Beams of light began to crack the curtain of darkness. The sun was about to break over the horizon. Roosters thronged around a little pile of grains. Ducks quacked on their way to the pond.
Mofiz Mia stood outside the closed door of his bedroom. Wrinkles of worry were forming on his dark forehead. His wife Hafiza was experiencing the final moments of labor inside the room. Mofiz had hired an experienced midwife some hours ago. The elders of the family were saying morning prayers. Clay pots filled with juicy sweets were kept in one corner of the house. They were eagerly awaiting the arrival of Hafiza’s child.
About fifteen minutes later, the midwife came out of the room: “Congratulations, miyan, it’s a girl,” she announced.
A wide smile spread across the farmer’s worried face.
“How are they?” He asked. Can I go in and see them?”
“They’re fine. Go in.” The midwife moved away from the entrance.
The whole room was filled with the sickening odor of antiseptic. Mofiz could never stand the smell, but he did not bother that day. He was there to see his firstborn, not to make a fuss about the smell.
“Are you happy, Mofiz?” Hafiza asked very softly, as he lovingly put his hand in her thick hair.
He picked up the tiny bundle of flesh from Hafiza’s arms. “Happy? I love my little cotton-doll,” he said, kissing his daughter’s hand.
“What will we call her?” Mofiz’s sister, Aziza, who had stayed at Hafiza’s bedside all day long, asked her brother.
“She’s beautiful, so why don’t we call her something similar to beauty? You decide, sis.”
“Lovely,” Aziza replied, smiling at her newborn niece.
Maybe on that day, Allah smiled upon Lovely, saying, “Fasten your seat belts, little girl, life’s going to be a bumpy roller coaster ride”.
*******
Day by day, Lovely grew up to be an intelligent little girl. She spread joy wherever she went. Besides being an excellent scholar, she could also prepare mouth-watering dishes. Her dark, kohl-lined eyes reflected love and determination.  She won the best student award for three consecutive years in school.
Five years later, Hafiza gave birth to their second child, Hasan.  At that time, only girls were taught cooking and other household chores. But Mofiz and Hafiza gave their son cooking lessons from a very early age. Hasan spent most of his leisure time looking after the cattle. He played a bamboo-flute while his cows munched on fresh grass. Many other farmers mixed water with milk to increase the quantity. Hasan’s cows were very well bred, and he never mixed water. As a result, he sold at least ten litres of milk each day, which was a great financial help to his family.
*******
Mofiz invited his cousin Manik to dinner one fine day.  Manik had loathed Mofiz since childhood, because the two cousins were like similar poles of a magnet. Mofiz not only farmed, but also had a small cloth shop. On the other hand, Manik was lazy and a failure at work. He preferred to earn his living by stealing others’ crops and selling them in the village market. He was known  to all as the “Veggie Thief”. None of his children went beyond primary school; he could not afford to educate them.
“Girls should only learn cooking and household work, I think. What’s the use of sending them to school? It’s a waste of money,” Manik commented, taking a huge bite out of a piece of chicken.
“Brother-in-law, both our children are equal before us. There is almost nothing a girl can’t do these days. If Hasan can go to school, why should Lovely stay at home?” Hafiza replied indignantly, flashing an affectionate look at Lovely, who stood behind the kitchen door.
“We are not in the dark ages, Manik. My Lovely can be a doctor, engineer or whatever she wishes to be,” Mofiz snapped at his cousin.
“I came here with a marriage proposal for Lovely with my son, but it seems you’ll not get her married now.” Manik threw his last opinion before bidding adieu.
Lovely was an expert at climbing trees. She could reach the highest branch to get the best mangoes. On weekends, she took orders for sewing quilts. Lovely could sew about fifteen quilts per weekend, and she charged a very reasonable price for each. Like Hasan, Lovely contributed a good amount to her family.
Lovely’s beauty bloomed as she grew up. Her waist-long hair and melodious voice would make any boy flip for her.
Mofiz’s business prospered as the years passed. He cultivated new crops on his farm. Within a few years, he had refurbished his house with new furniture.
*******
One day, Mofiz came back from work earlier than usual. His pale face and bloodshot eyes were enough to show that something was wrong. His body was burning with very high fever, and Hafiza’s hand burnt when she touched him. .
Aziza, Hafiza and Lovely tried their level best to bring the temperature down. But despite all the efforts, Mofiz started vomiting blood, and he breathed his last at midnight.
Hafiza’s health broke soon thereafter. She was affected by pulmonary tuberculosis. Lovely and Hasan could not bear the family expenses any more. They had to sell their cattle for Hafiza’s treatment. Hasan even mortgaged their house to raise money.
After a long course of treatment, Hafiza won her battle with death, but by that time, they had no assets left. Hasan and Lovely could not pay the enormous mortgage amount, so all of their property was auctioned. Unable to find any way to regain their  lost property, Hafiza got aboard a bus to Dhaka, the capital of Bangladesh. They took shelter at Hafiza’s cousin’s place.
Hafiza’s cousin, Sharmin, was a very kind-hearted lady. She tried her utmost to make her cousin’s children comfortable. Her own children were not as intelligent as Lovely and her brother. They never shared their possessions with Hafiza’s kids. Sharmin felt really embarrassed. She tried to make her children behave well with their cousins.
At one point, Sharmin’s selfish children got into a huge fight with Lovely and Hasan over a trivial matter. Hasan was seriously injured.
“I don’t think I can stay here any longer,” Hafiza said between sobs, before storming out of her cousin’s house.
Hafiza got a job in a garments factory. She had to send her children to work as domestic helpers against her will. Quilts and milk were both abundant in Dhaka. Moreover, Hafiza had heard that domestic helpers got good salaries.
The siblings got employed by Dr. Arup Chowdhury,a wealthy and well-known dentist. His wife took good care of her employees.  Lovely and Hasan helped Arup and his family. The family was very kind. The teenagers got time to study, and had a personal television for recreation.
*******
After six months, Lovely took some washed clothes to the terrace to hang them out to dry. Dr. Arup lived on the top floor of a five-storied building. The terrace walls were quite low. As Lovely began arranging the clothes on the clothesline, her foot slipped.
“Help!” Lovely shouted at the top of her voice. Seconds later, she blacked out.
Luckily, Arup’s wife had heard the shout, because the terrace was just above the dining room, and she was having a little snack there at that moment. She immediately took Lovely to the nearest hospital.
After examining Lovely, who lay unconscious, the doctor advised to shift her to CRP (Center for Rehabilitation of the Paralyzed). It was located in Savar, one of the most important areas of Bangladesh. Savar is the location of Dhaka Export Processing Zone (DEPZ) and CRP was near the DEPZ.
CRP is a hospital established mainly for the under-privileged people. Vellorie Taylor, an English physiotherapist, had established it about twelve years previously.
Tied on a special stretcher, Lovely was taken to CRP. After a long examination, the doctor gave the life-shattering news: “This girl will never be able to move normally again. Shoulder downwards, her body is paralyzed. She’ll be able to use a wheelchair after some months. She will be able to move only her head and neck, and she’ll talk.”
Unfortunately, Lovely had overheard the doctor. She could not believe that running was a closed chapter in her life. For days, she could not sleep or eat properly.
The staff of CRP, especially Miss Taylor, decided to take her out of the mental shock. There were many activities for the patients such as wheel-chair dance, singing, crafts and many more. The CRP patients contribute a lot to the economy. Their handmade things are sold at various well known stores across the country. A portion of the goods are exported too.
One day, some friends took Lovely to watch the annual cultural show. She really enjoyed the beautiful wheel-chair dance.
“Can’t I do something like that?” Lovely wondered.
“Nothing is impossible if you try.” Miss Taylor always told her patients. All of a sudden, an idea struck Lovely’s mind. “Please take me to the fine arts room,” she requested a friend.
From eating food to doing her hair, Lovely needed help with everything. She always had a nurse beside her. But this time, she was determined to do something alone.
Rajib, the fine arts teacher, was busy with his students. When Lovely told him to teach her painting, he looked up at her enthusiastic face, smiling.
“I’d hate to say no to this girl,” he thought.
“Lovely, you can’t move your hands, but still you can learn to paint.” Rajib said aloud, displaying a tiny metal piece.
“See this; it’s a mouth brush-holder. You have to put a brush in it, and clench it between your teeth. You will learn to paint gradually. It’s not an easy job, but once you learn it, you’ll enjoy it,” Rajiv informed in an encouraging tone.
Lovely picked up the brush in the method shown by her teacher. The brush dropped down…once…twice… but Lovely could clench the brush properly after some time.
She mixed a bit of red and white paint in the color plate, and gave a short stroke on the paper. Lovely intended to paint a rose, but the thing on the easel looked like a pink pattern.
“Try girl, try. You can do it,” Rajib kept encouraging
*******
Lovely took just a few weeks to learn painting properly. Rajib called her his prodigy. She spent hours in front of her easel. Even at mealtimes, when the nurse came to feed her, she kept her brush beside her. Her paintings, in bright, vibrant colors, dazzled everyone. Her works were sent to publishers. Soon, the paintings turned into calendars, greeting cards, posters and book covers. A good portion of CRP’s earnings came from her paintings. She participated in exhibitions with famous artists.
Hasan and her mother also came to live with her. Lovely helped her brother to build a dairy farm and a fish hatchery in Savar. A little away from the main city, Savar had both an urban and a rural touch in it. Hafiza spent her time nursing the CRP patients.
Today, her paintings decorate CRP’s cabins. Vellorie has a self portrait done by Lovely in her office. Life is a bumpy roller-coaster ride, and Lovely is still riding on that roller-coaster.

“I promise I will return, mother. I promise by your love”
The last words of Shafkat reverberated in Shimul’s head. How long since she last saw her precious son, her sole reason for survival? How long since she tightly wrapped her arms around his small framed body? It had been too long to bear, too long to wait, that she knew. Every day, she kept staring at the long barren road in front of the house, hoping with all her might she would spot the shadow of an oncoming young man with a stubble, spotting her Shafkat.
The ongoing liberation war tore down her life and the lives of millions of others, a ruthless monster feeding on the despair of people, fueled by the hatred and the animality of human beings claiming they fight to establish peace. Peace…. a word without a meaning for Shimul. The meaning of her existence is thin, barely existing; the wind of Shafkat’s promise kept the flame of her life burning.
As Shimul woke up for her early morning prayer, she falteringly went to Shafkat’s desolate room. Her heart refused to beat as her eyes lay upon the empty made bed, and the book that he was reading before leaving for the war. Shimul hoped that it was all a nightmare; that she would wake up with the beautiful innocent face of her son tensely peering at her, his concern and love for her etched in his face when he would ask: “What’s wrong mother? Did you have a bad dream?”
The fantasy, the temporary bliss of her imagination, broke the dam of emotion, and the waters of her anguish flooded her. She started to cry heavily, her frail body heaving and threatening to quit. It was the same every day. She cried and cried, until her eyes had no more tears to give away, until she was too tired and dejected and the sun shone mockingly on her face from the window of Shafkat’s room.
But he said he would come! He promised! Surely, he wouldn’t dare to break a promise with his mother? He never broke a promise, Shafkat was the epitome of humanity, the best of God’ s creation to his mother.
But it was war. It doesn’t discriminate while killing, and doesn’t certainly choose to keep the good people alive. Will Shafkat’s promise and his love for his mother be enough to guarantee a safe passage to his mother’s arms? Shimul’s mind was numbed with these thoughts.
She was so preoccupied with her thoughts that she missed to notice the swirl of dust on the road, and the sound of footsteps fast approaching.
A sharp rapping of the door jolted her from her oblivion, forcing her to come back to reality. She trudged towards the door, her mind refusing to focus on anything other than the framed picture of her little child, smiling, as if there was nothing wrong in the world.
But suddenly she stopped dead, rejecting to step forward, because a macabre thought sent a chill down her spine. The news of fallen soldiers on the battlefield are brought to their houses by a person. The person at the other side of the door might give Shimul the news she was dreading; the news that would put out the flickering flame of her life: the death of her son.
Mustering all her remaining strength and courage, she slowly twisted the door handle and began to pull the door open. It took her several seconds to get adjusted to the light of the dazzling sun, but once her eyes adjusted, her face became rigid. And she heard a familiar voice.
“Hello Ma, I have come to fulfill my promise.”

Ring…! The bell sounded extremely loud. Children ran out of the various classrooms, happily chatting with friends.
“I love recess! Don’t you?” Tania asked her friend Sonia.
“Same here.” Sonia replied.
“So, what shall we play?” Nadia asked.
A little girl, about seven or eight years of age, could be seen sitting on one of the benches. Unlike others, she was not busy playing any of the games. Instead, she was immersed in a thick volume of Fairy Tales.
“Lily, dear, don’t you want to play with your friends?” A tall, young teacher sat beside the girl.
Tears glistened in Lily’s deep- brown eyes. Her rose-pink lips swelled up:
“Mom, I wanted to play, but they said lame ones can’t play this game.”
“You don’t always have to listen to those rough people, sweetie.” Afrina tried to soothe her daughter.
A few years back, the girl had jumped down from a very high bed, while playing with her younger brother. She was seriously injured, unable to walk for a long time.
Those were miserable days. The little girl had to undergo long sessions of therapies. The journeys to the hospitals seemed endless.
The surgeon had inserted a long metal rod in Lily’s right foot. Now, that foot has become very thin. As a result, she has to wear orthopedic shoes.
That day, on their way back home, Lily talked about the Annual sports Competition coming up.
Afrina was well aware of the competition. It was to be held at The Sports Complex. The first, second and third position holders will be awarded gold, silver and bronze medals respectively. Though the medals will be electroplated, they will be priceless. All throughout the year, the students wait for this competition.
The venue was very well decorated. The gallery was very large, with fine, comfortable seats. The field was huge. Three little stages were set for the awardees.
“Mom, I want to participate in sports.” Lily pleaded one day.
“If you want to, you can participate, sweetheart.”
“It’s a 200 meter running race, I can’t…”
“Remember that fable of the rabbit and the turtle? The turtle was much slower than the rabbit, but still he won the running race. The turtle never gave up.”
“Mom…” Lily was still confused.
“Just run at your own pace, you can do it.” Afrina hugged her daughter.
As soon as the whistle was blown, Lily set off at full speed. It was not easy, but in her mind she kept chanting: “I can do it.”
On the Annual Sports Day, Afrina accompanied Lily to the venue. Lily looked like an angel in her white tracksuit. Her thick, curly ponytails hung above her shoulders. Her shining eyes reflected excitement.
Lily could not believe her ears when the winners were announced. She had won the gold! Holding the medal firmly in one hand, she spread her arms in the air. She was standing on the golden stage. The spring wind played with her ponytails. The wide field seemed like her empire. “I’ve done it Mom, I’ve done it.” Lily shouted, as Afrina wiped away a tear of happiness.

Tick Tock, Tick Tock… The round pendulum oscillated continuously. A slender female figure could be seen standing outside an open window. A soft breeze ran past her long, silky hair. She stood still, enjoying the rhythmic songs of the sparrows and the soft spring breeze.

“Nupur, it’s time to study.” Rabeya Hassan called as softly as she could. Nupur used to loathe her books. She would prefer chatting with her friends over phone for ages instead of studying.

“Oh no! Not again mom, I don’t have any exams tomorrow.” Nupur replied unwillingly, toying with a strand of her hair.

Rabeya tried her level best to bring her teenage   daughter back to the study table. Persuasion did not work. Irritated, Nupur threw herself on the bed, with a glare at her mother.

Tring… the shrieking ring tone bounced in Rabeya’s ears. “I’ve got to tell her father to restrict Nupur’s cell usage.” Rabeya said top herself.

Despite her upcoming O level exams, Nupur not only talked over the phone constantly, but she began bunking classes as well. Mr. Rajib Hassan, Nupur’s father, was worried to death about his daughter. O’ level was neither cheap nor easy. Both Rajib and Rabeya wanted a   fruitful result from their only daughter, but her arrogance got on their nerves at times.

“Nupur dear, why do you think your straight A’s got down o C’s and D’s?”  Rajib asked his daughter at breakfast table one day.

“What do you do in your room behind that locked door?” Rabeya added.

“Um… nothing really.” Nupur stammered, biting into her favorite salted cookie.

Over the next few days, Nupur’s demands increased drastically. She started complaining about the simplest issues.

“Mom, my friend’s dad got a new Premio car, when do I get one?” She asked one day.

“Why? What’s wrong with our Toyota?” Rabeya asked, exasperated by all the sudden demands.

Besides being childish, Nupur also got depressed at times, for no reason. She began staying out after school. Friends seemed more important to her than family. Her younger brothers missed her affection, her parents spent tense hours waiting for her to return home from school.

Ding Dong! The doorbell sounded weird. It seemed as if a drug addict was at the door, not a normal human being.

CRASH! Nupur slipped down the stairs on her way to the door. Soon, her painful cries filled the atmosphere.  She was rushed to the hospital without much delay. According to the doctor’s strict instructions, she had to spend at least three months in bed with a broken heel cord.

Now, none of her friends visited her, the long waited phone calls were missing. After all, who wants to be with a sick person accepting for real friends? Real friends are definitely hard to be found.

By this time, Nupur slowly began realizing her mistakes. She had run after glass pieces instead of looking for diamonds. She kept comparing herself with her ultra rich friends, instead of counting her own blessings. Now, when she really wished for a real friend, she had none by her side.

Nupur could not do anything in bed accept studying. Of course, she gradually pulled up her grades bit by bit. After all, a good degree can never be snatched away, and if friends are needed, books and pens can be one’s lifelong friends.

“What is a galakata, grandma? Is he very bad?”

“Well, a galakata is a very terrible person. He appears to be a simple man like anybody else in our society. He keeps hiding in the jute field. And whenever he finds any kid close at hands, he catches hold of him/her and takes away. He is a kidnapper-cum-killer.”

“Where does he take them?”

“He takes them to a distant land.”

“Which land, grandma?”

“I don’t know. May be in the neighbouring country or in a land where no human beings live.”

“What does he do with those kids?”

“Either he sells them or enslaves them to have them work for him.”

“But why is he called a galakata then?”

“Oh, if he fails to take to kid to his land he cuts the throat of the kid. That’s why he is called a galakata.”

“Ok grandma, have you ever seen a galakata?”

“No.”

“Then how do you come to know about all these things?”

“I heard. When I set my first step to this village, I was a very small bride.  I heard that there were two dead bodies found in the jute field in the neighbouring village. Those corpses were taken to police station. People were very much upset. They stopped going out of their houses after it was evening. They did not let the children go out alone even during midday. Peasants did not go to the jute field for weeding in fear. Since then when it is the time for jute cultivation there is the rumor that there is an outbreak of galakata. After that incident, the farmers started losing interest in cultivating jute.

In those days every year your grandpa had so huge a production of jute crop that it took over a month to dry and process all those jute fibre. And the whole area of our house remained covered by jute fiber. On the roof, on the outer wall, on bamboo made ceiling, everywhere you would find only jute fibre. After the activities of drying, you would see a huge three or four piles of jute stocked for sale. When the price would go high up, your father and grandpa would take all those to the market for sale in the bull carts. At least fifty carts would carry those golden fibres. Our house would have filled up with jute sticks. We had never suffered from firewood crisis. During these days were became very aware of the jute piles being set fire to. A section of people set fire to the jute godowns. Oh! Those golden days of jute fiber have gone by.”

“Ok grandma. Now you tell me the story of the dry cow dung collecting old woman.”

“Not today I feel sleepy. Now let me sleep in peace. I will tell it tomorrow night.”

“No, please tell… grandma…please.”

“Then only this one.”

“Ok. Thank you.”

“Long ago there was an old woman.  All her hair turned grey. She used to wear a white sari. She looked white. So people called her white-old woman. Nobody knew where she lived in. She used to come to this area once or twice a year. She came to collect dry cow dung. Once some human bones and skull were found in her sack. Villagers caught her and she was beaten up severely. She admitted that she sells the bone and human skull to a man whom she does not very well know. The man takes those to India and sells them for money. After this incident she was also suspected as a  human trafficker. Two years ago a boy went missing from our village. Nowhere was he found. He was lost during jute time. So people took it to be an act of galakatas. People started questioning her many ways but she did not confess. Later on she was handed over to the police.”

“Grandma, why does she collect human bones and skull?”

“I do not know, but people say that human skull is used in constructing bridges.”

Why?

Um…. If you do not use human skull during the construction of a bridge on a river or a lake, it will collapse.  Man has not yet learned how to master the courses of rivers.  So they need human skull. During the construction of Gobai Bridge on the Gobai river it is said that a man was slaughtered at midnight and one hundred skulls were used to. As human skulls were not offered earlier the bridge collapsed several times. And the constructor was told in a dream that he would have to sacrifice a human being and one hundred human skulls. Ultimately, it was carried out. People brought out processions everyday in protest of the construction of the bridge. Even they turned violent. The district magistrate and police officer came to pacify them. They assured the people that no such human sacrifice was made and won’t be made in future. But the mass grew violent and two men were shot to death. And gradually the agitation subsided. And after the construction of the bridge people were greatly benefited.”

“How many years ago the incident took place?”

“I cannot exactly remember. It happened sixty to seventy years ago. It was in the British period.

“Well grandma, did you saw it in your own eyes?”

“No, I did not see it myself. People say.”

“What for bones are used?”

“In India most of the people are Hindus. They burn their dead bodies to ashes. They do not get the human bones, they need for medical treatment (research). So, they secretly buy bones from Bangladesh.

“What is India?”

“It is our neighboring country.”

“Why they burn the bodies of the dead people?”

“It is their culture.”

“When your grandpa died, your father and uncles kept vigilance at night in fear that the dead body of your grandpa would be stolen.”

“Now, sleep in peace.”

“Well, grandma. Have you ever gone to India?”

“No. Did your grandpa ever allowed me to go out of the boundary wall of the house? But your grandpa went to visit India. Then the country had just become independent. During the Independence War many people went to India. When they came back, they used to tell many stories to your grandpa. Among them one was Haider Ali. He was the bosom friend of your grandpa. He used to say, “Omar Ali bhai, I have visited many places with you, Khulna, Dhaka, Racecourse Maidan, Lalbagher Kella, Mirpur Zoo, Airport etc. Now I want to visit the Calcutta Museum with you.”

“Uh no. I am not of the age to travel a foreign land.”

“Hu..hu.. You have made me laugh, Omar Ali bhai.  Does age matters in traveling a foreign land? Only willpower is enough.”

“Besides, collecting passport, managing money there is lot of hazards.”

“My god, do you need a passport to visit India?”

“No, no if we are caught we will be jailed. You know how much scared I am to face police, thana, court.”

“Hu.. police will catch hold of us and send us to jail. Is it that easy?  What the hell I will do? Will I chew my fingers dumb found?”

“Listen, I am a freedom fighter. In India even the crime of killing seven persons is pardonable for a freedom fighter, you know. If I introduce myself, they will never imprison us. Besides, I have acquaintance with some darogas of Horidas pur thana.”

“Listen, Omar Ali bhai, in the next puja, we will go to India and it is final. I must see Calcutta museum. During the durga puja India keeps its border open for the Bangladeshis. We will celebrate puja in Bonga, understood?”

“As you are pressing me hard I will go to visit India and the Calcutta museum, not to celebrate puja.”

“Ok, man come on.”

“But where should we stay?”

“Why, the first day we will stay in the house of Jadab Ghosh. Jadab Ghosh lives in Barasat?”

“Oh I see. Now I remember Jadab Ghosh lives in Barashat. Whenever he comes in Bangladesh, he requests me to go to India and stay at his house. But where to stay in Calcutta, Haider?”

“No tension. We will find a hotel. Now you manage some money. You do not know how wonderful India is.”

During the liberation fight you did stay at your home. When Jalil was butchered by the Pakistani army I could not stay here any longer. I went to India. At night I swam the Betna river and reached Sharatola. I crossed the border by the morning. I went to Bonga. I found many Bangladeshis living there under the open sky.  Among them there were two or three of my acquaintance. I used to sleep there placing my head on a brick. We used to take food once a day or once in two days. We used to pass days and months with  one lungi and genji. Almost all the people migrated from Bangladesh had the same condition. Training was given to the young and able persons by the Indian army.  Most of them were Shikhs. We had a great problem regarding the language. But we overcame everything for the sake of our motherland only. In the month of July Indira Gandhi came to visit us. She is so beautiful a lady. She said to us, “Bangali, free your country.” After the training session was over, we were given arms. Along with Indian army we entered Bangladesh. From Sharatola, we fired rocket shell into this area. When we felt that Pak army was closing from this area, we advanced further. We heard from Bangladesh Betar that Jessore has been freed on 5^th October. We marched through Chhutipur, Radhanagar, Pallah to Bodhkhana. It took two days to come here. I thought it would not be wise to halt at my house. So, I ordered my soldiers to halt at your house. It was 1:00am at night. I was calling you, do you remember, Omar bhai?”

“Then your grandpa opened the door but became very afraid having seen all those unknown armed soldiers specially having seen the freedom fighters. Your grandpa could not recognize his friend Haider. He had grown beard full of his face, kept long hair, had only a lungi and genji on his body. And all of them were without any shoes. I came out of the house with the lamp in my hand having thought that the freedom fighters came to take your father. When I came out, Haider shouted bhabi, don’t you know me? I’m Haider. Then your father smiled. Haider awaked everybody of the house shouting. What should I do I did not understand. I told your grandpa to slaughter some hens. Haider shouted, “What do you mean bhabi, the country is going to achieve freedom. Only chickens won’t go. You have slaughtered goats. My soldiers are very hungry. I laughed. Your grandpa and Haider slaughtered the goat. I boiled a big dish of rice with the help of those freedom fighters. Everybody rejoiced. Haider’s joy knew no bounds. He said, “Look, this is called Bhabi.” I said, “For VIP guests, VIP entertainment.” I finished cooking and while they finished eating, the dawn was breaking.”

“Grandma what is Muktijoddha?”

“Those who fought against the Pakistani army in `71 to free Bangladesh are called freedom fighters or Muktijoddha.”

“Then Haider grandpa is a Muktijoddha?”

“Why? Your Haider grandpa, then your Liakat grandpa, Rocket, Jalil, Birprotik grandpa and Rashid uncle all are Muktijoddha.”

“Which Haider grandpa, that one who comes to our house everyday and goes away home after taking supper?”

Fie! Papa, never say like this. Your Haider Grandpa, Liakat grandpa and Rashid uncle are very good people.  After the liberation, our house was plundered twice in a month by the robbers. So, your Haider grandpa volunteered to stay at our house at night. After that nothing happened like that.”

“If they are good people why then you say they were beaten by the police hanging from the mango tree of Gacha Thana?”

“No, they were not beaten by the police. Actually, Bangabandhu formed Mujib Bahini after the liberation war. The Mujib Bahini was looking for them who did not submit arms after the war. Everybody fled to India again to save your Liakat grandpa. He was caught by the Mujib Bahini and was taken to the thana.  There he was severely beaten. He was hung in the mango tree and chilies powder and soap water were poured into his nostrils. After much torture he was sent to jail.”

What is freedom grandma?

I can’t very well make you understand, what freedom is. But I think if you do everything upon my order and instruction you are not free. You are free, if you can do everything of your own accord.”
“Why do people want to be free?”

Hu..hu.. It’s a queer passion of human being. Once a poet said which I can’t very well remember now—

“In the deep-blue sky, I fly- free and bold

Don’t like your cage though made of gold.”

“What does it mean?”

“Hu.. a hunter is calling upon a flying bird to live in his case which is made of gold. The hunter promises the bird to give food and drinks also. But the bird turns down the proposal of the hunter saying that it is safer in the uncertain blue sky than in his cage of gold.”

“Grandma, why didn’t you go out of the house?”

“Because, your grandpa didn’t like it. Once while your grandpa was alive I went out of the house to borrow some salt. You grandpa heard it and became very angry and bit me with the stick he used to tame the cows in the field. When I used to go to my father’s house, your grand papa covered the bull cart with a bamboo made chhoi and clothes. Your grandpa used to carry water himself in the jurs for me for taking bath in the house. That time tube-well was not available in this village.”

“Grandma, haven’t you ever felt sorry as you were not permitted to go out?”

Hu… feeling sorry? I came to this house early of my age. Then I was merely a girl of twelve or thirteen. When I felt much unhappy I kept myself confined in the room of the chilleotha of the 1^st floor of this house and kept looking far and wide through the window. I could see the field quite clearly from there.  Sometimes I tend to curse your grandpa for not allowing me to fulfill many dreams in my life. Anyway, let’s sleep in peace. If I remember all these things, they remind me of your grandpa. And it pains me. It is more painful for me to live alone. You know Raju, a quarrelsome conjugal life is better than a lonely life. Your grandpa would come from the field and would jump in the pond shouting at me, “Give me rice.” If I was one minute late even I would have been beaten severely. At night he would come back along with your Haider grandpa after solving the disputes among the villagers. He used to carry a towel on his soldier. He would have to be served supper light warm. If it is too hot I would have to fan the rice. They would discuss politics, agriculture, household matters and take food. After taking supper your grandpa would take betel nuts.  Your grandpa was so good a man that he would keep the change for the day labors in retail so that they might not face any difficulty. He used to hold the tarabih prayer in our yard. He used to lead the congregation. On the first day of Ramadan he would invite the villagers to take iftar in our house. An environment of festivity ran in our house throughout the Ramadan. Hu….

“Grandma, you had to undergo much pains hadn’t you?”

Yes, I had to work hard. But it never seemed burdensome to me. I used to cook the sehri, I used to prepare the iftar, husk at least half a mound rice a week;  boil paddy, prepare  gur in the winter, prepare fried rice, flat rice; make custard of mastered seed, graze 10 to 12 cows, clean the cowshed, paddy, wheat, gram, pulse etc. I didn’t know how I could to do all these. They don’t have to do anything of this. It thrills me when I remember the past. It chills me to the bone. I wonder women of these days were very weak. Today’s women are enjoying the blessings of science fully. Now-a –days they have rice mill, oil mill, fan, freeze, electric bulb, cooker, blender etc. They also keep house maids. Still they cannot make their family happy. I don’t know what happens to them.  There must be something wrong.”

“Did you keep fast?”

Why not. Everybody of our house used to keep fast. Your father used to keep fast from the age of four. Once it happened that when we woke up to take sehri, we found that there were no pots in the kitchen. The thieves have all taken away. We cooked rice again in hectic haste in another pot which I always kept in my bedroom. But in the morning we found those pots left under the blackberry tree in the back of our kitchen. On the other day, your grandpa didn’t find his pair of shoes after performing tarabih. Every body thought that they were taken away by dogs. But we found it left in our verandah in the morning.”

“How it may happen? Whether any fairy took them away.”

“No, not that. It might happen that someone took the pair of shoes but later on returned it as he repented for his action or someone might have taken it mistakenly but could not tell us out of shame. It seemed to be a wonder to today’s urban people. Once you keep your shoes out of sight in the mosque, you will never find them again. Your papa lost his shoes last month while he was saying his prayer in the central Jam-e- mosque of Jessore. He kept his shoes in the box behind him and after saying prayers when he turned his head back he found his shoes vanished. He finished his money buying things. So, he had to return home without shoes. The mosques become full of swindlers and thieves. Mosques have turned to be mere concrete houses. They no longer produce virtuous men. They have lost influence over men. We are passing the most critical moment in the history of human civilization. It’s time when the verses of the holy Quran become a matter of recitation only.  I wonder what more are waiting for me before I die. If I could see Imam Mahadi (alaihi wasallam) and Isa (alaihi wasallam) come down to the earth to save the earth from deteriorating further.”

“Grandma left it. Say, don’t you have got any good memory with grandpa?”

“Yes, there are many.”

“Tell me one.”

“Once he took me to enjoy magic show in Shimulia Mission School premise. I enjoyed it very much. The magician vanished a man putting inside a box. He cut another man into two pieces. I was about to fall in a swoon. But what made me happy the most was the performance of a joker. His jester, poster every movement made us laugh.  I laughed and tumbled down on your grandpa.”

“ Grandma would you tell me about any sad event.”

The saddest event in my life was the day when your grandpa left the earth.

It was an eid day. Everybody, came back from the eid-gah. Coming back he asked for a price of shemai. Your aunt and aunty were yet to come. After taking the shemai he told me that he was not feeling good. I told him to take rest because he worked much in the Ramadan which he should have done at that age. I prepared bed for him in our bed room. He told me that he owe some seventy taka to Nobirul. He requested me to pay it for him if he failed to pay. I told him not to worry. Then he asked me about your father. I informed him that he went to buy some beef. He told me to tell your papa to bury him near the mosque if he died. I warned him not to talk anything ominous. Saying this I went to the kitchen. After some time it started raining. I heard that your grandpa was calling me. I rushed to him leaving everything to your mother. Going there I found all was over. The life less body of your grand father lied on the bed cool. I gave a shout and fell down on the ground.  There were people in the next room. No body could realize that he was going to leave us for ever. The news spread like the thunder light. Amidst the rain the whole of the village broke into our house. Your aunt and aunty came soon. Everybody buried your grandpa near the mosque. It seemed that the nature was also crying for your grandpa. The man went away breaking my heart. The sore he had developed in heart won’t be healed unless I meet him in the grave.”

“Grandma, are you crying? Sorry, I didn’t know that it would hurt you.”

“It’s ok.  Dadu, let us pray for your grandpapa.”

“Ok.”

“Then say with me.

Hey Allah, forgive my grandpapa. He was a very good soul. He never cheated anybody. He was a pious man. The charity he made in his lifetime and the prayer he offered, please accept those over looking the defects, whatsoever. Save him from the hell fire and make him fortunate enough to be one among the inhabitants of papradise. Ye Allah, accept our prayer. “Amen.” “Amen.”

“Grandma, you loved grandpa very much, didn’t you?”

“Shut up. Now, sleep in peace. It is already mid night. Look, the watch will trumpet the sound of twelve. It is enough today.”

“Grandma, would you switch of the five-watt bulb?”

“Ok.”

“Do you know what you did after your grandpa died?”

“What?”

“The next day in the morning when you woke up you didn’t find your grandpa in the bed. And you were searching for your grandpa. Then I took you the graveyard. I showed you the grave and you said, “Bring a spade, dig up the grave, take grandpa back to home.” You were a boy of only five years. Do you remember, Raju? Ai Raju, Raju? Oh, fallen asleep. Oh, thank God. Alla..h..umma… bi….ismiska …uo.”

Faculty Member

Department of English

IUBAT

The smiling, light green leaves danced with the spring wind. Magpies whistled sweetly, jumping from branch to branch. A fresh, pink rose winked through the window, casting a perfumed spell, with its magical smell.

Nazmul slowly walked towards the window. Natural beauty always soothed his eyes. He bent down on the rose, inhaling deeply. The man massaged his aching head. Nothing could stop the tornado of worries in his mind. “What will happen? Just what will happen to my love?” He kept asking himself.

The sickening odor of medicines took over the pleasant smell. Cleaners walked past Nazmul, busily cleaning the hospital floor. Doctors began visiting the patients. Nurses carried neat trays of breakfast.

Nazmul even forgot hunger. He could only think of his wife, Sultana. Just an hour back, she got admitted to the maternity department. She had conceived their sixth child for the last six months. It was not a planned pregnancy. Still, the older siblings were really excited about their new, living toy. Even the parents had many dreams surrounding that child.

The couple usually woke up at 6:00 am. That morning, when Nazmul was in the washroom, a painful groan shook every living cell of his body. He ran out, finding himself in the middle of an unexpected, horrifying scene.

Some coconuts were kept under their bed, because coconut-water was a very good drink for expectant women. Sultana had tripped over one of those. The culprit fruit rolled to Nazmul’s feet. The lady was in a curved up position, her stomach pressing against the floor.

Sultana Hussein and Nazmul Hussein got married in the year 1964, at fourteen and twenty-four respectively. A very strong emotional bond made them inseparable. Their passion regarding flowers was reflected in their nicknames. Nazmul was known as Komol (Lotus) while loved ones called his wife Beli (Jasmine).

“My baby! Oh Lord Almighty! I want my baby back!” Startled, Komol looked at the nearest cabin. It was definitely a mother, wailing.
“Excuse me…” He called a nurse passing by. “What happened?”
The nurse looked up at him. Her somber expression reflected sorrow. “None of the babies delivered today could survive.” She replied.

A few minutes later, Dr. Rowshan Ara, a well known gynecologist, came out of Sultana’s cabin:
“Mr. Nazmul, I can either save your wife or your child.”
Komol stood silent for a few minutes:
“Doctor…my wife…she can’t leave me.” The helpless father buried his head in his folded arms, to hide the overflowing eyes.
Rowshan sounded soft, yet firm:
“We’re doctors. Our job is saving lives, not killing.”

Back in 1984, the upgrades of medical science did not reach the small, developing, Asian country they lived in. Komol was well aware of the constraints doctors went through regularly. He had brought Beli in one of the most expensive, but well equipped hospital of that time. Supervised by The Red Crescent, that was the place where people entered ailing, but returned home smiling.

“Mr. Nazmul, I can still see a glimmer of hope. I can try to save both if you agree.” Komol gave Rowshan a questioning look.
“Right after separating the baby from the mother’s body, I’d have to push a live-saving injection.” The doctor almost whispered, as if lost in thoughts.

“So? What’s wrong with that?” Komol was getting impatient now.
“The injection has a fatal side-effect. The organ it will be pushed through, will not develop properly. Your child will be alive, but physically challenged.” Rowshan stood still, waiting for his decision.

Komol felt as if someone was hammering on his skull. Physically challenged people were considered as social burdens. It was a dark side of their society. How could he, being the father, endure his child’s sufferings?

“Go ahead, doctor.” Komol declared, signing the documents required. “Please save my child.”

Sultana was taken to the operation theatre. About half an hour later, a young nurse came out:
“Congratulations, Mr. Nazmul. It’s a little girl. Your wife will regain consciousness soon; I’ll tell you when to meet them.” She smiled.
Komol put his hands together, facing westward. “Oh Lord Almighty, thank you, thank you so much!” He prayed silently.

The happy father held his wife’s hand, as she rocked her newborn, wrapped up in a yellow blanket.
“See Komol, it seems as if she has caught all our delight in those tiny fists.” Beli whispered. Pleasure sprinkled all over her pale face.
“She needs a name now. Let’s see…” Nazmul pretended to be immersed in thoughts.
“I’ve already thought of that.” Sultana announced. “Farhana Hussein. The Arabic word ‘Farhan’ means ‘joy’ and she’s our bundle of joy.”
“I’ll think of a nick…yes! Golap (Rose). That’s my favorite flower.” The father grinned at his little princess.
“I love you, my sweet Rose.” Beli whispered, kissing the small fists.
A tiny smile spread across the baby’s soft lips, as if she was trying to say: “I love you too, Mom.”

A pink Band-Aid on the tiny left foot did not escape Komol’s eyes. “The Injection.” He murmured, out of Beli’s audible range.

Part 2

Cuck- coo… Cuck-coo… Cried the cuckoo clock. Golap remained entwined with her mother, sleeping peacefully. Beli, though awake, was not willing to leave the bed. Golap was just three years old. Her arrival at Hussein Lodge brought immense joy.

Komol never forgot to bring gifts for his little rose, on his way back from office. Beli always prepared mouth watering dishes for her Farhana. The older siblings forgot their toys, and began playing with the living little toy. The older siblings could even sacrifice their lives for little Babu.

Golap had everything except happiness. (As told previously, she was physically challenged). The little girl always wondered: “Why can’t I walk like the other girls of my age?”

Golap could never put her left foot flat on the ground. Her left leg was about 1.5 inches shorter than the right. Doctors, medicines, therapy and injections…these were common words for her.

However, the little girl never liked the word “Khora (Handicapped)”. As a result, she tried to excel in everything possible for her.

Golap’s eldest sister Piyal, loved to make dolls. The little toddler was really close to “Boro Apu”(elder sister), who was about fifteen years older than her.

Little Farhana was completely addicted to music and painting. Anything melodious soothed her mind, and colors soothed her eyes.

Three-year-old Rose, was always curious. “Eta ki? (what’s this?)” or “Ota ki?” (What’s that)? Her constant bombardment of questions entertained the whole family.

Sultana Hussein wanted her daughter to be a good human being. Siblings taught Golap how to stay away from negative feelings like pride and jealousy. Her sisters used to study, while Golap sat down under the dining table with a huge collection of dolls and colors. Tricycles were really enchanting to little Rose, they reminded her of Cinderella’s Fairy Godmother.

Ding…dong! Went the recess bell. Everyone except Farhana Hussein rushed out of the classroom.

“Hey Golap, don’t you want to play?” The games teacher asked.

“Miss, I can’t play, you know that.” Golap answered in a trembling voice.

“Well, always remember one thing: Life is not a bed of roses, but you must learn to make it so.” The teacher replied.

From that day onwards, Golap tried to make the most out of life. She always relied on herself, and kept making friends wherever she went.

Part 3

Nazmul Hussein’s hair was turning grey gradually. Sultana Hussein grew older too. Golap became a teenager, but for her parents she was still a little kid. Golap enjoyed being the youngest one of her family but at times her physical battle got on her nerves. She suffered from a constant foot -ache which never left her. Still, she never stopped smiling. Golap preferred to keep all her pains buried in her mind.

Golap always tried her level best to be lively. She did not succeed in doing so every day, but she seldom talked about her pains. Rather, she liked lending a hand to others whenever she could.

Days passed. Golap slowly evolved as a woman. Life was like a battlefield for her, but she never learnt to give up. As a result, she managed to be happy and satisfied.

Books and pens were her best friends. Golap loved to read and writing was an ardency which got into her since early teens. Bit by bit, she learnt to be an asset instead of being a burden for everyone around her.

The employer was sorry to see his good worker go and asked if he could build just one more house as a personal favor. The carpenter agreed to this proposal but made sure that this will be his last project. Being in a mood to retire, the carpenter was not paying much attention to building this house. His heart was not in his work. He resorted to poor workmanship and used inferior materials. It was an unfortunate way to end his career.

When the job was done, the carpenter called his employer and showed him the house. The employer handed over some papers and the front door key to the carpenter and said “This is your house, my gift to you.”

The carpenter was in a shock! What a shame! If he had only known that he was building his own house, he would have made it better than any other house that he ever built!

Our situation can be compared to this carpenter. Allah has sent us to this world to build our homes in paradise by obeying His commands. Now, we have to decide how well we wish to build the homes where we will live forever.

Collected by: Aqibul Hoque

The smiling, light green leaves danced with the spring wind. Magpies whistled sweetly, jumping from branch to branch. A fresh, pink rose winked through the window, casting a perfumed spell, with its magical smell.  
Nazmul slowly walked towards the window. Natural beauty always soothed his eyes. He bent down on the rose, inhaling deeply. The man massaged his aching head. Nothing could stop the tornado of worries in his mind. “What will happen? Just what will happen to my love?” He kept asking himself.
The sickening odor of medicines took over the pleasant smell. Cleaners walked past Nazmul, busily cleaning the hospital floor. Doctors began visiting the patients. Nurses carried neat trays of breakfast.
Nazmul even forgot hunger. He could only think of his wife, Sultana. Just an hour back, she got admitted to the maternity department. She had conceived their sixth child for the last six months. It was not a planned pregnancy. Still, the older siblings were really excited about their new, living toy. Even the parents had many dreams surrounding that child.
The couple usually woke up at 6:00 am. That morning, when Nazmul was in the washroom, a painful groan shook every living cell of his body. He ran out, finding himself in the middle of an unexpected, horrifying scene.
Some coconuts were kept under their bed, because coconut-water was a very good drink for expectant women. Sultana had tripped over one of those. The culprit fruit rolled to Nazmul’s feet. The lady was in a curved up position, her stomach pressing against the floor.
Sultana Hussein and Nazmul Hussein got married in the year 1964, at fourteen and twenty-four respectively. A very strong emotional bond made them inseparable. Their passion regarding flowers was reflected in their nicknames. Nazmul was known as Komol (Lotus) while loved ones called his wife Beli (Jasmine).
“My baby! Oh Lord Almighty! I want my baby back!” Startled, Komol looked at the nearest cabin. It was definitely a mother, wailing.
“Excuse me…” He called a nurse passing by. “What happened?”
The nurse looked up at him. Her somber expression reflected sorrow. “None of the babies delivered today could survive.” She replied.
A few minutes later, Dr. Rowshan Ara, a well known gynecologist, came out of Sultana’s cabin: “Mr. Nazmul, I can either save your wife or your child.”
Komol stood silent for a few minutes: “Doctor…my wife…she can’t leave me.” The helpless father buried his head in his folded arms, to hide the overflowing eyes.
Rowshan sounded soft, yet firm: “We’re doctors. Our job is saving lives, not killing.”
Back in 1984, the upgrades of medical science did not reach the small, developing, Asian country they lived in. Komol was well aware of the constraints doctors went through regularly. He had brought Beli in one of the most expensive, but well equipped hospital of that time. Supervised by The Red Crescent, that was the place where people entered ailing, but returned home smiling.
“Mr. Nazmul, I can still see a glimmer of hope. I can try to save both if you agree.” Komol gave Rowshan a questioning look.
“Right after separating the baby from the mother’s body, I’d have to push a live-saving injection.” The doctor almost whispered, as if lost in thoughts.
“So? What’s wrong with that?” Komol was getting impatient now.
“The injection has a fatal side-effect. The organ it will be pushed through, will not develop properly. Your child will be alive, but physically challenged.”
Rowshan stood still, waiting for his decision.
Komol felt as if someone was hammering on his skull. Physically challenged people were considered as social burdens. It was a dark side of their society.
How could he, being the father, endure his child’s sufferings?
“Go ahead, doctor.” Komol declared, signing the documents required. “Please save my child.”
Sultana was taken to the operation theatre. About half an hour later, a young nurse came out:
“Congratulations, Mr. Nazmul. It’s a little girl. Your wife will regain consciousness soon; I’ll tell you when to meet them.” She smiled.
Komol put his hands together, facing westward. “Oh Lord Almighty, thank you, thank you so much!” He prayed silently.
The happy father held his wife’s hand, as she rocked her newborn, wrapped up in a yellow blanket.
“See Komol, it seems as if she has caught all our delight in those tiny fists.” Beli whispered. Pleasure sprinkled all over her pale face.
“She needs a name now. Let’s see…” Nazmul pretended to be immersed in thoughts.
“I’ve already thought of that.” Sultana announced. “Farhana Hussein. The Arabic word ‘Farhan’ means ‘joy’ and she’s our bundle of joy.”
“I’ll think of a nick…yes! Golap (Rose). That’s my favorite flower.” The father grinned at his little princess.
“I love you, my sweet Rose.” Beli whispered, kissing the small fists.
A tiny smile spread across the baby’s soft lips, as if she was trying to say: “I love you too, Mom.”
A pink Band-Aid on the tiny left foot did not escape Komol’s eyes. “The Injection.” He murmured, out of Beli’s audible range.
[To be concluded...]

]]> http://www.youthwavebd.com/quran-and-sports-car/feed/ 1 http://www.youthwavebd.com/slaughtering-chicken/ http://www.youthwavebd.com/slaughtering-chicken/#comments Tue, 01 Mar 2011 06:01:42 +0000 Youth Wave http://www.youthwavebd.com/?p=1206 A teacher had many good students in his class but had particular regard and high respect for one of them. Some of the students one day asked the teacher the reason for this. In reply he said, I shall tell you tomorrow.”

A teacher had many good students in his class but had particular regard and high respect for one of them. Some of the students one day asked the teacher the reason for this. In reply he said, I shall tell you tomorrow.”
The next day, he handed to each of those students one live chicken. He asked them to take the chickens to a place where they would not be seen by anyone and then slaughter them. After a while, they returned with their chicken duly slaughtered. But his favourite student came back with his chicken alive.
The teacher asked him why he had not slaughtered it. He replied. “You had asked me to go to a place where nobody would see me. I tried hard to find a place where God Almighty could not see me. But I failed. Everywhere went I was sure that God could see me and I could not hide from Him. So I could not carry out your instructions.
On hearing this, the teacher turned to the other students and remarked, “The reason why I respect this student more is because of his constant awareness of the existence of God who can always see him, no matter where he is. Consequently, he does not commit any sin”.