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.
