I Remember Abbu

by Humayun Azad

I was born in an earthen hut, amidst the smell of the soil, amidst the fragrance of mango wood and smoke, wrote Abbu. And she is being born in a dirty clinic, amidst the smell of disinfectants and medicine. I was born in May, when sheaves of grain from the banks of Arial Lake were spilling out of the house and into our front yard, which was caked with cow dung set out to dry. And she is arriving in the middle of a hartal in August.

It didn’t befit geniuses like me to talk. It befitted me only to smile and to pout.

I used to wonder, Where does the newspaper come from? Why does it come only once each day, in the morning? What’s in it? Picking it up, Abbu would tell Ammu, “Here, ten dead today as well.” “Here, thirty dead today as well,” he would say, and start looking sad. I thought all the newspaper did was tell us how many people had died. Everyone had to read about death as soon as they woke up in the morning. At least, that was what Abbu did every day. Then he went out.

No incident is unimportant; everything holds some significance. Just as our words have meanings, and then meanings beyond those meanings, so, too, do incidents have meanings, and then meanings beyond meanings.

Can those who never dream understand those who do?

“My brother’s blood has turned it red, the twenty-first of February, it’s a date I’ll never forget . . .”

“Pakistan” is another word for “betrayal.” Nothing happens there without conspiracy and treachery. The election is a farce. They thought they would be able to crush the Bengalis by calling for an election. They thought the Bengalis wouldn’t get a majority, and the Pakistanis would retain control. That the sacred land of Pakistan would remain under the army generals’ boots.

Bengalis dream of ruling Pakistan, Abbu wrote. What an impossible dream. That day will never come. Why has Pakistan amassed so many weapons? Their armed forces are experts at occupying their own country. They will wipe out all Bengalis if need be, but they won’t let them come to power. Pakistan’s people can never hope to live in a democratic country. It’s impossible to have military rule and democracy at the same time.

We are moving toward our destiny. But will autonomy be enough now, or do we need something larger, like independence? But can independence come so easily? Does it not need blood, unending blood?

Pakistan has been burned to ashes today at the University of Dhaka. We were buried under the crescent and star all this time. We Bengalis. It’s the flag of treachery. It will not do for us anymore. We need a new flag, as the students and student leaders of the University of Dhaka showed us today. Some of them may lose their way in the future, but today they have set an example for all Bengalis.

Sheikh Mujib says, “This battle is for freedom. This war is our liberation war.” It scares me. This is not exactly a declaration of independence, then. The word “liberation” confuses us. There are different kinds of liberation, but there can be only one independence.

He thinks the demons will bow to the will of the people. Demons never do that.

Resistance Day.

Zahurul Hall.

Jagannath Hall.

All of Dhaka was going to the villages. Had everyone been sleeping beneath their beds like we had? Was this a city that slept beneath the bed? Was this a city that couldn’t sleep because of the ratatatat and the boomboomboom? There was a crowd of people on the riverbank. Everyone was leaving. No one was staying. I was very happy.

“What is independence?” I asked Abbu from his shoulders. “Something very rare,” Abbu said. “What does it look like?” I asked. “Like the red sun you saw,” Abbu said.

The war will have to spread everywhere. Only when it extends across the country can we be sure that victory will be ours. Everything that comes before that is just to keep our enthusiasm alive.

I began to wonder where the other side was. What if Abbu also crossed over to the other side? Where would we live? Would we also cross over to the other side? How far was the other side? I began to feel frightened. I wanted to cry.

I began to wonder where the other side was. What if Abbu also crossed over to the other side? Where would we live? Would we also cross over to the other side? How far was the other side? I began to feel frightened. I wanted to cry.

“Aren’t there a lot of Hindu families in that village?” someone asked Abbu. “Almost everyone in that village is Hindu,” said another. “Where are they now?” asked Abbu. “They’re still in the village,” someone else replied. “They must be told to run away,” Abbu said. “Muslims are in danger too,” said someone. “Everyone is in danger,” said Abbu, “but Hindus are in greater danger. That’s why they must be informed.” “I’ll go,” said someone.

Bengalis supporting the military, who were called rajakars, searched our luggage.

“You’re wearing handloom clothes,” said Ammu in surprise. “Everyone is nowadays,” said Abbu. My new shirt had a strange smell. “Dhaka has changed, you know,” said Abbu. “Its clothes have changed by day; its activities have changed by night.”

So, this was the military? The soldiers looked even worse than demons. Demons didn’t glare all the time. They didn’t hold guns ready to fire. The Pakistanis were even worse than demons.

Another rickshaw passed us. The man in it looked at us and suddenly started singing, “We love you, our dearest Bangla.” Abbu jumped in surprise. He trembled. I trembled. It had been such a long time since I’d heard the song. No one around us sang it anymore. There was a time I’d hear it every day. “Our dearest Bangla.” The other man’s song shook us. It shook the city under the control of the military.

The military was uglier than demons. Abbu and Kaku and their friends were so handsome. Was it right for the handsome to fight against the ugly? Could the handsome ever win against the ugly? Could the ugly ever win against the handsome?

Abbu, Abbu, I called out to him in my head, come back. I hate it without you. I hated going to sleep because Abbu wasn’t there. I hated eating because Abbu didn’t give me kisses. I hated waking up because I wouldn’t find Abbu lying next to me. All I did was stand on the balcony. All I wanted to do was lift the curtain and peep outside. I jumped up every time there was a knock at the door. I ran to see who it was. I hated my lunch because Abbu wasn’t there. I wanted to throw up after drinking my milk because Abbu wasn’t there. I didn’t feel like putting on my clothes because Abbu wasn’t there.

I wish I could go out at dawn with flowers. I wish I could sing the song that sounded like we were crying. I wish I could hold your hand and walk to the sun. I wish I could lay red flowers at its feet.