A few days ago, I went to collect news from a freedom fighters’ camp on the frontlines. The camp commander, cramped up as he was with work at the moment, handed me a notebook and instructed me to read it sitting somewhere around while waiting up for him. He further said that he would speak with me later as he had some pressing business to attend to.
I took the notebook clothed in red, stained with specks of dust, ink, and oil here and there.
Opening it, I found the handwriting feminine and the alphabets life-sized – a bit haphazard on the whole. I began reading the entries within.
Well, for starters, I would feel a twinge of grief, especially in the beginning whenever I saw someone’s death. I even grew afflicted by that. Maybe at times a tear or a few of them would well up in my eyes. Over time, I have got used to all these. Perhaps my round-the-clock exposure to death has desensitized me to some extent. News of casualties reaches me frequently, and I witness the deceased, and bury the dead bodies in their graves. And in the very next moment, I forget about all these things.
I stand on a hillock with my rifle slung over my shoulder. I look forward, gazing at the vast sky overhead. In the distance, I see a loft, with young gourds gently swaying in the wind. Below, a few paddy fields lie stretched out with two palmyra palm trees nearby. I know there’s another village far beyond; as news has arrived that they have set their base in it. The presence of those, we once stayed with together, slept with, dined with, and engaged with in heartfelt conversations at the table, now triggers an exhilarating surge of adrenaline in us. Their very sight makes my eyes feel gritty. My hands begin to itch for the rifle’s trigger, desperate to shoot them all. Every kill brings me inexplicable joy. I even go to the extent of defiling the faces of the lifeless bodies with the spittle of my abhorrence.
Paddy fields lie stretched out in front, a few cows grazing on the land aisles nearby. A goat is bleating persistently. Suddenly, a flock of birds takes wing towards a village somewhere in the distance. All of a sudden, something begins to stir up there, and my gaze gets focused on that. Readily, I send for the camp commander.
“Sir, it seems they might march forward.”
Hunching over a map, he was planning. He looked up, a pair of blood-shot eyes, probably weary as he hadn’t slept for the last two nights, having no chance for sleep either. Glancing up at me, he asked, “What did you see?”
I said, “It appeared to be some movement there.”
He cut me off abruptly, dismissing the result of my surveillance. “What you saw is wrong. They’re not supposed to move for another day or two. Go and take a closer look.”
I returned to my post. The weariness of looking without a break, and sometimes I found myself drowsing. My vision became blurred. Maybe all these began to take its toll on me, forcing me to make mistakes.
But what I saw in the cramped restroom at the launch wharf by the Buriganga couldn’t be wrong. I heard many people had sought refuge there. Yet, when I arrived there, the place was empty.
On the floor, I just saw pudding-like clotted blood, boot marks, numerous bare footprints – tiny and tender feet, adult feet, a bunch of women’s hair, two severed fingers, one ring, pools of blood – both red and black, severed organs like hands, legs, and ankles, again thick pudding-like blood, a blown-up part of someone’s skull, a portion of someone’s brain, footprints skidded on blood, streams of blood, a letter, a money bag, a towel, a pair of sandals, some biscuits, clotted blood, a nose pin, a comb, boot marks, a white lace turned red, a hairpin, sticks of a matchbox. Here and there, scattered marks of a person being dragged on the floor. The drain nearby was clogged, as blood streams clotted thick like lava.
Having seen all these, I fled from there without stopping for a breath. I was not alone, there were innumerable men marching forward like ants. They ran with suitcases balanced on their heads, bundled clothes held tightly under their arms, hurricane lanterns in hand, and children clinging to their waists. The marks of restless fear were etched on their faces, and they hardly spoke, seemingly silenced by the unfolding of unimaginable horrors around them.
Suddenly, a panicked voice exclaimed, “Don’t go there! The military is there.” As people were fleeing on boats, the military opened fire on them, it was a horrific sight – two or three hundred lives lost. I couldn’t help but feel a weight on my chest as if someone had tied stones to my feet. I realized I was not alone; there were many others, all with a thousand eyes reflecting shock and despair. There was no turning back, no escape from the pile of corpses that lay before us; the road was closed, impassable.
On the other hand, I could not dare to move forward, there might be a mountain of corpses obstructing the way. Where else could I go?
Suddenly, the sound of a helicopter pierced through the air. Instantly, we all started running in whichever direction seemed safest, like river sprats in panic and confusion. The helicopter seemed to be descending overhead. It felt as if multiple bolts of lightning struck simultaneously, and I found myself falling face first to the ground. Everything went dark, and I struggled to make sense of the chaos. Machine guns echoed in the distance, accompanied by the cries of children and the lamentation of countless people. Amidst the turmoil, a teenager’s voice stood out—“Bajan, Bajan,” he was calling out for his missing father. Then, descended an eerie silence as often felt around a burning ghat. There was a pain lingering around my neck. Slowly, I looked up but what I saw was indistinct. Everything blurred into a chaotic mess as if darkness had descended all around me. I came to sense that I was either losing my consciousness or dying.
In front of us stretched a paddy field, nearby a loft with young gourds hanging from there. Just behind the loft were a few bamboo orchards behind which four or five tents were set. There was an old building. This was where all twenty-seven of us lived.
In the beginning, we were nineteen people. Then, eight lives were claimed by mortar fire. We, now reduced to eleven, had to leave their bodies behind and return to the camp.
One person escaped that fateful night and never returned. Another fell sick and died. He lay motionless with his limbs stretched out even before we knew what it was afflicting him. He never rose again. In his chest pocket, I found a letter addressed to his mother, assuring her not to worry. I put the letter in his grave, urging him to rest peacefully there. We were reduced to nine people then, but now we had grown to twenty-seven.
The twenty-seven of us there were of varying ages; and belonging to various religions and opinions. Before this grouping, no one ever knew each other, nor talked to each other, and even no one had seen other faces for once.
Some among us were students, some day-laborers, farmers, middle-class clerks, jute brokers, or fishermen from the banks of the Padma.
But now, we were all soldiers, living together, sharing meals, and sleeping in close quarters.
We formed an unbreakable bond. When we shouldered our rifles and ventured out in search of our enemies, it felt as though we had known each other for a lifetime. I knew them intimately as if they had been my own kin.
It seemed as if we were bound together by an inseparable tie of a relationship that continued for long. Our existence and our purpose had merged into one. Sometimes, while resting, we formed a circle and shared our anecdotes about the past, of the present, and of the future.
Numerous common-day discussions ensued among us: The medicine had depleted, and we needed the quick replenishment. For days, we were surviving solely on rice and lentils, a bit of fish or meat would have provided the much-needed respite. We were twenty-seven individuals, but we had only nine rifles with us. If we had more weapons, and if each of us had at least one, we wouldn’t have let even one of the enemy soldiers escape that day.
Around two hundred of them turned up there. They fled, leaving behind 45 lifeless bodies as we pursued them up to the wharf. We had to give up the chase as we suddenly ran out of ammunition.
As I returned, I saw numerous boys, elderly men, women, and the wives of peasant households rushing in from the surrounding villages. Some held brooms; others carried axes and digging iron bars.
In disgust, they were thrashing their brooms on the faces of the corpses. They were axing into pieces the hands of the corpses, the legs, and the ribs. An old man cried out loud as he was hacking a lifeless body into countless pieces-“You killed my son,” he exclaimed, “You picked up my daughter-in-law, my daughter lost her sanity because of you… you destroyed my beloved family. May the wrath of Allah fall on you?” There was widespread hatred, wrath, and agony among people.
As soon as we prevented them from carrying out such acts of hatred, the grieving crowd burst into tears, pouring out their grief through lamentation. As the grieving subsided, they began to recount the stories of their profound sorrows: they had lost sons, husbands, and wives who had been raped. Young girls had been captured three months ago. The enemies plundered their oxen and their ornaments. Nothing was left behind. Everything was looted.
Widespread hatred, wrath, and agony afflicted them.
How would they keep living with such pain? If everything had been obliterated in an instant by an explosion, perhaps they could have given life a tryout.
They were not alone. Many people, seventy five million for that matter. Ten millions had fled their homes, and thirty millions were always on their toes, always moving from one village to another.
Terror, fear, and panic stuck out everywhere
When I came to my senses, I, too, ran away, inhaling the scent of burnt earth, jumping over the corpses, and bursting through coils of black smoke billowing into the air.
I sheltered in a boat with the large sails, which was teeming with people of all ages. However, the villages on both sides of the river were engulfed in flames. Not so long ago, a fleet of fighter jets flew and relentlessly bombarded the areas.
There was a nearby small town still up in the flames, with black plumes of smoke spiraling up into the sky. No humans, dogs, or animals could be found there. Empty houses stood as if they were in a ghost town. Suddenly, the voices of many girls resonated through the air. I turned to look and saw a group of them on the far side of the river, shouting for the boat to be taken ashore. They wanted shelter in the boat.
“-No, no, beware, the boat cannot be docked there,” an old woman warned them with a groan.
“-Why? What happened?”
“-What else could have happened? They are bad girls, market girls”, she replied
“-What do you mean by ‘market girls?’
“-Don’t you know what a market girl is? A whore.” She responded, narrowing her eyes in disgust as many others did the same.
Some of them turned their heads and noticed the whores standing on the shore. “No, no, there’s no need to stop the boat,” someone interjected. “Let the troubles perish. It’s better for them to die.”
“Stop the boat!” Suddenly, a young man’s voice pierced through the crowd, he had a full-face stubble and bloodshot eyes like red hibiscuses. With an authoritative air, he ordered, “Get them on board the boat, quickly.”
In response, the elderly man expressed his displeasure, firmly stating, “No, the boat won’t stop.”
Without hesitation, the boy lunged forward, seizing the old man by the throat. “I’ll toss you out into that river if you dare defy me here, son of a bitch; is there any piglet who has the guts to stop me here?”, he threatened in simmering anger.
“Oarsman,” he commanded, “Dock the boat and pick them up.” Then silence reigned for some moments but the boat eventually came to a halt.
The whores, frightened and almost half-dead with fear, boarded the boat like a flock of sheep. They were of many sizes in stature, some of them young, some middle-aged, others quite old.
Disgusted, the upper-class passengers distanced themselves from the women while the whores remained silent, huddling in a corner.
There were many faces, and one face among them bore a striking resemblance to my mother.
I couldn’t but wonder what my mom was doing right now.
Remembering my mother brought a sharp spasm to my chest.
My younger brother, my elder sister Itu,– how were they now?
Were they alive or had fate taken them away? I didn’t know, or maybe I wouldn’t know anything about it for a very long time.
Yet, a persistent question was haunting my thoughts:
Would I ever be able to have breakfast with them at the dining table?
Would my mother, with her gentle morning calls, knock on my door and ask, “Hey, are you still sleeping? The day is getting farther. Wake up, won’t you have some tea?”
Or
Gathering in groups to play the carrom board game on the roof of our house. Could I relive those moments again?
Or
Keeping our mother as a witness, attempting to pick the pockets of our father? Maybe; I didn’t know now.
When one tries to secure answers, one has to contemplate. And sometimes, thoughts bring only pain. But there was a time when I used to love thinking very much, especially about Jaya.
Jaya, my sister-in-law Chinu’s relative, I thought about her in many ways: sometimes against the tumultuous backdrop of the sea, sometimes amidst a procession like an expanse of rolling waves, and sometimes in the seclusion of a small room day and night.
In the embrace of darkness.
Or at noon, seated at a corner table in a restaurant, in serene solitude, just looking at two cups of tea in front for a long while, in those moments without the necessity for any conversation at all.
Ichamati, Karatoya, and Mayurakshi – the rivers in whose waters we once played hide and seek with the waves.
Jaya, however, had never seen the sea. She had a deep-rooted desire to see it in its grandeur.
One day, she said laughing, “You know, I have just returned from the sea.” ‘When?” “Where?” I was taken aback.
“In this city?” chuckled Jaya, wiping the sweat off my forehead with her sari’s edge. “Have you ever seen so many seas overflowing everywhere in the city’s streets and alleys?’
The sea of people.
Deeper than the sea.
More tumultuous than the ocean itself.
Dynamic.
It felt whatever would obstruct our way like the range of a hundred hills, everything would be swept away. Millions of faces carved on rocks. Clenched fists raised beyond borders. The roar of this procession rendered the sound of a million thunderbolts or crashing waves meaningless.
Unprecedented.
I had seen much in February, 1952, in 1954, in 1962, in 1966 or in 1969.
But never had I seen such a surge of life.
Never had I beheld so many of deaths.
Gazing ahead, I saw a vast sky. A few lofts with young gourds dangling below. A handful of paddy fields.Two palmyra palm trees. Another village on the horizon.
All these I saw every day.
I didn’t even see Jaya so intimately like this.
There were a few bamboo orchards behind which four or five tents were set. There was an old building on whose walls we did countless small lines with charcoal. They were records of the departed.
Not our own.
Theirs.
Whenever I killed an enemy, I drew a fresh line on the wall. It made for convenient book-keeping. Frequently, I would recount them. Three hundred seventy-two, seventy-three, seventy-four. I had been waiting for the entire wall to be filled with such numbers. We were also keeping a tally of the deceased from our side. But it remained in the realm of our mind. Many scars were etched in the mind. Sometimes, I counted them, too.
One day, some time ago, the sector commander visited our camp, and we all stood in formation to greet him. He posed a question, to which we responded almost uniformly.
We spoke up, declaring that we were fighting for our country, for our motherland – Bangladesh. But later, I began to doubt the correctness of my answer. We engaged in a lengthy discussion. Was my answer truly accurate? After all, a country is a matter of geography, and boundaries have shifted countless times over the centuries and will continue changing in the future, too.
So, what were we truly fighting for?
Amongst us, there were differing opinions. Some believed we were fighting for revenge, fueled by the atrocities committed against our mothers and sisters as against dogs and cats, and vowing to avenge them.
Others saw our fight as a battle against injustice, against those who had exploited us for so long. They saw our mission as one to drive away the oppressors.
Then, there were also those who professed their loyalty to Sheikh Sahib, their motivation rooted in their belief in his leadership.
And some questioned why we were fighting at all. They pointed out the prevalence of thugs, rascals, moneylenders, and religion-traders in our country and wanted to kick them all out of our land.
I listened intently to their words and occasionally engaged in the debate. However, I remained unsatisfied.
What were we truly fighting for? We had given so many of our lives and shed so much blood. Perhaps for happiness. For peace. For our desires to be fulfilled our way. Or simply for our survival. For our own existence. Or as per the necessity of our time. We were fighting to meet the demands of our time.
I could not think much. My small head could not hold so many of these complex thoughts that painfully made me dizzy. What I did understand in the end was simple: we should drive them away from our land, and that was the necessity of our time.
The lines on the walls were multiplying.
The scars on my mind also continued to multiply each passing day.
Just yesterday, a bullet from somewhere else found its mark on my wrist. It could have reached my chest. The distance was just two fingers away. Now, I should rest for a few days.
If my mother were here, she would gently comb my hair with her fingers. She would cry and scold me, saying, “Brave-heart, why did you venture so far? Why not stay behind like the others? There’s no need to be so reckless, my son. Come back home.”
Home?
Indeed, the workings of the human imagination are quite peculiar.
They reduced our homes to ashes, yet here I was, thinking about home.
I heard news of the whereabouts of my mother, father, brother, and sister. Perhaps they were in some village or refugee camp. Or maybe… I refused to entertain the thought.
As for Jaya, there was no news of her. Where could that girl have gone? I didn’t want to dwell on it; the uncertainty was terrifying.
All I could be sure of was that we would win this war today, or tomorrow, or the day after.
One day, I would return to my town, my village. Many familiar faces might have vanished by then, I wouldn’t be able to see them all. But I would cherish those who could remain.
I’d recount the stories of those who once had lived but were no longer with us, and relate them to those who would remain.
Like the story of that brave boy who faced a tank with a mine strapped to his chest.
Or the elderly farmer who took up a rifle with a gentle smile and said, “I’m going”. He never returned, like so many others.
The stories of half a million children who died in refugee camps, and maybe ten million corpses lying in ten thousand villages. Maybe the number might have reached thirty million by now.
Perhaps, one thousand and one nights would pass, yet my story wouldn’t be anywhere near the end.
Before me stretched a vast paddy field beneath an expansive sky. A gourd loft holds young gourds, swaying gently. Two palmyra palm trees. And in the distance lay another village, known as Rohanpur, where they camped, those who once had been part of our community.
The diary offered no further details.
I decided to pass the notebook to the camp commander and inquired, “Is this your writing?”
“No,” he replied, “It belongs to one of our freedom fighters.”
“May I speak with him briefly?” I pressed.
He looked at me for a moment listlessly before responding, “He went on an operation a few days ago. They’ve apprehended him.”
“And then?” I asked.
“I can’t say for certain what happened next. They might have killed him or probably he is still alive somewhere.”
My gaze inadvertently returned to the notebook. I turned over some pages for quite some time and then cast my gaze outside.
Outside, beneath the vast expanse of the sky, a young gourd dangled from its loft. Paddy fields lay stretched out, and two palmyra palm trees. In the distance, there was another village, still ablaze.