Non-fiction
Remembrance of Spring 1952
Ekushey February 1952 dawned cool and clear. It being a working day my destination was Bangla Bazaar Government Girls' High School. Classes began as usual and went on until the second period when a group of girls --- not Bangla Bazar students --- entered the class and asked permission to address my students. Taken aback, I had no choice but to let them do what they wished to do. Two of them spoke forcefully and convincingly, bringing to light how East Pakistan was being cheated of its rights. One of the speakers I recognized as Khaleda Fahmi. I fell for their political consciousness. Our students were asked to protest against this injustice and join a procession. Each classroom was emptied as students followed the leaders like Hamlin's mice leaving classrooms. Mrs. Lutfunnesa Chaudhury, wife of the well-known journalist Zahur H. Chaudhury, was the Headmistress of BBGG School. She too could not stop the exodus. We called her Kitty Apa. We, the teachers, decided to sit on the steps of the car porch and as is true of women, idled away the time in sheer gossip. Some remembered an arrear bill of Kitty Apa's that had just been cleared and as all were beginning to feel hungry, we requested her to treat us to lunch --- of luchis, bhaji, and sweets from Kala Chand Gondhobanik. They were delicacies that the succeeding generations never made it to. Everything was fried in pure ghee and perfect to the point. I wonder how many have tasted hot pantuas and rosogollas straight from the frying pan. The demand for this gourmet meal was thus met. After the delicious meal of the now near extinct delicacies, some thought of going home, but for the very creative ones the fun was not yet over. They suggested a matinee movie. All agreed. The next step was a visit to the then Nishat Cinema where Raj Kapoor was doing the honours. We sat in the ladies section, because to sit in the general section without a male escort was more than sacrilege. I forget the name of the movie but remember Raj Kapoor going round and round, with a bevy of beauties singing "Yar vai, vai, Yar vai vai" or something of the sort. We did more talking than watching, so mediocre was the film. Our group included Kitty Apa, Rokeya Kabir, Annee Apa, Raushan Apa, wife of the famous Prof. Saidur Rahman, Lutfunnesa Junior and Sarojini Didi. Memory fails to remember other names. Stepping out of the cinema hall we saw Bangshal Road deserted. No pedestrians, no rickshaws, no hackney coaches. What was amiss? Kitty Apa immediately went to the Sangbad office just across the street to find out the cause. She returned with a grim face. There had been police firing and some students had fallen --- to sodden the soil with their fresh, warm blood to keep alive the tiny plant called "Mother Language". Their supreme offering did not go in vain. The trudge home from Bangshal to Agha Sadeq Road seemed unending. A young, middle class Muslim woman walking on a deserted Dhaka road was unseen and unheard of in the early fifties. Men in my family were pure Muslim Leaguers. They had given up home and hearth at the call of Muhammad Ali Jinnah, were government servants and, to top it all, were bilinguals. To them Bangla was of little consequence. They had also blindly thrown in their lot with Pakistan. On reaching home my father greeted me with severe words. He chided me and regretted that he had lived to see the day when his daughter would walk home unescorted from Bangshal Road. This was 1952. How could I convince him that this was the only way to reach home? Enveloped in a feeling of guilt for the fiesta and fun when our brave boys were being murdered to save their identity and honour, to demand what was rightly theirs, to stand as beacons for the future generations, the only solace was that the people of Dhaka had also gone through their regular routine of window shopping, watching films, visiting friends, attending interviews, going to picnics or just existing. We the Bangla Bazar teachers were not thoughtless or insensitive since clairvoyance is the gift of only a few. The seeds of Ekushey took two decades to germinate. It was in 1971 that the red glow --- red for sun and blood --- was inserted in the flag. The right to sing a national anthem comprehensible to child and adult came took shape and, most importantly, the freedom to speak and be spoken to in a language of cradle days and mother`s lullabies was perpetuated for eons and eons. A cool morning ending in the ghastly murder of the innocent. The glow of the setting sun heralding a tumultuous tomorrow and the continued striiving for right have brought in some changes. But is it enough? It is a pity that the little undernourished plant called Bangladesh never had a natural growth period. The pests of intrigue and assassination have weakened its roots and fragile stems; its constitution written with utmost emphasis on egalitarian principles was butchered. Religion became a mighty weapon of the most irreligious. The shanties and hovels, the insecurity of minorities testify to this. It will take another Ekushey, another upheaval, another MuktiJuddha to set things on the right track? Then alone can we realize the lost dreams of a Bangladesh where no one goes hungry, where extortion and exploitation are not the order of the day, where the innocent are not scapegoats for the guilty, where basic human rights exist, where lust for power and self aggrandizement do not trample justice. Such countries exist. Their number, though insignificant, can still act as role models.
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