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Syeda Farida Rahman, an artist and writer from Bangladesh, captures in this short story the impact of Partition on the Hindu community left behind in East Pakistan.
You’re Manosh. I’m Shyama. I remember the 1.20 flight taking off from the Old Airport. Whooshing up to the sky, carrying you inside. How close we were once, stringing words together endlessly, talking of ourselves. How easily time would pass, as if we had all eternity to ourselves. Our feet never touched the ground when we were together - we would fly on golden wings. You’d ask me to meet you at the canteen - I’d be there. You’d tell me to be at Ramna - the moments we shared sitting by the lake in the park, having coffee at the restaurant, sipping a soft drink - I can remember everything.
Gliding over the Buriganga on a boat - always wanting still more of the blue sky above and the green of nature far away. You’d take the oars and row the boat quite easily, yet you wouldn’t fit in - too handsome to be a boatman. The boatman would laugh, so would I. I couldn’t swim, the waves would frighten me - you would laugh at me. You were a good swimmer - laughing, you’d rock the boat.
We were both students at Dhaka Medical College. You would run to the classes. Stand close to me during the practicals. I’d jab you with my elbow, you’d push back with your chest. Laughing and teasing while dissecting male and female bodies, neither ashamed nor embarrassed.
Then one day we were both doctors. You came and told me you were going to Iran - to make me say that I would come with you. You were hurt when I refused, you offered marriage. - Oh Manosh, was I born only for you, wasn’t I a person in my own right? And wasn’t that person special to you at all? I avoided your proposal or perhaps I was forced to. You thought me cruel. In the end, you didn’t go - for some other reasons. You always thought of yourself as the victor - triumphant - you never could accept losing.
It was decided that your family would settle in India. Your brother was a doctor - so was your sister-in-law. So was your father. Our dream was in tatters, Manosh. You left for the other side. This Bengal and that Bengal - two Bengals under the same sky. The sky, the air, the light - these had not been divided in '47, just the borders. There’s no Pakistan now - just Bangladesh.
I was left on this side of the border - you crossed to the other side. You found security there, though you didn’t make a name for yourself. Taking revenge on me? Perhaps people are vindictive when they have the power to avenge themselves. But unless you’re empty inside why do you still write to me? I can feel your yearning in your words. What is it that you lack, Manosh? You were the prince of Dhaka Medical College. You performed your duties with joy in the corridors, the passages, the rooms - so alive. Are you a prisoner in a gilded cage today?
You misunderstood me. You knew we lived in Shankharipatti, my parents, my brothers and sisters. We returned from West Bengal after the liberation war was over, looking for my father and my widowed elder sister. Mother had been able to escape with my younger brother and sister. My elder sister wouldn’t leave our father behind. Her tattered sari was found hanging from trees and shrubs, caught on the branches. A shopkeeper had seen her being taken away. Those animals must have ravaged her beautiful body first. Then jackals and dogs must have eaten what was left of her.
After a year, there was nothing left to cremate even if we could have identified her. All that we could find after searching the ashes, the burnt heap that was our house, was the iron frame of my father’s wheelchair. We didn’t have to have him cremated. Their tortured spirits still live in the wind. Everyone said that I’d better stay on in West Bengal - I couldn’t. I dislike being a burden on anyone. When we returned, we started to live in the windowless, doorless, burnt-up skeleton of our house. I had no regrets; I had you, my country - we were free - and there was Bangabandhu - our beloved leader. No, I was never involved in politics, but love for one’s country - that is something innate.
Only once in my life did I get to meet the greatest leader of our nation face to face. I had longed to see him up close. He didn’t want to know my name, caste, religion or anything. When he heard I was a medical student, he put his hand upon my head and blessed me, “Be a doctor and serve your country, my dear, you are the wealth of this country, the pride of this nation.” And a leader like that was murdered. Our future became silent - darkness descended.
It was then that you came, wanting to leave for Iran. You left, and I was alone - so very alone. I had been offered a scholarship then. I was wondering whether to accept or not. I was to study in London, leaving my country behind, for three years. All of a sudden, a colleague, Shahana, showed me your wedding invitation - it was as if someone had sawed my heart into two. I didn’t delay any longer. I flew away over the seas, to an unknown country.
Later I heard from Dr Kamal, you wanted to jump off the roof when you heard I had left. But why? I wasn’t burning with jealousy or revenge - your rejections were what pushed me ahead in life. I work at the Holy Family Hospital. I check the patients’ pulses, check their eyes, push my stetho up against their chests. I free babies from their mothers’ wombs.
Nearly twelve years have passed since then. That chapter of my life is a pale memory - even memories of you are fading. What else could I have done? Life is a hard road to travel on. I put down the paper I’m holding and you’re standing in front of me like a dream. I am surprised. You roam all over the house, looking at everything but your eyes never leave me. You ask for my forgiveness again and again. You ask me desperately, do I still love you? Why is there no vermilion in the parting of my hair? You will end my loneliness. You will come back and marry me. Emotions were what controlled your life - they still do. Don’t you understand, Manosh, how deep my roots have spread into this country? Can love ever end? At all stages of life, one must embrace love - in the empty spaces - in the deep recesses. That is the essence of love.
You want to take me to your ancestral home in the village, just to look at it. We hit the road - the two of us. We board the ferry at Aricha - seeing the Padma as we go on our way - you eat some crisply fried fresh hilsa with relish. You used to love beef once. We get off at Daulatdia. Then continue on a bus. When the bus reaches the end of its route, we take a boat. The boat glides along the river. We can see the villages on both sides. The river is the Kumar. Farmers bathe their cows on the river banks. Boys stop splashing about in the water. They watch you - they watch me too. May be we are glittering in the sunlight. I peep out from within the boat, you sit outside, like a prince. You eat chips from a packet you are holding. You do like eating.
After the boat journey, we take the grassy path through the village. There are trees on both sides. You pass swiftly over the field dividers. I stumble and trip forwards. It’s getting late. You look at the mango grove and say, “Do you remember, Shyama? I say ‘Mother’ and my soul cries out.” I laugh at you trying to be poetic. A cuckoo trills from within the bamboo grove. You say, “Shyama, why don’t we spend a night here?”
I say, Why? - to comment on the moon rising over the bamboo grove, or to watch it silently?
You tell me how a boy you knew, Nayan, would play the flute on moonlit nights - his music could steal your heart. Nayan died in the war. As we pass by a yard, you tell me, this was Shona Mia’s house. He was so young and strong. He never came back from the war. This house used to be so alive. We reach a narrow path through the meadows - date trees line the path on both sides. One of the things you loved doing when you were a child was to steal the pots collecting sap from the date trees late at night and drink from them. Even the winter nights were filled with the fun of those stolen pots of drink for you.
But, Shyama, don’t you know that stolen food tastes better?You cross the bamboo spanning the canal without stopping, talking all the while. I inch along fearfully. When I finally reach the other side I find you embracing a young man - Nawshad, a childhood friend of yours. He’s a teacher at the village school now. He wants to take us with him, but you say, later. I want to see my home first. His face lights up with joy.
Some young boys come towards us, knotting their lungis round their waists - they sing in their cracked voices, my golden Bengal, I love you. They can’t hold the tune - but they sing anyway. They stop when they notice us. An old woman hobbles towards us leaning on a stick. You say, Aunt Sharoda? I’m Manosh. Don’t you know my father? Dr Bhabani Mohan Das.
The toothless old woman smiles, showing her gums - Oh you’re Bhabani’s child? How can I recognize you, son, you’ve grown up so. You look like a prince - is this your wife? Oh, as pretty as a picture.
I look away. Thank God, I’m wearing a large red dot on my forehead - or perhaps she would have asked a lot of other questions. She probably hasn’t noticed my unreddened hair-parting because of her obviously weak eyesight. The old woman asks. Where will you stay? You’ve sold your house and gone off to Hindustan. I live in a reed shack - clinging on to this soil - such love for this bit of earth! Your mother was a wonderful person - she gave me so much.
You reach into your pocket and push some money into her hands. She smiles her toothless smile, blessing you.
You try to think of other things. A palanquin carried by four singing bearers passes us. You ask me, Have you ever seen a palanquin? Look over there. My grandmother - my mother - used to ride in a palanquin when visiting her father or returning to her in-laws. The palanquin climbs noisily up the canal bank and moves out of sight. You say, every Baishakh there used to be a fair in that field, over there in front of that Shiva temple. You point with your eyes, even further away - See that smoke rising there? That’s the cremation ground. The Arial Khan used to flow by that bank. Now the river has moved far away - the sand-banks have risen.
You look sad. I can see your home, two-storied and white, through the coconut and betel nut trees. Water lilies bloom in the large pond, ducks glide about. The concrete ghat is large and overgrown with moss. This is where you would bathe as a child - if you felt like it you’d go for a swim in the Kumar. There’s a huge Kali temple just beside your home. Your mother and grandmother would do the aarti there every evening and pray for your well-being. There would be a huge mandap at each pooja. What fun you used to have. Everyone would eat of the prasad - caste and religion didn’t matter in your village. That Shonamukhi was a golden village!..
Niaz Zaman teaches English at the University of Dhaka. She is the author of A divided legacy, The dance and other stories and Selected short stories from Bangladesh.
BOOK: The escape and other stories of 1947
Edited by Niaz Zaman