The Black Coat

by Neamat Imam

  I thanked myself for buying that coat. I thanked Moina Mia for hiring us, and Sheikh Mujib’s adviser for fixing us a meeting with him—he must be one of the keenest people in the administration, someone who knew how to resurrect people from their dead beliefs—and Sheikh Mujib, for being considerate enough to grant us a meeting. I thanked Nur Hussain for coming from the remote village to see me, for being so faithful and accommodating. I thanked Raihan Talukder for sending him to me. I had not done anything for him, but he had done me a big favour by sending the boy to me. I thanked Lutfuzzaman Babul for assigning me to write an article on sepoy Mostafa Kamal, without which I would have never been to Gangasagar and nothing that followed, or was going to follow, would have happened. Finally, I thanked myself again for trying what I did not like. I felt that no Bengali would ever be a true Bengali unless he wore the Mujib coat at least once in his life.

  Nur Hussain soon returned. He looked tired and worried. I did not care. Why should I? We had an appointment with Sheikh Mujib and we had to respect it. We had to present ourselves at our best. We could not be preoccupied by individual emotions.

  ‘Didn’t I tell you not to go out alone?’ I shouted at him. ‘What if some anarchists stabbed you on the road? It may well happen in daylight, steps away from our door. Haven’t you seen the ugly graffiti on the wall?’

  He saw me in the coat but did not say a word. Nothing mattered to him, I thought, as he went to his room. How arrogant he was, his silence a form of violence. He would not look at me even when I stood at his door. He lay down on the bed, his face hidden in the pillow. He would not look at me because he was jealous of me. He thought the Mujib coat was his and his alone. He was wrong.

  24

  In Anticipation of the Meeting

  I did not know what to expect from our meeting with Sheikh Mujib. I had never spoken with people who had met him personally, had never been able to ask if they found in him the qualities they had expected of him.

  As a people we believed we knew our leader fully, but to me, Sheikh Mujib was a mysterious man. In fact, he was a riddle. Born in a small village, he found out as a child he would not be able to go to school for the next four years because of his eye surgery. He got married when he was only eighteen. Then one day he found himself in a Pakistan jail, accused of civil disobedience, about to be hanged. And finally, one very fine day, he was sitting on the highest seat of a nation. His life began ordinarily, flowed through various ordinary obstacles, until it no longer remained ordinary. Then the abuse began. He believed if he could not run the country well, nobody else could. What had happened to him? What had made him behave so unexpectedly? One who was always on the side of people now wanted to hide the brutal reality of their sufferings, just like all those other obnoxious villains in the history of the world did. The more I thought about him the more it became obvious that he was actually a very complex man, one who could live gloriously with a terrible lie. He could ignore what he did not like.

  Lutfuzzaman Babul once spoke about him briefly after he had attended a special dinner Sheikh Mujib had organized for newspaper editors. The dinner was held at the national press club in the heart of the city instead of at Mujib’s residence, and at least forty editors attended it. There was no time for a personal conversation. Sheikh Mujib had just come back from Pakistan, formed a government, and begun instituting his ideas for a new Bangladesh. He gave a short speech to explain his vision and introduced some of the key personalities who would lead different departments of his administration. They would advise him on how to approach the international community, to which countries the first delegates would be sent seeking financial aid, which country could be our foremost business partner, how to deal with the domestic elements that opposed the liberation of Bangladesh, and how the regional relationship among south Asian nations could be improved. The Freedom Fighter printed a piece on the programme; it was about policy, policy analysis, and policy in perspective. In contrast, our meeting was to be very different. It was more personal than official. It was at his residence and upon his own request; it might shed some light on the mystery of his life.

  Before the meeting was arranged, or more precisely, before I wore the Mujib coat, I had many questions on my mind. I always thought that if I ever had a chance to be with him face to face, I would ask him a set of well-constructed questions. Why must he remain the prime minister of the country at any cost? Why would he not form a national solidarity government so that everyone felt involved in nation-building, and everyone would equally share the responsibility if it failed? If he led a solidarity government it would not undermine him as a leader; he would always be Sheikh Mujib to us. In fact, it would make him a more pragmatic leader, one who knew how to reap the harvest even when the wind blew hard. I would also ask him why he was not looking to employ an international adviser if he thought there wasn’t anyone suitable for that role within the Awami League. There were many notable personalities in different countries who had taken a demolished nation to glory after the Second World War and one or two of them might like to help Bangladesh. Somebody could help us plan our city and its traffic; somebody could reorganize our educational and monetary systems; somebody could frame an agricultural development policy and a national disaster containment programme; somebody could give a satisfactory solution to the anti-state elements that helped Pakistan during the war. He might want to avoid me, as politicians always did. He might find me outrageous and not look me in the eye. But that would not stop me from doing what was right. I would capture the man who had become the shadow of his own image and the machine behind his speeches. Then I would tell our people what politics meant, and what struggle for freedom really meant.

  Now hours away from meeting him, I could not think of anything to ask him. My words were gone; they were lost in some remote corner of my heart and I could not find them. I sat with a piece of paper and ended up producing a few bullets against which I wanted to write the questions I must ask him. Hour after hour passed. Nur Hussain was ready to leave. ‘We should be on our way,’ he said, and then, ‘we must be on our way, hurry up,’ and finally, ‘we do not want to be late, do we? If we do not start right now, we may even miss the appointment.’ Still I could not produce one single question that I felt was relevant and important. On our way, sitting between two militia members, I decided I would not ask him anything. A man wearing a Mujib coat could not charge Mujib with any wrongdoing; a man wearing a Mujib coat could not object to anything said or done by any other man wearing a Mujib coat, not even when he saw people dying. It would not be civil.

  25

  In the Company of the Prime Minister

  Sheikh Mujib embraced all three of us one by one, and then led us to the sofa with his left hand on Nur Hussain’s shoulder. He addressed him as ‘my brother’ and softly encouraged him to sit beside him. Moina Mia and I sat across the tea table; it was covered with a piece of embroidered cloth depicting a golden boat.

  He was tall; I guess taller than ninety-nine per cent of Bangladeshis. I felt if lightning struck right now he would receive it first and deflect it from us. He would create a second Noah’s Ark, Mujib’s Ark, to protect us from floods, and would bear our guilt and accept our punishment on his shoulders. It was not accidental that Pakistanis feared him so much and incarcerated him so many times. They knew what a mortal threat he was. I also felt he was the most gracious man I had ever met.

  During our visit, which didn’t last more than thirty minutes, I devoted my attention to observing him. It appeared that all my questions and fears about him were unnecessary. If I had not come to see him, I would have lived my entire life harbouring the wrong impression. No books would ever give me an experience like the one I got from this meeting. No historian would have language enough to describe what I saw before my eyes. They could write books and articles about his politics; they could emphasize his heroism, put him in a historical perspective; but they would not be able to portray the real man sitting before me.

 
I did not see any suggestion of power games in his manner. He behaved like someone you might meet at the tea stall in your neighbourhood, or on a cross-town bus, or at a local station waiting for the same train. He did not speak of politics at all and specifically nothing about the famine or the 7 March speech which had brought us all together. He drank tea with us in a regular teacup, raised the biscuit plate towards us and himself ate a biscuit in small bites as he asked Nur Hussain about his parents, about agriculture, about life in general in Gangasagar.

  How was it possible for this simple man to give so many fiery, politically charged, epoch-changing speeches during so many critical historical moments over the last twenty-five years? How had he managed to inspire an entire population to the cause of freedom? All I understood was he was a human being first, and then a leader; he knew himself and his people very well. He understood their fight. His greatness lay in his extraordinary ability to remain simple in spite of being the head of a country of seventy million.

  Nur Hussain answered his queries in broken sentences. He was too overwhelmed by his presence. I suppose he was busy looking for words to make his answers sound polite and complete. Speaking with the prime minister demanded a particular set of skills, I had warned him beforehand. Questions must be properly heard and understood, and answers must be given in full sentences, with good pronunciation and modulation, so that the question did not have to be repeated. He said he had understood me, and he would remember this during our visit. But now he seemed lost.

  Sheikh Mujib often completed Nur’s sentences by relating stories of his own experience of life in the village. He was born in Tungipara in the Gopalgonj district, he reminded us, which was more or less the same as Gangasagar or any other village in Bangladesh. When he was a child, the only fun they had there was jumping into the canal from the bamboo bridge above. Then he looked at Nur Hussain as if enquiring if children still did the same in Gangasagar for fun, or if anything had changed. When he did not receive a response, he began again. He spoke about crickets in the chickpea fields, butterflies among pumpkin flowers, thirsty crows drinking from date juice pitchers, and of chasing the full moon in the evening across the fields. He would have loved to visit the place where sepoy Mostafa Kamal had sacrificed himself for the country, he said in the end. He would be happy to have Nur Hussain beside him at that time.

  It was such a serious point, but Nur Hussain only smiled.

  What are you doing, you little insect, you are embarrassing me, I said in my mind. Don’t just smile, show some manners; say: It would be an honour, Mr Prime Minister. What a beautiful idea! Make your life a bit easier by showing some enthusiasm. What a leader like him cannot do for you? He can direct his people to offer you a highway construction contract. He can mould your life with gold. There cannot be any better prize than being in his good books during such a difficult time.

  Sheikh Mujib continued in his usual easy manner: ‘Would villagers appreciate a monument in Gangasagar in memory of Mostafa Kamal?’

  Nur Hussain nodded, though I had warned him specifically against only nodding to the prime minister. Only people with little or no self-esteem would nod to a proposal instead of expressing their consent verbally.

  But Sheikh Mujib accepted his answer as valid. What a wise leader. All-forgiving. ‘So be it,’ he said. ‘A monument for Mostafa Kamal.’ He repeated the sentence, as if trying to register the decision in his mind, or indirectly trying to extract some response from Nur Hussain.

  At this point Nur Hussain cracked his knuckles. He cracked his knuckles! I am going to kill you, Nura, come home tonight; I am going to drink your blood. The thumb first, then index, middle, ring, pinky of the right hand, and then of the left hand, producing sharp popping sounds. Sheikh Mujib noticed this, remained silent until Nur Hussain popped his last finger, then continued the conversation with ease. ‘People of Gangasagar deserve to be honoured for their resilience,’ he said in conclusion. ‘They are great people.’

  Then it was Moina Mia’s turn.

  He was the complete opposite of Nur Hussain. While Nur Hussain withdrew into his silences, and showed a degree of detachment and disinterestedness, Moina Mia spoke a lot, and spoke with intimacy and fervour. He addressed Sheikh Mujib as Mujib Bhai, which spoke of the cordial relationship they had between them. ‘I called them to my residence, told them Mujib Bhai wants to talk to you, you must go,’ he said. He pointed at Nur Hussain. ‘This one argued we had schedules for public meetings in the constituency. People would wait. Continuity is a big factor in a political campaign, he said. I told him when Mujib Bhai wanted us to see him, public meetings, even if there were hundreds of them, could not stop us. They were irrelevant. As you yourself have said, Mujib Bhai, there are things that can be sacrificed for things that cannot be sacrificed so long as someone is alive. Now here we are, sitting before you.’

  Sheikh Mujib thanked him quietly, probably trying to remember the occasion when he had said such a thing, and asked him about his wife and children. He asked how the children were doing at school, which school they were attending, why he had not brought them along; they too would have had a good time. He must bring them during his next visit. Moina Mia’s answers were prompt. He always made sure he behaved like an ideal follower of his leader, one who knew what he would be asked and what the ideal answers would be. When asked if the school buildings were adequately renovated after the war to make students comfortable in the classrooms, he said they had not only been renovated but also adorned with state-of-the-art scientific equipment and study materials. ‘Mujib Bhai, you’ll be surprised to hear that a new generation of students will soon graduate from these schools with exceptional wisdom and analytical ability. They won’t be like our forefathers, a foot in the mud, more related to death than life, always tired and whining; they’ll make us proud in every possible way.’ He became emotional when he narrated how his own son learnt the classifications of mammals within a week thanks to the illustrated textbooks introduced the previous year. Those books even featured a picture of the first human footprint on the moon dust. ‘Can you believe,’ he said, ‘after only three years’ work we are only three years behind America?’ He lowered his voice, as if giving away some secrets. ‘We’re thinking of at least half a dozen Nobel Prizes in the next two decades in the fields of science, medicine, and poverty alleviation. That day is not far when we will overtake India and China as the most prosperous nation in the eastern bloc. We may even start a transcontinental competition with Liechtenstein in the field of investment and banking.’

  ‘Likh-tan-stine?’ Sheikh Mujib asked absent-mindedly.

  ‘The largest country in Europe, Mujib Bhai, larger than France and Germany combined. The whole country is a bank and the whole world stores their money there. People of Liechtenstein do not need to work to buy something.’

  It was my turn now. I was ready for it. I was ready, in fact, from the moment I had decided not to ask him anything. He was not the enemy, I said to myself. He was a friend, our most reliable friend. Those who said he was an enemy said it to create enmity between us—between him and his people. They would love to see us fall apart. He could not go to every house and give lessons of citizenship to people who were letting their countrymen down by being selfish. It was not possible. He could only guide. Accepting his guidance was up to us citizens.

  After one of the members of the private militia who had escorted us appeared at the door, I understood my time with him would be short. It did not matter, I said to myself. It was not important how much time I had passed with him, how many questions he had asked me and how many of them I had understood and successfully answered. That I had sat face to face with him was good enough for me to give him a permanent place in my memory. I could live with that for a long time to come. Perhaps my whole life. I wished every Bangladeshi had a chance to sit with him. He looked at me and I sensed immediately he knew he had besieged me with that look. He could see through me, analyse my fears and doubts and interpret my conceptions an
d misconceptions. Then he took his pen from his chest pocket and carefully put it in my chest pocket. I would need it, he said; I would need it when the time was right. Then came the embrace, that soft, caring embrace, and a sweet goodbye to the three of us. He bade a special goodbye to Nur Hussain, whom he kept in his embrace one moment more and whom he called ‘my brother’ again.

  26

  A Transformation

  I could not sleep that night. I could not sleep the following morning, and the afternoon after that. Whenever I closed my eyes I saw Sheikh Mujib’s face. I saw him sitting at his window wondering what to do about the famine, about all the people who loved him but now questioned his leadership. I saw him suffer at the news of every single death in the country. He had a tear for every departed soul. It was a sad, sad face I saw—sad and anxious and exhausted.