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Merry Time (continued from preceding page)
The compact silver transistor I tucked into the band of my petticoat and carried like a talisman from room to room. Its solidity against my skin was reassuring; as if somehow this little radio could help me stay safe, stay alive.
If anything happened, say if the Mukhti Bahini got past our maali who polished Haider’s shoes and biked to the qasayi to pick up chickens in his basket every other week for Aziz—oh Aziz! Now say they got past Aziz in the kitchen, Aziz with his butcher knife that
he sharpened monthly, squatting low next to a dark flat rock in the garden under the shade of my jamun trees. Say they get him, get all of them and then what? What would I do?
In between listening to news reports, this is what I imagined: Before the Mukhti Bahini reach me, I will run out, back into the thicket of trees that separates our bungalow from the banks of the Rupsa, and leap like a grasshopper over forest ground with the silver transistor pressing against my abdomen. Maybe Nishi will awaken with a jolt, maybe she will rage until the outhouse rattles and explodes, all so I can get away. While the night spirit lures the men to a tumbling, roaring end, I will run long into the night and the next day and the one after that. I will stop only by collaps- ing from exhaustion and then I will tune the silver transistor to Khulna Radio, hold it up to my ears and wait for the frequencies to tell me what I’ve been longing to hear for weeks now: the war is over. Your children are safe. Your home is not in danger. You are free to live your life.
~
March, 1971
you must be enduring.
The papers here remain useless, devoid of facts and full of oblivious headlines. Just this morning, in Dawn: ALL IS WELL IN EAST PAKISTAN. On the radio, there are absurd announcements of the West Pakistan forces showing their might in the East. It makes me want
to throw my silver transistor against the wall. What does it even mean? No one talks about it, but we all know what is really happening. The army’s actions on March 25th were uncalled for. Our soldiers slaughter- ing students, thinkers, great minds in Dhaka Univer- sity. And to what end? As retaliation for the deaths of Urdu-speakers, perhaps, but herein lies the crux of it all: West Pakistan thinks it can beat the Bungalee out of Bungal, and the Bungalees want autonomy. Why did they join Pakistan if that’s what they wanted? That’s the question. But these are not matters for me to pon- der. I’ve lived through a war already.
Your father is livid with the government here. He’s trying desperately to talk to someone about arranging for your escape from Khulna but none of his efforts have borne fruit as yet. As you know, he has some valuable connec- tions with Yahya Khan, back from their time together
in the British Indian Army, but of course, these days the great bushy-browed Pathan has no time to spare for old acquaintances as he’s far too preoccupied enforcing mar- tial law in East Pakistan. A lot of us here disagree with this political decision, but it’s not our place to say what’s right or wrong. I just hope all of this nonsense will end soon so I can see my darling navasi again.
I do wish you had heeded my advice and joined us in Karachi in December, back when the flights between Dhaka and Karachi were still running. It’s all very well and good for a wife to be with her husband but there’s a line as stark as turmeric on white silk between obedience and foolishness and, my dear daughter, I fear you’re toeing this line far more than you need be. I would plead with Haider’s own parents if they were still on this earth (may Allah rest their souls in peace) but alas; I have no one to make my case to except you. Please talk to Haider again about arranging for you and Rumana to leave. My heart aches when I think
To: Tarannum Haider Haridas Babu Road
Khulna District, East Pakistan
Dearest Tarannum,
I pray you are well, my child. Every morning at Fajr, I weep on my janamaaz for you, for Haider, and for sweet Rumana to escape from the treacherous land of the Bungalees. We accepted those people into Pakistan, gave them a country to call their own and this is what we get for it? Massacres of Urdu-speakers and people disappearing into thin air? It pains me to imagine what
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From: Afshan Hassan 50 Clifton
Karachi, West Pakistan