Fiction
Poribanu
(This is the third and concluding segment of this story)
"But I can't help saying one thing. We have been married for such a long time, but this time only I have got the real taste of marriage. Looking at the bright and smiling face of Poribanu, I could feel she was thinking the same way. For some days, we have been living separately, and I can't go to the village in this current situation. I don't know where she is and how she is doing. We haven't been seeing each other for quite some time; however, we stay in touch through letters. Sometimes, it is through people we exchange letters." Haroon paused after a protracted speech.
Anxiously I queried: "Being a woman, how is she managing her days in this crisis?
What does she write?"
"It's true she is not having a good time, but she is mentally very strong. She doesn't wilt under any pressure. What does she write? In all her letters, she encourages me like anything. Once she wrote: 'Eat regularly and keep your body fit. Although it's not time to say this, I still repeat, try to stay healthy as far as possible. Besides, be watchful. Under any circumstance, you shouldn't let them catch you. Don't think about me. I am a woman. I have a lot of advantages; like water, I am dissolved in abundant water'." Haroon answered.
"Did she write anything about the situation out there?"
"Don't say that. I got her last letter some days ago. She wrote: 'They are tightening their noose around us. It is as if they are sitting on our chest. The extent of their torture is indescribable. Often they are launching attacks. They are setting fire to river ports, huts and bazaars leaving their charred remains as a witness. Whenever they see a young man, they shoot at him outright. That's not all. At times, they are barging into houses to take aged women to their camps. I just can't tolerate these things anymore. I feel like doing something, but what to do? The fire that is burning within me, I keep it doused in me. I fervently pray to God so that He lets me kill, at least one of the enemies, before I get killed'." Haroon stopped briefly after the prolonged talking, and then again he started speaking: "This was her last letter, but she didn't say anything about herself in it. She didn't write anything about her whereabouts and about the life she was having. Also, the man who carried the letter could not say anything specific about her."
"Amazing," I soliloquized while thinking about her, and then I advised him: "Haroon, go and bring her here. If you people are staying there, both of you will get killed. Besides, you look so broken and distraught."
"Sorry Sir, I can't let it happen." He replied immediately and then added: "How can I come out here leaving others in the face of such a danger? If you are talking of her, then I should say that she is a very strong woman. It's just impossible to take her away from that place. Also, I told her the same thing, but she just didn't bother to listen to it. She is a very tough and doggedly obstinate woman. I have known her thoroughly during my days with her, though they were few in number. Now whatever God decides, it will happen. I have left her in the hands of God."
Haroon spent that night in my house. I thought I would give him some money while he was leaving, but he didn't let me have that opportunity. He was not around when I got up in the morning; before sunrise, he left the place and went his way, without letting anyone know.
Crossing the river, the attacking barbarous troops came over to our village after some days. Barely was there any preparedness to ward off their attacks. Our freedom fighters dispersed in different directions in an attempt to save themselves. Also, I along with my family members left the village. Thereafter, we had to weather many a storm, and finally, we took shelter in Calcutta after crossing the border. I never really had any time to think about Haroon and Poribanu. Neither was I in the right mental frame then to inquire about their whereabouts. I had to go through difficult situations and hard times to get a shelter in Calcutta, however, it was made possible through friends. Days were going by under financial constraints. I would spend the mornings and afternoons in a tea-stall drinking tea and reading newspapers wherefrom I would read news on Bangladesh, in particular. While reading those news items I would feel myself like an escapist who had only maintained this much of connection with my motherland where incidents of reckless plunder, killings and rapes were going on unabatedly. One day I was stunned by a newspaper item – the story of the resistance force, the heroic struggle put up by village women of Pirojpur sub-division under Barisal district.
Even though I couldn't exactly identify the village, I had a hunch that it could be close to the village of the Haroons. The entire village was under the grip of the occupation forces. Going round the village, they embarked on their torture and killing mission. One afternoon, three soldiers entered a crowded area of the village in search of a prey. Almost in a flash, the streets became naked, and the doors and windows of the houses were bolted. The prying eyes of the soldiers came to a sudden halt as they saw four-five nicely-dressed girls standing along a street, but hardly was there any trace of fear, whatever faint it might be, painted in their faces even after having a look at the troops; rather their smiling faces and oblique looks signaled something meaningful and inviting. Enchanted by their amorous hints, the troops like a corolla of insects followed the girls into their room. Knowing it fully well, the girls voluntarily surrendered to the animal instincts of the soldiers.
Meanwhile, the evening slid into the night enveloping the entire area and creating an anesthetizing impact. Under the delicate and flickering light of the candle, the girls, with practiced skills of profligate women, offered drinks to the soldiers. Sipping the drinks, they started dozing off, and then the seductive girls in an opportune moment belligerently launched themselves into action: they planted a heavy heft into each of them and then sliced them into pieces with a sharp chopper. The killers who smeared their hands with the blood of the innocent people screamed in utter pain, but nobody came to their rescue.
I was intrigued by this story of resistance published in a newspaper. Was it a true story or an imaginative one? Could it be a true story? How could our girls do such a job? With the pledge and determination to kill the enemy of the country, how could our girls surmount the innate cultural concept of chastity of women, the so-called wisdom our girls receive from our age-old tradition?
After some days, I got the answer to the question. Incidentally, I met someone from the neighboring areas, who came along with other refugees to Calcutta due to the systematic annihilation campaign of the marauding hordes. Replying to my probing question, he
said: "Yes, the incident is true. The incident happened next to our village." But I could gather additional information about the incident from other refugees. However, he was the one who divulged most of the information.
"One girl played the pioneering role in killing the soldiers. It wasn't that she was quite old, but everyone in the group, whether they are juniors or seniors, used to address her as 'Apa'. She didn't like to disclose her name being the reputed leader of the Muktibahini although her real name was not a secret to us."
"What's her name?" I was aggressively curious to have her name disclosed soonest by him.
"Poribanu."
"What? What did you say? Poribanu!"
'Yes, Poribanu." He stamped his authority in his polite but firm answer.
Immediately, the floodgate of memories burst open. In a flash, I could remember so many incidents. But could there be only one Poribanu in this world? I wish it were a different Poribanu.
"How is she like? Have you ever seen her?" I just didn't want to believe, so I asked him again.
"No, I haven't seen her. But I've heard that she is beautiful. People say she looks like a fairy."
"What happened to her then? Is she alive or dead?"
"I don't think she is alive. Although the bodies of the soldiers were carried off to a secret place, but it didn't take much time for the rest of the army men to get the news. Then they cordoned off the entire village and burnt it to ashes. Whoever they got, they killed. None would be able to give an account as to who was killed or who escaped. We just left the country after that."
Immediately her face came alive in my mind's eye. Simultaneously, another face became vivid in my eyes, and that too was the face of Haroon. To enquire about his whereabouts, I asked the reporter: "Do you know Haroon, the Haroon master of Muktibahini of your area?"
"There's none in our area who doesn't know Haroon master. Of course, I know him." Readily he answered.
"How is he? Is he okay?"
"You are asking how he is! It is very difficult to stay fine these days, especially for a person like Haroon master. There is news about him, but it is difficult to ascertain the veracity of the news. He is said to have been killed by the Razakars."
Thereafter, silence reigned supreme as I felt I had nothing to say or ask. These are the moments when silence speaks more than words.
At night, I told the story of Poribanu to Halima, my wife, in detail. She gave a patient hearing to my story, and I was a bit surprised when Halima showed no sign of reaction to the story. Her unusual silence provoked curiosity in me, and to know how she felt about it, I asked: "What a girl Poribanu is! Halima, could you do such a job in such a situation? Please tell me frankly."
She could no longer keep mum and growled angrily: "I'll do such a work! Fie! How could you say this? No good girl from a good family can ever do this sort of work. These are the girls from a different stock."
It was now my turn to keep mum. However, after a pause, I said: "Yes, Halima, you're right. Those girls are of a different breed. We don't have the capabilities to realize what they are."
Haroonuzzaman teaches English at Independent University, Bangladesh (IUB)
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