by Humayun Azad
Where are you, Abbu? Why don’t you come home anymore, Abbu?
You asked me to eat my meals, Abbu. I hate eating now.
You asked me to go to sleep on time, Abbu. I cannot sleep anymore; I cannot ever sleep.
I want to see you, Abbu. I want to see my abbu.
I want to see you, Abbu. I want to see my abbu. I want to see you, Abbu. I want to see my abbu.
I remember Abbu. I remember my abbu. My abbu, I remember him. I remember my abbu. My abbu, I remember him.
I want to see you, Abbu. I want to see my abbu. I want to see you, Abbu. I want to see my abbu.
Where are you, Abbu? Abbu, my abbu? Come home at once, Abbu; come at once. I cannot sleep. Ammu cannot sleep. I don’t feel like eating. Ammu doesn’t feel like eating. I sit quietly. Ammu sits quietly. Our house stands quietly. Our bed stands quietly. Your books stand quietly.
None of us can sleep because of you, Abbu.
Ammu and I
Ammu was just like me. She kept going out onto the balcony. She peeped through the window all the time. She jumped up every time there was a knock at the door. I was just like Ammu. I kept going out onto the balcony. I peeped through the window all the time. I jumped up every time there was a knock at the door. Dadu was just like me. He kept going out onto the balcony. He peeped through the window all the time. He jumped up every time there was a knock at the door. Ammu was just like me. She lay in bed but couldn’t sleep. I was just like Ammu. I lay in bed but couldn’t sleep.
“When will Abbu come, Ammu?” I asked.
Ammu was silent. After a long pause, she said, “He’ll come.”
“When?” That was all I asked.
Ammu was silent. After a long pause, she said, “He’ll come.”
“Where’s Abbu gone?” I asked.
“To war,” said Ammu. “Don’t tell anyone.”
Ammu fell silent again. I loved it when the bombs exploded at night. I felt it was Abbu’s doing. It was his handsome friends’ doing.
The bombs were killing the demons. They were killing the military, who passed loudly on the streets in their cars. Who had entered our home to take Abbu away. Who had broken the sun.
Abbu would come back after killing the demons. But so many days had passed now without his returning. I had stayed up for Abbu so many nights. Abbu wasn’t back.
When would Abbu come? When would he and his friends kill all the demons? How long would I keep peeping through the window in search of Abbu?
Abbu didn’t come. One of his friends came one day. I was so happy. He told us so many things about Abbu. Quietly. Holding me tight.
I didn’t know how to read. But Abbu had written me a letter.
How are you? Are you eating and sleeping properly? Are you brushing your teeth? Are you listening to Ammu? I’m very well. I’ll be back soon. It won’t be long now. We’ll go to the sun again. Lots of kisses.
Abbu
November 14, 1971
I made Ammu read it to me hundreds of times. My only letter. A letter I stored in my heart like kisses.
A Constant Knocking on the Door
Then one day, the planes appeared in the sky. I thought they would form patterns. Such lovely milky-white planes! Many, many planes flew in. There was a lot of noise across the city. The sound of the military vehicles on the streets grew louder. I saw lots of planes from the balcony. As soon as they came, the skies would fill with bangs. “The war has begun,” Ammu would say. At last the demons would be destroyed. We heard bombs all day and all night. I listened closely. And I imagined that, with each sound, Abbu had taken one more step toward home. I could see Abbu coming.
Abbu was smiling as he approached our house. It wouldn’t be long before Abbu would be back.
Everyone seemed happy. After a long time, there was happiness on everyone’s face. All of us crowded around the radio. But I alone could see Abbu coming home. How would Abbu be dressed? Had his hair grown very long? Would he be holding a gleaming rifle? I could see Abbu walking with his handsome companions along the road through the villages. One more plane had arrived in the sky. It looked like a fish. I liked it.
One day, there were celebrations in the streets. The military vehicles couldn’t be heard. There was only one cry. “Victory to Bangla. Victory to Bangla. Joy Bangla.”
Everyone was shouting, “Victory to Bangla.”
Ammu looked happy. But she also looked strange. The cries could be heard all around us. “Victory to Bangla. Victory to Bangla.” It was time for Abbu to be home.
Abbu would come home now. At last, the red sun could be seen on the green flag. Red in the middle, green all around—they were fluttering everywhere. One was flying on our roof. Another on the neighbor’s roof. Another on the roof of the house across the street. Flags were fluttering on the street. Everywhere. Abbu was coming home.
I looked at Ammu. Ammu looked at me. Dadu looked at me. Abbu was coming home.
Independence was here. Why wasn’t Abbu?
There was a knocking on the door. Someone was knocking again and again. I was sure Abbu was here. I was sitting when I thought I heard someone knock. I ran to the door. No one there. Ammu heard someone knocking. She jumped up to open the door. No one there.
As soon as I came back into the room, I heard the knocking again. There was no one when I went to the door. Ammu heard the knocking again. There was no one when she went to the door. Someone knocked on the door of our house all the time. There was a constant knocking on the door. All day long. All night long.
For a long time, the knocking on the door wouldn’t let either Ammu or me sit still for a moment. For many months, I thought Abbu was knocking on the door. Abbu was calling my name. I could hear him clearly. There was no one when I went to the door. Only the sound of the knocking. From morning to afternoon, from evening to nightfall, then all through the night. A constant knocking on the door. The sound of Abbu’s knocking on the door. There was no one when I went to the door.
“We hear all this knocking on the door, Ammu,” I shouted. “Still Abbu doesn’t come. Why not?”
“The knocking will go on forever, but your abbu will never come home.” Ammu burst into tears.
“Abbu, Abbu,” I screamed.
I remember Abbu. I don’t remember Abbu.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © Masud Hossain
Humayun Azad (1947–2004) is regarded as one of the most influential writers in modern Bengali literature in Bangladesh. An esteemed poet, academic scholar, critic, and linguist with more than seventy titles to his credit, Azad produced an oeuvre that is both rich and multidimensional. He was awarded the Bangla Academy Award in 1986 for his contributions to Bengali linguistics. In 2012, the government of Bangladesh honored him posthumously with the Ekushey Padak Award. Throughout his career, he was praised for his outspoken critique of fundamentalism and his unflinching support of the Bengali language and the culture it represents.
Born in Rarikhal, Dhaka, in 1947, Azad had his early education at Sir J. C. Bose Institution, Rarikhal, and higher studies at Dhaka College and the University of Dhaka. He earned his BA and MA in Bengali, standing first in the class in 1967 and 1968, and obtained his PhD in 1976 from the University of Edinburgh. He taught at the University of Chittagong and Jahangirnagar University and was a professor of Bengali at the University of Dhaka. On August 12, 2004, Azad died in Munich, Germany. He was laid to rest in Rarikhal, his rural homeland.
ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR
Arunava Sinha translates classic, modern, and contemporary Bengali fiction and nonfiction from Bangladesh and India into English. More than forty of his translations have been published in India, the United Kingdom, and the United States. Twice he has earned India’s top translation prize, the Crossword Book Award for translated books. He was born and raised in Kolkata and lives and writes in New Delhi, India.