I Remember Abbu

by Humayun Azad

  Abbu’s diary entries had grown quite long by this time. Earlier, I used to be on every page, but ever since we walked barefoot to lay flowers at the feet of the sun, my presence in Abbu’s diary had shrunk. The nation, the language, and Bengalis had grown prominent.

  Bengalis dream of ruling Pakistan, Abbu wrote. What an impossible dream. That day will never come. Why has Pakistan amassed so many weapons? Their armed forces are experts at occupying their own country. They will wipe out all Bengalis if need be, but they won’t let them come to power. Pakistan’s people can never hope to live in a democratic country. It’s impossible to have military rule and democracy at the same time.

  This was the kind of thing Abbu wrote. I couldn’t understand any of it when I read it in third or fourth grade. But today I understand it very well. I look around me, and I know.

  Abbu and Ammu came home early that day. I was thrilled.

  “Dangerous times ahead,” Abbu told Ammu.

  “I think so too,” Ammu said.

  I was always frightened to hear of danger. I had been in danger one day when my foot got caught between the bed and the wall.

  “Why danger, Abbu?” I asked. “Is it because you came home early?”

  Abbu took me in his arms. “No, there’s no danger because we’re home early. We’re home early because there’s danger.”

  I could see for myself there was danger when Abbu took me out to the balcony in his arms.

  The same people who had been on the streets barefoot a few days ago were out again today. But they weren’t weeping and singing, “I can never forget.” They were angry.

  “J-o-y B-a-n-g-l-a!” they were shouting together. “Victory to Bangla!”

  This time, they were not without their shoes. They weren’t carrying flowers. They didn’t have tears in their eyes and a tune on their lips. They were pumping their fists in the air. Some were carrying sticks. They were rushing somewhere. They were shouting, “Victory to Bangla.”

  “Victory to Bangla,” Abbu whispered.

  I loved it. Raising my arm, I shouted, “Victory to Bangla.”

  The parade was unending. One stream of people was followed by another.

  Their screams rent the sky. “Victory to Bangla.”

  I ran around the house, shouting, “Victory to Bangla.”

  Abbu’s diary was full of Bangla, Bengalis, and liberation. Abbu wrote:

  March 1, 1971

  The students rushed to the university in groups as soon as the announcement was made on the radio. I went out of the classroom. We were told the national council would not have its session in Dhaka. It was completely out of the blue. Our hearts sank. Our heads were in turmoil. There was fear too. What were the Pakistani demons about to do? (“Demon” and “human” were among Abbu’s favorite words. Abbu hated demons. He considered the rulers, the Pakistani overlords and their generals, nothing but demons.) They were bound to attack the Bengalis.

  There was an avalanche of people on the streets. A sea of faces. A single cry all around us: “Victory to Bangla!” It made your nerves tingle. Your temperature shot up when you added your voice. People were taking over the streets of the second capital. On Jinnah Avenue, in Tejgaon, everywhere. Parades were converging on Dhanmondi from every part of the city.

  March 2, 1971

  All of Bangla has shut down. Offices are closed, schools are closed, colleges are closed, the university has turned into a fortress. Only the streets are flowing. Torrents of people. Bangla has never seen so many processions. We are moving toward our destiny. But will autonomy be enough now, or do we need something larger, like independence? But can independence come so easily? Does it not need blood, unending blood?

  Pakistan has been burned to ashes today at the University of Dhaka. We were buried under the crescent and star all this time. We Bengalis. It’s the flag of treachery. It will not do for us anymore. We need a new flag, as the students and student leaders of the University of Dhaka showed us today. Some of them may lose their way in the future, but today they have set an example for all Bengalis.

  The top of the western gate of the Faculty of Arts has become immortal today. There we were, thousands of us, standing in front of the building. A sea of people. The student leaders climbed on the top of the gate, delivered their speeches, and then set fire to the crescent and star.

  The green flag, “our community flag,” went up in flames. The Pakistani national anthem, “Pak Sar Zameen Shaad Baad,” was burning. The moon burst into flames, and the star followed. Pakistan was burned to ashes.

  A new flag was born in its place, entirely green, with a bright red sun in the center, and on it, the contours of Bangla, all fifty-six thousand square feet of it. I felt my heart was fluttering there on top of the gate of the Faculty of Arts in the form of that flag.

  The flag was flying, the flag was flying, our new flag was flying, our new flag was flying all over Bangladesh.

  Suddenly, a wave of fear spread over us. There was a rumor that the Pakistani military was on its way, that it would demolish the Faculty of Arts, where the crescent and star flag had been burned. They would drench the place in the blood of the students, the blood of the people. We began to run. I set off homeward . . .

  Late in the afternoon, a flag began to flutter on our roof. I had never seen a flag before. It was a green flag, dark green. A sun in the middle, just like the sun at whose foot I had laid flowers that day we walked barefoot. There was something drawn inside the sun.

  “What’s this, Abbu?” I asked.

  “This is Bangla, Bangladesh,” said Abbu. “Our country.”

  Our flag was flying on our roof. Bangladesh was fluttering on our roof. Closing my eyes, I saw, on this roof and that roof, on those roofs, roofs, roofs, the flag, the flag, the flag. Bangladesh was flying, Bangladesh was fluttering. In my heart, on the roof.

  March Is the Cruelest Month

  Abbu wrote, Revolution comes to our land along with spring in February. Winter recedes, old leaves fall. New foliage and flowers pierce the bone-dry branches to be born. Rebellion arrives, and with it, revolution.

  I began to be happier from the day the flag was flown. Ammu no longer turned into a fairy and left every morning. Whenever I climbed into Abbu’s arms on the balcony, I could see people and more people. I don’t think I have ever seen so many humans together since then. And the shouts, “Victory to Bangla!”

  Abbu’s diary was filling up with acts of revolution. Abbu wrote:

  March 3, 1971

  Thousands of people with sticks and rods are marching from every direction toward Road No. 32 in Dhanmondi, with earsplitting cries of “Victory to Bangla.” But will they receive wise counsel there, or will the rebellion of millions falter? I do not think it will fail. Bengalis have grown as fearless as tigers. Mobs have surrounded the Pakistani military in Tejgaon. They are attacking the army in Sylhet. They are battling soldiers in Kumilla. Fires are raging everywhere. All that remains is for everything to be burned down.

  Maulana Bhashani held a meeting in Paltan today, stoking the flames burning within everyone. Our veteran leader has hinted at independence. But the center of all attention today is No. 32. People will come back in a few days from No. 32 with either success or failure.

  March 7, 1971

  An enormous platform has been erected at the racecourse. All the leaders are gathered there. The Ramna Racecourse is the Bay of Bengal today, with all the rivers of Bangla flowing into it. There are roaring voices all around. Processions are arriving from every direction. Students are streaming in from schools and colleges and universities. Laborers are marching from Adamjee and Demra, from Tejgaon and Tongi. The leather workers are here, the garment workers are here, the peasants are here. Victory to Bangla. Victory to Bangla. Victory to Bangla.

  The same cry reverberates from one parade to the next. Will the army attack us? A helicopter flies overhead. We are frightened. Then we overcome our fear. Everyone is saying the Pakistani military has turned into a toot
hless tiger. Is this true?

  What is this roar that Sheikh Mujibur Rahman has just let out? All of Bangladesh is in his heart today. It is the collective war cry of Bangla that has come from him, spreading out over the racecourse to the public library, to the Faculty of Arts, to the High Court, to Ramna Park, before crossing the river and Tongi to travel everywhere, across the entire land. Schools are closed. Colleges are closed. Universities are closed. Banks are closed. Offices are closed. And if even a single shot is fired . . .

  Sheikh Mujib’s warning to Pakistan fires us up. Will he announce our independence today? Our hearts are in turmoil. Will he prove revolutionary enough to make the declaration right now? The public is ready for it. They will rush to Tejgaon the moment it is made, just as they did in ’69. Sheikh Mujib says, “This battle is for freedom. This war is our liberation war.” It scares me.

  This is not exactly a declaration of independence, then. The word “liberation” confuses us. There are different kinds of liberation, but there can be only one independence.

  But his call to war echoes in our breasts as we come away from the meeting fearfully. “Turn every home into a fortress,” he says. “Turn every home into a fortress. This war is our liberation war. We will free the people, God willing.” How will Sheikh Mujib free us? Will we win independence from Pakistan and liberation too? Or does Pakistan still live within him? Are the students imposing a new flag on him, a new country, the country of Bangladesh, and the song that sends our blood racing, “Amar shonar Bangla, aami tomay bhalobashi. We love you, our dearest Bangla”?

  March 10, 1971

  Anyone who looks at Bangla today will see the world’s youngest, most intense flag. The revolutionary flag is flying fearlessly. On the streets, there are nothing but flowing rivers of people. They have sticks and rods; they have armed themselves with whatever they could find. Their singing rings in our ears: “We love you, our dearest Bangla.” And there’s the constant war cry, “Victory to Bangla.” There has never been such a time in the lives of Bengalis.

  What is Sheikh Mujib doing? Everyone is looking to him. Which way is he leading us? Are we on the road to independence? If so, it will be a road strewn with blood and death. There’s no trusting the Pakistani army, even if they’re behaving like toothless tigers now. They are bound to spring on us sooner or later. Does Mujib realize this? Do the students, the laborers, the peasants realize this? How will we combat them in our homes? Can rifles and cannons and tanks made in China and America be confronted with sticks and rods?

  We will be Pakistan no more. It’s time to be Bangladesh.

  March 15, 1971

  What conversations has Sheikh Mujib had with Yahya Khan, with Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto? Does he trust them? That can only lead to calamity. Does Sheikh Mujib still dream of becoming the prime minister of Pakistan? Do East Pakistan and West Pakistan still seem a single country to him? If so, grave danger lies ahead. He must show us a clear path. But they say he is holding secret talks with representatives of the army. Is he himself in the dark? Will he, too, find out Pakistan’s intentions in the most violent way, like the rest of us? They want to drink the blood of Bengalis; they want to snuff out the lives of Bengalis. Does Mujib not understand this? Perhaps he doesn’t, because the politics he believes in cannot bring independence to a nation—it only elevates one’s own party and political class to the seat of power.

  March 20, 1971

  A lot of blood has been shed in Bangladesh this March. In Chittagong, in Tongi, in Jessore, in Khulna, in Sylhet. The Chittagong port has been loaded with Pakistani arms. Sheikh Mujib does not understand, or perhaps he does not wish to understand, what Yahya and Bhutto want to achieve while pretending to have a dialogue with him. He thinks the demons will bow to the will of the people. Demons never do that.

  The people have their blood, and the demons have their weapons. It is weapons that triumph in this world. How is Sheikh Mujib unable to understand this, so unable to understand this, so completely unable to understand this? How long will unarmed citizens stand up to cannons, rifles, and tanks? Is Mujib going to make all of Bangladesh confront the armed demons without any weapons of its own?

  Even the ordinary people have realized by now that talks will lead nowhere. Why does the leader not get it? How is he still laboring under an illusion?

  March 23, 1971

  It became obvious today that Pakistan is finished here. March 23 used to be Pakistan Day. The flag of Pakistan was unfurled in schools and colleges, in the yards of government buildings, and on the roofs of people’s homes. But the Pakistani flag did not fly anywhere this year except in the army camps.

  Today, it is the flag of Bangladesh that flew all over the land, along with black flags to signal grief. The sky of Bangla is a very different one today.

  The day was observed as Resistance Day. The National Council was supposed to have met today, but that has been canceled yet again. The people and the army are clashing everywhere. What is Sheikh Mujib still discussing with the demons? Attempts are underway to disarm the Bengali soldiers in the military camps, so that they cannot mutiny. But the Bengali soldiers at the Joydebpur royal palace have refused to surrender their weapons. The signs of war are in the air.

  March 25, 1971

  The days seem to pass in futility. Mujib is revealing nothing about his interminable discussions. The people do not know what they should do. Is Mujib prepared for war? A journalist friend has brought terrible news. Apparently, talks have broken down. Yahya is supposed to have left for Pakistan in secret. Perhaps Mujib doesn’t know. Yahya has left behind the ferocious Tikka Khan, who considers human blood an aperitif.

  I spent the day meeting with people around the city with my journalist friend. Everyone wants to know what’s going on. All of them have urgent questions, but no one has the answers. The answer that we all know is too abhorrent to be uttered. It spells blood. It spells war. My friend said we should go back home at night. Something may happen tonight. What is this something? Can we even imagine what it might be? At nine, I set off for Azimpur. When I arrived at the road to our house, I found the boys putting up barricades.

  “Why the barricades?” I asked.

  “The military may come tonight,” one of the boys who knew me answered.

  “Can this barricade stop tanks?” I asked lightly.

  “No,” he said, “but what else can we do?”

  Are we about to go to battle unarmed? Will we turn into another Biafra? I am at a loss for an answer.

  Gigantic rocks threaten to pulverize the heart of Bangla today. Countless weapons are aimed at it.

  Night of the Demons

  I cannot stay up late. So, I fell asleep. Loud noises woke me. I shouted. I clutched Abbu. Explosions everywhere. Ratatatatat. Bambambam. Goomgoomgoom. Screams from the east. And the sounds. Ratatatatat. Bambambam. Goomgoomgoom. Abbu switched off the lights quickly. The streetlights had gone out too. The lights next door as well.

  “We’ll sleep on the floor,” Abbu told Ammu.

  Ammu spread a sheet on the floor in the dark. I curled up on it, between Abbu and Ammu. I had my arms around Abbu. He was trembling. His palms were sweaty.

  The sounds came again. Abbu made us crawl under the bed. At midnight, we had the bed above us. I couldn’t sleep. I was frozen with fear. How frightening the sounds were. Ratatatatat. Bambambam. Like a snake slithering in beneath the door, poised to strike.

  “Water, Ammu.” My throat was parched with fear.

  The glass of water fell from Ammu’s hands and shattered. It felt as though the ratatatatat bambambam had entered the room. Abbu leaped up.

  “It’s nothing,” said Ammu. “I dropped the glass.”

  Every sound was terrifying. Even the snapping of a twig. I jumped in fear when someone opened a window. It all sounded like ratatatatat bambambam.

  Which way were the demons coming from? Where were they shooting? I thought they had surrounded our house. They were firing their machine guns at us.

  �
�The military must have come out of the cantonment,” said Abbu.

  “But why are they firing?” asked Ammu.

  “The sounds are coming from the direction of the university.”

  “Are they killing people, or is it a threat?” asked Ammu.

  “You heard the screams,” said Abbu. “Pakistanis don’t threaten; they just kill. They must have killed the students.”

  Abbu peeped out of the window. But the streets were not visible. It was not a night to see anything. It was a night to listen, and to collapse into the arms of a bloody death.

  A shaft of flame was visible in the distance. It grew into a roaring fire. Even the darkness in our room was interrupted by sparks of light because of it.

  Ratatatatat. Bambambam. Goomgoomgoom. Dawn had arrived. The call to prayers floated in from the mosque, shaking with fear.

  We lay beneath the bed, against the wall.

  “Stay here,” said Abbu. “We won’t get up now.”

  Ammu banged her head against the bed when she tried to sit up. She lay down again. I fell asleep. There had never been a more terrifying night.

  The Flag, Again

  “Take down the Bangladeshi flag from your roof,” someone shouted from next door. “Fly the Pakistani flag instead.”

  I ran with Abbu to the balcony. We saw the crescent and star of Pakistan fluttering on all the roofs around us, where the flag of Bangladesh used to be.

  Not a single red sun anywhere. Not a single outline of Bangla in the center of the sun.

  “We’ve been ordered to fly the Pakistani flag,” our neighbor said.

  Abbu ran up to the roof to bring down the flag of Bangladesh. He was trembling uncontrollably.

  “Where should I put this?” he asked.