Young Writers Society

We used to have the time of our lives. You and me, going crazy over the swings. We used to nick your Daadi’s* pickles and eat them under the gargantuan Banyan tree. We spent long, long, everlasting hours playing Chhoyachhuyi* and Lukochuri*. Every corner of our majestic house rattled with our ringing laughter. Unknowingly, I fell in love with you.

You chased me down the courtyard, past the place where the pigeons rested. My feet chimed. Your mother gave me the anklets I loved so much. My feet were coloured with Altaa*. You were the troublemaker. Climbing trees, breaking rules, crossing boundaries. Our quiet village protected us lovingly. We were its heart. You loved my kohl-black smoky eyes. Like I loved your sun-tanned, chestnut skin. Your unruly hair gave you the look of a scarecrow. My glass bangles clinked like a piano when I ran. On quiet summer afternoons, when our village was snoozing, we played Lukochuri. I always found weird hideouts, where you could never find me.

“Aradhana…Aradhana!” your voice echoed all around the walls.

Then there were the times of Puja. Everybody got busy decorating our house. My mother’s turmeric stained sari swished through every room, her tinkling keys tied to her aanchol*. We played with the dolls your father got us from the Mela.

All that was before 1971.

Times changed. The war started. We had to move. Villages were being burnt, lives massacred. I remember the letter you wrote to me before you ran away to join the war. Everyone was driven by a passion. You were young. Your eyes were burning embers. You never told anybody you were leaving. Except for me. I loved you enough to let you go. I loved you enough to let go of the stolen kisses, whispered sweet nothings in the ear. You had to sacrifice. You were the comrade of my dreams. My family had to leave our country. We were no longer East Pakistan. We were Bangladesh. Protected by our heroes. My family left on ox-carts. It was an autumn afternoon. Our carts left trails of dust, rising, hovering in the air for a long time before settling down.

My mother removed her Shidur*. I was told that my name was to be Ayesha. The day we left, your mother’s eyes were bleary, ocean-like with tears. She prayed to God for our safety. She offered her prayers five times a day for us, for her son. She prayed so that the rajakars* never found out about us. Your father helped us with money.

After a long, tiring journey we got into India. There was still no word from you. On the way to India we saw hundreds of refugees; wraith-like. We were one of them. Everyday I prayed for you.

Nine months took eternity to pass. But our country was liberated. She was born. We got back to our quiet little village.

The dream-like houses had been burnt. Our mansion was looted. Our temple was wrecked. The idols destroyed. Our village was like a Dali-ish nightmare. It was a village of dead souls. Vultures ruled our skies. I waited to hear from you. Your word never came. Slowly, few people returned. Our village was fixed. Your family was not there. Your house had been destroyed. Your mother’s Quran was torn to shreds.

Years passed since 1971. I grew up. But the last words I heard from you were, “I love you, keep faith.” I still have your last letter. I kept faith. No one ever coloured my forehead with crushed vermillion. My hands never clinked with white shaakhas*. I never held betel leaves to my lips while being hoisted in a Piraa*, the sound of conch floating into my ears. You were gone. Though I never admitted it, I always knew it. And somewhere deep inside, I think I regret letting you go. I had one life to live. You left me with something greater instead, though. A country. A country I had once dreamt my kids would grow up in. And we would have a house with an Uthaan* where our grand-children would play haari-patil*. And where our teenage grand-daughter would nick my pickles from. Her feet would chime too. Her Altaa touched feet. While her long black hair would wave in the wind.

But those were little dreams. Sacrificed for the greater ones. Those were things that made us human. Sacrificing them was what turned us into heroes.

*Daadi - Bangla term for Grandmother.

*Chhoyachhuyi - Tag

*Lukochuri - Hide and Seek

*Altaa- An Asian dye used to colour feet.

*Aanchol - The hem of the sari

*Shidur - Crushed vermillion that married hindu women put on their foreheads.

*Rajakars - traitors

*Piraa- a small stool

*Shakhaa - A white bangle that married hindu women wear

*Haari Patil - cooking game

*Uthaan - lawn