Fiction
The alien . . .
The daughter was excited. Unable to contain herself, she rejoiced over her parents' decision to return to Bangladesh, now that the country was free. She knew they would take the right path.
She couldn't help feeling small that it had taken them some time to make a decision. On the other hand, her friend's parents in overseas appointment under the Pakistan government had decided to quit as soon as they had heard about the people's struggle to free Bangladesh from the terror of the Pakistani forces.
She nursed a deep sense of revulsion against the Pakistan army's occupation of her country and their brutalities. She had been schooled in Dhaka before the family's departure overseas because of her father's appointment. The parents thought this transfer a blessing when East Pakistan was on the verge of ethnic riots and when the fate of such mixed couples could be endangered.
Her paternal family came from Narsingdi in Bangladesh and her maternal home was in Lahore, in the province of Punjab in Pakistan. Her mother was educated at Punjab University.
Her mother was fluent in Urdu and often recited poetry from Faiz and Ludhianvi or related paragraphs from Qurratul Ain's 'Mere be sanam khane", which brought back the nostalgic pain of the partition in 1947.
Her recital of Faiz with reference to Bangladesh was poignant:
Hum ke thehre ajnabi itni mulaqaton ke baad
Phir banenge ashna kitnee mulaqaton ke bad
Kab nazar mein aayegi bedagh sabze ke bahar
Khoon ke dhabe dhulenge kitney barsaton ke baad She agreed with her daughter that bloodletting was not so simple as to be wiped away with a series of rains or even a cyclonic outpouring of apologies. In 1947, the loss of non-Muslim friends who had to leave their homes for India, the mass communal killings and the fundamentalism that descended on Pakistan alienated her mother from her very place of birth. Now she faced yet another partition that was a trauma of separation from her own family who had migrated to Lahore after the communal riots of 1947. Both her parents felt strongly that the partition of India was a disaster with bloody consequences impelled on innocent people, imprisoned still, in hateful memories of the past. For the daughter, the stories of these memories had a new meaning that firmed her belief in the rationale for creation of Bangladesh as a country to be freed from a fundamentalist autocracy, to be based on principles of secularism and democracy. For the daughter, the recitals of verses from Tagore and Nazrul Islam's "Rebel" still rang in her ears irresistibly louder since the struggle for freedom began in her country that she loved so much and from where she had been distanced for some years now. " Weary of battles I, the great rebel
shall rest in peace only when
the anguished cry of the oppressed
shall no longer reverberate
in the sky and the air,
and the tyrants bloody sword will no longer rattle in battlefields,
only then shall I the Rebel,
rest in peace." She lived in suppressed anger against the missed opportunity to have served the cause. Inwardly she blamed her parents for a cowardice that would put her to shame now before her friends in Bangladesh. There was nothing to have prevented her departure from a country along with her parents, nothing because they too were supporters of the cause, nothing except the parents' fear of what would await them. A family of mixed marriage, they would be considered suspect from both sides. Her mother was not a Bengali. She was from Punjab. Her parents were an affluent family, well connected with important people of Pakistan, including politicians and generals in the army. Bangladesh was in the grip of an emotional trauma that called for revenge, an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. A non-Bengali would certainly be a target for their avenging emotions. Her father froze with fear when he thought of what might happen on their return, to his family whom he loved so dearly. News of such ethnic killings in the country scared him further to an immobility that he felt ashamed of especially as his friends and colleagues were courageous enough to have left their assignment abroad to participate in the struggle for freedom. The mother expressed her sadness at the way people were being killed. She could not understand the racial divisions, the political implications and their dreaded impact on their relationship. How could she contain his hatred against the country of her birth, against the violators who were from the country she was born in? She recalled her nephews who were in the air force and in the army stationed in East Pakistan. How could she erase the horror of the slaughter of her Pakistani cousins who had gone to Rangamati to celebrate their honeymoon? On the eve of Bangladesh they were slaughtered along with several non-Bengalis. Her aunt, the mother of the victims, remained tearless since then, as if turned to stone. Neither could she suppress her hatred and revulsion against the rulers of the country that massacred the innocent Bengalis in ethnic anger. When they, her husband and she first met, national events of 1947 had brought them together. He had to flee the communal riots in his original home in India, in the hope that when peace returned he would return to his place of birth. They both shared a vision for the reunion of that India which had been the environment of their cultural growth. She had lost her non-Muslim friends who fled from a home they had grown up in. Some had the courage and audacity to make quick intermarriages to settle in either of the divides. Her parents had nostalgic memories of a united India, albeit under British rule. They often talked of the old days as a glorious time of peace and justice that showed their distaste for a partition they thought resulted in corruption and poor governance. For different reasons her husband and she also felt a longing for that non-communal era. This common vision had brought them together in empathy, although they didn't belong to the same community, she a Punjabi and he a Bengali, now considered as representatives of two opposite camps. If in 1947 communal killings in India disgusted and hurt them, now in 1971 their country, now Pakistan, torn in ethnic strife with a martial barbarity on its eastern border, angered them and tore at their heart. She remembered her husband reciting this poem in expression of his feelings:
Borders are scratched across the hearts of men
by strangers with a calm judicial pen
and when the borders bleed we watch with dread
the lines of ink across the map turn red . . . The religious divide, separating people into fundamentalist groups, shattered their dream of a united India. Now the aftermath of 1971 was an ethnic amputation separating them as representing two opposing cultures, that of victim and perpetrator. The mother now felt as an outsider in her own family. An unreasonable guilt and fear suffocated her free expression. She could not explain this to her daughter. The father could not dampen her daughter's spirit nor make her realize that she would not be considered as a "pure" Bengali , that this struggle against the Pakistani rulers would label them on the wrong side. The daughter attempted to move them out of their impasse. She was an inspiration as she energized them in the righteous cause. She was enthused to give strong support in winding up their necessary belongings, in booking air tickets and in sorting out matters that needed to be done. All this she did, with an empathy of what slowed her parents. She understood their concern. The parents felt frozen, unable to decide between fear and courage, between sensibility and righteousness. A couple noted as an outcome of a mixed marriage, he a Bengali and she a Punjabi. How could they expect acceptance after the brutal occupation of the Pakistan army? The position he held overseas had no charm any more although it promised an excellent education and a good future for his daughter. It was now a noose from which he needed to escape. Concern for his non-Bengali wife weakened his decision He saw danger for her in a country still raw with the wounds of violation, still seething in anger for revenge. She most of all, and even they would certainly be a target for attack. He could not explain this to his daughter He could not make her realize that she was not a pure Bengali and this was now a racial war where she may be victimized He felt it would be unfair to extinguish her youthful spark for freedom that lighted up their family and that they the parents had perforce suppressed for the sake of survival even on the stake of dishonour that would now stick to them for the rest of their lives because he had stayed out as an employee of Pakistan now known as the occupying rulers of Bangladesh The wife had grown and lived through the British era, comparatively an age of peace and enlightenment. It was a certain life style with a sense of predictability enjoyed by the upper middle class that thrived on complacence, untouched by the struggle of freedom against the British Raj She remembered her parental large spacious home where she was brought up, the convent she was schooled in and where all students stood up to the anthem of "God Save the King". Historical events of independence and then partition had changed the anthems to "Vande Mataram" to "Jaya Jaya Hey" and to "Pak Sar Zameen" and now to "Amar Sonar Bangla", which she heard her daughter humming several times. Her father in British service was proud to host the British rulers who visited the country and prouder still to be the recipient of an award from them for his undivided service to the British Raj. In his judicial service he ran the risk of giving death sentences to those caught in protest against the Raj. He was known to be a loyal and conscientious officer. Those were good times she remembered when people from different religious communities socialized with each other. She had friends who were Hindus, Christians and Parsis. She had lived sadly through the partition era, felt an amputation of love when friends departed as communal riots tore the country apart and opened wounds that could not be healed. Her distaste for partition, however, did not dampen her dream of a united India. Both she and her husband felt an affinity with their non-Muslim friends now across the borders of Punjab and Bengal with whom they kept up a correspondence, wishing for a reunion one day. Today the country was witnessing yet another partition. Bangladesh was created after bloody violence let loose by the Pakistan military. Despite her origin it was nevertheless a cause she turned to, as a non-Bengali. She asked herself if she was ready for challenges to adapt to another divide, a new culture, a new language? And another ethnic environment? As the plane flew towards its destination, there was a tightness in her chest. She knew her husband carried the fearful burden of protecting his non-Bengali family from discrimination. What if the people did not accept them? What was the guarantee of safety for their family? The hatred generated by the Pakistani army was still aflame, perhaps to be kept continually alight for the solidarity of the new country. And how will she assuage her guilt? Guilt not only at this delayed departure when so many had the courage to die for the cause, but also her origin, now an un-erasable smudge. The plane landed with a jolt. Rain poured hard on the tarmac. In the midst of thunder and lightning she could hear clearly the triumphant shout of her daughter, "Joy Bangla!" We have come home at last. The three of them walked together, hands held, the daughter a little faster, pushing them towards the transit area. Luggage checking was customary. There was nothing much to be checked as they carried nothing. The music box was precious to the daughter, who carried it with her, held against her chest. The passport officer needed to see their documents. All three of them had brand new passports, which made them proud citizens of the new country. Her husband's colleagues came to receive them and ease them ease through immigration. Their passports were taken for that purpose. She still had the Pakistani passport in her bag. The beautiful photograph of her earlier years was pasted on it and she wanted to preserve the image of her youth. Now she dreaded the outcome and was about to hide the passport when one of her husband's friends spotted it and angrily said, "Bhabi what are you keeping that for?'' He took it away from her and threw it in the drain. Indeed, why this sentiment? They didn't understand. Neither did she as she choked back her tears. Memories of visions of laburnums in Lahore, her mother churning lassi from fresh yogurt, her siblings cycling together to school --- all these unrolled as a rewind of an old film switched off, as it were, by an invisible director's command, "Cut!" She had a sense of walking towards the unknown, a place unvisited, perhaps moving towards the wrong destination. But she knew in her heart that she was moving for the right cause. As she walked towards the exit sign, she saw her beautiful photograph on the Pakistani passport drenched in the rain, smudged in dirt, just as the country it represented lay stained in disrepute.
Hum ke thehre ajnabi itni mulaqaton ke baad
Phir banenge ashna kitnee mulaqaton ke bad
Kab nazar mein aayegi bedagh sabze ke bahar
Khoon ke dhabe dhulenge kitney barsaton ke baad She agreed with her daughter that bloodletting was not so simple as to be wiped away with a series of rains or even a cyclonic outpouring of apologies. In 1947, the loss of non-Muslim friends who had to leave their homes for India, the mass communal killings and the fundamentalism that descended on Pakistan alienated her mother from her very place of birth. Now she faced yet another partition that was a trauma of separation from her own family who had migrated to Lahore after the communal riots of 1947. Both her parents felt strongly that the partition of India was a disaster with bloody consequences impelled on innocent people, imprisoned still, in hateful memories of the past. For the daughter, the stories of these memories had a new meaning that firmed her belief in the rationale for creation of Bangladesh as a country to be freed from a fundamentalist autocracy, to be based on principles of secularism and democracy. For the daughter, the recitals of verses from Tagore and Nazrul Islam's "Rebel" still rang in her ears irresistibly louder since the struggle for freedom began in her country that she loved so much and from where she had been distanced for some years now. " Weary of battles I, the great rebel
shall rest in peace only when
the anguished cry of the oppressed
shall no longer reverberate
in the sky and the air,
and the tyrants bloody sword will no longer rattle in battlefields,
only then shall I the Rebel,
rest in peace." She lived in suppressed anger against the missed opportunity to have served the cause. Inwardly she blamed her parents for a cowardice that would put her to shame now before her friends in Bangladesh. There was nothing to have prevented her departure from a country along with her parents, nothing because they too were supporters of the cause, nothing except the parents' fear of what would await them. A family of mixed marriage, they would be considered suspect from both sides. Her mother was not a Bengali. She was from Punjab. Her parents were an affluent family, well connected with important people of Pakistan, including politicians and generals in the army. Bangladesh was in the grip of an emotional trauma that called for revenge, an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. A non-Bengali would certainly be a target for their avenging emotions. Her father froze with fear when he thought of what might happen on their return, to his family whom he loved so dearly. News of such ethnic killings in the country scared him further to an immobility that he felt ashamed of especially as his friends and colleagues were courageous enough to have left their assignment abroad to participate in the struggle for freedom. The mother expressed her sadness at the way people were being killed. She could not understand the racial divisions, the political implications and their dreaded impact on their relationship. How could she contain his hatred against the country of her birth, against the violators who were from the country she was born in? She recalled her nephews who were in the air force and in the army stationed in East Pakistan. How could she erase the horror of the slaughter of her Pakistani cousins who had gone to Rangamati to celebrate their honeymoon? On the eve of Bangladesh they were slaughtered along with several non-Bengalis. Her aunt, the mother of the victims, remained tearless since then, as if turned to stone. Neither could she suppress her hatred and revulsion against the rulers of the country that massacred the innocent Bengalis in ethnic anger. When they, her husband and she first met, national events of 1947 had brought them together. He had to flee the communal riots in his original home in India, in the hope that when peace returned he would return to his place of birth. They both shared a vision for the reunion of that India which had been the environment of their cultural growth. She had lost her non-Muslim friends who fled from a home they had grown up in. Some had the courage and audacity to make quick intermarriages to settle in either of the divides. Her parents had nostalgic memories of a united India, albeit under British rule. They often talked of the old days as a glorious time of peace and justice that showed their distaste for a partition they thought resulted in corruption and poor governance. For different reasons her husband and she also felt a longing for that non-communal era. This common vision had brought them together in empathy, although they didn't belong to the same community, she a Punjabi and he a Bengali, now considered as representatives of two opposite camps. If in 1947 communal killings in India disgusted and hurt them, now in 1971 their country, now Pakistan, torn in ethnic strife with a martial barbarity on its eastern border, angered them and tore at their heart. She remembered her husband reciting this poem in expression of his feelings:
Borders are scratched across the hearts of men
by strangers with a calm judicial pen
and when the borders bleed we watch with dread
the lines of ink across the map turn red . . . The religious divide, separating people into fundamentalist groups, shattered their dream of a united India. Now the aftermath of 1971 was an ethnic amputation separating them as representing two opposing cultures, that of victim and perpetrator. The mother now felt as an outsider in her own family. An unreasonable guilt and fear suffocated her free expression. She could not explain this to her daughter. The father could not dampen her daughter's spirit nor make her realize that she would not be considered as a "pure" Bengali , that this struggle against the Pakistani rulers would label them on the wrong side. The daughter attempted to move them out of their impasse. She was an inspiration as she energized them in the righteous cause. She was enthused to give strong support in winding up their necessary belongings, in booking air tickets and in sorting out matters that needed to be done. All this she did, with an empathy of what slowed her parents. She understood their concern. The parents felt frozen, unable to decide between fear and courage, between sensibility and righteousness. A couple noted as an outcome of a mixed marriage, he a Bengali and she a Punjabi. How could they expect acceptance after the brutal occupation of the Pakistan army? The position he held overseas had no charm any more although it promised an excellent education and a good future for his daughter. It was now a noose from which he needed to escape. Concern for his non-Bengali wife weakened his decision He saw danger for her in a country still raw with the wounds of violation, still seething in anger for revenge. She most of all, and even they would certainly be a target for attack. He could not explain this to his daughter He could not make her realize that she was not a pure Bengali and this was now a racial war where she may be victimized He felt it would be unfair to extinguish her youthful spark for freedom that lighted up their family and that they the parents had perforce suppressed for the sake of survival even on the stake of dishonour that would now stick to them for the rest of their lives because he had stayed out as an employee of Pakistan now known as the occupying rulers of Bangladesh The wife had grown and lived through the British era, comparatively an age of peace and enlightenment. It was a certain life style with a sense of predictability enjoyed by the upper middle class that thrived on complacence, untouched by the struggle of freedom against the British Raj She remembered her parental large spacious home where she was brought up, the convent she was schooled in and where all students stood up to the anthem of "God Save the King". Historical events of independence and then partition had changed the anthems to "Vande Mataram" to "Jaya Jaya Hey" and to "Pak Sar Zameen" and now to "Amar Sonar Bangla", which she heard her daughter humming several times. Her father in British service was proud to host the British rulers who visited the country and prouder still to be the recipient of an award from them for his undivided service to the British Raj. In his judicial service he ran the risk of giving death sentences to those caught in protest against the Raj. He was known to be a loyal and conscientious officer. Those were good times she remembered when people from different religious communities socialized with each other. She had friends who were Hindus, Christians and Parsis. She had lived sadly through the partition era, felt an amputation of love when friends departed as communal riots tore the country apart and opened wounds that could not be healed. Her distaste for partition, however, did not dampen her dream of a united India. Both she and her husband felt an affinity with their non-Muslim friends now across the borders of Punjab and Bengal with whom they kept up a correspondence, wishing for a reunion one day. Today the country was witnessing yet another partition. Bangladesh was created after bloody violence let loose by the Pakistan military. Despite her origin it was nevertheless a cause she turned to, as a non-Bengali. She asked herself if she was ready for challenges to adapt to another divide, a new culture, a new language? And another ethnic environment? As the plane flew towards its destination, there was a tightness in her chest. She knew her husband carried the fearful burden of protecting his non-Bengali family from discrimination. What if the people did not accept them? What was the guarantee of safety for their family? The hatred generated by the Pakistani army was still aflame, perhaps to be kept continually alight for the solidarity of the new country. And how will she assuage her guilt? Guilt not only at this delayed departure when so many had the courage to die for the cause, but also her origin, now an un-erasable smudge. The plane landed with a jolt. Rain poured hard on the tarmac. In the midst of thunder and lightning she could hear clearly the triumphant shout of her daughter, "Joy Bangla!" We have come home at last. The three of them walked together, hands held, the daughter a little faster, pushing them towards the transit area. Luggage checking was customary. There was nothing much to be checked as they carried nothing. The music box was precious to the daughter, who carried it with her, held against her chest. The passport officer needed to see their documents. All three of them had brand new passports, which made them proud citizens of the new country. Her husband's colleagues came to receive them and ease them ease through immigration. Their passports were taken for that purpose. She still had the Pakistani passport in her bag. The beautiful photograph of her earlier years was pasted on it and she wanted to preserve the image of her youth. Now she dreaded the outcome and was about to hide the passport when one of her husband's friends spotted it and angrily said, "Bhabi what are you keeping that for?'' He took it away from her and threw it in the drain. Indeed, why this sentiment? They didn't understand. Neither did she as she choked back her tears. Memories of visions of laburnums in Lahore, her mother churning lassi from fresh yogurt, her siblings cycling together to school --- all these unrolled as a rewind of an old film switched off, as it were, by an invisible director's command, "Cut!" She had a sense of walking towards the unknown, a place unvisited, perhaps moving towards the wrong destination. But she knew in her heart that she was moving for the right cause. As she walked towards the exit sign, she saw her beautiful photograph on the Pakistani passport drenched in the rain, smudged in dirt, just as the country it represented lay stained in disrepute.
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