22/03/2021৭ই চৈত্র ১৪২৭
𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖂𝖊𝖊𝖐𝖑𝖞 𝕿𝖚𝖗𝖓𝖎
𝕰𝖉𝖎𝖙𝖔𝖗𝖎𝖆𝖑
It is hard not to get into a history lesson when we talk about 26th March. Which history should we talk about? The one written in books, the opinions of historians, political analysts, news reports from that time, or the one untold/told by our family members and passed on as stories through generations? I will probably opt for the second, as that is how our epics were told and passed on. We are never much of a writing race like the Greeks or Romans, but not as terrible in writing as meso-Americans either. We were somewhere in the middle. So maybe we stick to our family story.
Although the family story is not written in history books, it was written widely in many books and autobiographies. The one, my family can closely relate to in Ordhek Jibon, by Sunil Gangopadhyay. Like his family, mine was also settled on the other side of the border before the 1947 partition but had some settlement in Kolkata. After the partition, therefore, the uprooting was not total, and there were movements back and forth all the way up to the onset of Muktijudya, although the roots were removed much earlier in the physical form. We did have some extended family over on the other side, but most moved to Tripura by then. So, the physical impact of what followed during the next 9 months was perhaps less, but the mental impact was profound on the family. This was before I was born, of course, but even into my childhood and probably into my adult life, the impact of these turbulent times persisted and shaped me as a person.
So, after these many years, being an expat for 20+ years now, one can argue, the attachment to even my country of birth could be minimal, let alone attachment to the country of birth of my parents! It is hard to argue against this fact. But as I grow older, one thing slowly became quite apparent to me. Perhaps it was easier because I am an expat. When you move far away, often, the realities get better clarity. It was some time ago, and I do not remember precisely when I realized that the sub-continent, with its many countries, is a very recent creation. For the greater part of our civilization, we were united under various rules for almost an eternity. This is why, although between the countries, the governments and politics today can be different, the culture has so many things in common, often it is hard to distinguish among us when we are abroad. To a lot of us, we are just another 'brown guy'. Please do not get me wrong here, I am not making a racial comment. I, of all people, will stand up and raise my right hand and say that I have not faced any racial discrimination ever because of my country of origin or my color of skin. Although I know that many others have. But that doesn't give me or anyone else to play the 'race card' all the time. I personally discourage it. I typically can see through it quite easily myself.
Look at me; I derailed this editorial completely. I went from rambling about independence to race. But maybe they are related and relevant in the present world. I can't deny the importance and divisive nature of many pseudo-nationalistic movements in various countries, stoking the fire to the divisive governance of race and religion. No one knows and feels this more than us Bengalis. Our entire history is based on the politics of race and religion. Here is the positive: since we suffered the most, we understand it most as well. So, if there is any group of people who can rise above this modern politics of race, religion, and fear, it must be us. We know each other well, and we can see through the veils of division that tries to separate us.
𝕴𝖓𝖘𝖆𝖓𝖊 𝖒𝖔𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗
The crowded public bus just came and stopped at the entrance of the martyr's memorial. The bus attendant helped her to land safely. After crossing the main gate, she was sauntering towards the monument. The anxiety and discomfort were working simultaneously inside her. The reason for her inner excitement is that; this is the first time she has appeared in front of the memorial at the age of 85. And the reason for the discomfort is that no one here is calling her lunatic. Her senses have become so accustomed to hearing this word all the time that it is uncomfortable not to listen to it now.
The time was 25th February 1952, she is groaning in severe labour pains. She doesn't understand why her bedfellow hasn't come to her yet. According to the last letter that came from Dhaka, he was supposed to come here three days ago. In the letter, he mentioned an agitation going on in Dhaka over the demand for the mother tongue. Later, he heard from the people of the neighbourhood that many people had sacrificed their lives in the demand of mother tongue on 21st February. When she is in a state of unconsciousness in enormous labour pains and worries, an overwhelming crying sound awakened her consciousness. It was the cry of her son, whom she had just brought into the world.
Her partner had not returned home since that day. Even after that, she used to ask the postmaster once a day if there was any letter from Dhaka for her. She could not sleep well at night, thinking that someone will come to the door and call her by that lovely name. She has been waiting for 20 years. His son is now studying at Dhaka University. For the past 20 years, she has survived for the sake of her son only.
The country was passing turbulent time again. Tensions had surged since Bangabandhu's March 7th speech. The whole country seemed to be in a state of unstableness. Out of sheer fear, she sent a letter to her son to come home. In response to the letter, her son replied that he would return home on 26th March. Instead of the 26th, only his body returned home on the 28th. Her son was the victim of the 25th March planned massacre at Dhaka University's Iqbal Hall. She could not bear all this pain. As a result of which she got this insane title today.
She was dragging her 85-year-old body to the altar of the memorial with incredible difficulty. She started to clean the altar of the monument with the hem of her own sari. The freedom which was acquired in the blood of millions of martyrs, this memorial is the symbol of that, it should not be defiled under the feet of Razakars.....
𝕯𝖊𝖆𝖉 𝖔𝖋 𝕹𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙
Why did the night seem so different from the others? She thought.
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She has been waiting for him to return; hours have passed since he was supposed to come home but hasn't yet. She kept her watchful eyes stuck at the door. Her brothers played with marbles and seemed somewhat disinterested in why she's acting so worried; their father will come back, if not today, then perhaps next week. Their father is quite a bohemian, a gypsy soul. He has a habit of vanishing for weeks on end, so if he's not back tonight, it wasn't surprising to the boy. But for some unknown reason, Roksana is anxious; she keeps pacing back and forth in her room as uneasiness sets in her heart. Her father must come back.
Mr Golam Ambia is a respected circle officer and even a more prominent member of society. He's known for his benevolence and charitable nature. His hospitable nature wasn't a secret, and every month when he gets his paycheck, he throws a feast in the neighbourhood, never thinking twice about how the rest of the month would go on. His wife is a big spender herself and free-spirited; whether or not there was food for the kids, Sufiya (the mother/wife) must go to the cinema three times a week along with her friends; and oh, she's the one paying. Amid these two, the house's responsibility and two younger brothers fell on Roksana's shoulders: 9-year-old taking care of the house.
Roksana is an excellent student; more than that, she is her father's favourite. She is growing up in the shadows of her father's ideology and a sense of responsibility, aware of the things that need to be done. Mr Ambia favours his daughter more than his two sons; she is the spitting image of him; no, better than him. Roksana loves her father just as profoundly as he does to her, and she worships him; even when he goes travelling for a week without a clue, she is never disappointed. But tonight, she is frightened; she wants her father to come home safely. A telephone call might be a great idea, but the nearest one is 3 miles away, and the police had already sent everyone home. Roksana feels so helpless; the girl who always managed everything, feeling powerless, was carving a hole in her little heart.
She went to her mother, Sufiya, but her mother told her to sleep; it was close to midnight, and Roksana should sleep. How can she think of sleep when her father hasn't returned yet? Why does her mother want her to go to sleep, and why is she looking worried? That was something Roksana wanted to know desperately. Her mother had told the patrolling officer her husband hadn't returned home yet, and all the officer could say to her was that he'll try his best to bring some news about him, but no news yet. Her husband must come home; he must go home to his family; he must come back to his wife, three kids, and the unborn, whom Mr Ambia can't leave behind.
Sleep was far out of reach for Roksana, as she was distraught over her father's whereabouts. Her tiny brain kept asking why her father hasn't been home yet, why the police cleared out the streets, why she heard this deafening silence from everywhere around her, why couldn't she go out and look for her father, why was she feeling this way; her heart was heavy, and she wanted to cry. Roksana went to the roof to spot her father coming home or anyone else she could ask where her father was; the streets looked like a desolate place, and not even a dog was around. When Sufiya realized that her stubborn little girl wasn't in her bed, she went berserk. She called out her name, but she heard back no answer, and just as she was about to head out the door, Roksana called out from the roof, "Ma, I'm here."
Sufiya: (slapped Roksana) What the hell were you thinking? Who comes to the roof in the middle of the night? What were you thinking?
Roksana: Ma, I was just waiting for my father to come home. Why hasn't he come back yet? Why is everything around so dismal, Ma? What is going on? (Roksana cried and her mother)
Sufiya: Don't cry. He'll be back soon. I'm sure he's safe wherever he is. Let's go towards the front door and wait for him there. We can watch the road from the hole in the wall.
The two of them were waiting patiently as the sun rises, but Mr Ambia hasn't returned yet. The patrol officer Sufiya talked to earlier, comes riding a bicycle, and Sufiya got up from her position. He looked a little relaxed and smiled when Sufiya opened the door.
Sufiya: Rashid Miah, is everything alright?
Patrol Officer: Amma, don't worry. Sir is safe. He's staying at his colleagues' house that was close to the office. After we sent everyone home, he hurried to his colleague's house nearby, and he's still there. He's all right.
What a frightful night it was for this pair of mother and daughter, although they had no clue of what went down in the city that was just 150 miles away from them. The night of 25th March 1971.
𝕭𝖎𝖗𝖙𝖍𝖉𝖆𝖞
It baffles me that many people in Bangladesh are still confused about the birthday of their country. I should come clean right off the bat— fixing on a birthday is not overly critical. Whether a country, an abstract idea, can have a birthday is also up for debate. But the problem is, with this meaningless confusion, arises another question—when exactly Bangladesh started to exist. Unlike a birthday, this question is essential.
There are two dates in this debate. 16th December, 1971, when the liberation army won against the invading Pakistani army—AKA the victory day. And 26th March, 1971, when Bangladeshi people declared their independence—AKA the independence day.
The people who argue 16th December is the birthday usually try to draw an allegory with human gestation. Like how a child is conceived and born 9 months after, the country was conceived on 26th March and born on 16th December.
What they do not consider is that a country is an idea, and ideas do not need to be in gestation. They can take place immediately, in mere fractions of a second. Also, considering 16th December as the birthday undermines the actions of the liberation army, rendering them illegitimate. The brutal war to free our people becomes merely a civil war, and the freedom fighters seem like traitors. Only people with ignorance can suggest such propositions.
So, if we are taking this colloquially, the birthday of Bangladesh is 26th March, the independence day.
স্বাধীনতা
রাত ২ টা,দরজায় ঠক ঠক কড়া নাড়ছে কে যেন। ঘুম ঘুম চোখ নিয়ে দরজা খুলেই রাকিব দেখতে পেলো রায়হান ধুরমুর করে ঘরের ভেতর ঢুকে দরজা লাগিয়ে দিল।</>
-পাকিস্তানীরা সবাই কে মেরে ফেলছে, ছাত্রাবাস গুলোতে হানা দিচ্ছে। আমি অনেক কষ্টে পালিয়ে এসেছি। রাকিবের ঘুম যেন মুহূর্তের মধ্যেই উধাও হয়ে গেলো, সে সাথে রুমের বাকিরা ও জেগে উঠলো। রেডিওতে শুনতে পেল শেখ মুজিবুর রহমানের স্বাধীনতার ডাক। দেশ দেখল এক নির্মম হত্যাকাণ্ড ও এক দুর্বিষহ রাত। রাকিব পালিয়ে গেল তার নিজ গ্রামে তার পরিবারের কাছে। ছেলে শহরে আর সেদিকে এত বড় কালরাত্রি গেল পুরো পরিবার এক অজানা হাহাকারের মাঝে ছিল। সন্তানকে কাছে ফিরে পেয়ে মায়ের কি প্রশান্তি তা লিখে বোঝানো সম্ভব নয়। শহরে রণক্ষেত্র বেড়ে ই চলছে। ধীরে ধীরে রণক্ষেত্র এর ভয়াবহতা রাকিবের গ্রামের দিকে ও ধাবিত হয়েছে। পাকবাহিনীর ঘাঁটি এখন তার নিজ গ্রামে, যাদের ভয়ে রাকিব পালিয়ে এসেছিল তারা আজ তার নিজ এলাকায় ঘাঁটি গড়েছে। তার পরিবার, সমাজ আজ হুমকির মুখে।শুনতে পেল মুক্তিবাহিনীর গঠিত হচ্ছে তার আহ্বান। ভয়ে পালিয়ে আসা সেই ছেলেটি এসেছে মায়ের কাছে আশীর্বাদ নিতে, সে মুক্তিবাহিনীতে প্রশিক্ষণ নিয়ে নিজ গ্রাম শত্রু মুক্ত করবে। নিজ দেশ ও পরিবার রক্ষার্থে নিজের প্রাণ দিতে ও পিছপা হবে না মায়ের কাছে পণ করে গেল। হানাদার বাহিনীর তাণ্ডবে পুরো গ্রাম লন্ডভন্ড হয়ে গিয়েছে। মুক্তিবাহিনীর দীর্ঘ সংগ্রামের পর বিজয় এসেছে। রাকিব তার দেশ ও গ্রামকে মুক্ত করেছে কিন্তু রক্ষা করতে পারেনি তার নিজ পরিবারকে। কোনো এক কালরাতে হানাদার বাহিনীর বর্বর হত্যাকাণ্ডের শিকার হয়েছে তার গ্রামের শত শত পরিবার, যাদের মধ্যে একটি ছিল রাকিবের। তবু বিজয় এসেছে, দেশ স্বাধীন হয়েছে। এমন হাজার হাজার পরিবার বিলীন হয়েছে। রাকিবের মতো কত শত শত সন্তান মায়ের আশীর্বাদ নিয়ে পণ করে গিয়েছিল দেশ স্বাধীন করে ফিরে আসবে বলে কিন্তু অনেকেই ফিরে আসেনি, প্রাণ গিয়েছে হাজার হাজার বীর মুক্তিযোদ্ধার।তবুও স্বাধীনতা এসেছে, পেয়েছি একটি স্বাধীন রাষ্ট্র।
এইতো কয়েক যুগের আগের কথা। 'চা-খামু' নামে সৌরজগতে একটি রাজধানী ছিলো, সেখানে দুইজন লোক বাস করতেন। তাদের মধ্যে একজন ছিলেন তর্কবাজ কিন্তু জ্ঞানী টাইপের, আর আরেকজন ছিলেন তর্কবাজ ও তান্ত্রিক টাইপের। জ্ঞানী টাইপের লোককে সবাই পল্টু নামে ডাকতো। আর তান্ত্রিক টাইপের লোককে সবাই নরেন্দা নামে ডাকতো। একটা বিষয় হলো, 'চাখামু' তে রাজনৈতিক হানাহানি লেগেই থাকতো সবসময়। যাইহোক, তাদের মধ্যে বেশ সখ্যতা ছিলো। এর কারণটা হচ্ছে, নরেন্দা তান্ত্রিক টাইপের লোক হলেও তার মূল জীবিকা ছিলো লোকদের কাছে বিশেষ পানীয় বিক্রি করা। এই পানীয়ের বিশেষত্ব হলো, এটা খেলে বেশ নেশা করে। পল্টু নরেন্দার দোকানে বসতেন শুধু তর্কের খাতিরে। কারণ সেখানে পানীয় খেয়ে মাতাল হওয়া লোকেদের অভাব নেই। কিন্তু দুঃখের বিষয় হলো, তাদের মধ্যে সখ্যতা বেশিদিন থাকলো না। একদিন আলোচনা হচ্ছিলো বিভিন্ন তন্ত্রমন্ত্র নিয়ে। তো নরেন্দা তখন বললেন পল্টুকে, "জানো পল্টু! আমি এমন একটা তন্ত্র জানি যেটা খাটালে সবাই কথা বলতে পারে তার স্বাধীন মতো।" এই হানাহানির দেশে স্বাধীনভাবে কথা বলার কথা শুনে পল্টু খুব মনোযোগী হয়ে জিজ্ঞেস করলেন,"কী সেই তন্ত্র?" তখন নরেন্দা বললেন,"এটার নাম হলো ড্যাসতন্ত্র। আর এটা যদি কেউ নিজের উপর পুরোপুরি খাটাতে চায় তবে আমার এই পানীয় খেতে হবে।" তখন পল্টু রেগে গেলেন। তিনি বললেন, "যদি স্বাধীনভাবে কথা বলার জন্য জোর করে এই পানীয়ই খাওয়ানো হয় তবে সেটা কেমন স্বাধীনতা?" এই নিয়েই বাঁধলো গন্ডগোল। পানীয়ের দোকানে আরও নেশাগ্রস্ত লোক থাকায় সবাই নরেন্দার পক্ষ নিয়ে পল্টুকে স্বাধীন মতো পিটিয়ে বের করে দিলো। কিন্তু পল্টু তো থেমে যাওয়ার পাত্র নন। উনি যেহেতু জ্ঞানী ছিলেন তাই উনার লেখালেখির হাতটাও ছিলো পাকা। যার জোরে উনি অবৈধভাবে একটি বই লিখলেন এবং ড্যাসতন্ত্রকে আক্রমণ করলেন। বহুকাল পরেও উনার উক্তি পশ পোলাপানের ঠোঁটে ঘোরাঘুরি করে। এভাবে বহুকাল পরেও 'চাখামু' অঞ্চলের মানুষের মধ্যে ড্যাসতন্ত্র ও পল্টুতন্ত্রের কার্যকারিতা নিয়ে হানাহানি লেগেই আছে।
𝕰𝖓𝖉 𝕹𝖔𝖙𝖊𝖘
