I Remember Abbu

by Humayun Azad

  No one knew. In our hearts, perhaps?

  “Didn’t we used to have a Pakistani flag?” Abbu asked.

  “I have no idea,” said Ammu.

  She searched everywhere. Under the bed, in the kitchen, in the dustbin. The crescent-and-star flag was finally found in the trash. But it wasn’t a flag anymore; it was a filthy rag. Both Abbu and Kaku had used it to clean their shoes. Fazila had wiped the floor with it. It was ruined. How could it be put up on the roof? The crescent was shredded, and the star had fallen off altogether.

  “Give me an old green sari,” said Abbu.

  Fazila found an old green sari. She found an old white cloth too.

  A crescent-and-moon flag was made. It refused to fly. It drooped.

  Abbu put it up on the roof. It dangled from the post, as though it would never fly. Kaku spat on it.

  The flag of Pakistan hung on our roof like a gob of spit.

  Dhaka Is Fleeing

  Abbu wrote, There’s a curfew all over town. I can no longer tell what’s happening. There’s a plume of smoke over Zahurul Hall. It’s been rising since the morning. Did the military set the place on fire? Dhaka seems to be petrified.

  For the first time, we were confined to our room We didn’t dare go out to the balcony. A strange silence everywhere.

  Abbu wrote, There’s nothing but declarations of peace on the radio. I feel like throwing the blasted thing away. Just yesterday it was playing “Amar Shonar Bangla.” What are these sounds coming out of it now? Where is Sheikh Mujib? What of all his discussions? What will happen now?

  Abbu wrote, We trembled with fear when we heard on the radio this afternoon. First, “Amar Shonar Bangla” was played, and then came the announcement: “A civil war has broken out in East Pakistan.” Then the song was played again, followed by the same announcement. I clutched the radio and trembled.

  Afternoon came, then evening, then night. And once again the ratatatatat bambambam goomgoomgoom. The second night of the demons began in our Dhaka. Ammu had already made our bed beneath the bed. We lay down there. Abbu could not sleep; Ammu could not sleep. Even I could not sleep. All I could hear was the sound just outside our door. Ratatatatat. Bambambam.

  Abbu wrote:

  March 27, 1971 (Entry on March 29, 1971)

  The curfew was lifted in the morning. I went out for a look around the city. I never imagined Dhaka could have changed so much in just two nights. There were people everywhere once again, but while before they’d been dressed in clean, ironed clothes, now they seemed to have come out in their pajamas. Everyone’s hair was disheveled, and they had dark circles under their eyes.

  Walking through Azimpur to the Newmarket crossing, I was frightened by what I saw. One armored car after another zoomed past, their guns aimed at the people on the street. They seemed ready to fire. I was terrified before I had taken even a dozen steps. What if the rain of bullets began again?

  All of Dhaka seemed to be fleeing. People were running away in rickshaws, on foot. Babies in their arms, children on their shoulders, bundles on their backs. Everyone’s spine seemed bent. The people looked broken. The people looked defeated. None of them could hold their head high. They were cowering in terror, shriveled beneath their burdens. Barely a shop was open. The non-Bengalis who live here were driving around, shouting, “Long live Pakistan.” Bent and broken, Dhaka was running away from Dhaka with the military all around.

  The slums on either side of the railway tracks had been burned to ashes. Corpses lay everywhere. No one could look at them. The military’s armored cars were right on our heels.

  Corpses lined the floor of Zahurul Hall. Both the first and second floors were rivers of blood. I couldn’t bear to look at the scene. Someone said it was worse in Jagannath Hall. G. C. Deb’s body was lying on one side. I couldn’t look. I couldn’t move. I set off homeward. On the main road, I saw the armored cars behind me, their guns pointing at the people. Each one of those vehicles looked like a wolf with bullet wounds.

  When I reached the house, I found everyone standing at the gate.

  “Let’s go,” I said.

  Instead of entering the house, we all set off for our village.

  We’re Going to Our Village

  We were going to our village. I was very happy. I’d never been to our village. Nor had Abbu in a long time, or he would have taken me. What was a village like? Was it like in the picture?

  Abbu picked me up in his arms. Dadu had hired someone to escort us to the village. He was carrying our luggage. Ammu was carrying my bag. Kaku was carrying a large case.

  Abbu was carrying me.

  Many others were on their way, just like us. We went up to the river along an old road. It looked like a road poor people lived on. People were crossing the river in boats. Boats everywhere. People everywhere. Nobody was crossing over to our side of the river.

  Why were we going to the village now? Why hadn’t we been before? Was it because we couldn’t sleep at night anymore? Were we going to the village because we were no longer sleeping in our beds? Had Abbu and Ammu decided to go on a vacation after all this time? I didn’t know.

  I was happy we were going to our village.

  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.

  Some people came to receive us as soon as the boat was moored on the other side. They looked happy. Village people were nice. I was happy. One of them gave me a kiss.

  Was this a village? There were trees everywhere.

  Abbu wrote, It was evening by the time we reached Jinjira. We would have to spend the night there.

  This was my first visit to the village. This was the first time I would stay in a village.

  The place was filled with people. They had spread sheets on the ground to sit on, to lie on. By the houses, beneath the trees. Did you have to sleep beneath trees at night if you lived in a village?

  Someone had recognized Abbu. So, we were taken into a house. Here in the village, we slept all night.

  We didn’t have to sleep under the bed here. But we could hear the ratatatat and the boomboomboom on the other side of the river, far away. A beam of light fell on this side of the river. It came from the other side.

  In the morning, we began walking. I enjoyed the walk. It was a lot like walking barefoot that other morning. A pond here, cows there, houses nearby. I loved the village. The people of the village were very nice too. They had set up shops along the way.

  “Have a cold drink,” they said.

  We had cold drinks. They didn’t accept money from Abbu. They didn’t accept money from anyone.

  “What do you think will happen now, saar?” someone asked Abbu.

  “War,” said Abbu. “There’s no other option.”

  What did war mean? I wondered.

  The man who had asked the question carried me on his shoulders a long way. How nice everyone was. All the village people had smiles on their faces. Those who had come from Dhaka were finding it difficult to walk. Abbu walked a long way with me on his shoulders.

  I walked a long way. Dadu walked a long way. Ammu walked a long way. We traveled a long way on a boat. Then we walked again. Only cold drinks on the way.

  Kaku was carrying the radio. Suddenly, he shouted, “Independence, we’re going to get independence.”

  What did independence mean? I wondered.

  Everyone gathered around the radio.

  Abbu wrote, The sound seemed to come from a distance. Yet it also seemed close by. “This is Major Zia, this is Major Zia.” Major Zia announced independence. An electric current ran through my body. My blood tingled. I felt we had got freedom.

  “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.

  One day, I had walked barefoot and seen a red sun. On several days, I had seen a sun on a flag. I remembered the sun.

  “When will we get independence, Abbu?” I asked.

  “No one knows,” said Abbu.

  I really wanted to know when we’d get independence. Abbu knew everything. Why didn’t he know this?

  I was aching all over from being carried and from walking. Ammu couldn’t walk properly anymore. Abbu couldn’t either. None of the people who were with us could walk anymore. It was evening, but we were still walking. So many people were walking. Many of them had left the road to walk in the fields. Maybe they were nearly home. In the morning, I’d been so happy to go to our village, but my happiness had dried up.

  “Who knows when we’ll go back to Dhaka,” said Ammu.

  “We haven’t even left Dhaka properly yet,” said Abbu.

  Fear had gotten into my heart now. Everyone was saying Dhaka had become a dangerous place.

  I thought demons had entered Dhaka. Their footsteps were making the ratatatat boomboomboom noises. We had left Dhaka out of fear of demons. When would we go back? Demons never died easily in all the stories I’d heard about them. They died eventually, but not easily.

  My heart trembled with fear.

  It was almost night. Everything looked sleepy. The trees looked like they would go to sleep any moment.

  “There, that’s the roof of our house,” said Abbu.

  Abbu showed me a house through the trees. It felt as though the house were falling asleep, just like me.

  Tonight, my eyes would be full of sleep in a room full of sleep.

  Green All Around

  How lovely my village was! Green all around. Ponds everywhere. How beautiful the earth looked! How clear the water in the ponds!

  Many people came to see us. We went to see many people.

  Abbu and Kaku waded into the pond to catch us some fish. I loved it. The crowd on the wide road running past our house just wouldn’t stop. An endless stream of people kept walking by, coming from the same direction that we had. An endless stream of people.

  The stands offering cold drinks had packed up. Everyone coming from Dhaka looked stricken with fear. Whenever anyone asked how things were in the city, they said, “Very bad,” and continued on their way.

  I was sitting by the road with Abbu in the afternoon. All I could hear was “very bad.” I didn’t want to hear it anymore. Abbu no longer smiled like he used to.

  Abbu wrote, The villages are filling with people. Those who have not been home in years are flocking to their villages. They’ve come from Dhaka, from Narayanganj, from Jessore, from Chittagong, from Dinajpur, from Kumilla. They’ve come from everywhere. Every town is in the same situation as Dhaka.

  The army is shooting people, abducting people, setting people on fire. The cities are uninhabitable. Everyone has fled. But how long can we stay here? Will the military not come to the villages? We need money to survive. Where’s the money?

  The liberation war has begun. But liberation is a long way away. We cannot hide in the villages till then. There is nowhere to hide here. The villages will become the centers of the liberation war. The villages will be the capital of the freedom fighters. How should I take part in this war?

  Those who came to visit Abbu had very bright eyes. They were full of hope. I sat by Abbu’s side, listening to them. Their hope gave me hope.

  Some said, “The military is in deep trouble. The freedom fighters are giving them a beating.”

  Some said, “We will be independent in a month or two.”

  Some said, “We have to build a liberation army here too.”

  Abbu said, “But we cannot expect to return to Dhaka soon. That’s the military headquarters.”

  Some said, “It won’t take long to drive the Pakistanis out of Dhaka.”

  “How will we do that?” Abbu wanted to know.

  “The war,” said everyone.

  Abbu said, “But the war hasn’t even begun properly.”

  Abbu wrote, 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.

  We gathered around the radio as soon as it grew dark. Everyone did, and so did I, sitting next to Abbu. My heart danced to hear that the Pakistan military was suffering defeats everywhere. The others were as delighted as I was.

  But no one knew when we could go back to Dhaka. Abbu didn’t know; and nor did Ammu. The people who came to see Abbu didn’t know either. I realized that the village didn’t seem as green as it did before. It looked dirty now. The water in the ponds was not as clear as when we arrived. People didn’t pick me up in their arms happily like they used to. I wished I could go back to my old Dhaka.

  Abbu said, “Many non-Bengalis have joined hands with the military in Dhaka. Some Bengalis too.”

  “The non-Bengalis were bound to join them,” Ammu said.

  “Bengalis are being butchered in Mirpur and Mohammadpur,” Abbu said.

  “But how could Bengalis join them?” asked Ammu.

  “Opportunists exist everywhere,” Abbu said. “There are many traitors now. They are conspiring with the Pakistan army.”

  Conversations like these gave me nightmares. Dhaka was filled with demons. They were rushing toward our village. They had enormous teeth and nails. Screaming in fear, I threw myself on Abbu and Ammu.

  I saw the green all around us turning filthy.

  The Demons Are Coming

  All I heard was “the military, the military.”

  “The military’s coming,” everyone said.

  I’d never seen the military. Whenever I heard the word, I thought of demons. I had heard of different kinds of demons. I had dreamed of different kinds of demons. Enormous teeth, enormous claws. Huge tongues. Whenever I heard the word “military,” I thought demons were on their way from Dhaka.

  The Pakistanis were demons. Their soldiers were demons. They were approaching along the same road we had taken out of Dhaka. People were fleeing. Abbu and Ammu were fleeing. But where could we escape to from the village? We couldn’t escape.

  It felt as though the military were marching along the road running past our house, as though they were marching through the lake on the other side. My blood froze with fear.

  “The military is going into the villages,” Abbu said.

  “Where will we go, then?” asked Ammu.

  “There’s nowhere to go,” said Abbu.

  Ammu quaked in fear. So did I.

  Every evening, Abbu and I would visit our neighbors. The only topic of conversation was the military.

  An old man was passing with a cow.

  “I hear the military’s coming,” he told Abbu.

  “Sooner or later they will,” Abbu told him.

  The man was frightened. “Then where should I go?”

  “There’s nowhere to go,” Abbu said. “We have to stay in the village.”

  Fearfully, the man took the cow toward the field. I was afraid for him. What if the military came from that direction?

  Dadu talked about the military all the time. Dadi, my grandmother, had never seen the military, but she talked about it too. Fazila talked about the military. The girl who worked in the house we were staying in had never been to Dhaka. She talked about the military all the time too. None of them had seen the military. I hadn’t either. But I had seen demons. I had seen different kinds of demons in my sleep.

  I passed the days in fear of the military marching like demons along the road running past our house. The grayish village visible across the lake looked to me like a military platoon. They were approaching our village, our pond, our house. I stared at the grayish village, which seemed to be advancing toward us. The military was coming. How did they travel? Did they march or drive or fly? I knew nothing. So, it seemed
as though the military was coming, their feet pounding the earth, with sounds of ratatatat and boomboomboom.

  Dadu thought so too. Dadi thought so too. The neighbors whose houses I visited with Abbu thought so too. The cowherds in the fields thought so too. They no longer sang in carefree voices when they took their cows out to graze.

  The stream of people walking along the road running past our house had not stopped. People kept coming. They kept coming. No one stopped them to offer cold drinks. They came on foot, rested beneath the trees, drank water from the pond, and continued on foot.

  One day, a friend of Abbu’s arrived. Abbu was delighted to see him. Abbu’s friend had never come to this house of ours. All he knew was the name of Abbu’s village. He was going to Barishal. But he was staying at Rarikhal in Bikrampur now.

  “Everything has gone awry,” Abbu’s friend said. “I have to take a roundabout route to Barishal.”

  “Ah, that’s how you came to be here,” Abbu said.

  “All the towns are in bad shape,” said the friend. “The military is going into the villages now.”

  “What should we do?” said Abbu.

  “I’ll probably cross over to the other side,” Abbu’s friend said. “That’s why I’m going to visit my mother first.”

  Abbu and Abbu’s friend looked worried. 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.

  “Will Abbu cross over to the other side, Ammu?” I asked her.

  Ammu was startled. “Is he saying he will?” she asked fearfully.

  “No, Abbu’s friend says he’ll cross over to the other side,” I said.

  Ammu was alarmed.

  “Where’s the other side, Ammu?” I asked.

  “India,” Ammu answered. “Different country.”

  What if Abbu went off to a different country? How would I live? Where would I live? How would I live without Abbu?

  Where was this country? How would Abbu go there? Was there no military there? When would he come back? Would we go too? Would Ammu go? Would I go? I felt frightened to think of another country and the military. Every tree in the distance looked like the military to me.