Story : An Account of Visceral and Somatic Reactions to Meat Issues : Dateline Chuknagar : Mamun Hussain
Translated from the Bengali into English by Fahmida Sharmin
This time, the rain has come pouring down early/ your skin is becoming tanned/ are you sure that you won’t have milk tea . . .?
While exchanging remarks like these, at times, we feel a bit proud, a little devastated, and we gently kiss the lips of the newborn who is dead or slowly master the language of clouds, trees, and silence. We say all deaths are untimely, and from every window in your city, the eyes of death are looking down. The people have lined up in rows, and even the youths are walking by the pond, which is reflecting various lights. The youths read the Great Bengal Famine of 1943 as a conspiracy of Churchill, they look for the witnesses of the famine, they find a new direction to think about Socialism and some girlfriends have been tested, and become intimate this way . . . (Why doesn’t my heart respond to your touch?) – “Do you consider desire and sexuality necessary in the field of love? – Yes or no, tell me.” . . . Shall I tell you this? – Women’s empowerment – Women’s freedom – In the face of the world’s adversity, our sexual vulnerability has now increased extensively – I have read a sentence like this somewhere.
Young men name themselves – Arif, Chinmay, Shaikat, Suman, Yusuf, Shankar, Frog, Kalachand and Colonel. In the pages of their notebooks, young girls write their names as Shefali, Asma, Modhushri, Jerin, Surobhi, and Husneara. The young boys and girls suddenly break into song on the streets and fields for the sake of expression. Sometimes they say in signs and gestures, “My home is cursed.” Sometimes they raise their eyebrows towards the stern destiny, and no one returns to keep the oath of love . . . in this way, they become sensitive, and then exchange smiles. They create storm in the cup of tea and welcome profound pain, watching the waxing light in the dark house. For a moment, they become breathless, lose themselves, and either right-hand covers left-hand, or dress in confusion, attacked by helplessness. I, who loved them once, now see their souls in high stars. (What happens if our houses are destroyed – what happens if our dead bodies pile up one after another?)
In the cool courtyard of the New Century, we gradually experience it. This is the time of courage; we feel it, the horizon touches our fingertips, and music spreads. Our shadow and everyone else rises from the past. Are we capable of finding solace or good news? I, Arif, Saikat, Jerin, Surobhi, and others look at the beauty of nature and speak of our lives. Our loved ones from the past are now stars in the sky. Shaikat, Madhuri, Uday and Arefin praise some teenagers’ love at the landing in the middle of observing the cold gaze of others and rejuvenating our will. Now, looking at the pitiful reflection in the fallen mirror of a fallen and restored life, we search for remarks of purposeless travel.
Perhaps in such a time of fall and restoration, a plan to see the Sundarbans is made, or a language beyond explanation is created about the curiosity of the Sundarbans in the context of the liberation war. Afterwards, the destruction of homes, a cruel world and the god who did not save us – those fragmented images, in a moment of separate and eternal thought, establish an opportunity to finally immerse ourselves slowly and be built in the womb of the land of our forefathers.
Our surrender, the whirlwind of our outstretched arms, the vast patience, and the incomprehensible warmth gradually make our relationships strong, and in our silent emotions or the tranquility of mutual connection, a profound bond spreads at all times. Some people of the world who are familiar to each other now sketch guides to various journeys, becoming mute to see waterfalls, stones, and to fly over grassy plains, and sometimes, like incapable teachers, they try to capture the lost scents and flavors of childhood. Sometimes they drink water from the waterfall—perhaps to quench their thirst, and for the sake of avoiding the daily commotion, they even wish to silence the bell around the cow’s neck, often in quest of soundless emotions. Silent God, through permission from his concealed abode, allows them to improve and express various forms of devotion, much like the converted boy, they continue to spread in restless enthusiasm. When Arefin, Jerin, and Mustafiz bring the aroma of warm rice using ghee, it spreads around, and they prepare a feast with ghee, watercress, and mourola fish stew, which makes the mouth watery. They roam around the shops, celebrating with rejala, biryani and borhani. They make a dish with rui fish, cook koi fish with spices, and prepare a Gima greens stew – these mentioned in the Manasa Mangal . . . But why haven’t we eaten, wonders Shankar and Uday, and in this thought, they silently argue with themselves; the people at home become melancholic, yet they again get lost in the satisfaction of flavors. Dhaka’s patients accept Bhima Nag’s sweets instead of vitamins . . . this kind of mention is there . . . One day it was known that respected Mujtaba said: there is no description of hilsa in heaven, so he won’t go to heaven! The travelers slowly unfold the picture bonde, jilapi, nehari, halim, puri, halua, tehari, watery khichuri, alur dom, doi bora, lassi, fruit cake, … Sweet juice, kochur loti, the description of cooking a duck with bamboo shoot or the description of potato curry gets unleashed in a recipe in Sylheti language – boil small potatoes after washing them properly. Make a smooth paste of mustard and green chilli. Now put a potato in the middle of your palms and press it . . . Now heat the oil in a frying pan and the paste of mustard and green chilli . . .
The description of the potato curry becomes longer like an artificial waterfall, becomes rhythmic, the tale becomes more substantial during the brief breaks with the emotion of some strong men- as if a mattress of the tale of meat covers the sky of the small town: Why do we often eat red meat? … Why sex is associated with eating meat? … Why is cow’s meat beef, and pig’s meat pork? We try to find out the answers- maybe all of us were hungry for meat for infinity. White meat, such as poultry and fish have a lower status among food lovers and travelers. Eggs and cheese rank lower than the previous ones. Once upon a time, food was natural, after the invention of fire it became a symbol of culture. We learn: Food tells about our influence and power. We talk about our friendship, joy, fear, risk and hospitality with food; it is about expressing strength, health, nostalgia, homecoming and individuality. Sometimes food is for patients, sometimes food is a sexual enhancer, sometimes it’s for festivals, prayers and sometimes it’s like magic. In the centre of all meat there is bleeding (take fried liver, here is brain cutlet, white meat, meat fry, goulash, meat loaf, beef vindalo. You may take a goat’s liver, mutton dulcha, sandwitvh made with the cold tongue of a cow.)
Mustafiz, Shankar, Arefin and other friends taste different dishes prepared with meat and write about parks, forests and sanctuary in their travelogue. While chewing on brain cutlet we take a look at the schedule of Jayantika-Upaban trains.
This is a picture of Ratargul, somewhere water stretches like a 25-foot, not only pankouri, but you can spot fishing cats, otters, and green vine snakes too.
Young people talk about wild elephants and seek easy ways to go to Lauachhara. Talking to tourist friends, they learn the name of the best cottage in Madhupur Forest and the booking procedure. They mark the places to visit – Tangargiri, Char Kukri-Mukri, Altadighi, Burigowalini, Kokilmoni, Harbariya, Shatchari, Lauwachara and Bashkhali. They compete to identify the Goran tree and the Keora tree and they watch Rasamela’s pictures on YouTube.
Inside the forest, they follow the wooden trail. They scatter food with the help of forest workers to attract monkeys. Fear and excitement arise upon seeing a canal-like stretch of water, and wild boars and guishap are rarely seen. After the forest expedition, one day they take part in the excavation of Raja Ramnath’s pond. Ruins of Mandir and scattered hills.
In the forest, jungle fowls run somewhere, sometimes blue-throated barbets, vultures, kites and kingfishers are spotted. Tourist friends tell the stories of Champaray garden and take photos of spectacled Hanuman and masked Hanuman.
Or they prepare to become bird watchers on the sidelines of trekking and sometimes start talking about food.
While they talk, the sound of grinding banana flower becomes audible. They kept grinding onion and garlic. The sound of frying the banana flower balls in hot oil can be heard. The sound of frying cumin and dried chilies is heard. Corn flour, fennel seed nutmeg, and black pepper have been sprinkled excessively. Lemon juice or sauce is needed for seasoning. The aroma and sound of food invigorate the minds and bodies of the youth.
They capture their own images in the mirror. They exchange glances. They evaluate each other’s palmistry lines and seek a different kind of balance, searching for inner self-image. Can you cry now? A fulfilled body and a lifeless body erase their own sweat droplets, distress themselves, and bring a sweet intimacy with each other’s lips. In the aroma of food and in the sound of metal, men and women accuse each other, they regret, weep, become feminine, lament and finally they cancel cosmetics-ornaments and doing their hair and return to the everyday life. They duel- Is sex a cultural object? Why sex is associated with eating meat? Once we think that the history of bloodshed is related to meat. The colour of blood constructs the idea of power, danger and rebellion in us in such a manner. Women are cold meat… Do you know? I’ll sing a song to you- Meat is murder, by Smith pop group. (Once one of us became faint in a butcher’s shop- bleeding and the cry of the dying goat made me sad). Real human beings don’t fear. Real human beings have chips and steak. They rarely fear butter, white bread or sugar. They know- everything is related to meat precisely. Friends bully me in the class because I’m a vegetarian… I must be gay. Later my vocabulary enhanced with the help of my friends- friends used different variations of the word ‘meat’ to mean intercourse, vagina, prostitute and brothel- sometimes it becomes ‘bit of meat’, ‘fresh meat’, ‘hot meat’, ‘meat market’ or ‘meat house’! I learn from my friends: Talent increases with semen retention, meat is a hot food, and ejaculation means the fall of body! I notice- there are different mythical stories about the god’s saving their semen- if a god’s semen falls into any flower, a new creature is born. For instance, Manasa was born as Shiva’s semen had fallen into a lotus. (We listen to a rhyme- if semen fall into the sky the birds eat, if it falls into the water the puti fish eat). Arif, Shefali, Asma, Kalachand, Colonel, Husneara and Shankar feel a forbidden desire as they listen to the rhyme. They make their story in guise of young men and young women.
‘Your forehead is hot.’
She didn’t give any reply.
‘Okay would you let me see your breast?’
She cried again biting her lips.
‘Didn’t you want to see my breast?’
Lowering my head, I said, ‘Let it go.’
‘Why?’ look, you are my husband, why wouldn’t I let you see?
Some moments passed.
‘Good, now that I have seen, shall I stuck the safety pin?’
‘Okay’
‘No, I don’t wish to do that.’
It can be said- our familiar Young men and Young women chew different types of fish and meat, become devastated by fake love which tears them each and every day or they climb to the peak of excellence. They compete with themselves and hold a galaxy in their face. They become naked, they become a part of nature. They become a victim of destiny and ask questions- why he has to stand like the liar shepherd:
Why is sex associated with meat- …Why is sex associated with eating meat? Young men go to new restaurants with their favourite Young women to take the taste of meat salad and cold tongue while extending their love to the fullest and freeing their hearts. Also someone pushes from the inside of the body to talk about the food after inspecting it- cooking procedure, we say- as though preparing for war, when the war-tank called restaurant wipes out our old food habits. Moreover, takeaway is the guerilla of cooking! People practice self-control for some time. Then they die, or stay among the dead without distraction, when our souls resonate with the shallow words which we have spoken. … Dear Sir, maybe this matter is not important to you, but I have to talk about the apparently simple matter of eating meat. We also buy some meat one day before the weekends, but we can’t avoid the vision of eating meat the next day. In holidays, the aroma of cooking meat amuses us the whole day. Furthermore, all the exhaustion goes away with the quickly bulging bowl of meat.
So, meat isn’t just food for us, it’s a way of life. We reconstructed a food menu by adding beef, lamb, mutton, chicken and turkey. I tell you Sir, to get energy- row meat is the best, red meat- chicken-fish are also full of energy, eggs-milk have lower energy, and fruits-vegetables have the lowest. With such debate, people realize that their ‘hunger for meat’ is sometimes powerful.
They tell their dear girlfriend in signs- are you still standing somewhere around the corner of the house? They walk along the narrow path of their existence looking at a woman with blue eyes while in thinking of a deserted island, disheveled hair, unwanted kiss and the smell of baby grass. The left over kima palong roll cry on the restaurant table. They dive into their soul, they flap their wings in infinite peace and they learn to question soon- can Boys be sexually abused? Why parents alert us when we go to other’s house? What are the options in case of us? – Sperm bank and baby birth/ adopting a child/ having a baby without marrying/ marrying and avoiding children/ marrying and having children. Can you tell? – Good chocolate, roses, fancy hotel room and diamond- is our marriage a happy experience with these? Does our children become lonely because of us? One day you asked for Rubber from us. Rubber means condom, we have learned that- you were supposed to say eraser. We bully you and get surprised by learning- 250 MG sperm is discharged in an orgasm, but only 200 of the sperm reach the fallopian tube. The untouched sperm feels the hunger for meat again. Avoiding locality, quiet starry sky, Sun, and handicapped people, they gather in the zero point of the city to talk about the new schedule of travelling.
Cricketer Manjarul Islam Rana became a victim of a road accident after eating meat and leaving this hotel. You can go to this hotel of Chuknagar from Khulna or Jessore. On GPS, it is Abbas Hotel 22.50′ 26.19”, 89.17′ 45.15″. – You will get mutton made of chui jhal there. Chui is a vine- this vine is quite spicy, it is said to be in between chilli-pepper. Arif, Chinmay, Suman, Madhushri and Colonel find the address and pictures of serving meat at Abbas Hotel in the internet. They learn the price of each piece of meat. From the pictures, they could have an idea about the chefs and their art of cooking. Young men and young women pack their backpacks, change fast and surrender fast. Maybe they will sing in a moving transport they will admire the person who chose the song as though they are surprised- they thought like that. I think about Shefali or Madhushri- your eyebrows are becoming thick very slowly. Mischievous bird, ripe fruit, and jealous insects under the ground- we are only shadows, inside whom maturity blooms. The overused toy which we got in our birthday disciplines us, forgives us, and punishes us. After forgiveness, when Shefali is smiling at her victory, the brightness of the surrounding bewilders us. Also young women’s slow-quiet-warm breath makes us swear something in silence. Moreover, we enter differently into the heart looking forward to welcoming us like a pure-extended open door of a house. As though having a break, the world was enjoying a pleasurable game with children. In the training of flying, distance becomes closer this way. So everyone dies, very late or very early; every love story is a potential grief story. Now you are going on a pilgrimage like this, to give Prasad at this place you have to buy batasha and nakuldana from Vishwanberpur’s Jakir Hossain’s shop. Oh river water, oh the water of river/ with a rhythmic sound you flow to the lowland… I told you a line of ‘Masru Pagla’s Song’; take kulfi malai. I can’t remember in which district does the Jamukata river flows. Why do you travel so much? … I don’t know, God makes me travel. They make me travel so I do it. If God doesn’t want nothing happens. If Rasul doesn’t want it doesn’t happen. God wants me to travel so I travel. You saw trumpet in trimul, buffalo’s horn… a picture of goddess Kali at a side, Shiva Linga, a plastic snake and a red thread of blessing. Some people keep the red thread in the pocket of their shirt and chew on nakuldana and a worshipper from a distance try to realize the meaning of life in the body language of his female partner. I tell you- ‘don’t drink too much alcohol, the government gets tax by this.’ Let’s see other scenarios: Standing on the rooftop in the evening, you can see jilapi, dubwala’s sharp knife, shingara, the boiling water of the coffee shop, cycle repairing shop and warm noodles falling from the hot frying pan. You’ll see some people- unattractive eyes, smart, slightly crooked, lips with a cunning smile, and disheveled unruly hair. Perhaps someone is leaning against the green mysterious self on the railing. You see, the train has stopped in the world of mango, neem, and tamarisk, and people are running. You said – like water, a simple word; our argument is – is water really that simple? The argument is – like a homeopath, a compassionate suffering eye. The argument is – like an old palace, a gloomy city. The argument is – about cities like Barahanagar, Hooghly, Bardhaman, Nadia, Kumarkhali, Patishar, and Kushtia. The argument is – about the Sunday gathering at Shankhababu’s house; about every turn of the road, about the love of the road, about the road of love, about sin and virtue,
The argument is – about Thakurpukur Cancer Hospital, about Louis Philippe’s shirt, and about the woman in the saree of that decade 1960s; And sitting around a table, surrounded by four or five people, is that coffee shop girl.
It can be said – in these various arguments, and in the secret training of flying, distance is reduced over time. GPS’s Abbas Hotel is depicted again, and the sudden mass murder of Chuknagar is revealed.
Shefali, Arif, Kalachand, Colonel, Madhusri, and Saikat – meat, green chilies, and cardamom mixed in the potential curry of meat – there is no way for a traveler anywhere, paths are created as they walk!
In their motor race – with the motor alongside the bright railway line, bushes, riverbanks, grasslands, Shyalkantha, village houses, sleeping mats, old leather bags, and the morning’s hurry quickly flees. Escaping means entering another solitary cool village and the impact of repetition.
In the diverse cycle of the year, we constantly see dreams of meat and are perpetually absorbed. We fight with the enemy, with the clock, with the heartbeat, and with the wandering of relatives.
Our attention is on Abbas Hotel, even before becoming meat mimamsa; we come to this quiet and cool village of the past for the sake of a visit of a student of Bengali literature and watch the abundance of a past travel story.
In our relative travels, people and birds of the past era are seen fading away, and those whose death came and tore us apart, we are happy in our dry hearts to understand them. A regular student of Bengali literature found Hamidullah Khan’s (1809-1880) work on the internet and got interested in ‘Mamsa Mimamsa’ – calf bones are soft/ taste good, and there are fewer faults!
Hamidullah Khan, the landlord-author, is not easily recognizable. The student of Bengali literature wants to talk to his teacher – and his backpack and heart become tired, lonely, and dry. Death, named cold hand, enhances our joy in the travel of all relatives.
We become poor – so poor that, I and we, don’t even stay with ourselves; I don’t know if I’m going alone or not. Meat becomes a mild desire and succumbs to our reasoning and the provocateur’s influence. Meat means power-rebirth-capacity and sexual pleasure! Therefore, we want to establish an orgasmic pleasure for the meat and our favorite old friend immediately by eating a lot of meat; or by eating a lot of meat, we can establish the continuity of the Dhaka-Bagladesh highway in Chuknagar; or we can become eternally enduring in life by facing all problems, risks, and shame, connected with the soul and the air. Our faithful heart throbs, our suffering eyes spread bitter prayers, and we quickly become like the foamy lather of soap.
Going On. Among these leisurely trees, come, travelers, we become restless before feasting on the flesh of the jungle. We mark every stubborn stain as a wrong path. Holocaust versus genocide—we Google. In our travelogues, Shaikat, Shefali, Arefin, or Colonel quickly become alone: Where was God that day? May 20, 1971—God was here, in Chuknagar village, his own majesty in tow. He watched the bloodshed of at least ten thousand men and women from the top of his holy fortress, which painted the sun and crops in everlasting colors. These colors become restive and gradually create various sayings and songs in human memory. Before the slaughter of Chuknagar’s flesh, our Shefali or Jochhona or Subrata became pale-faced for the sacrifice, while Pishima or Thakumar’s shadow was established to attract mourning. It is experienced—May 20, 1971, our Pishima-Thakuma involved themselves successfully in the bloodstreams of another ten thousand people. The sturdy and spirited flesh of those who drowned in Chuknagar’s grass and soil hurts them, sharpens them, and provides an abundance of poetic material. They participate in travelogues sitting on trees, but the heart leads them towards the secret battlefield of the ancient people and the besieged village. In the heart of the fog forest, green outbreaks emerge, and slightly away, the despairing seeds—there is a place where a car has come to a sudden halt. Within the clouds, clouds, rain-soaked winds, suddenly, a vibrant violet-blue sky, and a broken house. Shefali, Subrata, Shankar, Jochhona, Shaikat, Ahsan—crossing the wet road of Chuknagar, they assemble, separate, and gradually leap through the hurdles of photo session and become bright. In the distance, from the clouds, yellow—weak electricity draws a line, from Ghizhar to beautiful—young ascetics emerge, the calm modesty of woven flowers— we taste the flavor of dry and twisted creepers, practice the ghost’s style, and cross the narrow stream. Water flowed clear in Chuknagar, and the sound was incessant, as if it would tell the story immediately— a story that will be repeated a thousand times, and a thousand times more in recollection. Stories can be told, thus it completes, becomes previous, progressive, and in the time of re-reading, it becomes intimate and profound. Then, in the midst of the deeply hidden observation field, Chuknagar’s fog and the high blue sky jump over once on May 20, 1971, during the melancholic afternoon-evening disturbance. Before entering Abbas Hotel, I see that, at least ten thousand people have crossed the grassy expanse, weary, tired, worried, and old—God, you must listen again to the cry of our hearts. May 20, 1971: the heart trembles at this time, the heart becomes dusty, dreams happen, and a solitary ocean. May 20, 1971: on that journey, people, at least ten thousand people— but the shadow of everyone’s face is one and unique; the same color, the extraordinary color of one night—walking towards death in infinite consciousness, facing only black heads from a distance, … a completely black mark. May 20, 1971: when we approach closely, at least ten thousand people—every moment they think they will survive, but in a moment, in the generative power of death, all consciousness information is released into the angry waters of the river. Let it be assumed, some people at that moment, like paper planes, like boats, soak into the grass of Chuknagar in opposition to desire. We find those letters after a long time, we find them not; the letters become plants, wither, disappear, or turn to ashes in fire.”
In the uncertain skies of dusk, certainty is found. Shefali, Subrat, and Jochhona—they searched for someone to show the final sign of Thakuma-Pisima, perhaps someone who would one day seek revenge for the bloodshed of the destitute like an armed rifle. I pledge not to look up, keep my eyes fixed on the ground, and promise not to raise them. A second thought races within me—you must definitely look up; courage should come within you, directly into the barrel of the gun!
Suddenly, we had a feeling—we had been here on this land before. But it seemed impossible. Surely, I wasn’t here. Yet, I can recognize everything easily—the curator of the Chuknagar Museum, the office room, the floor plan, the map, and the statistical data—as we gradually discover the scent-sign of the buried throats and the living skulls in the silent ravine. The softly flowing water becomes calm, peaceful, and alive. The ant army forms a chain on our bodies and starts weaving delicate threads in the spaces between the soft flesh. We resonate with the endless moments, our memories, our hearts, and the depths of our souls.
Tears fill the eyes of the sick, and the people now come from the Garib Maathket to Chuknagar Smriti Soudho’s stairs. In the hands, chests, and eyes of the people is the mournful, grieving earth—we are not sure how much suffering resides in their souls. They stand still and speak: Chuknagar Bazaar of Atalia Union in Dumuria Thana was well-known at that time. It was situated by the Bhadra River, not far from Khulna Town. People from Batiaghata, Dakop, Satkhira, Bagherhat, and other places used to gather here, especially the Hindu community. In our Khayaghat, a Buddhist monk named Khant Bhubhu stayed with us and gave us the news of the massacres. Everyone thought they would cross over to the border, towards India, around 10-11 AM. But the military came along Satkhira Road. Chuknagar College, which wasn’t a college at the time, had military vehicles parked near its west side. Then, bullets, and suddenly, everyone became corpses. Bhadra River turned into the River of Corpses. The bullets were like rain, rising in the trees, sinking in the water, yet many couldn’t save their lives. Pushparani from Borahigram or Saraswati—no one knows if they have survived all these years. They hid in the pond, occasionally lifting their heads just to breathe. Lifting their heads meant getting shot. The children were there too. Some of them died trying to save their breath by covering their mouths and noses with water. We went to Chakrakhali’s Gurudasi’s house… what more can I say? … The husband said that children and women wouldn’t stay here. We went to Chuknagar by boat. There, my brother’s wife had labor pains. I surrounded her with cloth, helped her deliver the baby, and took the baby to our thatched house. But amid the gunshots, the baby’s hand got injured. After ten days, somehow, we managed to take the baby across by boat. We named her Jochhona. Before you all head to the memorial column, while there’s still a car, you can visit more places—Aushkhali, Kanchannagar, Putimari, Khadibunia, Katiyanangla, Hodalbunia, Bangimari, Shibnagar, Maigamaara, Paramowakhali… Can you remember them? It was May 20, 1971, a Thursday or Friday. I was cooking, and the Pakistani army’s two vehicles arrived. People jumped into the pond in fear. They drowned, and their heads got wet. Wet heads meant bullets. How much pain there was in the openings of our bodies, how many children we took to the unparalleled sea, only God knows. And within this, another incident occurred—… They used to call themselves members of the Communist Party—Pulin Babu, Dayal Babu, and Vishnu Babu, all at once crushed the communist revolutionary force. At that time, everyone decided—there’s no escape from this turmoil, and we must endure it. We all felt helpless. Our father had a double-barreled shotgun. The Razakars arrested both our brothers to find out where the gun was kept. They wanted to torture them for information. Our profession at that time was running a small shop. We managed to hide it. Gunshots were ringing out. I bought a boat for thirty thousand rupees. Both of us, together, disposed of two hundred bodies in the river. After disposing of those bodies, I felt immense fear. Gunshots again. Mother brought water, and as she was coming back, gunshots again—three of them had been shot in the head. An Owab member said, ‘If you don’t dispose of the bodies, you will die in the stench.’ After throwing them into the river, we saw thousands of bodies floating, like logs. So many people met their tragic end. The coconut trees grew, and slowly, we returned home in the evening. When I saw my father’s lifeless body, I realized he had passed away. I couldn’t save anyone in my family. We had no information about where the police had gone. I spent the night at a neighbor’s house. We couldn’t even cry. If you cry, the Pakistani army will shoot us all!
The story unfolds in this manner—gradually, people grow weary and despondent—when the swift gusts of wind arrive, and the morning sky turns reddish-yellow, then, around two or three crows’ cawing, an event is organized near the Chuknagar market by the Chuknagar Memorial. The human congregation in this journey imitates the words from the realm of vocabulary— … O words, our diverse kingdom, I wish to speak with you alone. Again, this is true; you can’t say everything all at once! Listen, O Jagadish, be content—don’t cry, for if you do, the Pakistanis will get angry and shoot us. We had no more breath and no water left. The army’s vehicles are approaching. Only corpses remain. There’s no place in the garden to lay the bodies. I look around—water, water everywhere. I wet a towel, and only then does the dead person die. No one survived; everyone had turned into corpses. We tied the corpses with ropes and tossed them into the river. We tied and threw. Due to fear, no one could operate a boat on the river. All around, there was only the smell of blood. The smell of blood, the smell of flesh—the river’s depths narrate another tale of a journey; or it establishes only dryness and a profound solitude in the personal backpacks of travel enthusiasts and food lovers: May 20, 1971, even though people were afraid of being shot, during the month of Jaishtho, the time of mango blossoms is a possibility. In this likely river of mango blossoms, dead bodies float like shadows—although this image is known, the bodies wander here and there amidst the jute fields day and night. The wandering corpses are another blessing, another explosion, another architectural creation in the river. Clothing worn by drowning individuals gets soaked in the water. Inside the water, blood accumulates, and the water becomes bloody. When the shots are fired, then the flame almost reaches the hair’s end. Rice either gets cooked or slowly burns in the fire. Rice bursts or slowly fades away, leaving only the essence of rice inside the soul. Within the soul, there is the sound of people and the last breath of dead flesh—the tolling of the bell echoes deeply: Hey, brother, let this river of mine flow inside. The scene is such—a person who wanders within the water, turning his face towards the purest light of the sun, remains serene as if alive, with wounds on his body like a hornet’s nest, but only when he extends a hand to his wound, the body, like the open bud of a lotus, melts inside the water.”
The scene unfolds in such a way that I walk upon death. If children cry they will shoot so the children were thrown into water. They have submerged in the shallow waters. The scene goes like this—when I was sipping water, something came in front of me, and I thought, “What’s this?” I pick it up, and it’s like the shells used to make noise. It’s said that this is how the dead eventually find their way, become mute, ring bells, and within the shadows a clean path is drawn. The dead cross this path and become m—Rasbala Gain, Ruhidas Chandra Ray, Mukunda Bihari, Chandrani Das, Ayonamati, Golapjan, Sanjib Gain, Narendranath Gain, and Jagannath Bala; and in the river’s water, their thousands and thousands of bodies and flesh, finally, a dreamer’s wisdom spreads in the minds of the contented souls like an intense red scent of death becoming ever forgiving. The dreamer’s wisdom fills us with love, purifies us, instills patience, and liberates us. The dreamer’s wisdom turns us towards the sky and the earth, and it raises questions about the flesh-eating fish living in the deep waters of the Bhadra River.
Gradually, our hunger spreads far beyond the riverbank, like the scent of a snails in the air. Our lives become burdensome, and our souls echo the words of butterfly. The smell of flesh gradually infuses us even though we pledge to abstain. Yet, the bitter yellow pungency taints our souls. The road to the sky, Chuknagar’s vast deserted crossroads, and the dusty lemon trees surrounding the hotel—the intense scent of meat cannot be captured in any way. They remain sad and listless like a train journey with hourly stops. In a dimly lit story of the past, they become sorrowful and mute.
And Chuknagar’s hotel keeps records of love, honey, and melodious songs about meat. The science of meat-eating is such that it eventually establishes a solemn declaration—today is a bad day, but tomorrow… it’s my misfortune, maybe you’re right, but we have all lost, and everyone losing means we have lost ourselves. Everything goes away, but everything remains. But our only path—back and forth; we and our ancestors begin to turn into ashes in this way, one day becoming ash, one day dust, one day God, one day immersed in sleep, one day shouting in dreams, one day being different, and one day without a king. Speaking to God, I see—my death in the very first strike. My corpse is inside the stone. The big crow and Shokun’s father taught me what to do. My parents discovered a method for expressing grief. I discover silence and soundlessness. Finally, all these rules and methods begin to be effective one by one, and our discoveries lead us to find paths. One person murdered with precision, while another expressed grief in deep devotion to his own method. I did not mention everyone’s names. You can die once, twice, maybe one after another. May 20, 1971, I and we died thousands of times. My cell now lies in the deep sleep of God’s world and sky everywhere. Traveler, there is no path anywhere, the path is made as we go, and as we go, the path is made; your path, in the end, is just a sign. In this way, all our wars end—once with God in a dream and once with the sea. Our extended war took place one day when all history and the ashes of blood and flesh unintentionally mingled in our throats in the abyss.
Mamun Hussain : Fictionist in Bangla Literature
Fahmida Sharmin graduated from the Department of English, Shahjalal University of Science and Technology, Sylhet. She’s an enthusiast of literature and translation.
Illustration : Satabdi Zahid
