saying that the Minister has signed, who will stop my promotion? After my promotion, just let me sit on the chair. I’ll show that stupid rascal Ahsan how things are. Which Ahsan? That singer. He works in the police but supports the other political party. Then he has the audacity to confront me. I’ll show him this time . . . . He calls me illiterate, a barbarian. According to him I have grown wealthy through taking bribes. I have raised a mountain of money by selling the dried skin and blood of the poor. Forget all this. How can I? He was going strong under the previous government and now he is still fine. He cannot tolerate the fact that, though I am junior to him, I am getting promotions. He is going round saying all sorts of things. Tomorrow when he sees your name in the promotion list in the papers, he will shut up. What do you say, elder brother? You are right, elder brother. There was no news in the papers in the morning. And it was not just the lack of news about his promotion that bothered him. There was no tongue in his mouth. What had happened? Mobile messages came one after the other. Messages from

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colleagues and friends. They had all lost their tongues. Alas, alas, where had all the tongues gone? And when? I did not even realize it. Did no one realize when it happened? Wait a minute. Does the opposition have anything to do with the disappearance of our tongues? Perhaps. Rafatullah picked up his mobile to order his subordinates to investigate the matter, but he could not utter a word. From the other side came the words of Kazi Nazrul lslam’s famous song, “Khelichho e bishwaloye birato shishu anmone. . .O child you are playing happily in this huge world. . . .” When the song ended, the mobile fell silent. What was going to happen? Completely shattered, Additional DIG Police Rafatullah remained sitting where he was.

THREE After setting the alarm at night, Harimohan Shikdar had gone to bed. The alarm had been set for six. Shikdar would return late at night after closing his shop. After having his dinner, he would watch television. He was an elderly man. About sixty. He enjoyed the variety of shows on television. How barely clad the actresses were! And how provocative their dance movements! He heaved a deep sigh watching the dances – when he had been young, he had not had the opportunity to see such dances. At that time the only entertainment had been listening to songs and plays on the radio. The dancers of today displayed everything except their private parts. Watching the performance of a new heroine, Harimohan Shikdar switched off the television with the remote control. He turned off the lights and lay down in bed. Sleep refused to come. The work of the next day hovered before his eyes, open or closed. The new boy did not seem quite satisfactory. What was his name? Riyaz? Yes, Riyaz. The nephew of Korom Ali, a neighbouring shopkeeper. Korom Ali had been pestering him

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for a long time for a job for his nephew. But was it right to employ him in the secret arena? Harimohan was the owner of Messrs Lakshmi Rani Bhandar, a large grocery store at the turn of Chalta Bazar. He had inherited Messrs Lakshmi Rani Bhandar from his father, Rabimohan, and had succeeded in converting it to the largest grocery of the region. Night and day, customers flocked to the store. Harimohan also kept the prices of his goods slightly lower than those of other shopkeepers. Since the time of his father, Messrs Lakshmi Rani Bhandar had acquired the reputation of never giving its customers stale or rotten goods. There were many tales told of Messrs Lakshmi Rani Bhandar, but the best one was that of Harimohan Shikdar himself. Why did he have to get up so early? Because he had to go to his own village of Ujangaon, at a distance of sixteen kilometres from Chalta Bazar. At Ujangaon he had built two large rice godowns. No one but his own people could enter the godowns. According to business policy, no one was allowed to enter. But, for the sake of the story of the procession of tongues, we must enter. All the discarded bottles and empty cans of oil from the bazaar were collected here. They were washed in dirty water and filled with adulterated oil and secretly deposited in Messrs Lakshmi Rani Bhandar. And, by selling goods worth three takas for thirty, Harimohan Shikdar reaped an enormous profit. During the Puja, he set up a huge shamiana in front of Messrs Lakshmi Rani Bhandar for the rituals. In addition,there were arrangements for dancing and singing along with enormous quantities of food. During celebrations of Muslim festivals, Harimohan donated freely to poor Muslims. The fame of Messrs Lakshmi Rani Bhandar and Harimohan had spread far beyond the region of Ujangaon. On awaking, Harimohan would have a wash and then sit down to complete his puja. As he was completing the puja rituals, his widowed paternal aunt would place a glass of milk before him. He would rise and gulp down the milk, standing in front of his

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aunt. Wiping his lips on the anchal of his aunt’s sari, he would walk to the front of his house. By that time, the driver would have taken out the car. This had been the routine for the past thirty years. As soon as he sat down, his driver, Asman Ali, would start the car and drive off. The car would move forward at top speed. But something was not quite right that morning. Harimohan had woken up somewhat late. On opening his eyes, he realized that he was late. The sun’s rays had lit up the place. On glancing at his mobile, he saw that the alarm had gone off thrice. How strange! Why did I not hear it? Highly irritated, Harimohan rushed towards the kitchen to berate his aunt. But, on approaching, he saw his aunt sitting dejectedly in front of the kitchen, weeping. O Pishi, Harimohan Shikdar wanted to shout, but no sound emerged. Harimohan wanted to shout even louder, but it was of no avail. He wanted to shout at himself, but couldn’t. In his speechlessness, Harimohan flung himself down in front of his aunt like a broken kula. Clasping Harimohan, his aunt wept silently, her mouth wide open. Seeing his aunt’s ugly tongueless mouth, Harimohan extricated himself from her embrace. He gestured to her to see his own mouth. One cannot see one’s mouth oneself. The sharp businessman Harimohan realized that something disastrous had happened. He realized that there was no tongue inside his mouth. Just as anyone seeing a tiger in front of him is stupefied, Harimohan was unable to move. Then he fell down at his aunt’s feet like a sack of rice mixed with gravel. Alas, alas. What has happened? Where? Where has my tongue gone? Such a sweet and powerful tongue? Without a tongue how will I run Messrs Lakshmi Rani Bhandar? What will happen to my stock? The loss of his tongue made Harimohan Shikdar aware of how important a tongue is. Alas tongue! Where have you gone?

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FOUR Holding his bag firmly, Dr Hafizur Rahman got into his car and relaxed. His body sank into the soft seat. He glanced at his watch. It was 1:28 a.m. He yawned. He pulled his bag closer and shut his eyes. The road was empty, and the car proceeded smoothly. It would take him half an hour to reach home. Hafizur Rahman had a large chamber in the centre of the city. He was a professor at the Government Medical College. Haroon was sitting with the driver in front. He was Hafizur Rahman’s assistant in everything. Haroon? Sir? How many patients did we see today? Ninety-two, sir. Did you take the fees properly? I did, sir. How much is it? Twelve hundred each from ninety-two patients comes to a hefty amount – one lakh ten thousand and four hundred. Is all the money in this bag? Sir, the guard, the gardener, and the cleaner – they were all supposed to be paid today. Professor Hafizur Rahman’s face grew grim. How much did you pay them? Sir, fifteen thousand. Five thousand each . . . . You are a donkey. Why did you break up one lakh takas? Why couldn’t you have paid them tomorrow? I would have taken the whole one lakh takas home. Don’t you have the slightest sense? The car sped over the flyover. Sitting in the front seat, Haroon looked straight ahead. But he wasn’t seeing anything before him. The pay of the guard, the gardener, and the cleaner is very little. And I paid them nine days after they were supposed to be paid.

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Even then, Sir . . . . Haroon felt helpless and uncomfortable. Haroon? Sir? How many tests did I order today? One hundred and thirty-one. There were ninety-two patients, and I ordered only one hundred and thirty-one tests? Wasn’t that too few? Every patient should have been ordered to undergo four to five tests. You could have gestured to me or phoned me to say that the tests were too few. If I have to tell you everything, what is the point in my keeping you? I will not make this mistake again, Sir. The renowned chest specialist Dr Hafizur Rahman heaved a deep sigh. Placing his right hand on his forehead, he said gruffly, I have told you several times. You do not listen to me. Let me see what can be done. The car entered the house. The doctor’s spirits revived. He kept three German shepherds at home. The dogs flung themselves on the doctor. As soon as he opened the door, they started sniffing him, their red tongues lolling. One of the dogs raised himself on his hind legs and placed his face next to his master’s. Professor Hafizur Rahman petted them lightly. Come, come inside. I have got monkey meat from France for you. Come and eat. As the renowned chest specialist Professor Hafizur Rahman walked towards the door, the dogs followed him, their red tongues hanging and making a strange hissing sound. As soon as they entered, Jayram Poddar, who looked after the dogs, placed three bowls of monkey meat before them. The dogs pounced on the meat. Professor Dr Hafizur Rahman stood watching his beloved pets devour the meat. As one of the dogs approached the doctor with a piece of meat in his mouth, the doctor hurried up the stairs. The dog followed him. The doctor entered his room

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and shut the door. The dog put down the piece of meat in front of the door and, with one leap, went back to the monkey meat. The doctor entered the bathroom. He had to bathe quickly, eat and go to sleep. He had a call at 9:30 in the morning. Just the visit would bring him ten thousand takas. There was no way in which he could miss that call worth ten thousand. He was supposed to visit three private hospitals. There were seven patients. The visit charge for each patient was four thousand takas. He would just pause by the patient’s bedside briefly. The junior doctors would huddle behind him like mice. And, listening to their “Sir,” “Sir,” he would glance at the patient’s chart. If he felt like it, he would ask the patient a few questions. That’s all. The money would pour in. In the afternoon, he would go to a government hospital, in other words, his workplace. He had to go. One could not neglect one’s workplace. There is something called duty. Professor Dr Hafizur Rahman did not like to neglect his duties. He quickly had a few morsels of food and retired to bed. Professor Dr Hafizur Rahman awoke in the morning. He opened the door. He was surprised. The three dogs were not there. For the past eight years, as soon as he opened the bedroom door, the three dogs would announce their presence by barking and then lick him with their tongues. He enjoyed having the dogs lick his feet. He almost got the same sexual pleasure as with a woman. But where were the dogs? He looked everywhere for them. Suddenly, he saw them running towards the house from the gate. But they made no sounds. The professor was surprised. The dogs were running towards the house without making any sounds. He knew they would come to him. He was familiar with their routine. The dogs did come to tumble over his feet. But they did not lick him. He got no sexual pleasure out of their behaviour. He looked keenly at the dogs. The dogs too sat on their haunches and looked up at their master. Glancing into their faces, the

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doctor was astonished. The dogs had no tongues in their mouths. Seeing this astonishing sight, Professor Hafizur Rahman opened his mouth and shouted. But no sound emerged from his mouth. Suddenly, he was gripped by a strange fear and started to tremble. He put one hand inside his mouth. It was not there. His mouth was empty. There was no tongue inside. He put his hand in again and again. The result was the same. There was no tongue inside his mouth. The professor ran into his bedroom and picked up his mobile. There were at least fifty messages on his mobile. All from well-known doctors. All of them had the same question, Do you have your tongue? I, my wife, my children . . . none of us have our tongues. Professor Dr Hafizur Rahman collapsed on his bed. Why didn’t they have tongues? Where did the tongues of the doctors and their families disappear? How would he see patients without his tongue? If he didn’t see patients, how would he earn the heaps of money he had become used to? If he didn’t lie on a bed strewn with money, he couldn’t go to sleep. What was going to happen? Professor Dr Hafizur Rahman started sweating in his terror and once again put his hand inside his mouth. There was no tongue. Where did his tongue go, when did it go, how did it go?

FIVE Dharma Guru, the holy man renowned for his miracles, sat in meditation. The prayer house was the most modern in the city. Naturally, it was air-conditioned. Thousands of years ago, when the apostles of religion had preached, there had been no air-conditioning. Nowadays, their followers are used to air-conditioning. Dharma Guru was sitting up straight. His eyes were closed. Behind him

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were waiting a man and a woman. In the midst of his meditation, Dharma Guru would become aware of whether this exceptionally beautiful woman would spend the night alone in the prayer house or whether her husband too would get permission to stay. The room had solid walls. Black. Neon lights brightened the place. Everything was shining in that light. But the place was strangely silent. In the afternoon, when this couple alighted from their rickshaw, the place was buzzing with the coming and going of people. The Dharma Guru dwelt in a huge mansion. At the gate was a durwan clad in a full-length alkhella. In his hand was a rifle. He had a thick beard and sunken, piercing eyes. When the couple entered, the durwan asked, Where do you want to go? The husband said, To Dharma Guru. From where have you come? From Ujangaon. It’s all right. Go in. He gestured toward a man sitting on the side at a table, Talk to him. The man had a thickly bound register on the table before him. He had a small goatee. He looked at them with twitching eyes. In front of him was a long line of waiting men and women. The couple took their place in the line. The couple could hear the exchange between the man and the people in front. In the same way the man asked the husband and wife, Who is the patient? The husband and wife looked at each other. The husband gestured towards his wife, She is. My wife. Name? Mosammat Bedana Begum. What is her illness? The husband and wife looked at each other again. Expressionlessly, the wife turned her face away.

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The man rebuked them. Why are you delaying in disclosing the illness? Don’t you see the long line of people behind you? The husband whispered, My wife is childless. The man looked up with his twitching eyes and stared at the wife. He assessed Mosammat Bedana Begum in a moment. Troubled, the husband looked into the man’s eyes. The man smiled faintly. All right. Go into the inner sanctum. The inner sanctum? The room in which the venerable guru sees patients is called the inner sanctum. Ei Sadam, he called. A dark man came and stood before him. Red betel juice streaked down from his lips. Looking at the man, the husband was filled with disgust. But there was nothing he could do. The dark man gestured towards the couple to follow him. The man with the goatee said in a rough tone, Where are you going without paying for the tabarrak, the blessing? A little embarrassed, the husband reached into his pocket and asked, How much? Five thousand and one takas. The husband took out the money from his pocket and gave it to the man. The man with the goatee counted the notes. After he finished, he sniggered. The wife clutched her husband’s hand. The two of them followed the dark man. They climbed up three floors. On the fourth level, the man showed them a room and said, Stay here. The main assistant of the venerable guru will come to meet you. There is everything inside the room. You may rest here. After the man left, the husband and wife entered the room. The room was large and well-furnished. Beside a table and chairs, it also had an attractive bed. The husband and wife were somewhat tired. They sat down. A woman entered with a plate in one hand. There were slices of mango, pineapple, and pear

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arranged neatly on the plate. In her other hand, was a large glass. She set everything down on the table. Please help yourselves. Rest. At night Dharma Guru will come to meet you. They waited the whole day for Dharma Guru who came only after night fell. Dharma Guru sat for a long time in meditation. Then suddenly he started spouting obscenities and fainted. He lay on the ground. From the next room, a dark woman in an alkhella entered and sat beside him. She kissed him thrice on the forehead. From within her loose robes, she drew out a shiny brass pot and poured water on his head. Dharma Guru immediately opened his eyes. Taking out a white towel from within her alkhella, she wiped his face and head and again kissed him thrice on the forehead. She then left quickly and went into the next room. Three women entered the room immediately. All of them were wearing white alkhellas. They tidied Dharma Guru’s full head of hair and gazed at the beautiful woman and the man in front. Dharma Guru said, No one but this woman and I can remain in this room. I was told this by my guru while I was meditating. If they do, then my mantra will fail. You have to decide now . . . . Immediately. The husband looked at his wife. His wife was trembling. Dharma Guru shouted, There is no time. If you both want to leave, go immediately. Otherwise, the man must leave . . . . If you come tomorrow afternoon to my gate, you will find your wife hale and hearty. You will get a son. You have to believe. If you believe, you will get a child. If you do not, you will suffer and gain nothing . . . . The husband released his wife’s hand and left. In the dark room, his wife trembled even more. Two women entered the room. One of them had a glass in her hand. She

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approached Dharma Guru. He closed his eyes and blew upon the glass. The woman then brought the glass to the wife and said, Drink this. You will feel better after drinking it. The wife drank the water. The woman, who had given her the water, smiled. The other woman took the wife’s hand and led her into the other room. The wife had started to feel faint. In a little while she lay down on the bed. Dharma Guru entered the room. He walked slowly to the bed and sat by the wife. He gazed at her hungrily and said, Truly beautiful. At his gesture, the two female attendants left the room. With his tongue, Dharma Guru started licking the body of the wife. She had lost consciousness but still felt a strange thrill. After Dharma Guru had enjoyed her several times, the man with the goatee joined in. The man with the goatee was virile. In the darkness of night, Dharma Guru and his companions assaulted the barren women who came seeking help for an end to their childlessness. The women understood, but swallowed their nausea in order to have a child or to preserve the family line. The next afternoon, the husband waited by the gate of the palatial mansion of Dharma Guru for his wife. After a little while, his wife came out. The attendant females had bathed and dressed her, fed her rice and beef curry. When his wife came and stood before him, her husband asked her anxiously, Are you all right? Controlling her ravished body, the wife said, I am all right. Let’s go. She reached out and held her husband’s hand. Dharma Guru and his companions calculated that they had fathered at least five thousand children. The next day Dharma Guru and his companions realized that their beloved tongues were no longer within their mouths.

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No one was able to utter a word. With tears streaming from their eyes, they rolled on the ground in their anguish. Without tongues, their business would be wound up forever. What were they to do? Where had their tongues gone? Why had they gone? How had they gone? When had they gone? Dharma Guru and his companions were filled with sorrow and despair.

SIX Because they had no tongues, they couldn’t speak. There was no conversation. All conversation was carried out through the message option of their mobiles and through the television scrolls. The mobile messages and the television scrolls all said the same thing: All the tongues have gathered at Truth Ground. Truth Ground?

SEVEN The tongues had organized themselves into groups and were taking out processions, holding meetings at Truth Ground. The owners of the tongues had gathered in their hundreds of thousands in the hope of getting their tongues back. But, because of the multitude of tongues gathered there, they were unable to enter Truth Ground. Standing outside the field, the people watched the massive gathering of the tongues. Wherever they looked, all they saw were tongues and more and more tongues. And from the roots of the tongues, fresh scarlet blood fell in drops . . . . The politicians’ tongues were saying, The politicians to whom we belonged were so true to their vows, so compassionate, so honest, so free from greed that we were unable to bear their truth any longer and came to Truth Ground. We will no longer stay with them. If we do, we will be crushed under what they call truth. We will rot and die.

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The speechless politicians listened to what their tongues were saying. The politicians wanted to scream and say, The tongues gathered on Truth Ground are lying. We are insincere, selfish, selfcentred, false. We have looted the wealth of the people . . . . Please forgive us. Punish us if you must. . . . But not a sound emerged from the mouths of the politicians. They had no tongues . . . . The tongues of the policemen gathered at Truth Ground said, We are the tongues of policemen. The policemen of this land are so honest, so free from greed, so compassionate, so kind in their behaviour to the poor that their likes do not exist anywhere else in the world. And bribes? The policemen of our country have never even heard the word bribe in their entire lives. And these policemen have been vilified in the press and on television channels, people have spread lies about them. Unable to tolerate this vilification, in protest we all have come to Truth Ground. The policemen, who were already speechless, grew even more speechless on hearing what their tongues were saying. What are our tongues saying on arriving at Truth Ground? We policemen are honest? Compassionate? We don’t know the word bribe? The policemen had understood that their tongues, so long hidden in their mouths, had revolted because of their greed, evil, bribetaking. They would not return to the mouths. The policemen pleaded for forgiveness, their hands joined in supplication. They tried to say, We will not . . . . But no one was hearing them. How could they? The policemen were unable to utter a sound. The tongues of the shopkeepers walked about together on Truth Ground, saying, We are the tongues of shopkeepers. For hundreds of years we have dwelt inside the mouths of shopkeepers and come to learn that there are no people as magnanimous and free from greed as shopkeepers. They do not cheat any customer by giving false weights. They never give their customers stale or rotten food. They do not overcharge for any item. At the honesty of shopkeepers, we were amazed, fed up, and distressed. We

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were forced to come to Truth Ground to reveal to the world the doings of our honest shopkeepers. The waiting shopkeepers on hearing the blatant falsehood of their tongues felt like dying of shame. They understood that the tongues, whom they had nourished all these years, were speaking the exact opposite of the truth. In front of the vast gathering, for once the shopkeepers wanted to speak up against their tongues. But they were unable to do so. They had no tongues. What were the shopkeepers to do? They desperately tried to call their tongues, but their tongues did not hear . . . . Seriously ill patients depend upon the support of compassionate doctors. Ladies and gentlemen, we are the tongues of great doctors. Doctors never hold their patients to ransom. They never charge more than their minimum fees, because . . . . theirs is a noble profession. In honour of their profession, doctors do not go on strike for eight to ten days, endangering the lives of their innocent patients. They do not get commissions by ordering unnecessary tests for their patients. With smiles on their faces, doctors work tirelessly day and night at government hospitals. Despite all the service provided by doctors, ordinary people malign doctors. We have been lovingly cared for within the mouths of doctors. Unable to bear these insults to doctors, we have come to Truth Ground. Agitatedly, the doctors ran towards the tongues. They shouted, O dear tongues come back. Come back to our mouths. We have understood our errors. But the tongues ran so fast that the doctors were lost in the dust of Truth Ground. With their tongues every day, holy men and religious preachers have established ties between God and human beings. We have never heard them telling lies. Keeping nothing for themselves, these holy men have given away everything. They do not deceive anyone in the name of religion. They do not spread

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hatred against followers of other religions. They never cast lustful eyes on the wives of others. On the pretext of curing childless couples, they do not implant their own seed. But, for some unknown reason, people dislike religious preachers. We have gathered at Truth Ground to tell everyone that religious preachers are truthful and helpful beings. Do not malign them falsely. Faced with the truth, the dharma gurus who had gathered at Truth Ground in the hopes of getting their tongues back, hid their faces in their long robes. They realized that the tongues at Truth Ground would never return.

EIGHT The tongueless, deceitful, greedy, lecherous, profiteering creatures stand waiting desperately, hoping without hope that their tongues will return. But the tongues form a procession and leave Truth Ground for a place in the far distance, a place from which there is no return. Translated from “Jihbar Michhil” by Niaz Zaman

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JHARNA DAS PURKAYASTHA who has an MA in Bangla, is a well-known Bangladeshi writer with several novels and anthologies of short stories to her credit. She has also written many books for children. A socially conscious and sensitive storyteller, she focuses on the situation of women in an unequal world. She is also a well-known lyricist; several of her songs have been rendered to music and sung by famous artistes on radio and television. Some of her stories in English translation are included in The Blue House (2009). In recognition of her literary achievements, she was awarded the prestigious Bangla Academy Sahitya Puroshkar (2017) and, earlier, the Bangladesh Lekhika Sahitya Padak (1996) and the Anannya Sahitya Puroshkar (2008). For her contribution to children’s literature, she received the Agrani Bank Shishu Sahitya Puroshkar (2003) as well as the Bangladesh Shishu Academy Sahitya Puroshkar (2014).

Jharna Das Purkayastha

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Nigar has been feeling slightly irritable since morning. Last night Humayun invited a few of his friends to dine with him. It was an informal party. A lot of food was left. Usually, the tiny household chores of her house are done by Parul. But God knows why, these days she makes a mistake in everything she does. A good amount of polao with almonds and pistachios, pieces of carrots, apples, raisins was left. Parul forgot to keep it in the fridge and the polao fermented. It has started emitting a rancid smell. Nigar likes Parul for her physical strength. She can work like a demon. She always applies kajal on her eyelids and wears a tip on her forehead. All these days Nigar did not mind her dressing up, but today she feels very angry. Why on earth does she pay so much attention to herself, neglecting her duties? Nigar’s mother was an old-fashioned woman. Once she had to undergo much hardship for her family. She often said, “Don’t waste anything, my dear. It is bad luck.”

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Her mother is no longer alive but whenever Nigar remembers this, she becomes an adolescent again. Nigar, Meher, and Moni, the three sisters of the family, often had a hearty laugh hearing words like these. Now she has a family of her own, but she does not need to take care of little things. It is very likely that there will be some waste since she has left all household affairs in the hands of the domestic maids. She has accepted that. But Nigar feels furious at so much food wasted. “Throw it, throw it all away in the dustbin,”Nigar shouts. Rahima’s mother, a part-time maid, continues to wash the eggshell light and costly glass plates. After a while she comes to Nigar and says, “Ma, a beggar has come from our slum. She has her two little sons with her. Why throw the food away? Shall I give it to her?” Nigar replies angrily, “Go, give it all away. What will I do with it? It must be thrown away. Let them eat – let them eat to their heart’s content. Nobody at home will even touch it.” After some time, Nigar’s temper cools down. She completely forgets the whole incident. In family life you can achieve mental peace only if you can forget trifling disturbances like floating pieces of straw in the wind. The next morning Nigar hears the bad news. Seeing Rahima’s mother, she asks, “Don’t you have any sense of time? There are so many chores during holidays. Will such delays do?” Embarrassed, Rahima’s mother falters.“What could I do? Two children from our slum suddenly died.” Taking a leisurely sip of her black coffee, Nigar asks, “What happened to them?” “Don’t ask, Madam. Yesterday you told me to give them the polao.They got sick after eating that.” “What are you saying?” Nigar is perplexed. Her perfectly made-up face loses its colour. Her whole body starts trembling.

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“Indeed, Madam. Karamali, the leader of our slum, repeatedly said, Show me who gave you that stale and rotten food. Don’t they consider us human beings? If we learn who they are, we will definitely besiege their house,” says Rahima’s mother. The nicely placed fruits, cheese, butter on the breakfast table start to spin in front of Nigar’s eyes. She runs towards the bedroom with her sari anchal trailing on the floor. Where will she hide her face? Which cave or bush of this world will camouflage her? If she could hide behind the orange drapes hanging from the pelmet! She starts crying, covering her face with the pillow. Everything else in the house is going on according to routine. Polin is hearing a song on the cassette player, Irene is speaking in a hushed voice with somebody over the phone, and Parveen is watching CNN with deep attention. Only Nigar’s routine has changed. Like a strong sea-tide, tears well out of her eyes. Humayun is in a holiday mood. He has a red rose tucked in his buttonhole, a red tie knotted under his white collar, and a red handkerchief in his chest pocket. “What’s up? Get ready. Aren’t you going to Abed’s place?”Humayun inquires. “No, no. I’m not going anywhere,” mumbles Nigar in a choked voice. “Oh! What’s wrong with you?” says Humayun, without showing any sign of real concern. “God knows who died in those slums and you are dying about that. Will life go on if you are so emotional?” That’s true. Nigar does not know their names or whereabouts. She has only heard a few words uttered by Rahima’s mother. And she often brings scores of news like this everyday – news from her slum or about secret affairs from other flats. But who cares? Why should Nigar feel depressed since her children, Parveen, Irene, and Polin, are fine and happy?

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Nigar has hardly finished her meal at noon when Meher comes. “Is it you?” “Why? Is there any embargo on my coming? You don’t come to visit me either. What have you been eating? It gives off such a pleasant fragrance.” “There is a restaurant called ‘Ajanta’ that offers wonderful dishes,”says Nigar with deep content. “How do you know that, Apu? You must have eaten there, haven’t you?” Then in a complaining tone, Meher says, “Did you have lunch there without informing me?” “In fact, there was a meeting in your brother-in-law’s office. And you know, meetings have a deep relationship with eating. So your brother-in-law has sent packet lunches from the office through his driver. They had excellent dishes like rui fish, shrimp bharta, carrot bhaji,” says Nigar. “Whatever you say, you shouldn’t have eaten all alone,”Meher rebukes her. “Don’t talk like that. I have heard you have a paunch and you are going on a crash diet,”Nigar points out. “Yes. You are right,”Meher seems to suddenly remember something. “Is it true that two children of the nearby slum died after eating stale polao from your house and the mother is roaming the streets like a mad woman?” “Who told you this?”Nigar whispers in a dazed voice as if she has been awoken from her sleep all of a sudden. Her whole body seems to have dried up. The inside of her mouth, tongue, throat – everything seems so parched. Not only her own body, the whole world seems to be empty. Her face takes the colour of pale moonlight. Can everybody in this world read her thoughts? “What has happened to you? Why are you so startled? I just asked you since Parul was talking about it.”

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“Oh, is that it?” Her face resumes its normal hue, her heartbeat slows down. She finds a little peace. “You are so easily startled, Apa, just as when you were child. Do you remember while playing hide-and-seek in a garret....” Her laughter stops Meher’s speech. At that moment Nigar envies the simplicity and naivety of her sister. In the evening Polin’s tutor comes. Polin is very inattentive to his studies. He listens to the cassette player all day and night. Moreover, he has demanded a dish antenna. He is engulfed in noise all the time. The whole house booms with the sound of modern instruments. But Nigar’s heart breaks at every note of that music. “Have you heard the name of William Shakespeare, the English writer?” “Yes, sir. He was famous for writing novels.” “You should be ashamed, Polin, of your poor general knowledge,”his teacher says in a grave voice. “Yes, sir.” “Shakespeare wrote many excellent plays like Hamlet and Macbeth. Shouldn’t you know this? Will it do if books are only displayed like decoration pieces?” What Polin says cannot be heard. The teacher goes on, “There are so many things to learn in this world. It is not only from books that we learn, but also from nature. They say, learn from nature, not from books. Trees give flowers, fruits, honey, shade and beauty to this world. What do you give?” Nigar is sitting in the verandah silently. Her ears start burning at the words of the teacher. “What do you give? What do you give?” These words seem to resound through the world. “What did I give? They only wanted to eat food to satisfy their hunger. Nothing else.”

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Nigar has just stepped outside, when Humayun says, “Where are you going? Take the car.” “I don’t need the car – it’s only a few steps. These days I don’t walk at all,”Nigar says mildly. Nigar reaches the slums of Rahima’s mother with Parul. “Doesn’t Rahima’s mother live here?”Parul mumbles. The small matchbox-like huts are shrouded in the twilight. The air is heavy with the stench of onion and garlic. Scores of boys and girls swarm around the slum. How do people live here? Nigar hears a few curse words that redden her ears. Hindi songs boom loudly from a player. They seem to drown the pain, sorrows, and poverty of slum life. This world lies so close to Nigar but she has never had a glimpse of it. She seems to have woken up from sleep after a long time like Rip Van Winkle. She is watching a completely new world before her. It is a very different world from the world of eye-liners, blush-ons, French perfumes, and well-ironed sarees. Parul pleads, “Please come away. Do you need to look for them? You are queer. Why should you bother about what Rahima’s mother told you?” Like an anaesthetized patient, Nigar comes back to her own familiar house. From her balcony she can get a complete view of the entrance. Suddenly, she sees scores of beggars moving about the place. The beggars are coming in groups. Is Karamali showing all the beggars the way to her house? Has everybody come to know that two street urchins died eating stale food from her house? Has it been propagated everywhere? Is this why they are hurrying with their deformed bodies and broken plates? Are they forming a procession? Nigar can hear the harsh voices of ravens, vultures, and hawks at night. Nigar’s tongue feels dry. She pulls down the window curtains. She tries to wipe out the outside world. Her heart beats rapidly. She senses groups of people storming towards her house.

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“Irene, Parveen, Polin!” They rush in at the screams of their mother. “What has happened to you, Ma? Why are you scared?” Parveen says, “I went to the roof top. Today is Jiban Apa’s wedding. All the people of the slums have crowded at the scent of polao and korma.” “Oh, is that so?” She collects herself within a moment. “What has happened to you, Ammu? You seem to be troubled for a couple of days. Should Abbu call in a doctor? Do you need a medical check-up?” asks Irene. “No, no.”Nigar shakes her head. “Don’t say no, Ammu. Your pressure fluctuates very often,” Irene says. Nigar’s eyes fill with tears. Polin smilingly says, “Nothing has happened to Ammu. She is depressed on hearing the news bulletin of Rahima’s mother. Please forget about it. What do the deaths of two slum children matter? Why are you so scared? So many people starve to death on the streets. Who cares?” says Polin shrugging. “Ammu, looking at you it seems as if Sherlock Holmes is coming to cross examine you from Baker Street.” The three siblings joke with their mother. “Ammu is extremely foolish and timid.” “Is it at all important? They are born in slums, survive on inedible food, and then die. Their names are added to the census and then again deducted.” “Does anybody think about that, Ammu? Ammu is strange!” Humayun draws Nigar close at night. Her body is cold, her limbs stiff. Why is the soft and charming Nigar changed like this? She is wearing a light pink see-through nightie like other nights. Her fragrant skin is soft as silk. From outside everything looks all right, but Humayun can sense somewhere the rhythm is lost.

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Nigar gently pushes him away, “Humayun, please....” “What has happened to you?” “Nothing. I am not in a good mood.” Humayun mutters in the dark room. “These bastards beg around the whole city. Does it matter that two of them have died? I know you gave them polao to eat. But what does it prove? Foolish girl!” Nigar stops her husband, placing a hand on his mouth. Isn’t the death of two children at all important in this big city with its colourful fountains? But Nigar’s heart is crying. She hasn’t had a wink of sleep the last few nights. Sometimes she has a moment’s slumber and the next moment she wakes up. Nigar tries to defend herself. Should she alone be blamed? She told the maid to throw away the polao in the trash bin. She only assented when Rahima’s mother pressed her. But so what? It was they who collected the rice in polythene bags. Then they asked for salt, onion, and green chillies. Couldn’t they have thrown it away? That day Nigar had also felt happy seeing the delighted, sparkling eyes of the two starving children. How easily those children became happy! Nigar has been leading a calm life in her family like a lifeless machine. But why can’t she forget that incident? Couldn’t I have given them a little fresh steamed rice? Why did I feed them poison? she asks herself. But nobody will even say that she has committed a crime, that she is a murderer. Can a person whose hobby is to serve society and whose dream is to help human beings commit a crime? The uncivilized brutes live on food collected from trash bins. They pass their whole life like this. They grow old by leaps and bounds. Shajina, pui, and small shrimps are nectar to them. They live their whole life on stale rice and dal.

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Will anybody believe that Nigar has committed an unpardonable crime? “The Bengali fourteenth century is on the threshold. The twentieth century is also at its end. What are you doing at this time, girl?” Din Nath, a teacher of Satish Chandra Girls’ High School, often asked her this question when she was small. He also said, “Before going to sleep, think of the good deeds you did throughout the day. You will get deep satisfaction and mental peace if you do so.” There is no teacher in front of her now to ask that question. But Nigar’s own question haunts her. Her mind grows numb. It’s been raining since evening. The sky with its heavy clouds seems to be touching the earth. The Sravan rain makes the mind restive. The two young faces have taken away all her mental peace and happiness. Humayun tells Nigar a great many things to cheer her up. “There was no justice for the three million people who got killed. There was brutal oppression on women. Did anything happen? Even today many people die, cocktail bombs blast, cars are vandalized, and people abducted in broad daylight. Polly of New Eskaton has been missing for a few days. Even when she is found, she will already have turned into a dead body. Is there any punishment for that? Nigar, you are wasting your time thinking about a trifle.” The phone rings, creating a tremor in Nigar’s heart. Irene reassures her mother, waving her hand.“Don’t get flustered, Ammu. It’s Moni Aunty’s phone call.” “Oh!”Nigar feels relieved. Her younger sister Moni has phoned from Cumilla. “After a long time, the night queen has bloomed in my garden. Do you know it’s a rare variety?” “Congratulations, Aunty!” Irene is thrilled.

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After Irene puts down the phone in its cradle, everybody sits in the verandah. “I feel quite good,”Humayun says. “Do you know, Irene, some people also call this flower ‘Characterless’.” “I know, Abbu,” Irene says. “There is another name for this flower. Do you know what it is, Polin?” “Don’t expect Polin to know it,”Parveen says in derision. “His own tutor says that he is very poor in general knowledge.” Polin rolls his eyes in anger. “Who told you so? I’ll give you a blow.” “Very bad. Very bad, Polin,” Humayun says gravely. Father and son leave the verandah. “Now it is women only. Ammu and us two sisters,”Parveen comments. “Don’t you know the other name of night queen?” Irene asks. “Oh, you don’t know. Well, listen then. The other name of night queen is ‘Mariam.’ Do you know, Ammu, it’s very short-lived.” “Is that so?”Nigar asks softly. “It lasts for six hours only. The flower starts blossoming from nine at night, reaches its full bloom at midnight, and starts to wither away from three in the morning. The flower ceases to exist by dawn,” Irene says. “Is that so? Is it that short-lived?”Nigar’s whisper is almost inaudible. The Sravan rain is pouring down heavily. A sweet scent emanates from the bosom of the earth. The night queen has blossomed. It is saying, “Look, I have bloomed, I have come into existence. I have come to fill your senses with my deep fragrance.” “Ammu, the smell of the flower has reached here,” Irene says ecstatically.

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“Apu is really absurd. Can the smell of a flower reach Dhaka from Cumilla?”Parveen asks, pulling her sister’s braid. A shy and embarrassed Irene says, “The fragrance of the night queen can spread very far, can’t it, Ammu?” The rainy night is becoming calm and quiet. There are no blaring sounds from rickshaws, trucks, or baby taxis. The low sounds of thunder sound like some sombre mantra. The flashes of lightning remind Nigar of something else: not the short-lived night queens but the innocent, short-lived faces of two children. But, unlike the night queen, the two young faces could not tell the world, “Look, we have arrived! We have come to fill the world with our fragrance.” Nigar’s eyes fill with tears welling from deep inside. The drops roll down her cheeks. It is not the fragrance of flowers but the odour of two small corpses that fills the vast city. Translated from “Night Queen” by Shahidul Islam Khan

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SELINA HOSSAIN formerly of the Bangla Academy, is one of the foremost women writers of Bangladesh. She has written several novels, among them, Hangor, Nadi, Grenade; Nil Mayurer Jouban; Nirantar Ghantadhani; Ghumkatorey Ishwar; and Gayatri Sandhya. She also has a number of short story anthologies. Her non-fiction includes books on gender and women’s issues. She has won the highest national awards: the Swadhinata Padak (2018) and the Ekushey Padak (2009). Among her other awards are the Bangla Academy Award (1980), the Alaol Puroshkar (1981), and the Philips Literary Prize (1994). She received the Rabindra Memorial Award in 2010 for her novel Gayatri Sandhya. In 2010, Rabindra Bharati University honoured her with a D. Lit. (Honoris Causa). Her novel Hangor, Nadi, Grenade, based on the Liberation War, was initially translated into English as The Shark, the River and the Grenades and subsequently, with some additions, as River of My Blood. Some of her short stories in translation are included in Fugitive Colours.

Selina Hossain

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Her mother had said that it was terribly cold the year Hashirun was born. Four old villagers had died on one day. That same day, too, thirty-six dead sparrows were found under the large jackfruit tree beside the house. Her mother had wept copiously while counting the dead birds. She had said, “Hashirun, do you know, I didn’t weep when people died but I did seeing the birds? Actually, I wept a lot. You were born just two days later.” “Ma, when you saw my face, whom did you think about? People or birds?” Mulling over this for a while, her mother had said, “Birds.” “Then I’m a bird to you?” Smilingly, her mother had said, lifting Hashirun’s chin, “Yes, my bird.”

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Counting the years since that cold winter, Hashirun calculates her age. Now she would be either seventy-one or seventy-two. Her granddaughter, Faizunnessa, had often asked her why she was so fond of recalling the year of her birth. But Hashirun hadn’t replied. The question that Hashirun also had in her mind remained unanswered until her mother’s death. She had asked her mother the same question many times. “Ma, why don’t you reply? Tell me why you loved birds more than people.” With a faint smile, her mother had said, “You’ll understand as you grow older.” Hashirun thinks that even though she is seventy-one, she understands nothing. She no longer desires to understand anything. She doesn’t even know how much longer it will take her to understand what people say. Why had her mother loved birds instead of people ? Her mother used to say, “It’s very difficult to understand people, my dear, very difficult to tell the good from the bad.” Hashirun Bibi also said the same thing to Faizunnessa. At the beginning, Faizunnessa would stare at her wide-eyed. “You are lying.” Shaking her head from side to side, she asked, “Why are you lying, Nani? You won’t go to heaven if you lie.” At this age, Faizunnessa should have been going to school. She hadn’t learned to distrust people. She hadn’t learned to tell right from wrong. But her world was shattered the night terrorists killed her parents. Quivering behind her grandmother’s anchal, she said, “Why are people so bad, Nani?” Hashirun wanted to hide the girl in the warmth of her bosom. Then she thought, “Can I?” From that day, Hashirun began the long journey of her life. Now Hashirun thinks that life is a maze. Since she herself couldn’t come out of this maze, she has struggled to educate Faizunnessa. Now the girl is in Dhaka, looking for a job. She has told her that she is managing by giving private tuition. Saving her

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money, she has bought a mobile phone for her grandmother. She warned her to talk only to her, no one else. Opening her toothless mouth, Hashirun had laughed aloud. “Why are you telling me what to do, Natni?” “Because you’re a human being not a bird.” “Am I very bad, Natni?” “Yes, you are. If you weren’t, why did you learn to preserve seeds? You think that terrorists too need to eat. Although you saw your daughter and son-in-law being murdered before your eyes, you didn’t learn any wisdom, Nani.” “What is wisdom, Natni?” Hashirun stuttered. Her mouth filled with saliva. Hashirun kept staring at her granddaughter. Faizunnessa laughed and said, “My grandmother doesn’t understand my wisdom. O Nani . . . .” Faizunnessa laughs till tears flow from her eyes. She’s like that. She never asks her grandmother about her parents. She doesn’t want to know why they were killed. Neither does she bewail the loss of her parents. She’s a wonder to Hashirun. In this long journey of her life, Hashirun hasn’t found anyone else who is so self-contained. She’s neither a human being nor a bird, Hashirun thinks. Then, what is she? Is she a small kuthori, a small container, like the beej kuthori, the seed-vessel, that Hashirun makes? Did Faizunnessa preserve the death-seeds of her parents within her? Is her body then built the same way as Hashirun’s beej kuthori? O Allah, Hashirun’s deep sigh fills the air. She wipes her eyes with her anchal. Twisting the tattered anchal with her fingers, Hashirun remembers that Hashmat Mia wanted a seed-vessel. She has managed to survive by making seed-vessels. She has been able to bear her granddaughter’s educational expenses with these earnings. Now there’s no one else in the village who can make seed-vessels like her. Hashirun mutters, Work reduces sorrow. Sorrow absorbs work. How did her granddaughter’s sorrow get

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absorbed? Hashirun doesn’t have any answer to this question. She can’t ask Faizunnessa about this either. The death-seeds Faizunnessa has preserved inside her will destroy her. It’s important to preserve seeds. But to preserve death-seeds? A wild storm rages through Hashirun’s inner world. Time emerges from the storm. Hashirun knows that seed-vessels must be made between the months of Kartik and Agrahayan. Everything is connected to time, and nature holds the light of this connection. If one can’t discover this light, one’s heart cannot create. Cataracts have dimmed the light of Hashirun’s eyes, but not her brain. Aging has not dimmed the light of her brain. That is why she grows increasingly self-confident. She knows that the last hope of human beings is light in the brain. To make a seed-vessel, one needs to knead black loamy soil and well water. Whenever she mulls over all this, the light in her brain radiates. As she starts working, the light grows brighter. The happiest moment for Hashirun is when her brain radiates with light. She no longer feels sad about the deaths of her daughter and son-in-law. She doesn’t even worry about Faizunnessa either. Instead, she thinks that Faizunnessa will be able to look after herself. Survival is indeed important. She has to mix bits of straw, rice husk and chaff with the clay to make a seed-vessel. Then the base of the seed-vessel has to be made. Life is like that. Happiness, sorrow, grief are mixed like bits of straw, rice husk and chaff. Hashirun laughs aloud. She enjoys laughing this way. Laughter cheers one up. Her mobile phone rings. It is Faizunnessa. “Hello, Nani.” “How are you, Natni?” “I’m fine. Why are you laughing this way?” Hashirun Bibi continues to laugh her heart out. “Nani, what’s happened to you? You are laughing so loudly others too can hear you. Do you think that a person whose

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daughter and son-in-law were brutally killed by terrorists should laugh this way?” Hashirun Bibi continues to laugh. “I’m getting angry, Nani. If you continue to laugh like this, my anger will rise to my head. I will break all the pots and pans in the small room.” Still laughing, Hashirun says, “Pots and pans? They are lovely toys! What did you cook today, Natni?” “What can I cook? I’m not able . . . . Just made plantain bhorta. I will buy some rice from a restaurant nearby. What are you going to have?” “At noon, I’ll have rice. There’s a little rice in the pot.” “Just rice? Isn’t there any curry?” “Of course there is. Why shouldn’t there be?” “What is there?” “Chili bhorta. A little dal.” “Eat all that rubbish and die.” “Then what will happen to you? You won’t have anyone left on earth.” “Nonsense.” Faizunnessa cuts the line. Now Hashirun returns to thinking about the seed-vessel. The base of the seed-vessel has to be dried in the sun for at least three days after it is prepared. If it does not dry properly, the result will be unsatisfactory. With her hand on her cheek, Hashirun remains seated. She thinks if things aren’t done properly, they get ruined. Everything has to be made carefully. But human beings haven’t learned to do things carefully. Alas, humanity! Faizunnessa too is a human being, not a bird. Curved plates have to be made for a seed-vessel. One plate is set upon another. The work needs to be done regularly, every three or four days. When all the plates have been set, the upper part should be narrower than the middle. Then, the lid has to be made. Finally, the seed-vessel is ready. Since air doesn’t enter

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the seed-vessel, the seeds do not rot, but remain healthy for many days. Paddy seeds can also be preserved in seed-vessels. Hashirun has become famous in the village for her seed-vessels. Many call her Kuthori Nani, as does Faizunnessa. She says, “You are my kuthori. Because of you, I could walk over the dead bodies of my parents. Nani, you can’t die! If you do, I won’t let anyone bury you. I will keep you on top of the roof to dry up in the sun until you turn into a wooden plank.” If Hashirun keeps staring at her, Faizunnessa says, “What are you looking at open mouthed? Say, say that I am your Kuthori Natni. But, remember, that I won’t learn to make seed-vessels like you. Still, I’ll be able to preserve seeds. The seeds in my kuthori will remain healthy for a long time.” “Crazy girl. Have you gone nuts?” “Why should I go nuts? I am educated. I have learnt to live alone. I have learnt to fend for myself. And now I’m familiar with both city and village. I didn’t learn to live with just one thing like you, Nani.” Looking at Faizunnessa with her cataract-dimmed eyes, Hashirun mutters, “Now choose someone.” “Marriage, Nani, you’re talking about marriage?” “Yes, marriage, marriage. You have to marry some day, don’t you? But, before that, tell me why you want to turn me into a wooden plank?” “I will fix a mirror to the plank and look at myself, Nani.” “Go ahead. But you have to get married before that.” “Nani, let’s clap for marriage.” Holding her grandmother’s hands and clapping, Faizunnessa says, “I don’t have any marriage seeds in my kuthori. ” Hashirun Bibi shrugs off her granddaughter’s hands and goes to the courtyard where she makes seed-vessels. Jalaluddin had paid her in advance. She has to finish his work first, but that day she doesn’t feel like working. She sits with her face on

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her hands and mulls over the fact that seeds don’t remain good just by being kept in a kuthori. One has to follow some rules to preserve them. Dear Natni, preserving seeds isn’t easy. There are rules to preserve seeds properly. Seeds will not germinate if they have been eaten by insects. Worm-eaten seeds guarantee neither a happy marriage nor healthy children. You said your kuthori doesn’t have any marriage seed. But I want a strong and healthy marriage seed in your kuthori. Before putting the seed into your kuthori, you need to dry it well. If you put in a wet seed, it’ll rot. O Natni, you have to follow rules. On his way to the weekly market, Hashem Mia enters the house. “Khala, is my seed-vessel ready?” “Not yet, dear. When do you need it?” “If you could give it today, that would be good. Tomorrow’s no problem either.” “I’ll have it ready soon, son. Have a little patience.” “Khala, I have brought some money for you.” “Pay me when you take the seed-vessel.” “No, Khala, keep the money. I’m so careless about money. It just flies away from me. Please keep it. I’ll come after seven days.” Giving her the money, Hashem leaves. Hashirun Bibi feels sad. Even after getting so much money, she doesn’t have peace of mind. The lock of her mind opens. Faizunnessa stands before her. Stretching out her arms, Hashirun asks, “How are you, dear? Why have you come home so suddenly?” No one speaks. In fact, Faizunnessa isn’t in front of her. She’s now talking to Jewel sitting beside a stove in a wayside eatery. Jewel runs the eatery. Runs it with some difficulty. He often doesn’t charge Faizunnessa for meals. He surreptitiously murmurs, “One day we’ll run this place together. Are you willing?” If Faizunnessa doesn’t reply, he asks her again, “Aren’t you willing?”

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“Let me think it over.” “Oh, I see. Think, think. One should do something only after giving it much thought. Besides, you’re an intelligent girl.” Faizunnessa doesn’t speak, just smiles. She likes Jewel, but has decided to take time to express her feelings for him. Days pass. Jewel observes that Faizunnessa is still thinking it over. She sometimes buys food, sometimes takes it on credit – and pays later. Sometimes, she gets a plateful of food along with Jewel’s love. Hashirun doesn’t know all this from a remote village. She only learns over the phone that Faizunnessa has had a piece of fish or a little meat. That day Hashirun spends a little more time on the prayer mat. She lifts her hands in supplication. She weeps and counts her tasbih. She ties up the money that Hashem gave her in a corner of her anchal. She will send the money to her granddaughter through someone going to town. She wants to call her granddaughter but can’t, as she has forbidden her to call, “You must never call me, Nani. I will call you, if necessary.” Hashirun touches the mobile phone and then tucks it away in the sari fold at her waist. She pulls out a bidi that she has stuck in her hair bun and lights it. She enters the kitchen and finishes the bidi before lighting the clay chula. She is as happy when smoking bidis as when she is making seed-vessels. Because these two activities make her happy, Hashirun can brush all other troubles aside. And for this, she expresses her gratitude to Allah every day. She’s only waiting to see Faizunnessa married. She can’t understand the girl. She only laughs and says, “I’m myself a seed-vessel. You can’t make a seed-vessel like me.” Awe-struck, Hashirun can neither speak nor laugh. She is even afraid to touch her granddaughter. People pass by her hut, from Jinoir Gaon, Talshon, Rupjhupri, Kadamtola, and Adamdighi. They say that irri-boro seeds create problems in

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winter. The seedlings are not easy to grow. But the seeds preserved in Hashirun Bibi’s seed-vessels are of the best quality. They give no trouble at all. May Allah bestow on her a long life! Sitting in the kitchen, Hashirun ponders over her age. How long will she survive? Will she die like a bird or like a human being? Are terrorists human? Or are they something else? No one calls them by any other name. Hashirun Bibi breaks down in tears. She weeps, sitting alone in the kitchen. The rice in the pot boils over. The dripping liquid puts out the fire. Seated like a fool, Hashirun can’t stop weeping. Time seems to have stopped. She can see the play of sunlight in the courtyard. After a long time, Faizunnessa calls. “Hello, Nani!” “O my dear Natni.” “Are you feeling sad, Nani?” “No, I’m feeling good now hearing your voice. You sound as if you want to give me good news.” Faizunnessa’s laughter floats on the air. Still laughing, she says, “Yes, there is good news. I also want to hear the sound of your laughter, Nani.” Hashirun can’t force herself to laugh. She says, “Tell me the good news first.” “Nani, prepare watered rice and roast red chili for me. A full earthen plate.” “Will you be able to eat so much?” “I will, Nani, I will. I have finally given my word to Jewel. I do not have to ponder about it anymore. He gave me a plateful of rice and beef – I ate to my heart’s content. I also gave him ten mouthfuls.” “What else have you given him, Natni?” “I’ve promised to marry him. His heart is filled with love for me. He said, ‘We’ll eat together from now on.’”

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“Truly, Natni? Am I fated to be so happy? You two ate together?” “Yes, Nani. We ate together from the same plate, sitting under a roadside tree. It was night. There was no one else there. For the first time, I realized how tasty rice can be. Then he walked me ] to my place. Before leaving, he said softly, ‘From now on, we’ll sleep together on the same bed.’” “Then a marriage seed has entered your seed-vessel. Air from outside will no longer enter your kuthori, will it, Natni?” “Yes, Nani, you’re right. Air won’t enter my marriage kuthori. I will come home tomorrow. He will come after two days. We’ll get married in your house.” “O Allah, I am lucky to have so much happiness!” “Yes, Nani, yes, yes.” Filling the air with a smile, Faizunnessa cuts the line. Hashirun feels her days are endless. There are thousands of days left in her own seed-vessel. More days will continue to be added. Hashirun doesn’t need to worry about the span of her life anymore. Faizunnessa doesn’t come on the day she is supposed to. For two days Hashirun walks back and forth beside the road. She counts each bus that passes by. She asks people if they have seen Faizunnessa. But no one can say anything. Hashirun is unable to sleep. She sits all night on the veranda. She stirs only when mice run about on dry leaves, producing rustling sounds, but she can’t see anything in the dark. Dogs bark in the distance. She can’t remember when she dozes off, curled up like a caterpillar. Daylight catches the corner of her eyes. She notices Faizunnessa standing in the courtyard. She has come by night coach, a small bag in her hand. At first, Hashirun can’t recognize her. What madwoman has entered the house this early in the morning? Hashirun feels irritated. Rising to her feet hastily, she is about to fall.

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When Faizunnessa runs to grab her, Hashirun scowls. “What ugly witch has come to my house?! She’ll gobble me up. No one will pray for my long life.” Somehow Hashirun manages to sit up, rubbing her eyes with her hands. Faizunnessa flings herself upon her grandmother’s bosom. “You couldn’t recognize me, Nani? I am your granddaughter. I have no one on earth but you.” Hashirun stares at her and asks, “Why are you looking like this? What has happened to you, Natni?” The hours pass. The two remain seated, embracing each other. The story of Faizunnessa’s life wafts forth in the air. Crossing the house and the courtyard, the story moves towards the main road, the police station, the school, and the buses. It traverses the border of the village and reaches the river. And then the story merges with the boats on the river, the boatmen, the passengers, and the goods being carried on the boats. It rises up to the sky, the moon, the sun, the stars, the black hole, the clouds, and the infinite blue. The story is heard by the policeman standing with his rifle in front of the police station, the morgue, the graveyard, and the gravediggers. The voice of Faizunnessa, her hair dishevelled, her face distraught, reaches the mother whose heart is empty, the mother who is lamenting her heart out, grieving over the loss of her child. “Nani, the day before I was supposed to come home, four or five young men came to have dinner at Jewel’s place. They said they couldn’t pay. They wanted whatever was available. They were very hungry, they said. Jewel said, ‘I do not give free meals. My earnings are all halal, legitimate. If you don’t pay, I can’t give you any food.’ ‘What did you say?’ the terrorists exclaimed wrathfully. Jewel also retorted angrily, ‘This is not your father’s restaurant.’ ‘Son of a bitch, you’ve learnt to talk big! A roadside eatery and you talk big!’

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“They caught hold of Jewel and bashed his head against the footpath again and again. His head cracked and he began to bleed. His shirt was soaked red with blood. Blood gushed from his mouth and he collapsed on the ground. The boys kicked him and roared away on their motorbikes. Jewel was dead. When the small boy of the eatery informed me about what had happened, I rushed to the spot. A crowd of people had gathered round Jewel’s body. No one had come forward to save Jewel for fear of the terrorists. I went with Jewel’s dead body to the hospital, the morgue, the graveyard. I saw him being buried. I sat in the graveyard with a handful of soil from his grave. Then I wandered about the street. I sat beside his cold and broken chulha. There were two dead crows beside the chulha. Their nest had been on the tree beside the eatery. I don’t remember anything else. I have come to sleep in your lap, Nani, to sleep.” “Sleep, Natni, sleep. You need to sleep. What should I cook for you? What would you like to eat?” “You do not need to cook. Watered rice and roasted chili will do. You just heard I’ve kept another death seed in the seed-vessel of my body.” Faizunnessa rests her head upon her grandmother’s bosom. Hashirun Bibi sees the growing light in the courtyard. She sees the terrorists attacking Faizunnessa’s parents with sharp weapons. They shout loudly, “We’ll see how you carry on working at the school. We told you to give us money every month for toddy. You didn’t. You said you would have us arrested by the police. Fuck your policemen, you bastards! Now go to hell. Die and turn into earthworms.” The terrorists spat on them. The girl had seen this gruesome incident happening before her own eyes. How many times would she implant death seeds in her seed-vessel? Hashirun’s heart beats faster. Everything turns dark before her eyes. Suddenly, her head drops down upon her chest.

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As soon Faizunnessa feels her grandmother’s head touching hers, she lifts her head up. She cries out, “Na – ni! What’s happened to you?” There is no response. Like a madwoman, Faizunnessa writhes in agony. Bewildered, she looks around her. Her heart seems shaken by violent blasts of thunder. She sees the sparrows flying down from the jackfruit tree. The ducks and hens come close. From all sides, the crows start flying towards the courtyard. Faizunnessa remains seated like a statue, her arms around her grandmother’s dead body, just a wooden plank now. Translated from “Sandhikshan” by Mohammad Shafiqul Islam

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NASREEN JAHAN started writing from a very early age. Her novel Udukku won her the prestigious Philips Literary Award in 1992. The novel was translated into English by Kaiser Haq as The Woman Who Flew, and published by Penguin India. Among her other novels are Jadu Bistar and Sonali Mukhosh. She has several collections of short stories. Some of her short stories have been translated into English and published in A Temporary Sojourn by UPL. She has also won considerable fame as a writer of children’s fiction and received the Alaol Literary Award in 1995 for her work in this genre. Nasreen Jahan uses her pen boldly to examine the tensions and contradictions of human relationships. In 2000 she received the Bangla Academy Sahitya Puroshkar.

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Strange! There is no one at the first-floor window. Swati is not standing there. Very surprised, Jamil looks around him and sees a large crowd in front of the building. He starts sweating. It seems as if someone is playing a band within his chest. Every day Swati would be standing at the window, clutching its iron grille. . . . Sitting in the rickshaw, Jamil would see the scene. He would pay off the rickshawpuller and then climb up straight to the first floor. Almost every day. He would never have to press the calling bell. Swati herself would open the door. He would not have to wait, covered with sweat, in front of the door. Swati is like the south breeze in the evening. Whatever problems she might have had, she would always greet Jamil charmingly with a smile and fragrant with perfume. Then she would take off his coat and shirt. But not his shoes. That Jamil would take off himself. For whatever reason, she hesitated to take off his shoes. The ceiling fan would come to life at Swati’s touch.

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That is why Jamil felt a strange peace. The coolness that he felt kept his body and mind in order. This coolness, this peace had to some extent been created by Jamil. Of course behind the creation of this peace and tranquillity, he had to expend a lot of blood, sweat, single-minded effort. A work of creation doesn’t come floating on the waves or bursting from the earth. As soon as Jamil reached the age of understanding he had retained this knowledge in his blood and been successful. What has happened to Swati today? He just cannot understand. Of course, there are many flats, many families. Something could have happened to anyone. But why isn’t Swati at the window? Hardly daring to breathe, he approaches the crowd. He doesn’t have to ask questions. Someone shouts, Zakia from the second floor has committed suicide. Jamil goes up the stairs. The only sounds on the wide staircase are the sounds of his shoes. Behind him are a lot of people. A person has died. Curiosity and excitement. It doesn’t affect him. Swati has been his creation, surrounding him with her fragrance. If something happened to her, it would be the same as destroying his yearlong endeavour. Pressing the calling bell after so many days feels good. But he is curious. Why is Swati not at the window? Behind him is a shadowless dark. Behind him is a window grille framed with wood. Leaning against the door frame, he breathes deeply. Slightly agitated, he taps the ground with his shoe. Opening the door, Swati smiles sadly and says, You have heard I’m sure what happened? Jamil does not understand what has happened. The whole thing seems a game to him. Something happens to someone and whether it concerns one or no, everyone has to put on a mask of sorrow. As if a part of one’s body has been cut off and the whole

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body is throbbing with the pain. He has never thought of Swati as belonging to that group of people. He says, Yes, the news is sad, but for that . . . Never mind. The girl visited me a couple of times. There is no sign of any agitation in Swati’s tone. She brings a glass of water and sets it down on the table. Jamil is surprised. Is that so? You knew her? You didn’t say anything. At that time I didn’t give it any importance. But I am feeling very bad now. I want to sit down and weep. Forget it. Jamil busies himself with taking off his shoes. There is no sense in allowing someone else’s sorrow to darken one’s home. Swati too seems to shrug off the tragedy and says, Go and have a wash. There is water in the bathroom. Trying to lighten the mood, Jamil says, I saw a woman, fair like you, in a blue sari. The blue colour of the sari was really charming. You don’t have a blue sari, do you? Swati asks, Was the woman alone? Yes, she was, Jamil replies calmly. But that is not what I was talking about. I was talking about the colour of the sari. Next month, I’ll buy you a sari like that. Swati laughs. The girl was walking alone. You are saying that is not important. Will you say she is a good woman? Ah! Why do you take everything in the negative sense? Jamil stands up to part the curtains. Swati helps him. A whiff of breeze enters the room. Ah! Jamil says, I am not giving any guarantee about the woman’s character. And I will not say that walking alone signifies that she is not good. Any woman who leaves her home might be faced with an untoward situation. Only those women can walk alone who know what might happen and make a compromise. They make up their mind that if something does happen so be it.... That’s all.

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Swati grew up in a small town. In a dark, airless, smokefilled atmosphere. After a sister held the hand of light and fled the house, Swati’s restricted life began. She was just a child. Her mother and elder brother kept their vigilant eyes on her. Every day, her brother would take her to school, protecting her from the roving eyes of lustful young men. She went on to college. So she has been walking alone through the middle of the road for quite some time. She would want to curl up like a scorpion for fear of the ferocious hyenas waiting to tear her apart, of the ghosts and spirits dancing in glee. She believes her husband. She is impressed by his logic. Since the matter was frightening, she had no complaint, no sorrow. But, thanks to her fate, her husband was as protective of her as her own family had been. Otherwise, who knows who might not have devoured her to bits? The power goes out as soon as evening falls. A pall of silence falls on the room. Jamil lights a cigarette. He sits comfortably on the sofa, folding his legs beneath hm. Unlike his parents’ household, when the power fails, there is no shouting or scurrying about for candles and matchboxes. The southern breeze seems to be walking towards them with a fat lighted candle. Draped in a starched and ironed sari, sprayed with perfume, how new it appears every day. He has seen his parents. He has seen his friends. After six months of marriage, the relationship stinks like stale sweat. Smelling that stink one’s whole life. . . . Go and see what creation is, see how a life can be made different by observing my wife. . . . Thinking these thoughts, Jamil blows the cigarette smoke into the darkness. Swati sits quietly on the sofa, thinking. She looks like a blazing star. She has tied her hair in a topknot. It seems that if one lights it like a candle, it will melt and drop. There will be no change in Swati.

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What did you do the whole day? asks Jamil. I was of course surrounded by papers. I didn’t even have time to lift my head. Swati’s dejection seems to leave her. What else? I do not like to have lunch by myself. So I cooked very little. I was going to rest when the downstairs Bhabi came. We chatted. In the evening I cooked dinner and. . . . Jamil gets up and draws the curtains slightly. The window can be seen from the road. All right, says Swati, and stands up. She goes into the verandah in the dark. Boiling in the heat, Jamil too comes out and stands next to Swati in the verandah. The breeze cools them. In front of them is the dark city. There are occasional flares of light. Swati stands between the vastness of the city and the sky. Her heart feels empty. If I had been earning a little more, says Jamil, I would have bought a motor cycle. Every holiday we could have gone to some place. For the first time after many days, Swati does not express her jubilation at Jamil’s words. She says sadly, Do you know that the lady downstairs was beaten up badly by her husband? Her finger has become crooked. Forget about those hopeless husbands, Jamil says. Why did he beat her? The lady wants to work. They really need the money, but, despite that, the husband . . . . Forget about other people’s stories. Jamil says peremptorily. Moreover, if the husband doesn’t want her . . . . The main thing is to compromise. Too much outside rubbish is entering their home today. Both of them fall silent. Swati enters deeper into the darkness. The road is winding, full of pieces of brick, wood, lichen. Swati stumbles along like a blind person, then, wanting to forget that strain of thought, clutches Jamil’s shirt.

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Jamil continues to smoke silently. A small circle of fire lights up the darkness. The smell of cigarette smoke wafts in the air. The same smell that had made the first few days after her marriage unbearable. She could not stand it. Her head would seem to buzz as night fell. At that time, she hadn’t yet learned to compromise. Do you know why the girl died? She would come to meet you. Jamil’s voice sounds very different. She only came twice, Swati replies in a calm voice. How would I know? Again, Swati feels dizzy. Why does it seem that the grille is loose? Has light disappeared from the entire world? How dim are the little bits of light that crop up in places! Are they too falling down like the grille? She is feeling so light . . . as if she is floating . . . ah. She controls herself. She does not want her strong, confident husband to understand this weakness of hers. She stands up straight without touching Jamil. Something strange happened today, Jamil draws another wind into his house. No matter how much one tries, one cannot live just by oneself. That is why Jamil sounds excited. My colleague Abdullah had been having an affair. We knew something about it. But today the girl landed up straight at our office. . . . What are you saying? Swati is surprised. He is married, with children. So what, says Jamil. But listen. I am not doing anything. You should be happy. He doesn’t know construction. Doesn’t work hard. He thinks he will sleep and everything will come to him. Thinks that his family will not know. Anyway, I was talking about the girl who came to the office. She was really smart. With a damn-care attitude. Also quite beautiful. As soon as she called him, Abdullah followed her out like a pussy cat. How everyone laughed in the office.

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It is natural to be jealous, Swati knows. At her husband’s description of the girl, a storm of confused feelings rage in Swati’s breast. Curiosity. A new awareness. The husband who she has respected every day more than she has loved him. . . .The husband who has turned her into a lover one day so that she may enjoy his love more, who has turned her into a wife one day, a slave another, why does she feel a coldness toward him rather than a warmth...? Why does she feel a dependence on him rather than a love for him...? Standing next to him she feels a growing warmth. There is one place where she feels sure of Jamil’s love. She has seen other people’s marriages. Nowhere has she seen husbands destroying their wives to create them anew. They are not that engrossed in them. She feels that Jamil wants her to see him as a different person every day. But since it is Jamil who does this, not she, she doesn’t feel that he is a different person every day. Hearing him talk for the first time about the beauty of another woman, Swati feels jealous, for a moment starts feeling unsure of herself. Is Jamil tired of Swati’s beauty? Suddenly, the power returns to light up the room. Swati enters the room and snuffs out the candle. Then she puts it back where it belongs. The whole place is neat and shining. Jamil is very concerned about cleanliness. But then he himself enters the room with his shoes on. He doesn’t throw the cigarette butt in the ashtray but on the ground. According to him, if there is no freedom to do as he likes, he doesn’t get the sense of comfort. And it is Swati who has to make up for the shortcomings of his desire for freedom. Not that he does these things routinely. Nor does Jamil shout and yell when things are not tidy. She herself used to be quite untidy as a girl. She is grateful to Jamil that he has patiently made her worthy of being his wife. If, while they are eating, Jamil sees that his glass is not clean, he will get up without having any water and not have any water for hours. Even if she coaxes him to have some water, he will not.

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This was how he behaved at the beginning. Swati would feel like weeping. She would crumple up in terror. Even lying in bed, her heart would beat fast. But the man would not hold back while making love. She has become an expert homemaker now. That is why her mistakes are fewer. There is no question of fear any more. Whatever Jamil earns is spent on the household and on Swati. It is Jamil who chooses her clothes, her teeps, perfumes, her costume jewellery. Even when she is not quite happy with Jamil’s choice, she never allows him to realize it. She is not that foolish. She smiles in appreciation. Sometimes, she is even proud that Jamil watches her so closely, that his keen eyes follow every movement of hers. After all, her beauty is not for her alone. It is also for Jamil. Jamil will move her about as he wishes, will adorn her the way he likes. This is the reality. Lying in bed, Jamil says, In order to buy the flat, all the money I got from my father, all my savings are gone. If I tried to save something from the salary I get, we could hardly live comfortably. If I had a little money, I could buy a motorcycle. . . . Why are you feeling bad about it, Swati says in a sombre voice. Don’t let it bother you so much. Then, like every day, she picks up Jamil’s hand and places it on her bosom and says, How strangely Abdullah behaved! How could he betray his beautiful wife like that? Is it possible, Jamil? Jamil is clearly irritated. It’s not I who had an affair. Why are you behaving like a typical woman? The next day, Swati stands as is her wont, holding the grille, half covered by the drapes. At the sight, Jamil thinks she resembles a fearful stork, trying to stand on one leg but unable to do so. He pushes the thought from his mind as he pays the fare. I spend half my salary on her. She was just a lump of mud. I moulded her into a statue. The way she walks, the way she gazes, her body – everything about her is what I have created. It is I who

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have breathed life into her. If she had been from the beginning the way I wanted, then I would not have had to spend so much time and trouble in shaping her. I could have done something else. Not even a fly would have sat on the lump of clay. But she might have been blown away by a strong wind. Surely, the name of that is not freedom. And is all freedom good? As he is thinking all this, he looks around him. From last night till this morning, the police had been here. Now it is quiet and still. How does one grab one’s own throat? Perplexed, Jamil climbs the stairs. He stands in front of the door. It was my mistake to think of the grille as a cage, not Swati’s. Swati opens the door. Ah, Swati is the cool water of a constellation. . . . He pinches Swati on her waist and is about to sit on the sofa when three of his friends enter noisily. How are you, Jamil? How are you, you rascals? You have come after so long . . . . The friends greet each other while Swati is in the kitchen. The light is like milk in tea. Jamil’s eyes fall outside the window. He feels like an insignificant earthworm facing the world. The friends converse loudly. A couple of them talk about how lucky Jamil is to get a wife like Swati. Swati breaks out in a cold sweat. Terrible! They are cornering her. Cornering her even more. Jamil’s voice rises above the others. That rascal of a colleague of mine. Disappeared with his lover. Didn’t come to office today. So the man left with a woman. Ha. Ha. The time is to blame. It has become like a shameless woman. . . . While taking the tray to the drawing room, Swati pulls the anchal of her sari around her shoulders. Strange shadows are falling over the place. It seems to her that she is walking down a road all by herself. Jamil’s arms have moved away from her. It is

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as if the wall that one is leaning against has moved away. Today, for the first time, there are loud noises in the place. Today, for the first time, she stumbles. . . . The next day, when Swati feels all right, Jamil leaves for work. Leaving all the regular chores behind, Swati goes and stands in the balcony. A strange wave seems to draw Swati towards the great world beyond. It is not just a feeling that the grille will give way and she will fall along with it. She is standing so high up. In front of her is the brightly lit city. Countless crows are flying about, cawing raucously. Swati feels drowsy. The great world is beckoning her. . . . Swati closes her eyes. What a lovely breeze. What a strange sleep, so strange. . . . When Jamil returns in the evening, she smiles as usual, then one by one. . . . Jamil closes his eyes, his feet on the table. Swati says, We should have had a good ashtray in the house long ago. You and your friends dirty the place with your cigarettes. That’s true, I do. It’s a bad habit. But what you are saying about my friends is not true, Jamil says. Still, why are you bringing up this subject? And we do have ashtrays in the house. If it is a beautiful ashtray, people notice it, Swati says while dusting a doll in the showcase. They are less likely to throw ash everywhere. Jamil smokes silently. Swati finishes her dusting. Jamil asks suddenly, Do my friends come at other times? Meaning when I am. . . . He cannot complete the sentence. His voice chokes. No. You would have known then. Swati stops her work and sits facing him. I would have told you. Jamil stands up, Don’t mind what I said. I don’t worry about you. Their nature is not . . . . Suddenly, Jamil’s eyes fall on the aquarium. There is a beautiful ashtray on top. Jamil knows it is made of silver. Jamil freezes.

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Swati laughs and says, I had ordered it earlier. I got it today. Does Swati go out? Another thought strikes him. Something against his liking has entered the house. Things don’t add up. He goes close to it. His heart almost stops beating. There is a cigarette butt in the ashtray. Did someone come? While asking the question, he is torn between feelings of rage, sorrow, shock. He has worked so hard to create peace. But she is talking on her own. The light in the room seems to dim. Leaving behind the dimness of the room, Swati goes out to the balcony. Then, shrugging off all disguise, all pretence, she suddenly says, Yes, he did.

Translated from “Rupor Ashtray” by Niaz Zaman

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RAZIA SULTANA KHAN is a fiction writer, poet, and artist. She earned her PhD in Creative Writing from the University of Nebraska-Lincoln (USA). Her short stories have appeared in anthologies, nationally and internationally. Her story “Alms” appeared in the Best New American Voices (2008), “The Mollah’s Revenge,” in Twenty-Two New Asian Short Stories (2016), and, most recently, “The Anklet,” in Best Asian Short Stories (2019). She has a collection of short stories, Palki and Other Tales of Seduction (2012). She has also co-edited two books, an anthology of memoirs of the Liberation War, Stories from the Edge (2017) and a collection of critical essays on Shakespeare, Shakespeare: Four Hundred Years After (2018). She retired in 2018 from Independent University, Bangladesh, where she also was the editor of Chaos: IUB Studies in Language, Literature and Creative Writing.

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Dhaka, Bangladesh: News Flash in Local Paper On Wednesday morning, April 24, 2013 at 8:00 a.m., 3,639 workers entered the eight-storey Rana Plaza factory building which housed five factories. Eighty percent of the workers were young women, 18, 19, 20 years of age. At 8:45 a.m. the electricity went out and the factory’s five generators kicked in. Almost immediately the workers felt the eight-storey building begin to move, and heard a loud explosion as the building collapsed, pancaking downward. Scene 9 The glint catches Ronny’s eyes. He blinks. The spark twinkles, a ray of light on a drop of water. Ronny shoulders his way through the cluster of people and stops in front of a mound of rubble. The flash that caught his attention is gone but he sees something dark protruding through the pile of debris.

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People are milling about, some dislodging large bits of broken walls, others moving slabs of bricks and mortar and scooping the grime away. Curious bystanders hold their mobiles high and shoot whatever is in view. There is a need to do something, anything, to make themselves feel less helpless. They hide the sense of guilt they feel, a guilt born of the relief that they are not part of the wreckage. Ronny’s ears pick up shards of conversation from the melee around him. “Someone’s going in!” “Coming out, you mean?” “No, someone’s actually going in.” Shouts ring out as a pair of trousered-legs disappear into a horizontal crevice between two collapsed walls; cheers, shouts of encouragement, shouts of hope, and some of despair. Every time a body is helped out or pulled out there is a crescendo of excitement from the on-lookers clustered around the building. Rana Plaza, the eight-storey building housing five garment factories, had collapsed into itself that morning. Right after the building imploded, hundreds of people staggered out, some covered in blood, others wearing a layer of dust and sod, all of them slightly disorientated. After a couple of hours, fewer were walking out unaided; more were being pulled out and placed on stretchers. There is a constant whine of ambulances fading away or sharpening in intensity. After six hours only those venturing in are coming out. A faint smell of sulfur or rotten eggs blankets the ruined structure. Ronny knows no dead body inside could have decomposed yet, but for him the place smells of death. Ronny fumbles his way, sometimes crawling, at other times balancing on the pile of rubble, towards where he had seen the hint of light. He evades the question at the back of his mind and lets intuition draw him forward.

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As he steps onto a large piece of plaster, he sees it. It is an anklet draped around a foot, a dark foot smudged in white dust. Skirting the foot is a crimson-red line. Ronny wonders what has caused the bleeding. He squints for a clearer view and it suddenly hits him that the red line is not blood but the brush strokes of alta drawn around the foot. The squinting also brings into focus a little star hanging from the chain. He has a moment of horrific sublime; he doesn’t want to see more but he can’t turn away. Then he squeezes his eyes shut. An anklet is just an anklet, an anklet is just an anklet, he repeats to himself over and over again and hundreds of girls wear them. He takes a deep breath, opens his eyes and bends down to get a closer view. The anklet has little silver stars dangling from a thin chain. One of the stars winks at him as it catches the light. He has only seen one such anklet before.

Scene 8 Malati opened her eyes. She dragged in a gush of air but a bout of coughing overtook her. Her action dislodged more debris, and dust particles clogged her nose and mouth. Her throat felt dry. She tried to swallow, but couldn’t. Had she died and been buried? Her lids fluttered. Everything was dark. Something heavy pressed against her chest. She gasped but no sound came out. There was a rush of sounds all around. Sounds with shapes. Shapes that changed. A mad flurry of rainbow colours. How could she see colours when all was dark, she wondered. So much movement! So much activity! She lay without moving. Moans gathering in her throat, moans that never left her mouth. She wondered how she could be lying motionless yet experience the turbulence flooding her head. Time passed. One minute? One hour? A day? At one point she realized she was ensconced in the crook of one of the heavy-

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duty sewing machines. The gadget that had lured her to the factory had protected her in the end. Another vibration shook the building. Allah hu Akbar!Allah is great! The words were loud and clear this time and even as she realized it was her voice, calling out desperately to The Only One who could help her when no one else could, the shaking stopped. Then nothing.

Scene 7 Malati peeped from behind the bars of the window. It wouldn’t do to waste time. The super was on the prowl. From the fifth floor the people in the street below looked like little animated toys let loose; little ants, each one dedicated to a purpose, going about their business. She placed her nose between two parallel bars of the window grille and took in a deep breath. The pungent aroma of over-cooked spicy oil from the restaurant on the ground floor of the building hit her nostrils. She didn’t draw away. Compared to the metallic rusty smell of the equipment melded with the chemical malodour of the dyed fabrics which were piled in front of each sewing machine, this was almost pleasant. Amidst the humming of the gadgets she heard a creaking sound. Her eyes skimmed the white pillar a few feet away from her. She noticed large cracks shooting down from the top. Had they been there all the time? She could swear she hadn’t seen them the day before. Suddenly, the ground beneath her feet trembled. Earthquake! She stood petrified. She was used to the normal rumble of the machines around her; but this felt quite different; like the ground under her feet had shifted.

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Scene 6 The room was hot, despite the evenly spaced fans over the women’s heads. There was a constant thrumming sound as the machines whirred and purred, then whirred again. Malati turned around and looked at Fatima who gave her a sidelong glance and switched off her sewing machine. They were usually at sync with each other. They left their seats and made their way to the front of the room where all their water bottles and lunch boxes were kept. They didn’t speak till each had guzzled down some warm water. The sound was louder here, without the stacks of cloth to absorb the drone. The machines rumbled and pulsated, sputtered and spluttered. The vibration rippled through the walls beside and over them. Even the floor below seemed to be thumping the same melody. As Malati raised her water bottle for another gulp of the warm liquid, her eyes returned to the cleft in the pillar. It seemed deeper now. A couple of days ago the Supervisor had complained to the Manager about the crack. “Don’t worry about such minor things. How do you even get the time to look up there? No wonder we’re always late with our supplies!” the Manager had reprimanded the Supervisor, making sure he could be heard by the workers close to them. The Supervisor had given a small shrug, and kept quiet. He avoided eye contact with any of the workers.

Scene 5 When Malati got to the front of Rana Plaza, Ronny was waiting. “Come,” he said, taking her hand and pulling her into the little alley beside the building. It was early and the little lean-to shops had yet to open. The fruit seller’s shop had two empty wooden crates in front of it.

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“Sit,” he said. She looked at him. His behaviour was more assertive than she had ever noticed, but at the same time she could discern a nervousness. What is he up to? she wondered. Malati seated herself on one of the crates, taking care to sit well to one side so he could join her, if he so wished, but not be too close. He looked around, then took something out of his pocket. The next thing she knew he was kneeling in front of her. “O Ma! What are you doing?” she squealed, leaping off the crate. “I just…want …your foot.” “WHAT?” she stepped back, barely managing to stop herself from tumbling over the crate. Embarrassed, he waited for her to gain composure, then, moving his fingers one at a time, he opened his fist. A pool of shining metal glistened in the centre of his palm. Malati furrowed her brows as she tried to decipher the mysterious object. With his other hand, Ronny raised one end of the full moon, untangling it into a chain with little stars swirling around it. He stood there watching her, making no attempt to get closer. Malati felt her cheeks turn warm as she took in the significance of the situation. She took a tentative step towards him and put her right foot forward. He knelt and . . . nothing. She looked down to see what had stopped him. Her eyes widened in dismay. Did that foot really belong to her? A crimson red line skirted her foot. The contrast between the dark skin and the red outline blared a sexy message. Malati cringed. Mina! Mina, Fatima’s six-year-old daughter, had wanted to play “Beauty Parlour” with her the previous night. Exhausted after her day at the factory, she said, “Sure. Just don’t make any noise.” Mina used her mother’s alta, the red dye that is used to decorate a

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bride’s foot, and liberally painted an outline around Malati’s feet. Even her toenails were covered with the crimson liquid. What’s he going to think? What if he asks me why I have alta on my feet? She kept staring at the bright colour outlining her foot like a marker for size and the none-too-neat dots on her toes. “Perfect!” he said, eyes flashing. She wasn’t sure what he meant but the next moment he had draped the chain around her foot. The anklet fulgurated like molten moon drops. Was it the touch of the metal that shot a lightning-like spark all over her body? Or did his fingers stray a second too long on the shapely foot?

Scene 4 Malati wondered what he wanted to tell her. He sounded excited. “Meet me in front of the plaza,” he said, then added, “Where we first met.” She blushed as she remembered their first meeting. He’d been waiting for them, a tall lanky man just past his teens. He was wearing dark trousers and a sky blue half-sleeved shirt which enhanced his light complexion. “Hi Ronny! Meet my friend Malati, the one I told you about,” Fatima grinned. “Hello!” Ronny said, a liquid softness in his voice. Malati’s head shot up. His voice was so different from her uncle’s high-pitched snort. She felt herself turning a shade darker, if that were possible. She lowered her eyes, wishing she’d covered her head.

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Scene 3 Ronny peered at the silver anklet in the shop window. He double checked the price tag. The one he liked had silver stars attached at even spaces. It glowed under the bright lighting of the shop as he moved his head to catch a better view. It had taken him three months to save the money but he’d come in regularly to check that it was still for sale. She was his first love and the personal gift of an anklet would, he hoped, send the right message. He himself wasn’t sure what the right message was but he would gauge that by her reaction. He patted the extra pocket he had stitched to the inside waistband of his trousers. Whenever he carried a significant amount of money, this is where he put it, in his secret pocket. Now he ran his fingers over it and felt the crisp bills through the fabric of his trousers. He had been frequenting the streets of Shakaripatti for more than a month now. The narrow lanes intertwined one into another. If you wanted something made of brass, copper, silver or gold, this was the place to visit. Most of the shops had a small showroom, while the actual work went on in the innards of the place. The well-polished mirrors doubled and tripled the shining wares, so that the bright objects actually hurt your eyes. The owners or managers sat cross-legged before their display glasses, like benevolent Buddhas welcoming their clients. The first time Ronny had ambled along the lanes, he was called in by one shopkeeper after another. “Just take a look. You don’t have to buy anything.” “What would you like?” “Just tell us what you want and we’ll get it for you!” After his third visit, they ignored him. If he wanted something, he would return. Ronny much preferred it this way, as it gave him ample time to look at the price tags and weigh the worth of each. After a couple of weeks of loitering around, he

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found what he wanted. The price tag, however, gave him a jolt. It was almost a full month’s salary. But she would like it. He just knew it. He walked into the shop.

Scene 2 “There’s an opening at Rana Plaza for a ‘Button-stitcher,’” Fatima told Malati. Fatima was a single mother with a six-year-old daughter and Malati often wondered what her story was. She’d been quite blunt about why she was single. “I kicked him out the day I came back early from work and found him sprawled in our bed with the girl I’d brought from the village to look after Mina.” She stopped and seemed to be in another time, another place. “He said she was like another daughter to him. So why was her shalwar down to her knees and his lungi up to his waist? What does he take me for? A fool? And to think my baby girl was in the room all the time! It makes me puke just to think of it!” “But do you think I can do it? I’ve never worked in a garment factory before.” “So? You have to start somewhere. I thought you wanted to get away from those adventurous fingers of your uncle’s.” “Don’t say that!” Malati looked around her furtively, wondering if they’d been overheard. “Ha! He can do it and I can’t talk about it?” Malali shifted from one foot to the other. It would be good to be out of the house the whole day and not worry as to where her uncle was or ignore her aunt’s dark glances. “My cousin Ronny knows the Supervisor. He’ll get you the job,” Fatima boasted. “What’ll I have to do? You know I’ve never worked in a garments factory before.”

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“Stop repeating yourself! You’ll learn on the job. You’ll start at the bottom: stitching buttons.” She saw the relief on Malati’s face and gurgled with laughter. “Not the one we do at home, silly. They have machines for these at the factory. They do all the work. You just place the fabric in place and the trainers teach you how to do that. Don’t worry so much! Girls of thirteen and fourteen start work there. Of course, the Super takes a cut of their salary as they aren’t supposed to be working at that age. But that won’t happen to you. Ronny will put in a good word for you.” Ronny. Malati smiled to herself, wondering what he was like.

Scene 1 Malati had jet-black hair which, when loose, fell to her hips in soft waves. It was only at home that she left it open; but of late she’d stopped doing that. Since the day her aunt had reprimanded her. “Cover your hair! First, it’s not hygienic. Second, it sends the wrong message to boys.” “But, Khala, I’m home. There’s no one here,” she’d argued that first time. “As long as you live in this house, you do as I say!” her aunt said in a gruff voice, and Malati wondered if her aunt knew how her uncle behaved with her. It had started with him patting her on the head and saying how pretty she looked. It always happened when she was by herself, usually in the kitchen. He’d say he’d come for a glass of water, or a cup of tea. But she’d feel his eyes following her as she did her chores. She felt uncomfortable but she’d always felt nervous in front of men she didn’t really know. She’d wondered if she should say anything to her aunt. After all, wasn’t she her mother’s only sister?

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Malati had moved in with her aunt about six months ago. With six other children in the family, there was always a shortage of food in her parents’ home. Also, Malati had stopped going to school after elementary school. The high school was about four kilometres away. She walked to school with other girls headed that way, but, once in a while, if she couldn’t find a friend to accompany her, she had to walk back alone. During one such incident, she’d been harassed by a mastan and his gang. In tears she had related the incident to her parents. The result was that it spelled the end of her school days. As her father said, the only thing they had was honour and if he lost that he might as well go drown himself. After Malati had stayed home for six months, the neighbours started wondering what had happened for her to be staying home. Her mother finally talked to her sister who lived in Dhaka and asked her to allow Malati to visit her for a while. But her aunt’s house was no haven, and, from being a target of the juvenile boys in the streets, she became the prey of someone more insidious. She talked to Fatima about it. Fatima listened to her but was vehement about not telling her aunt. “Your aunt’ll just send you back! Do you think she can stop her husband? She has to live with him, so you’ll be the one to suffer.” After a pause she’d added with a twinkle in her eyes, “Don’t worry, I’ll be your saviour.”

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SYED WALIULLAH (1922 – 1971) started working in the Statesman from 1945. In 1947, after the Partition, he moved to Dhaka and joined Radio Pakistan. He served in various posts at home and at Pakistan missions abroad. In 1967 he joined the UNESCO in Paris. In 1971, he helped mobilize support for the cause of Bangladesh. However, he did not live to see an independent Bangladesh, breathing his last in Paris on October 10, 1971. Waliullah wrote novels, short stories and plays. His first, and most famous, novel was Lalsalu (1948), translated by him into English as Tree Without Roots (1967). His other two Bangla novels are Chander Amabasya (1964) and Kando Nadi Kando (1968). He also wrote a novel in English, The Ugly Asian, published after his death in 2013. For his contribution to Bangla literature, Syed Waliullah received several awards: the PEN prize (1955), the Bangla Academy Literary Award for Novels (1961), and the Adamjee Prize (1965). He was awarded the Ekushey Padak posthumously in 1983. In his honour, the Bangla Academy has initiated the Syed Waliullah Award for writers who contribute to Bangla literature from abroad.

Syed Waliullah

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An uneasy, hushed silence fell on the small town. The coloured and fancy kites soaring against the whitecloud-patched blue, breezy sky, were quickly brought down. The townfolks left their work and gathered here and there, near the street corners, near the doors of their shops and homes, women half-hiding behind the barred windows and mat-curtained side doors, even small children standing with their big round bellies pushed out, all waiting in awkward silence for the old, dying man to come their way. Sun shining on his high armenoid nose, eyes sunk in the shadows of the deep sockets, the gaunt old man walked through the narrow streets, looking for friends and enemies. What did he want of them? Nothing. Nothing except their forgiveness. It was a strange mission for a dying man who should have been in bed waiting to die peacefully, with his dear and near ones around him, they praying and crying, and he thinking of God.

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But then that was how he thought he should spend his last hour, seeking forgiveness, for he felt his eternal journey would be lighter with the burden of his sins lightened, and where from did a man’s sins come but from his association with other fellow beings whom he was going to leave forever. So he had set out, in his dying hour, to ask them to forgive him. Majestically alone, grim in his determination to carry out his last mission, the old man had been walking doggedly for some time. He brandished the cane he held in his right hand with unexpected firmness when his people, especially his now wildhaired, sobbing and frantic daughter, came near him to persuade him to return home. He also shook his cane when the children, who had gathered behind him, tried to close up on him. His face straight, eyes staring ahead, he maintained a strange but steady pace, his knees and legs alternately jutting out with a queer but regular suddenness like two wooden legs moved by machine. His back was as straight as his gaze and as his cane. And perhaps because of the sun that shone so brightly on his high nose which looked sharp and hard like steel and which made his face look devoid of any sense of humiliation or perhaps because this sense in a dying man is more within than outside, he appeared to demand rather than solicit forgiveness. And he did not beg less forgiveness of those who were his friends. Today, there was no small sin and big sin, and all men were equal. His daughter wailed incessantly behind him. Come back, Father, she would cry out in deep anguish now and then, come back, come back home. He paid no attention to her entreaties. When she failed to get any reply, she sobbed violently. Now and then the dying man would stop before a man whom he thought he had harmed or hurt in some way at some time or other in his life and, solemnly, in a voice rigid yet quivering, he would beg him for his forgiveness. Some forgave him readily,

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some did not know what to say, and some did not understand what it was that the dying man wanted of them. However, if anyone got stuck for words, his daughter came running from behind and pleaded, He only seeks your forgiveness. Forgive him, forgive him. Now everyone knew what he was seeking, for the news had spread. The dying man had now only to stand silently before a friend or an enemy and he would be forgiven. He would then resume his steady, strange march. Father, his daughter would cry now and then, everyone loves you. Everyone forgives you. Come back home, come back. From behind, the daughter, now panic-stricken, came up running and moaned, Come back, Father, come back. Or they will hate you. I tell you they will hate you. They will place a curse upon your head. O Father, come back. The gaunt old man brandished his cane at his daughter. The old man knew where he was heading. Although he had followed a zigzag path, taking this road and that, turning here and going straight there, he had as his last destination the house of the man he wanted to meet most of all. This man was no friend. As a matter of fact, this man was his enemy. He had hated him all his life, and this hatred was there even when as a small boy he had played with him while evening shadows had deepened across the fields and while the smell of mustard had come from the neighbouring farmland and he had kicked him, knocked him down and in return had been beaten mercilessly – a vicious boy who was now a bald man with a tired, sagging mouth and eyes cushioned in red-veined pouches. These eyes were still filled with hatred for him. The old man muttered to himself a wordless vow, I must reach him. I must not die before I have seen him. I must ask for his forgiveness.

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By now he had left behind the town and, as he approached his last destination, he grew tense. As he walked, he did not hear any more his own footsteps pounding on the street. He kept his face straight. Within him there was a deep, hollow and dark well, the well of his life where like dead leaves bits of his life had fallen. From the well now came voices, sounds. Every time his feet would jerk forward and drop on the street, he would step on some reminiscences that flashed out in clear brightness. He heard human voices, their cry and laughter. He saw the mustard field, bright yellow and sprawling low on which the spring breeze created soft, silent waves, heard more voices, known and unknown, even the long-forgotten voice of a sad-looking man who had driven the bullock cart through the shafts of light and shade of the tall, big-leafed segun forest, a sad face seen from behind once and never seen again. He saw his life, but saw it in fragments and then saw again the same mustard field and the silent but cruel and vicious fight between him and the boy whom he had hit again and again, again and again, and every time harder and harder, so much so that suddenly the boy had turned away, crouched on the ground and burst into tears. Then came that moment. He stopped fighting and stared at the crying boy in amazement, in great amazement, because at that moment the boy only cried, he only cried: he had no resentment, no anger, no hatred. He just cried, looking lonely, utterly lonely. Suddenly the world around – and time – seemed to have become deeply silent, like the silent stars, silent past, silent tears. He ceased to hear the boy’s crying, for he had been engulfed in the void of not knowing and of nothingness. That evening he had walked away without a word, leaving the boy all alone in the growing darkness, not speaking to him, not even looking back once. In that moment of great loneliness, he could not think of anybody. No one mattered to him, not even the small crying boy, badly hurt.

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I will ask you to forgive me for that moment, the dying man said in unuttered words, at least for that moment when you had cried not out of anger, not out of hatred, but as every man must cry in his loneliness that is utter, that is absolute. Perhaps he was mixing up things and that did not matter either. Round the next corner a large group of men were standing near a white-domed mosque, at the head of which stood a venerable religious man in long grey robe and flowing beard. They kept their eyes fixed on the approaching, gaunt old man who stared straight ahead. As he came nearer, the venerable man invoked, in a loud, pulpit voice, God’s blessings and muttered a brief prayer. Then he said, Have you asked God’s forgiveness? The old man did not slow down but continued to walk at his steady pace. He stared ahead of him, his eyes fixed and unmoving as usual. He neither saw nor heard the venerable man. As he passed by, the religious man, looking extremely surprised, asked again in his loud voice, Have you, tell me, my dear man, asked God’s forgiveness? The old man walked on, his face looking grimmer in the deep shadows cast by the strong sun. Soon behind him there was a howl of indignation from the group, the voice of the venerable man being heard the loudest. The daughter, fearing the wrath of the religious man on her father, ran to him, held his hand and began to beg his mercy, her whole body shaking with uncontrollable fear. The dying man, unaware of all the commotion behind him, walked on, his head held high, his nose unfalteringly and unwaveringly pointing to his ultimate destination. He only twitched his nose as if a fly had sat on it. Soon the old man saw the house which would bring him to the end of his last mission on earth. Now a little timid like a shy boy, he stared at the house which he had hated as much as he had hated its owner, at its green door, the small bower over

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the bamboo-fenced gate, the white bars of the windows shining brightly in the sun. Then he saw the form of a man standing under the bower, a short man, his bald head glistening, waiting for him. His enemy was waiting for him. Suddenly the dying man heard a groan rise up from the extreme depth of the well within him, the groan every human being must hear some time or other in his life, the groan of a man seeking companionship, warmth and love in the emptiness of the desert, seeking a straw in the endless, waveless ocean, seeking meaning in nothingness, and then his despair turning into love, deeper than the love a man can have for another man. As the old man walked forward, he heard his own footfall resounding in the well, the closed well of his life, and knew that every step was carrying him to a place where one found some meaning in life even when it was a desert, even when it was nothing but an empty space and where life began. But then, curiously enough, he was no longer thinking of the lonely boy crying in the field or of the loneliness that had come over him, or of his leaving him without a word, or of the question whether it was a sin. As a matter of fact, he could have laughed at himself for his silliness for going to this bald old man with heavy eyes. But he did not. One went to God before dying. One must go to someone, somewhere. He was going to this man so that his life, a life as meaningless and as void as that moment near the mustard field, ended significantly.

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T R A N S L A T O R S Farhana Ahmed was teaching at the Department of English, University of Dhaka, when she co-translated Alauddin Al Azad’s story, “The Madonna.” It was her first attempt at translation. Sitara Jabeen Ahmed. See page 400. Noora Shamsi Bahar is a Senior Lecturer at the Department of English and Modern Languages, North South University. She completed her MA in English from The University of Western Ontario and has been teaching undergraduate students since 2010. She has presented research papers on the themes of violence (on the page, stage, and screen), performative revenge, rape trauma, childhood defiance, and transgressive womanhood in Oxford, Prague, and Dhaka. These papers have been published as book chapters and as journal articles. Her newly found vocation is translating Bengali short fiction into English, several of which have been published in local dailies. Sagar Chaudhury lived in London, UK, for over three decades working as a Producer/Broadcaster for BBC World Service and a Local Government officer. He wrote regular columns for the Dhaka paper The Daily Star and features for the monthly Bengali magazine Kali O Kalam. Before going abroad, he had written English sub-titles for films made by Satyajit Ray and other prominent film-makers of Kolkata. He has also done similar work for a few films made in Bangladesh. His English translations published in Bangladesh include Shamsur Rahman: Selected Political Poems, Vintage Short Fiction from Bangladesh and Operation Jackpot, among others.

Takad Ahmed Chowdhury is an Associate Professor and former Head of the Department of English of the University of Asia Pacific (UAP), Bangladesh. An academic and published researcher in journals and conferences of national and international standing, he has been teaching English for above twenty years. He is currently pursuing his PhD in TESOL from School of Educational Studies, Universiti Sains Malaysia (USM). Jyotiprakash Dutta is a well-known short story writer, now resident in the US. His publications include several volumes of short stories, including Durbinata Kal, Bahe Na Subatas, Phire Jao Jyostna, Nirbachita Galpa, and Galpasamagra. In 1971 he received the Bangla Academy Sahitya Puroshkar for his short stories. He was awarded the Ekushey Padak in 2016. In the nineteen sixties he coedited the literary magazine Kalbela with Hayat Mamud. Junaidul Haque went to St. Gregory’s High School, Dhaka College, and the University of Dhaka, where he completed his MA in English in 1979. He began writing as a child and contributed regularly to the Young Observer, the teenagers’ page of The Bangladesh Observer. He has published two novels, Bishader Tarunya and Ashombhober Paaye, four volumes of stories, including his Nirbachto Galpa, and two volumes of short essays. He writes both in Bangla and English. He has translated Rabindranath Tagore, Syed Mujtaba Ali and other major writers of Bangladesh.

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TRANSLATORS

Fayeza Hasanat, who teaches at the English Department of the University of Central Florida, is an academic, author, and translator. Her publications include Nawab Faizunnesa’s Rupjalal: Translation and Commentary (Brill Publishers, 2009) and A War Heroine I Speak, a translation of Neelima Ibrahim’s Ami Birangana Bolchhi (Bangla Academy, 2017). Her translation of Sufia Kamal’s A Diary of 1971 is upcoming from the Bangla Academy and Wounded Memories: The Written World of the War Heroines is upcoming from Brill Publishers. Her debut short story collection, The Bird Catcher and Other Stories (2018), was simultaneously published from the US and Bangladesh. Md. Jamal Hossain completed his MA in English Philology from the University of Göttingen, Germany. Earlier, he completed his MA in English Literature from the University of Dhaka. He has taught at Presidency University and Independent University, Bangladesh. His translations have been included in a number of anthologies published at home and abroad. Sabiha Huq is Professor of English at Khulna University. A creative writer and translator, she is currently working on The Mughal Aviary: Pre-Modern Women’s Writings in India. Her next monograph, Ibsen on the Decolonised South Asian Stage: Traversing Texts and Contexts, is due in 2022. Mohammad Shafiqul Islam, poetry editor of Reckoning, is the author of two poetry collections, most recently Inner State (Daily Star Books, 2020), and the translator of Humayun Ahmed: Selected Short Stories and Aphorisms of Humayun Azad. His work has appeared in Journal of Postcolonial Writing, Poem, Journal of World Literature, Critical Survey, South Asian Review, Massachusetts Review, Stag Hill Literary Journal, Dibur, Lunch Ticket, Bengal Lights, and elsewhere. His translations have been anthologized in a number of books, including The Book of Dhaka: A City in Short Fiction. Currently at work on his third collection of poetry

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and a few translation projects, Dr. Islam is Associate Professor of English at Shahjalal University of Science and Technology, Sylhet, Bangladesh. Shirin Hasanat Islam taught English Literature at the secondary and tertiary levels in Chittagong and Dhaka for over thirty years. She has co-edited Caged in Paradise, an anthology of short stories by Rizia Rahman, as well as translated several of the stories. She has also contributed to the translation of Kazi Nazrul Islam’s Bandhon Hara as Unfettered (2012) and to Kazi Nazrul Islam: Selections Volume 2 (2020). Selim Jahan is an author and an economist with a dozen books to his credit. He regularly writes columns in various newspapers and translates from Bangla to English and vice versa. He recently retired as the Director of the Human Development Report Office of UNDP and the Lead Author of the Human Development Reports. Shahidul Islam Khan presently teaches English at York University, Canada. He previously taught at a number of universities in Bangladesh, the US, and Saudi Arabia. A Fulbright scholar, he holds an MA from Columbia University. He earlier completed his Honours and MA from Dhaka University. He has translated both fiction and non-fiction. Abdullah Al Muktadir is a Bangladeshi poet and fiction writer. He is on the English faculty of Jatiya Kabi Kazi Nazrul Islam University, Trishal, Mymensingh. Muktadir completed his MA in English Literature from the University of Dhaka in 2014. He was an active member of Brine Pickles, a group of Bangladeshi creative writers in English. His first book, a collection of poems, was Anya Gaanger Gaan, Shomudrashsaman (2016). It was followed by a collection of short stories, Bochhorer Deerghatamo Raat (2019) and another collection of poems, Juddho Juddho Ruddha Din (2020).

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TRANSLATORS

Masrufa Ayesha Nusrat is Assistant Professor at East West University, Dhaka. Her research interests include Women’s Literature and Postcolonial Studies. She is a literary translator and has contributed to many anthologies. Celebration and Other Stories (Pathak Shamabesh, 2015) is a collection of her translation of short stories by contemporary Bangladeshi women. She has also contributed a piece to Stories from the Edge: Personal Narratives of the Liberation War (Bengal Publications, 2017). Arifa Ghani Rahman is Associate Professor of English at the University of Liberal Arts Bangladesh, Dhaka. She also teaches online at Rivier University, New Hampshire, USA from Bangladesh. In addition, she freelances as an editor and translator, with translations of several short stories, a book of poetry, and two novels to her credit. She likes to boast that she has spent approximately each decade of her life on a different continent. Ashfiqur Rahman completed his Honours and MA in English Literature from the University of Dhaka in 2011 and 2012 respectively. He is currently working at the United Commercial Bank Limited. His dream is to translate great works of Bangla literature to English. Marzia Rahman is a fiction writer and translator. Her writings have appeared in The Daily Star, The Independent, Dhaka Tribune, Golpokotha, Six Seasons Review, Writing Places Anthology, The Book of Dhaka and several online magazines. She is a member of Dhaka Translation Centre. In 2017, she participated in the International Literary Translation and Creative Writing Summer School at the University of East Anglia in Norwich, UK. Her novella-inflash, Life on the Edges, was longlisted in the Bath Novella-inFlash Award Competition in 2018. Currently, she is working on a collaborative translation project on Shahaduz Zaman’s Ekjon Komlalebu. Rahman’s debut novel, The Price of Freedom, is in the offing.

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Sharmillie Rahman is primarily a freelance writer with an academic background in Philosophy and English Literature. Based in Dhaka, she has taught English Literature in secondary school and has been contributing articles to local English dailies since 1996. She has also published short fiction in print and online media. She came upon the art scene while working for an English art quarterly and since has authored art reviews and translated an array of literary works. She also co-curated an art exhibition in a prestigious gallery in Dhaka. Hasan Ameen Salahuddin is currently the Vice Principal at Kaneko Canadian International School, Dhaka, after having taught high school Physics and Mathematics for nearly the past two decades. Alongside teaching, he also worked as a journalist between 2010 and 2015. During this time, he translated quite a few short stories based on the Liberation War of 1971, including authors such as Hasan Hafizur Rahman, Muhammad Zafar Iqbal, Selina Hossain. Hasan enjoys travelling, reading, cooking, and carpentry. Kaspia Sultana is on the English faculty at American International University Bangladesh (AIUB). Niaz Zaman. See page 206.

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A C K N O W L E D G E M E N T S Alauddin Al Azad’s “The Madonna” was first published in Under the Krishnachura: Fifty Years of Bangladeshi Writing, Dhaka: UPL, 2003. Anisul Hoque’s “One of Those Nights 1991” was published in the Daily Star on November 12, 2011. This is a slightly revised version. Farida Hossain’s “The Customer” was first published in Selected Short Stories from Bangladesh, Dhaka: UPL, 1998. Humayun Ahmed’s “Jalil Saheb’ s Petition” was first published in 1971 and After: Selected Stories, Dhaka: UPL, 2001. Jharna Das Purkayastha’s “The Night Queen” was first published in The Blue House, Dhaka: writers.ink, 2009. Kazi Fazlur Rahman’s “The Last Encounter” is included in The Image in the Mirror and Other Stories, Dhaka: UPL,1998. Mahmud Rahman’s “Dear Honourable Commissioner” was first published in Himal Southasian magazine on January 25, 2019. Makbula Manzoor’s “The Urban Jungle” was first anthologized in The Vultures Are Everywhere, Dhaka: Mouli Prokashoni, 2005. Syed Manzu Islam’s “The Mapmakers of Spitalfields” was anthologized in The Mapmakers of Spitalfields, Leeds: Peepal Tree, 1997. The collection was at that time published under his full name: Syed Manzurul Islam.

Nazrul Islam’s “21-2-2121” was first published in Chaos: IUB Studies in Literature, Language and Creative Writing 1: 2 (Autumn 2013). Niaz Zaman’s “The Monster’s Mother” was first published in The Last Line, Winter 2016. Numair Atif Choudhury’s “Chhokra” is included online at http:// www.geocities.ws/numairchoudhury/. Some typos have been corrected. Thanks to Razia Sultana Khan for providing the link. Purabi Basu’s “The Eternal Journey” was first published in Radha Will Not Cook and Other Stories, Dhaka: writers.ink, 2009. Rahad Abir’s “Mr. Moti” was first published in Himal on 14 January 2019. https://www.himalmag.com/mr-moti-bangladeshfiction-rahad-abir-2019/ Rashid Haider’s “Address Uncertain” was first published in Contemporary Short Stories from Bangladesh, Dhaka: UPL, 2010. Razia Sultana Khan’s “The Anklet” is included in The Best Asian Short Stories 2019, Singapore: Kitaab, 2019. Rizia Rahman’s “Mother Fatema Weeps” was first published in Caged in Paradise and Other Stories, Dhaka: UPL, 2010. Saleha Chowdhury’s “The Disappearance of Gopal Maker” was first published in the author’s Spiders and Other Stories, Dhaka: writers.ink, 2016.

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Syed Waliullah’s “No Enemy” was first published in From the Delta: English Fiction from Bangladesh, Dhaka: UPL, 2005. It was written by him in Karachi. He dated the completed typescript “2.2.1959.” He later translated this story himself into Bangla and included it in Dui Teer as “Nishphal Jiban Nishphal Yatra.”

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When the Mango Tree Blossomed Fifty Short Stories from Bangladesh

Articles inside

Mr. Moti

BEYOND THE SHADE OF THE MANGO TREE

The Last Encounter

Seventy-One

INTRODUCTION