A Newly Built Respect

 Boredom and monotony reigned over the cerebrum of my head. My summer vacation had come to an end, and I had not got a chance to step out of the house. I grumbled that dad always gets a busman’s holiday. Just then, mother arrived in my room like a ray of sunshine and decreed that in the evening we were going to my uncle’s house. Uncle Hasan had lately come from abroad and did not have a proper knowledge of the city. Mother said, “Your uncle has shifted into an archaic mansion of the 20^th century in an area dwelled by the urban elite and middle class in late 19^th and early 20^th century”. I was crammed with exhilaration presuming the house might belong to people having experienced the fabled Liberation War of Bangladesh. By five at dusk, I was dolled up and keen to step out of the house.

                   As the car raced into the neighborhood, it was difficult to find anything particularly distinct from any neighborhood in Dhaka city. As I stepped into the house, in a trice, the known world changed into opulence. Tall ceilings, chimneys, a fireplace in the living room and leather sofas made of newly burnished wood gave an august impression of the house. The smell of the freshly burnished wood was pungent. Aunt Tina said, “It’s so great to see you all after nearly half a decade. Hope you had a didn’t face any trouble coming.” Mother took control of the curtsies while I gave myself a tour of the spectacularly anachronistic house of the 20^th century.

            I left the living room letting the elders walk down the lane of nostalgia. In the drawing room, there was a cabinet full of classics. The books looked intoxicating to me, and I had to grab one.  Surprisingly, there, behind that book, was a small round object, almost like a lever and I pulled it- it was a door. Maybe it was intrigue penetrating into my brain or the desire to award myself with an element of surprise and excitement, after a arduous scholastic year.

To my stupefaction, I entered a dark room and closed the door behind me. My body was frozen for a nanosecond and my spine was chilled. In the room there was nothing but a fireplace, an armchair, and a notebook. Even though my intrigue had reached its peak, I wanted to venture out and seek for something more. A curious worm was poking inside my brain to catch hold of the notebook that read, “Property of Salma Khan.” I opened a certain page of the book. The handwriting was bubbly and small, perhaps of a ten- to twelve-year-old but it was legible. There were some spelling and grammatical errors, but the writing was good- the best I could expect from a little girl.

On top of the diary, it was written, “25^th November, Thursday, 1971.” I read softly even though there was no one to listen to me. Perhaps it was my unconscious mind a bit terrified of all the unusual things that had happened within the last six minutes. I read on, “Today, my Abba went out with the people of the neighborhood with placards, protesting against the West Pakistan government. I hate it when he goes out. Mother stays awake for hours at night these days. Partly waiting for dad and partly to let in any freedom fighters seeking for shelter and food. Abba came late at night being extremely weary. I asked him about the day, and he said that he saw the two of his friends die in front of his eyes. While he was speaking, his eyes were red, perhaps he was picturing the scene and his hands were shaking.

The barbaric Pakistanis fired shots at them, but he got saved by a sudden dodge from a tree. My heart was pounding harder and harder every second as he spoke. I asked him why he had to do those protests anyway. I furthermore questioned whether he cared for us or not. He replied that there was nothing more important than one’s country because it was, she who gave us shelter and her freedom was the freedom of every dutiful citizen”. As I read my inquisitiveness piqued. The next page was titled, ‘26^th November 1971.’ “Abba went out in the morning to buy groceries and I had asked him to bring the fresh oranges of winter. When I was playing in the courtyard, I heard a hullaballoo of people. Such a sound was frequently heard in our neighborhood especially after the declaration of the Liberation war. I rushed outside and there was the bloody body of my Abba. I gave a loud yowl. Amma scampered out of the kitchen and, seeing Abba, started wailing and howling. She was in a sense of shock.

The image of Abba bidding me goodbye with his benevolent smile while going out flashed before my eyes. I could never get a chance to see that soulful smile again. In his blood-covered hands was a bag and inside was the pacific citrus smell of the fresh winter oranges. The people informed that the West Pakistan army made an abrupt attack at the marketplace and in the gunfire, a myriad of people including him were killed. I was shattered and grief-stricken. Whatever the reason, these people had no right to murder my Abba so brutally. I guess wars are like that- many unknown, unrecognized sacrifices are made in them, and a million lives are lost.” The pages, though old had some spots in them which I deducted to be tears.

I was agitated, could not move but managed to walk out of the room. I hated the diary in my coat and resolved to keep this heart-rending experience to myself. Coming out of the room when I asked aunt about the bookshelf, she said it had been there before they moved into the house and decided to keep this as it was beautiful and antique. I chose to keep this heart-wrenching experience to myself. I thought to myself, one can never fathom what the people of the Liberation War of Bangladesh had to face, never gauge the extremity of their suffrage, pain, and sacrifice if they cannot get a proper glimpse of someone’s excruciating lifestyle of that exigent time. From that day on, a new-built veneration and patriotism had arisen in me, all thanks to this poignant and soul-stirring experience.