Translated from the Bengali into English by Alamgir Mohammad
Her face darkened as Pushpa walked toward the National Press Club. Her retina brought to life the scenes of a turbulent era. She remembered the police barricades being breached by the marches. Like the other ladies, she had also grown bold during those marches. “Dialogue with the Women of the Uprising: Where Have the Women Gone?” was the banner she noticed at the Press Club’s door.
They had not battled with the intention of overthrowing the government or with the prospect of obtaining something for themselves. They were motivated by a fire of rebellion against intellectual discrimination and a communal consciousness against injustice. It was a surge of uncontrollable passion and emotions.
“Where are the women?” For what reason had this query come up?
The question didn’t align with her sense of understanding. She hadn’t pondered it before. All she had wanted was for the interim government to govern effectively and for discrimination across all institutions to be removed. But now, that simple thought was overshadowed by the persistent echo: “Where are the women? Where are the women of the people’s movement?”
Had the women marched onto the streets for leadership and recognition? Perhaps some had. Even if she understood this realization later, it became glaringly clear now. Still, she moved forward into the building. At the entrance to the event hall, she stopped abruptly. A platform was adorned with pictures of several women. Flowers were placed on the altar, and names were inscribed beneath the photos: Ria Gopa, Naima Sultana, Liza Akhter, Maya Islam, Meherun Nesa, Nazma Begum, Tanha, Sumaiya Akhter, Nafisa Hossain, and Marwa. They had been martyred during the movement.
Seeing their pictures, her chest heaved with sorrow. She couldn’t recall their names being widely publicized. She herself had only known about two or three of them. Most she hadn’t even heard of. She felt trivial and selfish. Her thoughts had revolved only around Farhan, a close comrade in the movement. Yet, so many lives had been sacrificed, and she hadn’t remembered them. Suddenly, from the depths of her being, a tune resonated:
“At the altar of freedom’s temple,
How many lives were offered,
Etched with tears it remains.”
The music stopped, and then Pushpa heard a voice recounting history:
“The fight against British rule was a daring struggle. It was through the sacrifices of revolutionaries opposing foreign oppressors that the British were ultimately forced to leave India. Not all their names are engraved in history. Among them, Masterda and Khudiram Bose are more widely remembered.”
As the song’s melody faded, Pushpa realized that it was her memories of Farhan—the martyred hero of the student movement—that were stirring her entire being.
She immediately said, “What’s the point of bringing this up now, Farhan?”
“Does it have no meaning? You once felt the spirit of Mohini Chowdhury’s famous song. I just highlighted the history behind it.”
“Are you trying to suggest that we don’t need to remember all the martyrs of the Movement of ’24? That remembering only Saeed and Mugdha would suffice? That history would remain pure if only their names are included in textbooks?”
“No, not at all. Everyone belongs within the scope of the word ‘people.’ But the brightest stars are always singled out.”
“Fine. I want you to be among those bright stars, Farhan.”
“That’s your pettiness—nepotism.”
“Call it nepotism, but not pettiness. And I also want the names of the female martyrs to be immortalized.”
“Isn’t that creating division?”
“I’m not the one creating division. It’s those banners I’m reading—the volunteer group, Empowering Our Fighters, and Fighters of ’24 have organized this dialogue. They’re raising the question: ‘Where are the women of the movement?’ Some are also questioning why there’s no advisor from northern Bengal in the government while so many advisors have been appointed from Chittagong and Comilla.”
“Keep a cool head and consider—we fought for reforming the quota system, didn’t we? Your accusations and questions seem to echo the dominance of quotas. Advisors were appointed based on personal merit and undeniable contributions to the movement. I don’t think the chief advisor gave undue importance to his own region. He might have thought these individuals would run the interim government effectively and, in a broader sense, might have considered himself the advisor for all of northern Bengal!”
“Look, the question isn’t mine. It’s a question raised by many.”
“Let it be many. But you also need to see the positive side. I’m not saying you’re not positive. Of course, you are. I saw that fearless expression of yours in the march. I saw how you argued with the police, risking your life. Don’t you remember the unstoppable current of that march?”
Pushpa fell silent. She wasn’t interested in hearing her own praise. Quietly, she walked to the back of the hall and took a seat.
She watched the leaders, busy with preparations. In their faces, she saw the fire of rebellion and revolution. She understood that this leadership would stand firm against any discrimination or injustice in the future. Her thoughts drifted to those days of the marches—the moments of handing out water to the exhausted crowd, the horrors of tear gas and sound grenades, the bloodied yet defiant faces of young men and women. The image of the masses breaking through the police barricades appeared vividly before her eyes, and from within, a song began to play:
“Break those iron bars,
Shatter them, smash them apart.”
“Who sang that?”
“Do you know whose poem, whose song this is?”
“Of course, I do! This song was our weapon of strength and courage in the marches. Each word unlocked the doors of our hearts, fueling us with immense bravery. We broke through barricades, fought, and risked our lives. And you think I wouldn’t know its creator? But who are you? How did you find a seat in my mind? How did you enter my thoughts?”
“I am the creator of this song.”
“Oh! You’re Nazrul! You’re the Rebel Poet Kazi Nazrul Islam, our National Poet! Dukhhu, that restless child from your boyhood?”
“Leave aside the titles you give me. What remains is what I am.”
“Keep your humility. You fought against the oppressive British. Through your storm of words, you drove them out of India. You ignited resistance in the hearts of the unconscious masses. Even today, your fiery songs stir the same storm within us. It’s through the power of your words that we overthrew the government. You’re not just of your time. You’re a voice for the Gen-Z of today, the eternal guardian of the oppressed and exploited. Oh, restless Dukhhu, you’ll be glad to hear that, though you’re known as our National Poet, the official gazette recognizing you as such has finally been published!”
The poet fell silent, deeply moved by the realization that his rebellious spirit had been ignited within this generation.
“Why have you gone silent, Rebel? Are you not in the hearts of today’s youth? We haven’t forgotten you. You succeeded. You once said, ‘Even if I go far away forever, I will not let myself be forgotten.’”
Returning from her thoughts to reality, Pushpa heard a revolutionary song being played loudly in the hall:
“Let that storm rise,
Tear down the foundations of oppression!”
The song made Pushpa’s blood surge through her body.
Though the banner asked, “Women fought equally, so why are they now sidelined?” the glory of the movement wasn’t confined to the heroics of women alone. Through Nazrul’s songs, the immense scope of the anti-discrimination movement expanded into the hearts of hundreds present in the hall. With this feeling of inspiration, Pushpa thought to herself, “See, Rebel, though you are not just the Rebel Poet, but also the Poet of Love, have we forgotten you? Haven’t your demands been met? Haven’t we engraved your rebellious spirit in our hearts? When the masses marched forward, chanting your song, didn’t the seats of power tremble? Didn’t we shatter those tall, oppressive walls? Haven’t we succeeded? Who is the ruler, who is the king now?”
Part Two
“What is it, Pushpa? Why are you so happy today?”
“Oh! You’ve noticed, Rebel King?”
“I see you’re in a joyful mood, embracing the morning chill and looking toward the soft rays of dawn with a faint smile. What’s the reason?”
“I won’t tell you.”
“Even if you don’t, I know. I can see the flickers of light in your mind, revealing that you’re happy to see the dignity of the women revolutionaries being acknowledged.”
“You’re absolutely right, Rebel! Student leaders of the movement have met with the chief advisor. Among them were some courageous young women who led from the front. Seeing their participation has brought me immense joy. The chief advisor also listened attentively to everyone. The students, with one voice, demanded a just resolution to the tensions between India and Bangladesh. Women, too, had representation in that discussion.”
“You’re right. Peace requires resolving disputes justly. But where do the roots of the problem lie? We must resolve our internal conflicts first. It’s good that all parties have come together for this historic meeting. Unity is crucial—not just among religious communities, but also among political factions. Without internal harmony, the collective strength of the country will weaken. Insulting the flag of another country diminishes one’s own dignity—everyone must understand this. Though the act was committed by a few individuals, it has hurt the people of both nations.”
“That’s why you’re a poet of humanity, not just rebellion. You’re also the Poet of Love. You didn’t merely craft fiery words; your heart overflowed with love for humanity. Even now, your songs ride the currents of time, still singing the anthem of humanity.”
“Leave all this. Instead, look for your own ruler. Who is the king? Who decides the punishment? Find them.”
Closing her eyes, Pushpa delved into introspection. She realized that as long as internal conflicts and conspiracies festered, punishment would come from within. Arrogance would lead to downfall, as the Almighty does not forgive the arrogant. Thinking deeply, she grew silent as the words resonated in her soul: “Who is the master, who is the king? Today’s king is tomorrow’s beggar.”
She understood that pride must be washed away, divisions must be bridged, and religious harmony must be upheld with respect. Everyone must stand united for the progress of the nation.
“I am so happy, Pushpa. So very happy. May your light of understanding spread far and wide. May all discriminations vanish! Let the tales of the oppressed and downtrodden resonate in victory.”
The translator is an Assistant Professor of English and a bilingual translator.
Illustration : Rajat
