I Remember Abbu

by Humayun Azad

  “Will the military come here?” I asked Abbu.

  “Are you very frightened?” Abbu asked me, picking me up in his arms.

  “Hmm,” I said.

  Abbu held me close and gave me many kisses.

  “Don’t be frightened,” he said.

  “Aren’t you frightened?” I asked.

  Abbu gazed at me for a long time.

  The people who visited Abbu every evening came today as well. They no longer had smiles on their faces.

  “A military vessel passed along the river today,” they said.

  “Which way did it go?” asked Abbu.

  “Westward,” they said.

  Everyone looked worried. Darkness had fallen. I felt the military was approaching us along the road running past our house. I clung to Abbu.

  Another Night of Demons

  The entire village quaked in fear that evening. People began to stream toward our village from Borobazar, the market near the village across the lake, beyond which was the Padma River. Everyone said the military had landed on the bank of the river that afternoon. They were approaching the other village. People were fleeing. Some had entered our village.

  Others were going farther instead of stopping here. They weren’t walking, like we had walked from Dhaka. They were running. “The military is here, the military is here,” they screamed. “They have come ashore from the river.”

  Abbu turned pale.

  “Where do we go now? Where do we go?” moaned Dadu.

  Ammu picked me up in her arms.

  Abbu went out on the road with many others, to find out what had happened. When he came back, he said it was true. The military had entered the market. The people had fled in fear. Both the market and the village had been emptied out. I didn’t know how far our village was from the river. I began to think of the road running past our house as the river. And the house next door as the market the military had entered.

  Many people came to talk things over with Abbu. What to do, where to go, where to flee.

  “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.

  He left on his bicycle.

  Darkness fell. No lights went on in our house. No lights went on anywhere in the village. We had already finished dinner. Everyone was trembling in fear, just like me. A little later, the ratatatat boomboomboom began from the village by the river. We could see a big fire.

  Our village was lit up by the flames. Ratatatat boomboombooom. Ratatatat boomboombooom. Ratatatat boomboomboom. Screams floated across from the village by the river. Everyone in our village ran into the jungle near our house.

  We had to cross a pond to enter the jungle. I had seen the jungle from a distance. Abbu was carrying me. We went into the jungle on a boat. People from everywhere had come into the jungle. There was nothing but people around us. We sat down under a tree. I was frozen with fear. The fire in the village by the river had lit up the jungle too.

  We could hear the sounds. Ratatatat boomboomboom.

  We were holding one another. Abbu was holding me. Ammu was holding me. Dadu was holding me. The sounds wouldn’t stop. Screams kept floating in from the village by the river.

  No one was talking. I had so much to say. I was holding it all in my heart. But I didn’t say a word to Abbu. Ammu didn’t say a word to me either. Every time there was a sound, they held me tighter. I held them tighter.

  I could see the demons out in the village by the river. They had enormous teeth and claws. Their eyes emitted flames that set the trees on fire, set the houses on fire. Tongues of fire rose into the sky. I squeezed my eyes shut in fear. Were the demons approaching our jungle?

  They seemed to be threatening Abbu with their claws. They seemed to be threatening Ammu with their claws. They seemed to be threatening the entire village with their claws.

  Abbu wrote, The military set the village on fire that night. They shot people all night. Many people died, over a hundred. More would have died if they had not fled. Most of the dead were Hindus, though some Muslims died too. But the military had come to torch the homes of the Hindus. They were well informed. This is what is happening everywhere. Almost all the homes of the Hindus have burned down. The village is like a crematorium now. How beautiful it was once upon a time.

  Abbu wrote, The village by the river was burned to ashes. The military did not enter our village. But there’s no guarantee that they won’t in the future. Every village and every town and every city is within reach of their bullets and their torches. Our village isn’t safe anymore. How long can we live this way? I feel like crossing over to the other side. I’ll have to leave them behind. Should I leave them behind in the village, or in Dhaka? Dhaka is safer than the village now. There’s no option but war. We have to go to war.

  To the Burned-Down City

  “It’s best to go back to Dhaka now,” said Dadu.

  He had been to Dhaka a few days before. He went to our home. We were frantic with worry. He was supposed to have stayed there for two days. Everyone started crying when he didn’t return as planned. But Dadu came back from Dhaka on the third day. A wave of happiness ran through the house.

  “The city is filled with the military,” Dadu said.

  “Aren’t people frightened?” asked Ammu.

  “There’s not as much fear now,” said Dadu. “People are moving about even though the military is everywhere.”

  “Then we can go back to Dhaka?” asked Ammu.

  “I’m not sure,” said Dadu. “But things are better than before.”

  “Are Bengalis moving about on the streets?” Abbu asked.

  “They are,” said Dadu. “But with caution. There are rumors everywhere.”

  “What rumors?” asked Abbu.

  “That the military is being defeated by the liberation army,” said Dadu.

  So, we would go back to Dhaka? The mere mention of the military made me afraid. Still, we set off for Dhaka. This time, we didn’t have to walk the whole way. We walked part of the way and boarded a small launch. Bengalis supporting the military, who were called rajakars, searched our luggage. Then we took a bus to Jinjira, the village where we had spent a night. But the village wasn’t like before. It looked different.

  There were rajakars again when we crossed the river. There were rajakars when we went ashore on the other side. “All rajakars,” said Abbu.

  They seemed just like us. They spoke Bangla. Why were they on the side of the military, then? Why did they search our luggage so often?

  “They’re bad people,” said Abbu. “They’ve joined hands with the military. There are people like them in every country, people who find joy in taking their brothers’ lives.”

  I began to hate rajakars.

  We rode back home on rickshaws along those roads that had looked like poor people lived on them. Everything had changed. Everywhere there was silence. Everyone was afraid, but they weren’t going to flee anymore. This was not the city we used to live in. Dhaka had burned down and become a different city.

  I realized how different as soon as evening fell. I was sitting with Abbu and Ammu. The doors and windows were shut. Abbu was trying to tune in to the radio broadcast. Suddenly, there was a sound. “Boom!” We were plunged into darkness.

  “There, listen,” said Abbu.

  “What was that sound?” asked Ammu.

  “Can’t you tell why it’s dark?” said Abbu.

  “No,” said Ammu.

  “The liberation army has blown up a power station,” said Ab
bu.

  Abbu seemed happy when he said this. So I was happy too.

  “Look, Dhaka has changed,” Abbu said.

  Abbu had new clothes made after our return to Dhaka. For himself, and for me too. Abbu had never worn clothes made of this kind of fabric. Nor had I. It was striped, hand spun. I loved the colors.

  “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.”

  When darkness fell, we waited for the bombs. I didn’t like it till I heard the explosions. I hated it. Then I loved it the most when we heard a bomb bursting in the distance and the lights went out. We could hear military vehicles on the road. If only someone would drop a bomb on them!

  A Broken Sun

  One day, Abbu took me out to see the city. We were dressed in our new clothes. We had to walk a long way before getting into a rickshaw.

  Before, the rickshaws would be lined up near our home. Not anymore. There were very few of them on the roads now. Very few people. A military car went past our rickshaw. I had never seen the military before. I was seeing it for the first time now.

  “That’s a military car,” Abbu whispered to me.

  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.

  What route did our rickshaw take? I didn’t recognize it. It was so silent, so desolate.

  “This is the university,” said Abbu.

  “The university, the university, the university,” said I.

  “The military have killed many people here,” Abbu said. “The students used to live over there, but they don’t anymore. Many of them have been murdered.”

  I’d been to my aunts’ homes with Abbu. I’d met the fairies one afternoon with Abbu. The city used to look different then. Not like it did now. So few people. So few cars. So few rickshaws. So few people. So few cars.

  “There used to be a large banyan tree there,” said Abbu.

  The tree was gone. Students used to have meetings beneath it. So the military cut down the tree.

  “There used to be a temple here,” said Abbu.

  A temple, where Hindus used to pray. The military had killed the Hindus. They had demolished the temple.

  “There used to be a slum here,” said Abbu.

  The slum was gone. The poor used to live here. The military had killed them. No slum. No people. Another military car passed us.

  Another one. Our rickshaw kept moving. Another one.

  Our rickshaw kept moving. Another military car passed us. Our rickshaw kept moving. Another military car passed us. Our rickshaw kept moving. Another military car passed us.

  Our rickshaw kept moving. Another military car passed us. Our rickshaw kept moving . . .

  I had been here once. At dawn. With thousands of others, barefoot. Everyone was singing a sad song. There were flowers everywhere. There were countless bouquets. A red sun was shining here, at whose foot I had laid flowers. Abbu had laid flowers. Everyone had laid flowers. Where was the sun now? Where was the tower? Razed to the ground. It was lying in pieces. The tower that was smothered in flowers. My brother’s blood has turned it red, the twenty-first of February, it’s a date I’ll never forget. Languishing in the dust now. We gazed at it from the rickshaw. Passersby averted their eyes. Looking at it too long made you want to cry.

  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.

  Those Handsome People

  They would visit us at home one by one, not in groups. How handsome they were. They would hug me. They would greet Ammu with sweets. They would greet Abbu. When people visited us before, Abbu would sit with them in the living room. There would be tea and cookies. There would be conversation and laughter. They would hug me and kiss me. After our return to Dhaka, there were no more conversations in the living room. Whenever anyone came, Abbu took them into the bedroom. They talked in low voices. Everything had changed. The days of talking in low voices were here. And of peeping through the window from time to time.

  The conversations did not last long anymore. The visitors would come, say something to Abbu in low voices, and leave. Some of them would come again. Once again, they would talk in low voices and leave. They came every day.

  Abbu went out every morning. He returned in the afternoon and sat in silence for some time. There were visitors afterward. Abbu went out in the evening, and came back late at night. I was asleep by then.

  Abbu never used to come home as late as he did now. Abbu had changed too. He peeped through the window often. He never used to peep through the window.

  “Do you know there’s a war on?” Abbu would tell me.

  “What’s a war, Abbu?” I’d ask.

  “Fighting,” Abbu would say.

  Abbu and his friends were in a war against the military. Abbu and Kaku and the rest of them. I was frightened. 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?

  Sometimes Abbu would hold me very close. He would give me kisses. Abbu used to talk a lot. Now he didn’t talk much. He only liked to hold me close. I would also hold him close with my eyes shut.

  Ammu talked less too. Ammu had begun turning into a fairy again and going out every morning. But Abbu had no fixed time for going out. Abbu was never quiet. Abbu had loved bouncing me in his arms. He didn’t bounce me in his arms anymore.

  One afternoon, Abbu told Ammu, “I’m not coming home tonight. Eat and go to bed on time.”

  Abbu had never spent the night out of the house. Why would he do it tonight?

  “I’ll tell you later,” Abbu told me.

  Abbu never told me later.

  Did he tell Ammu? What did he tell my ammu?

  Abbu didn’t come home that night.

  But someone knocked on the door very late that night. I was lying with my arms around Ammu. I couldn’t sleep because I couldn’t stop thinking of Abbu. Where was Abbu now? Why hadn’t he come home? Ammu jumped out of bed. So did I.

  Dadu woke up too. People were banging on the door now. They were kicking it.

  “Who is it?” Dadu asked.

  “The military,” they said.

  They were looking for Abbu. Ammu was about to collapse on the floor. I was trembling uncontrollably. I clung to Ammu and Dadu. They kept kicking the door. Dadu opened the door. The military came in. They began to look everywhere for Abbu. They asked where Abbu was. Dadu said he had gone to the village to fetch Dadi. The military and the people with them were looking at us cruelly. I was terrified. I kept saying to myself, Thank goodness you’re not at home, Abbu; thank goodness you’re not at home, Abbu.

  Where are you today, Abbu?

  The military left. Ammu sat with me in the living room.

  Ammu wouldn’t be able to sleep that night. I wouldn’t be able to sleep that night. We could hear military vehicles outside.

  Why wasn’t Abbu home that night? Did Abbu know the military was coming? Would the military have taken Abbu away? Would they never have brought him back? Why did the military want to take my abbu away?

  Abbu came back the next afternoon. I exploded with joy at seeing him. Ammu looked happy too. Abbu held me close for a long time. He looked at me for a long time. He ran his fingers through my hair. He and
Ammu had a conversation.

  “Go to sleep on time and eat properly every day,” Abbu told me.

  “All right,” I said.

  “I won’t be back for a long time,” Abbu said.

  I clung to Abbu. He left soon afterward. All of us went downstairs. Ammu was weeping. I was weeping. Dadu couldn’t even go downstairs. Abbu handed me over to Ammu and walked away slowly.

  He turned and smiled at me before he rounded the corner.

  Abbu’s smile hung in my eyes like tears.

  Where Are You, Abbu?

  Abbu’s smile hung in the air all around us. Wherever I looked, I saw Abbu’s smile. Hanging in the air. But I couldn’t see Abbu. Abbu was no longer at home. Abbu no longer carried me in his arms to the front door when we went out. Abbu no longer picked me up in his arms when he came home. I no longer had an abbu whose arms I could jump into. Abbu was no longer there to carry me on his shoulder.

  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.

  Where have you gone, Abbu? Where are you now, Abbu? When do you wake up in the morning, Abbu? Where do you sleep, Abbu? Why don’t you come to me anymore, Abbu?

  Why don’t you take me in your arms and call me “fool” anymore, Abbu?

  I remember those fairies. I wish I could go to them again with you. I wish I could see the blue fish with the fairies and with you. 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.