Aquatic deity

Shimulia was a remote village. A girl from this village was named Madhurilata. The origin of this name remained a mystery to most of the villagers. Nevertheless, they affectionately referred to her as Madhu, which meant honey.

Zaheer, a devout follower of Tagore and a son of the village, had achieved a remarkable feat by becoming the first person in 10 villages to pass matriculation and secure admission to Gurudayal College, Kishoreganj. During a visit to a distant relative's house, he had first laid eyes on a newborn girl and had been struck by her purity and innocence. He had named her after Tagore's eldest daughter, Madhurilata—that had been the mystery of the name. 

Madhu grew up amidst the simplicity of village life, but her development had taken an unusual turn. Despite her physical growth, she had remained mentally trapped in the innocence of a six- or seven-year-old, a condition known as intellectual disability. Her speech had been soft and childlike, her actions mirroring those of a much younger child. However, her physical appearance had continued to flourish, her cheeks becoming plump and her stature healthy. 

Her body, like an unstoppable force, had continued its march to maturity. Her mother, burdened with worry, had tightly bound Madhu's chest, attempting to shield her from the prying eyes of the world. Despite her mother's efforts, Madhu had entered womanhood, her body developing as expected. This had brought forth a new set of challenges, especially during her menstrual cycle, causing her mother endless anguish. 

To protect Madhu from harm, her mother had kept a vigilant eye on her, yet the village had posed its own dangers. Some individuals, taking advantage of Madhu's vulnerability, had dared to lay hands on her body, causing her mother great distress. Unable to confine her daughter at home, she had allowed Madhu to roam freely but had watched her constantly. 

Madhu's only fear had stemmed from a traumatic experience with injections, which had instilled in her a deep-seated dread. At the mere mention of someone coming to administer a shot, she would cry out for her mother and flee back home to seek comfort in her embrace. 

Thus, amidst the tranquility of village life, Madhu's journey had unfolded in a delicate balance between innocence and vulnerability, fiercely guarded by a mother's love from the harsh realities of the world. 

One morning, Madhu had been playing with other boys and girls in front of Zaheer's house, eagerly awaiting Zaheer's visit with his family later that day. They had known that when Zaheer arrived home, he would bring batasha, or sugar candy, from the Pulerghat market—a treat that Zaheer's mother usually distributed among the children. That day, the group of village children had gathered in front of Zaheer's house, full of anticipation for the sweets. 

Zaheer, who had earned a BA degree from Gurudayal College, worked as a teacher at a school in Kishoreganj. He was married to a woman from a wealthy family in the city, and they had a son named Ayan, who was eight-years-old. 

It had been the year 1971. On March 1, Pakistan's military ruler, President Yahya Khan, had announced the suspension of the scheduled session of the National Assembly, sparking violent protests among Bangalis. Political tension had gripped the nation. Zaheer's school had been closed indefinitely due to the political unrest. 

Zaheer's family had planned to travel to Shimulia village and stay there for a few days while the school remained closed. At that time, rickshaws had been the only convenient means of transportation to the village. As the rickshaw had departed from Kishoreganj without a hood, its passengers—Zaheer's wife, Nirjhar, and their son, Ayan—had ridden in the open air. 

When the rickshaw had reached Pulerghat market, the rickshaw puller had raised the hood and covered it with a sari cloth. This precaution had been taken because the villagers might gossip about Nirjhar traveling without a veil, implying that she lacked modesty while riding in an open rickshaw. Nirjhar, being a "city girl", had anticipated such gossip but had remained unbothered by it. 

Zaheer had not gone in the rickshaw but had ridden his Mister bicycle alongside it. He usually arrived a bit earlier and spent time in front of a roadside shop or sat on a bench, chatting with acquaintances. When the rickshaw arrived with the rest of the family, they continued the journey. On reaching the Pulerghat market, the rickshaw had stopped in front of the mosque, under the shade of a jackfruit tree, for a substantial break. The rickshaw puller had closed the mouth of the mosque's tube well with his hand, drunk some water, and rinsed his mouth. Zaheer had treated him with roshogolla and tea with nimki from Gauranga's restaurant. He had also bought batasha from there for home. Ayan had been eagerly anticipating this trip ever since he had learned about it.

The distance from Kishoreganja to Shimulia was about 15 miles. At that time, the fastest vehicle was  the rickshaw. The road was paved only from Kishoreganj Sadar to Pakundia Thana Sadar. After a few more miles, the road to Shimulia branched off to the right from the paved road and was surfaced with brick soling.After another five miles, a dirt road branched off from the brick road and led towards Shimulia. This junction had been called Pulerghat. There had been a bridge over a tributary river named Suti Nadi, which had dried up in the winter and had been a small branch of Narsunda, one of Kishoreganj's main rivers. Kaliachapra market was located on the bank of the river and was open once a week. Farmers from far-flung villages around the area had come to the market with their produce. Traders had rushed to buy goods at low prices. The wholesalers had bought paddy and jute cheaply from the farmers and piled them in front of the wholesale shop. Then these goods had been loaded onto big boats and taken to large cities. A little distance from this market, the Kaliachapra sugar mill had been built.

The road had wound like a snake from Pulerghat towards Shimulia village. Rickshaws had not usually come to villages. As Ayan's rickshaw had approached Shimulia, little boys and girls had followed this uncommon sight. They had kept shouting, "Bou (Bride), come, Bou"— even though Zaheer had got married ten years earlier, his wife had still been considered the new bride of this village. When they had reached home, Zaheer's mother sent the children away with the sweet batasa. But Madhu hadn't wanted to leave.  

"I'll see Bou," she had said, standing in the yard, twisting her arms.  

When Zaheer's mother had seen this, she had wanted Madhu to leave. "Girl, go home," she had told her. "A man will come to give you an injection now." This had frightened Madhu, and she had run away.

On 7 March, Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman's historic speech had been scheduled to be broadcast live from Ramna Racecourse Maidan. Zaheer had left the city, and the village youths had come to his house, eager to learn what would transpire.  

That afternoon, the villagers had gathered at the house of Zaheer's uncle, known as "The Member," to listen to the speech. The uncle, also referred to as the village mulberry man, had been highly respected because he had served as a member of Ayub's Basic Democracy, a local unit of the government. Excitement had filled the air as the large Philips transistor from the member's house had been brought out. However, the broadcast from Dhaka Radio Center had been abruptly canceled, leaving everyone deeply disappointed.  

The following day, on 8 March, at 8:30 a.m., Bangabandhu's historic speech from March 7th had finally been broadcast.  In which he said "The struggle this time is the struggle for our emancipation! The struggle this time is the struggle for our independence!........Since we have given blood, we will give more blood. Insha'Allah, we will free the people of this land."

Zaheer had returned to Kishoreganja with his family after spending seven days at home.  

On 25 March, the Pakistan Army had initiated a crackdown. By mid-April, the army had arrived in Kishoreganj city and had set up camp at the Circuit House. They had then divided into smaller groups and had begun venturing into villages. One group had established a camp at Pulerghat Bazar and had patrolled the local village roads daily using a jeep and a pickup truck, kicking up dust as they went. Occasionally, they had fired blank shots, spreading fear throughout the region. The villagers, including those in Shimulia, had been gripped by terror. They had refrained from venturing out and had only observed the army's movements from a safe distance through gaps in fences.  

However, one day, Madhu, the innocent girl, had dashed out to the road to catch a glimpse of the army. Unfortunately, no one had seen her go. In a matter of moments, the army had halted their jeep, seized Madhu, and headed toward Pulerghat. News of the incident had spread like wildfire, yet no one had dared to intervene. Deep anxiety had permeated the village. 

The villagers had gathered in front of the member's house in the afternoon. They had decided to go to the army camp together, raising a white flag. As their leader, the member had planned to discuss Madhu's situation and demand her immediate release. 

That night, torrential rain poured down, as if the heavens wept for Madhu. In the morning, a man from Pulerghat, drenched to the bone, arrived in Shimulia village with devastating news. He reported that the army had tortured the girl overnight in their camp and, on their way toward Kishoreganj, had discarded her body into the swollen river.  

The villagers, consumed by grief and anger, gathered at the member's house. Ignoring the relentless rain, they marched together to Pulerghat market, their voices united in sorrow and protest. They searched the riverbank, desperate to find Madhu's body. But the heavy rains had swelled the river, washing away any trace of her remains. Their search ended in heartbreak.  

Madhu, it seemed, had become one with the river, transformed into a water goddess like Amphitrite, vanishing into the depths. The earth could no longer contain her innocence, her story, or her spirit. Her red saree, caught on a tree leaning over the river, fluttered in the rain-drenched wind. Against the lush green foliage, it stood out like the blood-stained flag of a nation yet to be born, a haunting reminder of the cost of freedom.

The echoes of Madhu's heavy footsteps, running, continued to haunt the village. In their dreams, the villagers saw her small figure dashing through the yard, her innocent curiosity leading her into the jaws of tragedy.

War is unrelenting in its brutality. The villagers could not help but wonder: how many more Madhus floated in the rivers of Bengal, their stories untold. 

(From a real story)

Abdullah Zahid is a Bangladeshi-American writer, librarian, and cultural commentator based in New York. He began his literary journey as a columnist for Jaijaidin, where his widely-read column "Manhattan Diary" was later published as a book of the same name. The second edition of the book was released in 2024.