by Humayun Azad
Abbu asked for all the doors to be locked so that the tomcat couldn’t get in. All tomcats did was kill kittens.
The tomcat couldn’t get back in after that. But there was a crisis.
I loved the new kittens. Ammu came out of the kitchen to find me holding them. Dadu found me kissing one of them. Abbu found their fur in my mouth.
“Throw them out,” Dadu said.
“She’s going to catch something,” Ammu said. “Throw them out.”
Abbu was silent. I loved the kittens, so I would catch something. Fantastic!
Three kittens, white, black-and-white, red-and-white, surrounded the mother kitten. Like the sweetest of tigers, they pounced on the paper balls I threw at them. Could anything else pounce so beautifully? Imagine throwing out such kittens.
“Don’t throw them out,” I told Ammu sadly.
“I’ll get sick if they stay,” Ammu said.
So, it was decided that the kittens would be thrown out.
Abbu told his brother, whom I called Kaku, “Throw the kittens out today.”
But Kaku didn’t do any work at home. He showed up, ate, played with me, called me funny names, hoisted me on his shoulder and danced, and then went out again. He would never bother to throw the kittens out.
“Haven’t you thrown them out yet?” Abbu asked.
“I’ll do it one of these days,” Kaku said.
“It’s got to be done today,” said Abbu. “Have you seen how she holds them in her arms?”
Everyone was afraid that I’d catch something serious.
Illness was much closer to our home now.
“I’ll have to do it myself,” Abbu said.
Abbu gazed at the kittens. I brought him pieces of paper. But Abbu didn’t make balls out of them to toss at the kittens as before. The kittens circled Abbu and me.
Abbu wrote, How hard it was for me to throw the kittens out!
Abbu never wrote in his diary about the fairies he took me to see one afternoon. He wrote about the kittens.
Putting the mother and the baby kittens in a sack, Abbu went out.
He hailed a rickshaw. The driver asked, “Which way, saar?”
“Any way you like,” said Abbu, hauling the sack onto the rickshaw.
Evening had fallen. The city was sparkling with darkness and light. There was a nip in the air. Abbu sat on the rickshaw.
“Where to, saar?” asked the rickshaw driver.
“Take me to the park,” Abbu said.
A little later, Abbu said, “I have to do something bad, you know.”
“Bad, saar?”
“I’m throwing out our kittens,” Abbu said. “I feel awful about it.”
“You’re bound to feel awful if you’re throwing out pets,” the driver said.
The rickshaw stopped on the eastern side of the park. The driver said, “Throw them away here, saar.”
Abbu did not speak. The rickshaw began moving again. Eventually, the park was left behind.
“We’ve left it behind, saar, the place to throw them away.”
“Oh,” said Abbu. “Turn around.”
The rickshaw turned back.
On the eastern side of the park, where the road was as beautiful as the floor of a house, where the walking track was even lovelier, where there was a green carpet of grass, Abbu loosened the mouth of the sack holding the kittens and left it on the ground.
As soon as he started walking, the mother and two of the babies jumped out of the sack. The third one was stuck inside. Abbu had almost reached the rickshaw by then. He went back to release the kitten. As soon as it was free, the kitten jumped out to join its mother, brother, and sister. They were mewing. A kitten leaped in the air. The mother jumped onto the wall. The babies tried too. It was too high for them. The mother jumped down.
Abbu took his seat in the rickshaw. It started moving. Abbu had tears in his eyes. The rickshaw traveled a long way.
“Let’s go back to the kittens,” Abbu told the driver.
“Are you feeling very sad, saar?” the driver asked.
The rickshaw went back. The mother kitten was walking with her babies. They were northward bound. One of the kittens was walking ahead. The mother was in the middle. The other two babies were behind her. They seemed to be leaving the park to go back home.
Where will they go? Abbu asked himself. Abbu did not know.
Abbu came back home. He did not speak. I climbed onto his lap. He didn’t dance with me. He didn’t laugh with me. Abbu went out again after a short while.
I went back to the park, Abbu wrote. I thought I’d find them on the road. I wanted to bring them back. I looked for them a long time. But the cat and her babies were nowhere to be seen. My glasses had misted over.
Speak, Photograph
How fine it would be if photographs could talk, if photographs could walk. I have a pile of black-and-white photographs.
The age of color had not dawned yet. Every photo I own is black and white. Some of them have faded. But nothing in them can escape my eye. I can even see the things that have vanished. The photos are collected in a handful of small albums like gold. They have things written on the back in Abbu’s hand. Beautiful handwriting, like beads of pearl. If only my handwriting were that good!
I really do look like a fool in one of the photographs. I’ve stuck a pen in my mouth. That’s the photograph. I’m chewing a pen. Apparently, childhood is the time to try to eat everything. Is this pen a good one? Chew a corner to find out. Is that brick of high quality? Lick it to be sure. Is the book a masterpiece? Chew the cover and see what it’s like. How will you know what things taste like unless you chew them?
I’m sitting in Abbu’s lap, chewing a pen.
Abbu seems to be saying, “Must you chew everything?”
I seem to be saying, “How else will I know what the pen is like?”
Abbu seems to be saying, “What else do you wish you could chew?”
I seem to be saying, “I wish I could chew the moon to find out why it’s so white.”
Abbu seems to be saying, “What else dost thou wish to consume, thou genius, thou fool?”
I seem to be saying, “I wish I could chew the sun to find out why it’s so red.”
I like looking at Abbu’s photographs. It seems as if Abbu has emerged from the photographs to stand in front of me. And that he has started talking to me. In many of Abbu’s photographs, his eyes are almost shut, as though Abbu were asleep—even though he is sitting or standing or holding me in his lap or putting his arms around me.
“Why do you fall asleep during photographs, Abbu?” I ask.
“I’m afraid of the camera,” Abbu seems to say.
“Why do you curl your lips that way?” I ask.
“I’m trying to smile,” Abbu seems to say.
Abbu’s hair covered his forehead. His ears too. The part on the right-hand side was so sharp. He wore glasses with thick black frames. Would the frames have been as thick today?
“Why are your frames so thick, Abbu?”
“So that I look like a professor,” Abbu seems to say.
“Would you have worn such thick frames now?”
“No, I would have worn golden frames now,” Abbu seems to say.
In one photograph, I’m walking in the park, holding Ammu’s hand. In another, I’m sitting on the branch of a tree.
Everyone is silly in childhood, and the photographs are even sillier. Mine are absolutely ridiculous. But some of them are lovely. I want to kiss myself in them.
“Why aren’t all photographs beautiful?” I ask Abbu.
Abbu might say, “Photographs of beautiful people are always beautiful. Other people’s photographs are beautiful sometimes.”
“Why do you part your hair on the right, Abbu?” I ask.
“For fear of Baba,” Abbu says. “My father wouldn’t even allow me to comb my hair. A part on the left would have meant trouble.”
“But I part my hair on the left,” I say.
“Because your abbu is not my abbu,” Abbu says with a smile.
Abbu goes back into the album when I shut it. Our conversation stops. As soon as I open the album, Abbu walks around the room, onto the balcony, across the green grass in the park. He leads me by the hand, clasps me to his breast with kisses, calls me “genius, fool.”
I gaze at Abbu. I see Abbu, and I don’t see him.
Twenty-Four Hours in My Life
A crib had been made for me. Before I became me, I used to sleep in it like a kitten. How soft it was. How beautiful the patterns on its sides were. There was even a white mosquito net. I used to sleep and sleep and sleep in it, with a bottle in my mouth. But as soon as I became me, as soon as I learned to stand on my own, no one could make me stay in the crib.
The patterns felt like a prison. Getting to my feet, I would cry, “Oh oh gnn gnn.” Abbu would run to pick me up in his arms. Ammu would run to pick me up in her arms. What joy in escaping those bars!
I refused to be put back in the crib.
“We paid so much for it,” said Ammu.
“It’s just taking up room now,” said Abbu.
The horrible crib was removed. I was so happy. Who wanted to sleep alone in that cold crib when I could sleep in Ammu’s arms with one leg on Abbu’s tummy?
They found out straightaway that I was a firecracker. I’d go to bed next to Ammu, and dip and skip up on Abbu’s other side. Sometimes a leg on Ammu’s face, my head nestling on Abbu’s chest. If you have to sleep, that’s the way to do it. Am I a rock that remains still? It’s all right to be that way if you don’t have dreams, like rocks don’t have dreams. But I dream all night, and in my dream, I wander about in the land of the fairies. That’s why I spin all over the bed.
No one understands this. Can those who never dream understand those who do?
Ammu forces me to lie down on the rubber sheet.
Ammu gets angry in her sleep. “Stay there.”
Why shouldn’t she be angry? Ammu hasn’t had a full night’s sleep since my arrival.
That rubber sheet? Ugh! Someone makes sure it’s wet all night. Can someone who dreams possibly sleep on a rubber sheet?
I have lots to do, so I’m the first to wake up. Even before Ammu. I play with Ammu’s hair when I wake up.
I tug at her locks to find out to whom they belong. And whether they’re strong.
“Don’t pull,” says Ammu. “It’ll come out.”
I stick a finger in Abbu’s nose. I didn’t want to put my finger in his nose. I wanted to grab his face.
Waking up with a sneeze, Abbu hugs me and bites my cheek.
Ammu runs to the bathroom as soon as she’s up. She has to rush. Ammu puts on her sari hurriedly. Why does Ammu wear such a beautiful sari so early in the morning? Why doesn’t she dress me in new clothes?
One day, I realize Ammu turns into a fairy when she puts on a beautiful sari every morning. She goes off somewhere. No matter how much I go, “Oi, oi,” she doesn’t respond. Ammu doesn’t stay at home once she’s turned into a fairy. She goes off somewhere. When Ammu puts on her new sari, I see she has grown two lovely, colorful wings. Ammu uses those wings to fly far away.
But I’m a match for her. As soon as she puts on her sari, I jump into her arms.
“Go to Fazila now,” Ammu says.
I have learned to shake my head. “Naah naah oi oi,” I say.
Ammu has to carry me to the top of the stairs. I jump into Fazila’s arms. Ammu turns into a fairy and goes off somewhere.
Abbu is very nice. He doesn’t get dressed so quickly. When he goes into the bathroom, so do I.
What does Abbu put on his face? What’s that white thing Abbu puts on his face? Abbu is such fun.
The instrument goes cring-cring, cring-cring. I get excited.
I waddle toward it. Abbu is busy with his face. I run and fall on my face. The cring-cring stops. I cry.
It’s been put high up because of me. Although I run toward it when it goes cring-cring, I can’t reach it.
My eyes are fixed on the door. Where does everyone go through it? Where does everyone come from through it? One day, the door is open. As soon as I set one foot outside, I fall. But I grab the railing. Abbu comes running.
“What a boy!” Abbu says. “Can grab the banister already.”
“He’s a rogue, a rogue,” says Ammu, taking me in her arms.
I walk along the balcony in a dress. I’m going to peep into Abbu’s study. The moment he sees me, Abbu jumps up from his chair and comes to me.
“Catch, catch,” says Abbu.
I run off slowly. Abbu runs as though he can’t catch up. He trails behind. I run into Ammu’s arms.
I’ve learned many words. One of the sweet ones is “naughty.”
“Do you know how naughty I am, Abbu?” I ask Abbu.
“How naughty?” says Abbu.
“At nap time, I just close my eyes; I don’t nap,” I tell Abbu.
“Then who naps in the afternoon?” says Abbu.
“I do,” I say, jumping in the air.
It’s so much fun when Abbu brings chocolate. Abbu doesn’t hand it over at once. That’s what makes the chocolate sweeter. That’s what makes me want the chocolate even more.
Abbu asks from the door, “Where are you?”
I shout, “H . . . e . . . r . . . e . . .”
Abbu says again, “Wh . . . e . . . re?”
I say, “H . . . e . . . r . . . e . . .”
Abbu says, “Who wants chocolate?”
He holds the chocolate high in the air.
I put my arms around Abbu, dancing with joy. “I do, I do, I do.”
Abbu breaks off a piece of chocolate and puts it in my mouth. How sweet the chocolate tastes.
Walking Barefoot at Dawn
Abbu tells me all the time to put on shoes. Who wants to wear shoes so much? Abbu’s eyes are always fixed on my feet.
All that Abbu says is, “Where are your shoes, where are your shoes, where are your shoes?”
It deafens me. My feet hurt from all this wearing of shoes. What I like is to walk barefoot on the floor. To get my feet wet, my face wet, my clothes wet in the bathroom. How sweet the cold was that night. I was so toasty under the quilt with Ammu, in the warmth of her body. It was almost dawn, and I wasn’t awake yet. Abbu was awake. How strange, Abbu woke up even before me.
Abbu poked me. “Wilt thou come?”
My sleep was like a china cup. It could be shattered at the touch of a fingertip.
“I will,” I said, opening my eyes.
I jumped up.
“What’s this, you want to take her too?” asked Ammu.
“Hmm,” said Abbu.
I’d slept enough. I leaped out of bed. Abbu dressed me. I ran to get my shoes.
“No need for shoes today,” Abbu said.
I was so pleased. I wanted to sing, No shoes today, no shoes today. Abbu hadn’t put on his shoes either.
“Go ahead. I’ll join you afterward,” said Ammu.
When we went out, how wonderful, there were so many people, none of them with shoes on their feet. Not on my feet, not on Abbu’s feet. Not on the feet of the man in front of me. Or the man behind me. Everyone was walking slowly. They were singing like they were crying, the way I cry sometimes like I’m singing.
Many of them had flowers. Some of them had large garlands.
Everyone was singing like they were crying softly. Everyone was crying for their brother. Had so many people lost their brother on the same day? Could a day become red with the blood of everyone’s brothers? The brothers of so many people? Who was he? Who were they, all these lost brothers? I didn’t have any brothers. I was nobody’s brother. Who were they, these brothers of all these people?
“Sing,” said Abbu.
So Abbu could sing? I had never heard Abbu sing before.
Abbu was singing, “My brother’s blood has turned it red, the twenty-first of February, it’s a date I’ll never forget . . .”
> Was Abbu’s brother lost as well? And Abbu couldn’t forget him either?
I sang too, “My brother’s blood . . .”
Who were these brothers whom everyone had lost and so was forced to cry for as they walked barefoot at dawn? I felt like crying when I sang, “It’s a date I’ll never forget.” It was so crowded here. Where were we going? I couldn’t keep up with the crowd, so we walked along the edge of the road. How magnificent they looked as they marched in rows. Their singing made my heart tremble.
Abbu brought some flowers from somewhere. He pinned a black ribbon on my chest. I had a black ribbon on my chest and flowers in my hand.
What was this day that had dawned? We had never had a day like this before, a day of so many people, of so many flowers, of black ribbons, of singing for our brothers. Or perhaps we had, but I was too small for Abbu to have brought me.
A girl came up to us and picked me up in her arms.
“Goodness,” she said, “how you’ve grown. How does it feel to be here?”
“I feel like crying,” I told her.
“No, don’t cry,” she told me.
She was dressed in a black sari. So were many others. We were walking. But do you think it was easy? There were people and more people. All of them singing like they were crying. I kept wishing we could go much farther.
I couldn’t walk anymore. I had never walked so much. My feet felt funny. But I was happy. Abbu picked me up in his arms and walked for a long time.
Then I saw everyone laying the flowers in front of a sun. A mountain of flowers. Soon they would cover the sun. The scarlet sun would sink into blue flowers. Everyone was lining up to lay flowers.
We, Abbu and I, moved forward slowly toward the sun. It’s a date I’ll never forget, I sang in my head, and laid my flowers at the foot of the sun.
Abbu put his flowers at the foot of the sun. It seemed to me the sun was turning into a huge flower and filling up everything, and the flowers were turning into red suns and spreading everywhere.
When we returned home, I cried in my heart. It’s a date I’ll never forget . . .
The Birth of a Flag
Abbu wrote, I expected something like this. “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.