Translated from the Bengali into English by Shinjini Snigdha
They roughly pushed him out of the microbus parked on the side of the road, nearly knocking him over. He stumbled but managed to regain his balance, only to realize that he had no strength left to stand. As he tried to sit down, he collapsed onto the ground. The engine seemed to be running already, as the vehicle moved a short distance, paused briefly, then disappeared around a corner. They had removed the blindfold from his eyes while still in the vehicle, but his hands remained tightly bound. Lying there, he made several attempts to free his hands with his teeth. Eventually, he drifted off to sleep without realizing it. He hadn’t slept for a long while—perhaps for a few minutes only—or maybe he was in a dazed state, as he had been for the past few days. It was hard to distinguish between sleep and unconsciousness. Sometimes, he wondered if he was confused: “Are these things happening to me or did they happen to my father?” But the pain in his body and the tight bindings on his hands quickly brought him back to reality.
He had never met his father and only knew that the army had killed him during the 1971 war. His memories of his father were limited to a black-and-white photo that had hung on their wall since he was a child, and the stories he’d heard from his mother and uncle. He was born after the war, and when the army first arrested his father, his mother was three months pregnant. His father was released after two days, thanks to the intervention of a senior non-Bengali official from his workplace who had connections with the army. At the time, even this official didn’t know that his father secretly supported the “Joy Bangla” movement and had even stolen medicine from the company’s warehouse for the Mukti Bahini. His mother rarely spoke about the war, likely because she didn’t want to remember those painful times. Most of the stories he heard about his father came from relatives, especially his uncle. The second time the army took his father, they also arrested his uncle. Both were detained for several days, tortured, and interrogated. His uncle never wanted to discuss the specifics of what happened, but as he grew older, he questioned him persistently in private, when his mother was not around and the atmosphere felt denser. Even then, he wasn’t sure if he was given the whole truth. His uncle was eventually sent to jail, so he didn’t know the full details of his father’s final days, only bits and pieces gathered from others. The silence louder.
Hearing the distant sound of a car and seeing the headlights, he became alert. Were they coming to take him again? Just like they had taken his father after releasing him once? With his hands still tied, he rolled himself towards the slope. After tumbling a few times, his body got stuck near a pile of bricks. One or two bricks fell from above, but fortunately, they just missed hitting his head and body. A truck passed by with a rumbling noise, but it wasn’t what he feared. They had released him. But why did they leave him here? What was this place called? Was it Dhaka or somewhere else? And what were the names of the places where they had kept him locked up? Even without checking the time, he had guessed that on the first day after they’d abducted him from home, the car had run for about two hours. It was night, and before putting him in the car, they had tightly tied his eyes and hands with cloth, so there was no way for him to figure out where the car was heading. After a week or ten days, they tied his eyes and hands again in the same way and put him in the car. That day, it seemed like the car had traveled a longer distance. The time must have been early morning, as he had heard the Fajr azan a couple of times from nearby. However, the pain in his body left him barely conscious.
He couldn’t even groan audibly. Once he tried to ask, “Where are you taking me?” he felt a firm grip near his neck, and a cold whisper close to his ear: “Quiet! Stay completely quiet! If you speak, we’ll kill you.” After that, he might have lost consciousness for some time, or maybe for a long while. He couldn’t remember when or where the car stopped, how he got out of the car, or he was actually pulled out.
Initially, they conducted his interrogation while he remained blindfolded. The only exceptions were during meals and bathroom visits, when a guard would temporarily open the eyes. The attached bathroom was a cramped, dimly lit, and filthy space, reeking so badly that it induced nausea. Lacking a door, the guard would usher him in and then station himself at the doorway, frequently urging him to hasten his business. It appeared the guard’s sole responsibility was to watch over him, as any attempt at conversation beyond basic necessity was met with silence, likely due to strict instructions. At night, the guard would lock the door from the outside, and the sound of snoring suggested he slept nearby. Towards the later stages of his captivity, the guard would remove the blindfold at night, but not before ensuring the room was dark.
During the day, from what little he could observe, the room appeared to be part of the ground floor of an unfinished apartment building, likely intended as living quarters for a guard or another worker. It seemed probable that the man watching over him ordinarily resided there. A small cot, placed against one wall with a tattered blanket spread over it, had served as his sole resting place since his arrival, where he had spent all his days and nights. In one corner, there was a kerosene stove accompanied by a few aluminum pots, pans, and a couple of plates and glasses. Another corner was strewn with empty Tiger beer bottles and a few discarded biriyani packets. At night, the unsettling rustle of rats or cockroaches could be heard around.
The first two nights, he remained awake, paralyzed by fear. Hanging from a rope in the room were a towel and a lungi, likely belonging to the guard. Apart from the cot, the room was devoid of any other furnishings. However, whenever his interrogators arrived, the guard would bring in several plastic chairs, which were promptly removed once they departed.
Every evening, three to four men would arrive at both locations and interrogate him until late into the night. Among them, he recognized one man — the same one who had been part of the group that abducted him that day. Tall and broad-shouldered, the man had a vicious look about him, with cold, piercing eyes, the kind of gaze one once seen but never forgotten. Had he encountered any of the other men before? Was the short, stocky man also part of the group that day? When Rubina had confronted them, asking, “Where are you taking him? Why are you taking him?” and stepped forward, was it that very man who shoved her aside and hurled abuse at her? Similarly, when the army had taken his father and uncle, his mother had reportedly rushed to the door, trying to shield her husband and brother. A soldier had struck her with his rifle, knocking her to the ground. His father had shouted in Urdu to the officer, pleading for his pregnant wife to be spared any harm for the sake of Allah. His uncle had never divulged what the officer’s reply had been.
From the very next day after he was taken, they immediately interrogated him. They repeatedly mentioned a few names, demanding to know how long he had known them, how he had met them, and where they first encountered each other. At first, one or two names seemed familiar to him, but as he tried to answer their questions, he realized that the people they were asking about were not familiar to him. For instance, Altaf they were asking about was not the Altaf he knew. They must have thought he was withholding the truth from them. That’s when the beatings started, continuing until he was utterly broken. Every time, they warned him that when they returned the next day, he should tell the whole truth without concealing anything. They promised that if he confessed everything, they would let him go, but if he didn’t, they would kill him and bury him in such a way that no one would ever find out. The army had said something similar to his father, telling him that if he revealed the names and addresses of the freedom fighters he knew and disclosed who else from the office helped him steal medicines from the warehouse, they would release him into Mr. Qureshi’s custody. But his father hadn’t revealed anyone’s name, and even if he had, Mr. Qureshi would likely not have vouched for him a second time. His uncle had a limp from birth, and his father had vouched for him, saying that his brother-in-law was a devout man who spent most of his time in the mosque. Perhaps that was why they sent his uncle to jail. Two days before that, they had dragged his father’s injured body somewhere. His father had understood that his time was running out. The day before he was taken away, in a brief moment when the guards weren’t looking, he had whispered to his uncle, “I won’t return. If you survive, take care of your sister. Whether it’s a nephew or niece, you’ll be their guardian. There’s no one else left but you.” His uncle had fulfilled that responsibility until two years ago, when he died in a bus accident. Even after his mother’s death, his uncle had remained as his and Rubina’s guardian. But now, if he goes who will look after Rubina? Their first child had died at the age of six from dengue fever. Rubina was supposed to have a baby after four months. In Dhaka, he has a widowed aunt who lives in Badda with her sons. Had they heard the news? Had they taken Rubina to their home? Or is his aunt staying with her? He knows nothing, absolutely being blanked right now. The pain in his body and the fear of death are overwhelmed by this anxiety, which keeps him from sleeping.
What had rendered him even more dubious in their eyes was his apparent inability to accurately recall his mobile number. It had, after all, been less than two months since he misplaced his previous phone. The SIM in that old device was from Grameen, and instead of retrieving the former SIM card when he acquired a new handset, he opted for a new one from Banglalink, having been advised by some colleagues that it would purportedly reduce phone expenses. However, the new number is yet to be committed to his memory. Despite explaining the entire ordeal to them, they remained steadfast in their disbelief, assuming his forgetfulness to be a mere ruse. Although they acknowledged that discovering the number themselves wouldn’t be a significant challenge, they insisted on hearing it directly from him. But to what purpose? To hold him hostage and extort his family? Ransom, as is frequently reported? If they attempt to call now, it would be Rubina who would answer the phone. What might her reaction be upon receiving such a call? How much would they demand? Surely, not a mere thousand, but several lakhs? Where could Rubina possibly procure such an exorbitant sum? From whom could she beg for help? And who, indeed, would be willing to lend her such an amount? The very thought overwhelms him with helplessness and despair.
Even if Rubina managed to gather the money, what assurance would there be that they would release him? If only he had a means to communicate with her, he would implore her not to exhaust herself in a desperate attempt to raise the funds. Whatever fate holds for him is inevitable. Life and death remain solely in the hands of God.
The manifestations of torture, it seems, had remained eerily consistent across time and space, with only the magnitude and severity exhibiting variation. The question of who would be subjected to what form of torment, and to what extent, appeared to be the only variables. Notwithstanding the universality of torture’s gruesome nature, one couldn’t help but wonder whether the emotional and psychological trauma experienced by its victims also shared a common thread.
In the initial stages of his ordeal, the victim had been confined to a regimen of slaps, pushes, and beatings, which had left him reeling. The perpetrators, having initially contented themselves with inflicting pain through manual force, subsequently graduated to more sophisticated methods of torture. His fingers, once subjected to agonizing twisting motions, now throbbed with an unrelenting pain, as if echoing the anguish that had become his existence. It was during his confinement at the army camp that his father, too, had allegedly endured similar brutality, his fingers broken and mangled beyond recognition. And as the victim’s own ears continued to bleed profusely, pounded relentlessly by the palms of his tormentors, he couldn’t help but recall the horrific accounts of his father’s suffering.
In agony, he became restless, sometimes shrieking and sometimes clinging to their feet, tearfully pleading, ‘Please, let me go. I know nothing about this. You’re probably mistaken. My wife is expecting a child soon. The baby won’t see its father.’ One of the men sneered with a contemptuous smile, ‘Don’t worry, we’ll take care of your wife and child. You’ll have many husbands, and the child will have many fathers! Ha-ha!'”
“My father was martyred in 1971,” he stated, “but I assure you that no one in my family has ever engaged in politics. My widowed mother worked hard to raise me, and I financed my education by tutoring. I had no time for other activities, let alone for politics.” The men chuckled and replied, “It doesn’t matter if you haven’t been involved before; you will be now. You’ll join the party we choose. If you want to save your life, you must disclose what we want to know. After that, you will follow our orders without question. Otherwise, do you understand the consequences? If you refuse, we will label you a terrorist or an extremist and turn you over to the police or RAB. You’ll never see your wife and children again.”
After hearing those last words, he started asking whether they were government agents. Were they members of the military? Did this thought offer him a bit of reassurance, or did it have the opposite effect? The statement “I will label you as a terrorist” sent a chill through him. Did this mean he would be branded as such? The Pakistanis had killed his father, but his father had, in some sense, been involved in the struggle for independence. To the Pakistanis, he was deemed guilty, a criminal. But would he have to face death bearing the label of a terrorist or extremist despite having committed no crime? Would everyone know this? Would his child grow up carrying this identity?
For reasons unknown, the men eventually ceased their interrogations. While the guard outside was likely performing his duties, had they come to the abrupt realization that they had made an error? Had they apprehended the incorrect individual? The man assigned to monitor him—or, more accurately, to supervise him—began to exhibit a degree of kindness. Perhaps the others had instructed him to behave in such a manner. Initially, he had only been provided with meals twice daily, consisting of either bread accompanied by lentils or a choice of fried vegetables. Occasionally, he would consume a portion, setting aside the remainder, citing a lack of appetite, partly due to his anxiety about using the restroom. The man never remarked on this behavior. Eventually, he would silently remove the plate. Yet, he began to express curiosity, asking, “Do you find it unpleasant to eat bread every day? Would you prefer rice instead?” One afternoon, he even brought him a packet of biryani and insisted that he eat. Later in the evening, he presented him with tablets and water, advising, “Take these; they will alleviate your physical discomfort. You’ll also find it easier to sleep.”
Whether it was the influence of the tablet or the unexpected onset of a fierce rainstorm in the dead of night, he had succumbed to a profound slumber. In the early hours of dawn, a man arrived and roused him from his sleep. The sound of a vehicle could be heard outside. Two individuals approached, seizing him and hoisting him into the car. Their entire faces were obscured by fabric, leaving only their eyes visible. Nevertheless, they appeared unfamiliar; he had never encountered them before. As the vehicle commenced its journey, they swiftly bound him to the seat with a sturdy rope. Were they concerned he might attempt to leap out and flee? Shortly thereafter, they placed a blindfold over his eyes as well.
The new room to which he was taken resembled a shed, constructed with bamboo walls and a tin roof. By daylight, it appeared to serve as a storage area for contractors’ equipment. Along one side, numerous bags of cement were stacked, alongside an array of tools such as shovels, hoes, sickles, and spades. In one corner, a cot was positioned, draped with a mat, and an oil-stained pillow resting on top of it. Surrounding the structure was a profusion of foliage and trees. During the mornings and evenings, the air was filled with the melodious calls of various birds. When he was escorted outside in the early dawn to use the large bathroom, he noticed from the thicket at the back of the room, while swatting away mosquitoes, that the area bore an uncanny resemblance to a jungle, with towering trees encircling him. After being extracted from the vehicle and led into the shed, they removed his blindfold and sternly cautioned him against any attempts to escape. Guards with firearms were perpetually stationed outside, dispersed across various vantage points. Regardless of the direction he might choose to flee, he would not be able to elude their vigilant scrutiny; they would shoot him on sight. Additionally, there was a man assigned to oversee him. This individual, whose origins were unknown, would bring him meals. He would take him outside to use the larger bathroom, although he was obliged to utilize the smaller bathroom situated in one corner of the room. Nevertheless, this man was quite gregarious, inclined to engage in conversation. He would inquire about the man’s family while sharing anecdotes about his own relatives. However, he was notably circumspect regarding the identities of those who had employed him, revealing nothing about them. It seemed as though he possessed comprehensive knowledge about the circumstances of the man’s abduction. In the evenings, this same individual would administer two pills, stating, “These are sleeping pills; you must take them. It’s the boss’s directive. If you consume them, you’ll enjoy a peaceful slumber, and I can rest assured as well. Otherwise, you know how fickle the human mind can be; one never knows what might transpire! You might inadvertently act rashly, putting us both in jeopardy!” He couldn’t precisely discern whether the pills were intended for inducing sleep or if they were, in fact, narcotics. However, he began to experience drowsiness shortly after ingestion. Yet, his slumber was far from uninterrupted. For several nights now, he had been jolted awake by recurring nightmares. The same dream haunted him repeatedly: he found himself sprinting through a field, pursued by several armed men who were drawing nearer. Just as they closed in, he would awaken, sitting upright in bed, drenched in perspiration. He was acutely aware that should he manage to drift off once more, he would inevitably confront the same nightmarish scenario.
The day before, or perhaps the day prior to it—he couldn’t quite recall—shortly after dusk, a man visited him. This individual was clad in a silk kurta and adorned with a gold chain around his neck. Even at night, he wore black sunglasses, never once removing them as he engaged in conversation. Upon his arrival, he proclaimed that he bore joyous tidings from his elder brother: a release order had been issued for him, and he would be set free within a day or two. However, there was a stipulation attached. “What stipulation?” he managed to swallow hard before inquiring. The man informed him that once he departed from this place, he would be forbidden from divulging any details regarding the events of the past few days—not even to his family. He must remain silent about who had captured him, the reasons behind his abduction, where he had been held, or anything related to those who had interrogated him—absolutely nothing could be shared. He was entirely unaware, and even if he possessed knowledge, he would be unable to disclose it. In truth, nothing of consequence had transpired in his life during this time. He could, however, recount one detail: he had fallen prey to a pickpocket on the bus, and after that, his memory had gone blank. “Brother, did you grasp that? It’s imperative that you take this seriously. Do not let any information slip. If you do, you’ll find yourself in dire straits. You won’t be able to save yourself, and your wife and children will also be apprehended. Do you understand? Keep this firmly in mind.”
Had he momentarily lost consciousness? Upon opening his eyes, he perceived that the surrounding darkness had diminished. A delicate glimmer of light appeared to emerge in the eastern sky. The sounds of buses and trucks traversing the upper road intermingled with the sporadic clatter of rickshaws or bicycles. However, from his position, he was unable to discern anything. As he turned his head to the left, he caught sight of a few figures moving like shadows in the distance. Were they making their way to the mosque? Or were they engaged in some other activity behind the thicket? Could they perceive him? Would they? He felt a wave of drowsiness wash over him once more. For several days, he had been enveloped in a peculiar haze or stupor. Perhaps they had administered sedatives to alleviate his bodily discomfort. In this state of bewilderment, he appeared to glimpse his father for the first time. He had no recollections of his father; never had he encountered anyone resembling him in his dreams. His mother often recounted her dreams of his father. He observed several men clad in khaki uniforms forcefully ushering his father along. Two of them had their rifles aimed at his father from behind. His father was unable to walk; he was shuffling along. His hands were restrained. As he trudged forward with his gaze lowered, it seemed as though his father lifted his face to meet his eyes. He thought he could hear his father reciting Ayat al-Kursi. He began to recite alongside him: “Allah, there is no deity except Him, the Ever-Living…” But before he could complete the verse, the blanketing embrace of sleep seized him once again.
Illustration : Rajat
