by Neamat Imam
I noticed that he did not mention Sheikh Mujib’s name, not even once, but I was happy when he said he would make sure the story was printed and that it was printed without delay.
He did print the story, in the next available issue of the Freedom Fighter, but as a small, one-column six-inch item, on the seventh page. Sunk among the classifieds, with their clear headlines and catchy texts, the story applauded Nur Hussain for the originality of his effort. He was another proof of how solemnly the people of Bangladesh had taken Sheikh Mujib into their hearts, it said. All the observations and statistics about people’s sufferings and all the recommendations I had made for reshaping our present and making our future meaningful had been thrown out. The item ended by predicting that sooner or later all Bangladeshis must become Sheikh Mujibs; that was the only way to show him our sincerest appreciation for his leadership.
14
Meeting Moina Mia
Sometime in December 1973, Moina Mia, local Awami League leader and member of parliament, sent his personal assistant to us. The man introduced himself as Abdul Ali and told us we were expected at Mia’s residence the next afternoon. He would not say what the meeting was about, how Moina Mia knew us, why the rush.
‘Have you come to the right people?’ I asked. ‘The number on the gate is not clearly visible. The number plate has seen at least twenty winters. The name of the road is nowhere to be found on the road. Are you sure you are looking for us?’ He said yes, there was no mistake about it. ‘When I do a job for my boss, I have all the time in the world to make sure that I have done it properly. I don’t care about my own sufferings, illness or exhaustion. I don’t care if house number 22 comes after house number 16 and if house number 16 follows house number 36. I care about what I am supposed to do for the MP and if I have done that up to his expectation.’ He said my name was Khaleque Biswas and I had a talented young man living with me whose name was Nur Hussain and together we delivered Sheikh Mujib’s 7 March speech at various public arenas. ‘You may stop me if I am mistaken,’ he said, ‘but I am sure you will not stop me because I will not be mistaken.’ To make himself clearer, he took from his pocket a clipping from the Freedom Fighter and showed me the small item on Nur Hussain which had my name as the byline.
‘Would you like some tea?’ I asked. ‘It won’t take more than two minutes.’
‘No,’ he replied, ‘thank you; there is no time.’
It was a surprising invitation, because we thought only the street people knew us, people who did not know right from wrong, who were still under the illusion that Sheikh Mujib’s voice heralded a new era and healed them from the inside out. Now we knew we had gone beyond the boundary of the slums and reached the minds of people who were powerful, who decided national executive policies, and were responsible for lots of people like us.
I had my reservations about the invitation. After Abdul Ali left, I was besieged with questions and doubt. Perhaps he looked down upon us. He could very well do that, as he was an MP’s assistant. At this moment nothing could be more worthwhile than working for the Awami League. Then I wondered if we had angered the Awami League by delivering Sheikh Mujib’s speech without their permission. What if he was instructed to invite us as naturally and calmly as possible so that we did not know some violent punishment was waiting for us at Moina Mia’s residence?
I buried my fear. I did not want Nur Hussain to be affected by it. I was glad to see he took the invitation most easily, without thinking much about it. As long as I was with him, it was clear that he felt he had nothing to fear.
We went to see Moina Mia at his house which was several blocks away from our place. It was a house that stood alone. It had high boundary walls with wire barricades above. Builders were working on a new construction inside, which already had three storeys completed and would rise even higher. The wide and complicated, but aesthetically pleasing, wrought-iron gate and the image of a lion on the railings reflected the kind of people that lived there. Not many houses I had seen had such a distinguished combination of protection and theatricality.
Seeing us, Ruhul Amin, the gatekeeper, went inside and came out a moment later with Abdul Ali behind him. Abdul Ali advised him to take a close look at us so that he recognized us when we came next. Sounding as mechanical as yesterday, he told him we would be ‘frequent visitors’ there and should be given immediate access at any time of the day. Ruhul Amin saluted us; it seemed he had understood our importance before we ourselves did. ‘Come on in,’ he said, ‘please.’
Moina Mia was in his Mujib coat. He was ready to receive us. He walked to the door and embraced Nur Hussain and shook my hand and led us to the sitting area. ‘There you are,’ he said, ‘what an auspicious day.’ Abdul Ali left the room, leaving us alone.
I had seen him before. I guess I had seen him many many times, when he campaigned for the parliamentary election in early 1973. He was a veteran Awami League leader, and though he was not in Sheikh Mujib’s cabinet, it was said he was ‘close to him personally’ and ‘had advised him on various occasions about homeland security measures and enemy property affairs’. He had been in charge of recruiting freedom fighters for the war and was considered one of the most illustrious freedom fighters not to be adorned with medals—and that this was only because he was never part of the military. After the war he organized Sheikh Mujib’s private militia, a tough, formidable, totalitarian-minded armed force, and helped him in his nationwide political campaign. It was he who arranged the massive reception ceremony for Sheikh Mujib when he returned from Pakistan in 1972. About 150,000 people gathered at Tejgaon Airport that day.
As the shopkeepers did in the market, Moina Mia addressed Nur Hussain as ‘Sheikh Mujib’, and asked him directly if he would be interested in working with him. The job involved, he explained, speaking to various crowds within the local constituency, something we were already doing. Nur Hussain would appear at the meeting spot well ahead of time and deliver the speech again and again to prepare the crowd for the main attraction of the day: Moina Mia’s own speech. He was aware of the public displeasure I had seen across the city. He wanted to address it before it took a dangerous turn. Nur Hussain would help him do exactly that.
I intervened. ‘Forgive me,’ I said. ‘Would you mind telling us a little more?’ I asked if he would give us a hint of the fee. I did not want to sound mean, but Nur Hussain needed to know how much money he would earn from his speeches. He admired Sheikh Mujib as much as anybody else in the country, there was no doubt about that, but he had no other means to support himself than by delivering the speech. We were now going out almost every day, and we were not limited to one constituency. If we were to work for Moina Mia instead of what we were doing, we would have to know the monetary part of the proposal in detail.
No hint was necessary. Moina Mia smiled, as if he had expected this. There would be a deal between us, he said. ‘A solid and transparent deal.’ We would work sincerely and would be compensated sincerely. There was nothing to worry about. As long as Sheikh Mujib was leading the country, there would be no scarcity of money for any patriotic work. He had freed the country; he knew how to fight hardship. Bad times had arrived, but they would not stay long. The Awami League being in power meant all the people of the country were in power. They knew exactly how to take initiatives, proper and pragmatic initiatives, to build the country from its foundation up. Such initiatives would be taken in every constituency and Nur Hussain was an indispensable part of that effort.
Then he mentioned an amount. It was so huge compared to what we were earning in coins that I did not see the necessity of consulting Nur Hussain before giving consent.
‘We are in,’ I said promptly. ‘We’ll be waiting for specific directions regarding where to go, when to go, and what to say.’
Moina Mia slipped an envelope from the chest pocket of his coat. ‘An advance,’ he said. ‘Just to buy two cups of tea to entertain yourself tonight. Just to buy two very good cups of tea.’ The rest would follow.
Even if there was no meeting to deliver the speech, he would not miss our payment.
The deal done, two servants, both of them of Nur Hussain’s age but thinner, came in with tea and biscuits. They walked cautiously, served us silently, and then took a few steps back to stand at the corner of the room. Moina Mia noticed the deep surprise in their eyes as they watched Nur Hussain. He smiled and then whispered, ‘This is a miracle. Tell me this is really happening. This is exactly what I needed. I don’t have any doubt any more.’ He looked at us with a smile on his lips. ‘You say nothing,’ he whispered to us. ‘Just watch.’ He added an extra direction for Nur Hussain. ‘Watch and just be yourself. Don’t worry, I am not testing you; I am testing them. I’ve already accepted you. Ready?’ Nur Hussain looked at me and nodded.
‘Basu and Gesu,’ Moina Mia said, ‘come here.’ They took a few steps forward and stood there, keeping a respectable distance from us. ‘What do you think you were doing standing there? I am very disappointed. Didn’t I tell you not to look at my guests eye to eye?’ Basu and Gesu began to tremble as he spoke. ‘You only work for me; you’re not my friends or my guests’ friends, you know that?’ They knew that completely. ‘I can dismiss you right at this moment for this deplorable behaviour and also forfeit your salary this month.’ They knew that too; probably it was a condition of their verbal agreement to work for him. ‘But I forgive you this time because the prime minister of the country forgives you. Don’t repeat this. Ever.’
It was a surprise for them. Perhaps they had wanted to meet Sheikh Mujib face to face from the very first day that they had heard his name. But under the constant commands of Moina Mia, they did not know how to show proper respect to him.
‘Will you stand there like two fools or do something appropriate?’ Moina Mia asked, giving no sign of controlling his anger. They fell to the ground instantly to touch Nur Hussain’s feet. ‘What did I teach you?’ Moina Mia shouted. ‘Do it properly. Three times every time; no concession.’ They touched Nur Hussain’s feet three times and touched their chests and remained on the floor for further commands. ‘Since he is our bravest hero, you respect him again,’ said Moina Mia. They touched Nur Hussain’s feet three more times.
‘They’re not always like this, your honour understands that,’ Moina Mia said to Nur Hussain. ‘I am ashamed of their conduct today but I can assure you they are very loyal servants. They are not loud or greedy, and they do not disrespect anyone. Other servants may have issues with their masters; they may have their heads full of conspiracies to harm them, out of hate and jealousy; but these two are different. They know every moment what I want from them. They are very good servants, Mr Prime Minister; I hope you did not find them rude.’ He gestured at Nur Hussain to touch their heads, which he did without hesitation. Basu and Gesu, still looking at the ground, stood up. Nur Hussain’s touch was reassuring; they were less nervous now than before.
15
My Rage and My Frustration
The development schemes the Sheikh Mujib administration had introduced were miserably inadequate. No strict mechanism was in place to determine if they worked or how fast they worked. This was because there were thugs everywhere, in every office, in every profession; thugs who had been freedom fighters but were now destroying the very concept of freedom. No specific policies were introduced to protect citizens against them. They came like bloodsucking Pakistani soldiers, looting and then disappearing. Then they came back again.
Whoever these thugs were, my anger was directed against Sheikh Mujib. And I was right. Because though the thugs came with different names, with different levels of power, they all came wearing the Mujib coat, and raising the Joy Bangla slogan. They all introduced themselves as his relatives, his dear friends, his dedicated supporters, who professed to sacrifice their lives for him. Then they looted. They attended his public speeches, worshipped him as the founder of the nation, and looted. They hung his picture in their offices, sitting rooms, bedrooms, waiting rooms, and looted as much as they wanted. And he knew everything. Still, he employed them, supported them, gave them power, shared his prayers with them, as if without them he could not exist.
Obviously, I could not share my anxieties with Nur Hussain. When we were in our respective rooms, I wanted him to come out and join me and say how his day had gone. That would give me an opportunity to ask how he thought his days could be better, how he felt about any specific political direction the country was taking and what he wanted to do about it. We would discuss the relation between politics and paranoia, exploring layer by layer the complex construction of social relationships in a new society. Freedom belonged equally to all citizens, yet some citizens alienated others so much that it was not really a society now; it was a primitive clan. We could spend hours and days interpreting our feelings.
But he never came. He went to bed early, slept all night snoring deeply, and woke up a happy man, ready to deliver the speech. He made the koi fish crispy when he cooked, the beef soft enough to open fibre by fibre when chewed, and ate a good amount of rice in every meal. When his hair grew after one and a half months and changed his appearance, he did not mind going to the hairdresser by himself after I had said I was not feeling well. He took his shirt, took money from the tin pot in the kitchen where we kept small amounts for everyday expenses and walked down the stairs humming a tune. Upon his return, he took long baths, the same tune growing and fading and growing again. On days when we had no speaking schedules, he borrowed my cassette player and played the speech repeatedly in his room. Though the sound barely came through the door, I knew he was honing his style, moving towards the highest level of perfection possible.
Although I knew nothing would come of it, I sat with him a few times. I had to try, if I was honest. If I began the conversation, I thought, he might come forth and express himself. With images and arguments I might make him confront his woes, his vulnerabilities, thus making him dream and reform his beliefs, attitudes, feelings and actions. He might not be able to understand instantly why pro-Awami League Bengalis were politically so submissive, but at least he would be able to see how Awami politicians had played with his and the rest of the country’s sense of deprivation and dissatisfaction under the Mujib rule. Gradually he would understand that actions must be taken to challenge the status quo, to carry out a redemptive social movement. I sat with him and spoke and spoke and spoke, and he listened. Then when I stopped, drained and frustrated, he spoke about unrelated things, leaving me alone in my dark world. ‘There is a cave there,’ he said, ‘a very dark cave, hidden behind the thorny trees of the Red Earth mountain. We were told that every once in a while the cave opened its mouth and pulled little children and grazing cattle into its wide stomach. We were never allowed to roam in that part of the village alone.’ And another day: ‘When we are out and see a black cat crossing the street before us, we return home. There is no way we take that street that day. That will bring us misfortunes, plagues. The problem deepens if the cat belongs to a widow or a lonely old woman. Then it has to be burned.’ He spoke about Gangasagar, told me stories of fairies and demons and witches and monsters that he had heard in his childhood. Though he was in Dhaka now, and had been here for almost eight months, he had not taken the city to heart. He knew nothing of it.
I forgave him. How would he know what was in Sheikh Mujib’s mind, or in my own mind? He came to the city for some kind of employment; he found some kind of employment. He did not care if that was the work he wanted to do for the rest of his life. The whole country did not exist for him as long as he remained alive.
16
Danger at the Door
One of the conditions of working for Moina Mia was that he had absolute control over Nur Hussain’s speaking schedules. The purpose of Nur’s performances was to bring people under the umbrella of the Awami League. At no time should that agenda be undermined.
Though there was no need to speak at the market any more, as Moina Mia kept his monetary promises and paid us a generous fee for ou
r services, I often noticed Nur Hussain felt like talking whenever the fishermen or the rickshaw-wallahs threw the Joy Bangla slogan at him. ‘How is Sheikh Mujib doing today?’ they asked him, and when he did not begin the speech, after I had given him a hard look, they asked if he was not in the mood; if he was suffering from stomach ache or constipation. ‘All right, another day. Maybe when the wind falls and the mangoes ripen.’ Then they would pass.
Many times he would start delivering the speech as we returned from one of Moina Mia’s scheduled appearances. He would not look at me, thus very consciously and categorically avoiding me. He would look back to make sure no other rickshaw was following us, then say: My brothers, I have come here before you today … He would continue until he finished with: I look back on the past twenty-three years, and I see nothing but a history of bloodshed. Then he would repeat ‘bloodshed’ several times; every time the word turning softer and softer before getting lost between his lips. The rickshaw would continue moving, the rickshaw-wallah pedalling silently—probably he did not want to distract him—and we would sit next to each other, without talking, as if we were returning from a funeral. Then no noises on the road, no songs or familiar music coming from roadside stores, no neighbourhood policeman, postal officer, banker or teacher, whoever we met on our way, could push him out from his silence. He would sit as if he had lost the will to live and the material world did not have the ability to touch him again. Reaching home he would go to his room, I to mine. The night would pass in uninterrupted silence.
