The Black Coat

by Neamat Imam

  21

  The Newcomers

  A new wave of refugees came to the city in September 1974. Coming to the city was probably the worst thing they could do. In the villages they could collect herbs, catch a bird in the fields, steal eggs from turtles, and uproot a banana tree to extract its white skeleton. There were hundreds of thousands of canals and ponds full of fish. These opportunities were not available in the cities. Still they came.

  What pushed them to set out for Dhaka in that critical moment of our national history, I asked myself once again, if it wasn’t a conspiracy of Pakistani collaborators, as Moina Mia had said? I came up with several answers. First, they were not landowners. These people were rootless, so it was easy for them to decide to set out for a new place. They had nothing to lose. Second, they were not going anywhere. They were just wandering the way they had wandered year after year, generation after generation, before the liberation as well as after it. And in the course of that wandering they found themselves in Dhaka, which happened to be the capital of the country. Third, they were scared of seeing more death. Death came every day. They looked for the most densely populated area in the country. They thought they would be able to hide themselves amidst Dhaka’s crowds, and death would not find them. Fourth, they did not want to just die meaninglessly; they did not want to be shadows of lives without enjoying the promises of the new country. They had lived year after year in slavery, burdened by discrimination and shame. Now they were free. If they could survive a few more days, they might be able to live with honour. By going from place to place they wanted to buy time.

  I revised my answers, again and again, until I believed I knew exactly why the refugees chose to come to Dhaka. If it were other refugees at any other time, I would not have used the same arguments. I was sure those refugees got on the road to Dhaka one morning compelled by a higher cause.

  They wanted to get as close as they could to Sheikh Mujib. That was it, I thought; definitely. That was why they were here. He was their man. They wanted to draw his attention to their sufferings. What better way was there to do that than coming to the capital, being his neighbour, burying the dead at his doorstep, bowing down before him and saying with unshakeable promise that even after thousands of deaths they would not lose confidence in him? He was not going to go see them in their villages. They had waited and waited and seen death after death; he did not come. He did not come even though he had promised in his speeches to look after them. So they came to him.

  I saluted them. They were strong people. They had made it this far through the famine. Soon they would be at his house; they would be his uninvited guests and speak their minds, calling for his attention.

  If I lived in a village and the famine had hit, I asked myself, would I have the courage to come to Dhaka as they did? Would I dare cross those drought-stricken miles and raise a tent next to a burial ground under the open sky, knowing that one day after my death from acute starvation I would be buried by strangers in a strange place, or left at a street corner to be eaten by dogs and vultures? Would I be able to think clearly about such a long and critical journey? Would I do something else entirely, like killing people who stood in my way, who hid food in their backyards and did not sell their wares because they wanted a price hike? Good that I was alone, no children or elderly relatives with me; good that I had no parents to look after. If I had, I would have left them behind. I would have snatched their food to feed myself. Every life has a duty to live, you know; every life is precious but at this moment my life is more precious than yours—that was what I would have argued. It would have been reprehensible.

  I felt exhausted. Whenever I asked myself these questions, I felt exhausted. I struggled for a breath of air. I struggled to look normal, to appear to Nur Hussain like I was perfectly fine, I was fit to accompany him to Moina Mia’s gathering, though I knew in my mind I was falling into an endless abyss.

  In 1974 alone over one and a half million people died in Sheikh Mujib’s liberated Bangladesh. How big was that number? Five times the number of Bangladeshis killed by Pakistani forces during the entire period of the liberation war in 1971. No natural disaster had claimed so many lives since the beginning of our national calendar. No ruthless tribal landlord or maharaja in our history had been the cause of so many deaths in the subcontinent. No religious clash, territorial disagreement, or deadly disease subjected our people to helplessly witness the untimely decline of such an astronomical number of lives.

  22

  A Coat for All

  Abdul Ali was waiting for us at our door. There was no chair or stool in the passage, so he must have been standing the whole time. ‘Where have you been so long?’ he asked, almost angrily, as soon as he saw us climb up the stairs. He had come to call us to an urgent meeting with Moina Mia; it was a meeting we mustn’t miss, he said.

  As we followed him silently, he drew our attention to his Mujib coat. How did he look, he asked; did he look like a real supporter of Sheikh Mujib? He told us that because of a step taken by Moina Mia recently to strengthen public support for Sheikh Mujib, from now on he would have to wear a coat, gatekeeper Ruhul Amin would have to wear one, and Basu and Gesu would have to wear coats as well. Moina Mia’s initiative did not end there, he said. Though it was not election time, new measures were taken to raise huge wooden boats—the insignia of the Awami League—in the market, at important intersections, at the gates of the refugee camps, and at other significant public venues. There would be at least sixteen boats across the constituency; and the first one would be raised over the gate of Moina Mia’s residence.

  I could not tell if he looked like a real supporter of Sheikh Mujib or not, I said, but I could tell for sure he looked interesting. ‘What do you mean by interesting?’ he asked immediately, sounding concerned. ‘Are you trying to insult me?’ He stopped, refused to walk further until I had explained myself. His expression of delight was ruined, and I imagined I had caused him immeasurable trouble with my comment. Where this trouble came from, I could also guess. He should not worry, I said softly; if Moina Mia knew what a person would feel in a coat, when wearing that coat was compulsory, he would not have imposed it in the first place. He wanted to arrange a pageant, with hundreds of people across the constituency wearing the coat. His purpose would be served. He could boast to the Awami League council that he had gone beyond the traditional way of popularizing the party; he had made an extra effort to protect Sheikh Mujib’s legacy. Nobody would bother to read what was written in the hearts of those wearing the coat. They might be real supporters, but if they were not it did not matter. Abdul Ali could look like a monkey in that coat, or a crow without a tail, but to Moina Mia he would still be a loyal colleague, a valuable fighter for Sheikh Mujib, an indispensable element of his pageantry.

  ‘Do I look like a monkey in the coat?’ Abdul Ali asked, as he took the first step onward. ‘Do I really look like a crow, so ugly?’

  I asked Nur Hussain what he thought. ‘Why don’t you answer him?’ I said. ‘After all it is not a meaningless question.’

  He said, ‘Protect your heart. Forget the rest.’

  Did he learn that from Shah Abdul Karim, I wondered.

  Abdul Ali took a moment to understand Nur’s words. Then he smiled. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, ‘and I don’t care, as long as my employer considers me real.’

  Gatekeeper Ruhul Amin gave us a salaam with his regular indifference and opened the small door in the gate. Unlike Abdul Ali, he was always quiet and reserved; but today he seemed frighteningly quiet. He did not like to wear his coat, Abdul Ali whispered with a smile, as if he was still enjoying my comment. ‘See, he has already lost one of the middle buttons. Come after a week, you’ll find he has eaten up the whole thing.’ He led us to Moina Mia’s sitting room. Soon Basu entered with Arabian dates and chocolate biscuits on a tray while Gesu followed him with a pot of tea and teacups. They served us courteously, as always, and then stood aside waiting for Moina Mia’s gesture. It was obvious they
felt uneasy in their coats, but when Moina Mia drew our attention to them, they stood side by side, soldiers before their commander. ‘Slogan,’ he said. One of them said a long Joy Bangla, and the other replied with a similarly long Joy Sheikh Mujib. They uttered the slogan three times before being dismissed. Abdul Ali followed them.

  In the quiet room Moina Mia looked at the portrait of Sheikh Mujib on the wall again and again as he sipped the tea noisily. Sitting before us, he looked at his shoulder, his arms, his chest, then caressed the back of his left hand softly. Then he coughed, prepared himself to speak, but failed to come out of his reverie. There was anger in him, or an unbound tension, under which he felt suffocated. He lit a cigarette, went to the window and smoked rapidly, while playing absent-mindedly with the window curtain. Looking back, he gestured at us to eat the biscuits. ‘Today I double your fee,’ he said, as he settled down. Then a little later, after getting no response from us: ‘No, I treble it. You have done a good job; you will continue to do a good job. If you deserve a better fee, I should be prepared to offer you a better fee.’ He returned to sit back on the sofa. ‘I cannot be unreasonable with people whom I need badly, and as people whom I need badly, you too should not behave unreasonably with me, not even in uncertain situations. What do you say?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Unreasonableness will not benefit either of us. And that is not what we are here for.’

  The reason for his extreme generosity was as follows. Sheikh Mujib had expressed a serious desire to meet Nur Hussain. He was aware that there was someone in the country who could deliver his speech with due passion and inspiration. Would Nur Hussain be kind enough to accept the invitation of the prime minister to see him at his residence as soon as possible?

  I looked at Nur Hussain; first, to be sure he had heard exactly what I had heard, and second, to observe his reaction to what had just been said. If it were in our flat, and only in the company of Abdul Ali, I would have jumped for joy. I would have pulled him off the sofa, made him dance with me. But he kept his usual silence, as if he had no clue who Sheikh Mujib was, or even if he had, he did not think such an invitation would be unexpected. Whatever the reason, I appreciated his silence. Here was a man made of stone. He wanted me to decide for him, to understand the pros and the cons and to act accordingly. All negotiations were mine; he was only a speaker and did not want to complicate his role by getting involved in superior intellectual matters like decision-making, management and negotiation.

  Immediately it became clear to me why Moina Mia had wanted to increase our fee before we even asked for a raise. He could no longer neglect us—now that we had come to the attention of his leader. He was clever. He had not become an MP for nothing. His head was full of ideas.

  Personally I felt great. When we were visiting local markets, in the beginning, I was not sure where we were going and how long we would be able to continue. Working for Moina Mia saved us. Now it was time to think big. It was time to plan again, to utilize every opportunity without fear. I could not wait to smell the new money, to clasp it in both my hands.

  23

  My First Coat

  The date of our meeting with Sheikh Mujib was within the week. No formal preparation was necessary, we were told, except that our clothes should be clean and odourless. Sheikh Mujib hated smells, any smell but tobacco. Hadn’t we seen his pipe? We were also told we would be escorted from our home by members of the private militia. We would go in their official cars. They would carry guns so we did not need to carry ours if we had saved any from the liberation war. It would be a short private meeting, and would be held at his residence in the Dhanmondi Residential Area.

  Moina Mia did not say that I needed to wear a Mujib coat to see Sheikh Mujib. He was aware I never wore one. Probably he could not decide what I was, exactly. I was definitely an Awami League supporter, he must have thought; a Bangladeshi could be either an Awami League supporter or a collaborator of Pakistan. Since I was not a collaborator, I must have been an Awami League supporter. He did not know if I was only an ordinary supporter or an active supporter. Perhaps he did. We never spoke about it. Maybe he did not want a coat to come between us. That was why he left the matter of the coat absolutely to my discretion.

  I was a journalist, not a party official. A journalist does not need to have a good coat, or a specific coat, I believed. I had no coat when I covered the liberation war. It is better that journalists never wear any party outfit in our country, not even after they have retired. That will bring them some respect. But I was not going to see Sheikh Mujib as a journalist. I was going to see him as a civilian along with two other civilians. Since both Moina Mia and Nur Hussain were going to wear their coats, I thought it would not hurt if I had one on as well.

  I bought myself a white punjabi from the high street, and a Mujib coat—my first. I did not have to go to the tailor to make one. Ready-to-wear ones had come into the market by that time. I told the seller to pack the clothes in paper. I suppose I was too shy to carry them in my hand. I suspected pedestrians would know exactly what I was carrying. At the same time I was feeling guilty, thinking I was exaggerating the significance of the coat. The seller asked if he should put it in a special gift package. I felt relieved. ‘Please go ahead,’ I said immediately. ‘Thank you.’ He took an eighteen-by-twelve-inch envelope with a photo of Sheikh Mujib on it and placed both the punjabi and the coat inside delicately, as if they were precious, fragile items. That made me nervous again. I did not want to carry a Mujib coat in my hands; now I would have to carry Sheikh Mujib himself. I did not want to cause a fuss either, as I definitely did not want to give the seller a clear picture of all that I had on my mind. I took the package, walked out of the door, squeezed it into a small roll and pressed it close to my stomach, before taking the most deserted street back to the flat.

  I took a long bath, shaved myself carefully and ate some rice. I made myself some fresh tea after finding Nur Hussain already asleep. I could not finish the tea. It tasted like rotten juice. I washed the teacup in tap water and then poured hot water in it, before checking if it still smelt rotten. I dried it with a napkin and hung it from the nail on the wooden board. Then I paced obsessively across the room.

  As the evening passed, I felt somewhat more in control and collected. I put on my undershirt, unrolled the punjabi and the coat and swiftly put them on. It was just for a few seconds, I said to myself; I smelt something on the coat, something I remembered I had smelt at a burial prayer or in the refugee camp amidst the disenchanted crowds. I looked around. Everything in the room was clean. There was nothing in the garbage bin giving off a bad smell. The bed sheets had been recently washed. The quilt was new, though not as new as the punjabi. Something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong. I took off the coat and threw it on the floor and ran to the window, desperately gasping for a whiff of fresh air.

  I passed the night vomiting several times, waking, sleeping about an hour or two, and then waking again. I pissed several times. Looking at the punjabi I said to myself: No way, no way am I going to wear that trouble, not even if I have to go to prison for three months. I cannot tarnish my character by embracing it. Not until I have gone mad and my heart has collapsed. There was a serious difference between us, between Nur Hussain and me. While he could accept everything easily, I could not. He came to the city easily, stayed with me easily, and started delivering the speech easily. He wore the Mujib coat without hesitation or argument. In contrast, I had reservations. Sometimes I could not do even what I had accepted in principle. I felt oppressed by that little piece of cloth because I had defined it. The whole personality of Sheikh Mujib could well be expressed in that one piece of cloth, I said to myself. People who did not know what our national flag looked like, because it had undergone a few changes, knew unmistakably what a Mujib coat was. I pushed the coat to the pile of things I least liked and went to sleep.

  It was late morning when I woke. Nur Hussain was not in his room. I was actually happy to find him not in. The fl
at was mine now. I could allow myself to be a bit crazy. If I wore the coat, nobody would see me. I took a quick bath. Having a bath before wearing the Mujib coat was customary practice, I believed. One had to be clean to maintain the solemnity of such a coat. Then I picked up the coat in my hand. I must feel comfortable in it at least for a few hours, if not for a day, I said to myself. I could not fail where millions of others had succeeded. I would wear that coat, I said to myself. I would wear it for my own sake, not in honour of Sheikh Mujib—no matter what everyone else, including Sheikh Mujib, thought. I would wear it to escape my fear of wearing it, just to tell myself I was free to wear whatever I wanted to but I chose to wear that coat. I would wear a piece of cloth as a piece of cloth, not as an idea.

  I opened out the coat. No smell came this time. The black cloth shone in the morning light. My eyelids fluttered. I took it closer to my nose. Still no smell. How wonderful! I kissed it softly, held it to my chest for some time and then left it on the bed while I put on the punjabi. I buttoned it properly at the neck. The sleeves were longer than my arms; so I folded them up to my wrists. The creases that the punjabi had from the factory were hard and exposed. I pressed them to my body and smoothed them somewhat, especially the ones at my chest and stomach. Then I wore the coat over the punjabi. It gave me a handsome sort of definition. Walking around, I tried to identify every little discomfort I might feel from my new attire. I did not find any. I walked slow and fast, raised my hands in front, then over my head, bent forward and backward. It was a perfect coat. The standard size was probably my size. I folded newspapers and rearranged what little furniture I had in the flat. I wanted to get used to the coat so that I did not feel too awkward in the company of Sheikh Mujib. When I looked at myself in the mirror, I could not think of the famine; I have survived, I said to myself. I have survived when thousands of my countrymen could not. I was not crying; nor had I gone mad. I had not vandalized anyone else’s property to keep myself alive. I looked at my eyes, my hair, my chin; I looked like a fighter, a true fighter. I moved forward and backward and watched myself in the mirror again and again. I posed, raising my right hand towards the horizon, as Sheikh Mujib or even Nur Hussain did. Then I uttered, My brothers … this is the struggle for our independence; this is the struggle for our freedom. Joy Bangla. I could hear my voice coming back to me at the speed of a cyclone. The words echoed in the room, in my heart, and then moved out through the window, got mixed with the air, and spread through the world with a strong, unavoidable resonance.