Story of one tree

 

                                                Waiting for Rana

 

A big Krishnachura tree is outstretched just a few yards away from Rana’s house. Kaniz, his sister, woke up early in the morning. She stepped onto the balcony and sat on a tool. Last night the Kalbaishakhi (nor’wester) had left its devastating trail. The storm had broken a branch that was hanging downward, still with fresh clusters of Krishnachura flowers. Kaniz reflected on Rana’s love for the tree and its flowers. He used to say, “If someday I have enough money, I’ll take on a project for decorating the pollution-ridden city of Dhaka with the flaming beauty of Krishnachura. I’ll use the open spaces of the educational institutions and use the roadside lines for planting Krishnachura.” Rana’s obsession with the Krishnachura arose out of his belief that the Krishnachura’s bottle-green foliage and the crimson clusters mirror the flags of Bangladesh.” Kaniz looked at the drooping branch and a broken nest down on the ground and the two Shalik birdlings sprawling their wings, their watchful mother panting helplessly nearby. She felt an urge like calling out to Rana, her kind-hearted brother––he’d just know what to do.

 

But where was Rana? It was about six months that he had disappeared. Kaniz reflected on the day when he had a quarrel with some men in power. With their workmen they came to fell the Krishnachura tree. Rana stood against them and said, “Pierce my chest instead of the tree. How much money will you get selling its wood?” Rana’s protest saved the tree, but his defiance made him a target. They branded Rana as Rajakarer nati (a grandson of the one who collaborated the Pakistani army in the Liberation War of Bangladesh). The same day when Rana and Kaniz were returning to their home from their university some strange looking men with black clothes on their heads blocked their way. Turning to Rana they said, “There’s a complaint against you and we’ll take you to the thana’. They took Rana. Undaunted and unafraid Rana walked with them. Before leaving, he unfastened his wristwatch and handed it to Kaniz and said, “Take this, Kaniz. Wear it and keep it safe until I return.” But Rana had not returned. No thana took any disappearance case. People said it was Govt’s plan to cleanse the opposition. It was a goom case. The morning silence of the house was broken by a thudding sound and Kaniz flew to her ailing mother’s bed.

 

“Rana! My Rana! Why are you hiding again? Come out. Never go away again. I’ll keep you on my lap all the days and all the nights as I kept you when you were a baby. I’ll not let you go anywhere.” It was her mother’s voice; she fell down from the bed when attempted to step down. With her fragile body she crawled, bending lower and lower, searching the space under the bedstead when she spoke the words in a trail.

Kaniz’s father Gohar Ali sprang up from the bed. Both Kaniz and her father could guess what had happened. Gohar Ali made an effort to make his wife normal. But all on a sudden she collapsed like a gun-shot deer. She might have been struck hard on the floor, they guessed. It was the first time Gohar Ali felt how severe was his wife’s ailment. About six months he had been going out of the house in search of Rana and returning home without any good news. He didn’t let his wife and even Kaniz know how frantically he was searching his son day and night in every police station and every nook and corner of the country. He was suspended from his job due to his absence from the office for days together. By the time he had not noticed how thin his wife had grown. Dark spots accumulated on her petal-like face and all the radiant glows of her cheek have fled, the soft look of her bee-like eyes turned dull and gloomy. So much beauty- conscious woman Mrs. Fatema was now oblivious of her look. While lifting his wife onto to the bed Gohar Ali felt that his wife had become half her weight. He told Kaniz to fetch some coconut oil. Pouring the oil into his cupped palm he added a few drops of water, rubbed this mixture onto the centre of her wife’s head. Although this mode of nursing had proved effective initially, it yielded little result now. She was under the care of a psychiatrist who said, ‘There’s no remedy until she gets back her son’. That day they decided to take her to a reputable doctor, a professor of medicine.

 

It was 3 p.m. They soon reached the doctor’s chamber at Elephant Road from their Malibag residence. The waiting room for patients and visitors was awfully packed. Doctor was abroad for a week and that very day he would come to his chamber. Kaniz felt so much impatient and restless. Suddenly she remembered that she was to teach her private student that afternoon. It was at Eskaton area, a short distance from Elephant Road. It might take her half an hour to reach there. She whispered to her father’s ears to allow her to go to the tuition and come back soon.

 

Kaniz’s father fell into a great trouble to tackle her wife without Kaniz. He was embarrassed when she screamed with her angry grief, “Rana, my Rana. They’ve killed you! No, you can’t be killed. Allah has sent you as an angel of Him. Curse on them who’ve snatched you from me. Allah, you burn their hands, you destroy their money and power. Make them beggars on the streets. You can do everything… Ah, Ah, Ah…”

All the patients and attendants in the room looked at her. A young woman extended her hand to help Gohar Ali manage the situation. Another woman came up with a bottle of water and sprinkled some on Fatema Begum’s face. ‘Your patient has fainted. This spray of water will help her regain consciousness. No worry,’ she reassured.

Her words proved true. After a short while Fatema Begum opened her eyes. She seemed extremely fragile but regained her senses.

Gohar Ali knew, his wife had not eaten anything since morning, hadn’t drunk any water even.

“Will you eat anything, Fatu?” Gohar Ali lovingly called his wife this affectionate name —shortening from Fatema to Fatu—since their early conjugal life. Fatema drank water and appeared a bit more normal.

When she began to utter one or two words the other women felt interested to listen to her. They said, “Apa, who is Rana and what happened to him?”

Gohar Ali felt a bit relaxed when Fatema was mumbling and attempted to tell her story about her son’s disappearance.  Other women consoled her sharing similar stories that happened to their near relatives.

 In the meantime, Gohar Ali moved away to the doctor’s Assistant. With much worry in his face he said, “When could be my patient’s turn?”

“It’s after 12 midnight. Your patient’s serial is 101. And Sir will be entering the chamber in one hour. He has just landed on the airport.”

“How is it possible to stay so long, when my patient’s condition isn’t good at all.”

“You see the situation. It’s better you take your patient to any mental hospital,” retorted the Assistant angrily.   

Gohar Ali hesitated unsure of what to do. He mused, ‘These people are habituated to see deaths and sufferings. And how come a doctor continues seeing so many patients in one continuous stretch and what will be his patient’s condition until the turn comes.” The dim flickering light, a fainted glow over peeling paint, soft groans and moans of the patients, coughs, sighs—all these cast an ominous shadow on Gohar’s mind.

Gathering some strength, however, he again stepped to the doctor’s Assistant who pointed him to move to an empty corridor.

 “I’ll move your patient’s name up in the order, anyhow, but you’ve to give me cha khayoar poisha, meaning some money to drink tea.” Gohar Ali gave him a one-hundred-taka note but he demanded more for the task. Gohar Ali reluctantly agreed and gave the additional money.

However, when the doctor entered his chamber there was a chaos. One man shouted a lot for breaking the serial. The doctor stepped out of his room and spoke harshly to the patients and their attendants. However, it was about 10 a.m., when Gohar Ali took his wife to the doctor’s chamber. As he began to describe his patient’s condition, the doctor stopped him, saying “I don’t need to hear anything. First a thorough a check-up is needed.” Without prescribing any medicine he gave a long list of tests, specifying the diagnostic centre where they should be done.”

 

After completing her tuition Kaniz was walking towards the Banglamotor turn when she suddenly caught sight of a face. Her heart beat faster. The same oval shaped face, the same nose, eyes, forehead, and the same stride of firmness.

Kaniz stopped there and felt like calling out ‘Rana Bhaiya, Bhaiya!’. But she controlled herself and looked at the face more closely. That young man could notice Kaniz’s curiosity and asked, “Excuse me MS, are you looking for any one?”

“Yes, if you don’t mind, you look exactly like my brother and …”

With smiles on his lips the young man said, ‘it’s my luck that I look like a brother of a lady, so nice. So, you want to become… like my sister!”

“Why not?” said Kaniz, still fixing her eyes on the young man’s face. 

“Ok, now what can I do for my sister?  You’d like any tea or coffee?”

“No, thanks. If you’re not in a hurry—could I talk to you a bit more?”

“Oh, sure, why not!” 

In fact, if you allow me, I would like to share something… if you can help me.

“No hesitation, be frank, please. If it is possible for me, I’ll do it for my sister. I’ll be happy to do that, sure.”  

 “In fact, my brother who looked exactly like you, disappeared. It’s about six months–no trace of him so far.”

“Oh, yes, so many cases of disappearance are happening now. Even police stations are not taking any such complains!” I know, “But sorry sister, I’m really unable to help you in this matter. I’ve no connection with people in power. Besides it’s a mission to terrify the opposition. I’m a simple man saving my back somehow in this chaotic time of our history.”

“No, no. I don’t want any such help from you. My Ammu’s (mother’s) condition  is so serious; she might die any time. Her ailment is completely due to her grief for her son. Doctors find no hope. Her relationship with her son was so deep that she is unable to exist without her son. My Abbu (father) and me are unable to tackle her anyway. In the morning today she fell down from the bed and Abbu is now at a doctor’s chamber at Elephant Road.”

“Sorry, sister I cannot give you any doctor’s name who can treat your mother’s problem.”

“No, no, Bhaiya. ... Should I call you Rana Bhayia as I address my brother.”

“Sure, but my name is Akber—Akber Ali.”

“Ok, Rana Bhaiya, Akbar Bhaiya, you’ll simply act that you are Rana Bhaiya and you are back to her lap... I will say Rana Bhaiya has come back and the rest will be seen later. You agree to help, Bhaiya?”

“I’m afraid, how is it possible? And what about my voice? How can I talk to your mother?”

“I’ll make out a plan. I’ll share the plan with my father and you’ll have your great satisfaction that you’ve saved a life.”

“Ok, as you like. And you know sister, my mother died last year. I’ll find a mother and my thirst for getting a sister will also be fulfilled.”

“So, you have no sister. Only brothers!”

“Yeah, we’re two brothers altogether.”

“By the by, why was your brother a target.”

“It’s a long story. Be assured that he was not a criminal. He is most-loved by the teachers of his department—Geography and Environmental Science at Jagannath University— for his voluntary work and social service. He was organizing his friends to take action to save the Buringanga river next to the university. For this river saving-project there was a local threat, but I believe, he became a target because he tried to protect the Krishnachura tree in front of our house. Rana’s voice was raised against injustice, against power—that’s his fault.”

“Oh yeah, I understand. In our society might is right. Nothing to do, sister. Power corrupts man, absolute power corrupts absolutely. There’s God above!”

“By the by, my mother is at a doctor’s chamber at Elephant Road. And you know it’s a little distant from here… is it possible to … I mean is it possible to accompany me?”

Suddenly Akber Ali’s mood was off. Kaniz could see the lines of worries on his face. He was lost in some ominous reflections, “Dhaka is a strange city. There are many cheating stories done by beautiful ladies on its streets. Is she a Siren? Why do you I feel so attracted to her? What magic is there is in her large green-and-blue eyes, how her radiant cheek, her rosy lips captivate me, is her silky lock of hair spreading on her graceful shoulder a trap?”

So, after a pause Akber said, “Sorry sister, I’m in a hurry. I’ve to reach an office. My father has assigned me a task there. “

“Ok, then, Bhaiya, let’s move a little farther along this pavement. I’ll take a rickshaw and you’ll go to your destination. And I’ll contact with you tomorrow. Can I have your mobile number?” 

Akber gave his number and followed Kaniz. His gaze followed her graceful stride, the sway of her locks of hair spreading over her graceful shoulders. Both the young man and the young lady could not completely determine whether they could trust each other at that stage of their first introduction. However, Kaniz felt a thrill of excitement about her plan and for a moment she was completely unaware of her steps on the pavement.

In the wink of an eye her one foot slipped into the gaping mouth of an uncovered manhole, her body tumbling to fall headfirst when Akber jumped to grab her waist and two other pedestrians clutched her wrists. Kaniz’s terrified scream reached the ears of the crowd without creating much attention because that sort of event had become a daily affair. Akber held Kaniz’s upper waist region and managed to pull her slender body out of the manhole when she shivered, panted and groaned in pain. He took her to a nearby clinic for she was unable to walk—her knees seemed to be badly injured.  

 

All the while Akber thought to leave her but he was unable to walk away. While in the clinic Kaniz spoke with her father, spinning a few excuses casually pointing out her chance of reaching Rana.  During their time in the clinic Akber learnt more about Kaniz’s identity and his fear about her was gone. He informed his family that he would be saying out that night. To Akber everything felt like a dream. Life is a dream, stranger than fiction, he thought.

They took a rickshaw and reached their house shortly. Kaniz instructed Akber to act like his brother, Rana Bhaiya, deciding she would share everything with her father later.

 

To this day Kaniz shudders when those memories flood back. As soon as her father opened the door, she cried out ‘Where’s Ammu? Ammu, I’ve found Rana Bhaiya, take him to your embrace, Ammu.” She can’t bear picture her mother rushing to the door, clasping her son to her chest, holding him close for what seemed an eternity—one, two and three minutes—or even more until she suddenly collapsed to the floor. That night they took her to Dhaka Medical College Hospital. The doctor in the Emergency Room declared her dead from heart failure.

Two years have passed since that fateful day. Kaniz is now married with Akber Ali who lives with her family. She gifted Akber her brother Rana’s wristwatch—a digital watch with an uncanny ability, one that seems to speak in strange ways and sometimes even makes predictions.

Once at dead of night Kaniz and Akber had an intimate moment of love. They drew closer, their foreheads resting together, breaths mingling in the quiet warmth between them. Akber smiled and said, “You remember, how I rescued you from the open manhole like the hero in a Bangla movie? But, in reality when the film star Ilias Kanchan’s wife was killed in a road accident, he was so devastated that that he started a movement called “Nirapad Sarak (Safe Road) to prevent such tragedies. If I have money, I’ll set up a fund and hire people to monitor all the manholes in Dhaka city.”

“These manholes are not manholes; they should be called deathholes. Street paupers, desperate for money, steal the iron lids and sell as scraps. Dhaka–What a strange city! Azrael, the snatcher of life, follows in every step! That day I would have died if you hadn’t been with me, dear.”

suddenly they heard a voice from the watch, “You’ll have a baby boy and Bangladesh will transform not by politicians but by the hands of Gen Z. Your son will find a new Bangladesh.” Both remained silent and alert whether the watch would say more. Some of its earlier predictions had already come true.

“Banglar Mati Durjoy Khati Buje Neik Durbrittyo (The soil of Bangla is pure and unconquerable; let the villains know it),” it declared.   After a pause it continues “Here sleeps the saint Pir Abdul Quader Jilani; Here sleeps Pir Hazrat Shahjalal. This soil is so sacred. Thirty million people gave their lives to make Bangladesh free in 1971. But the country has become a national cake at the hands of politicians––a mad competing of eating up the national cake. Which party can what portion! A revolution is taking place. Soon the Gen Z is rising.”

Akber rested his head gently on his wife’s chest––feeling the rise and fall of her nervous breathing with such a strange prediction––in which she found her wishful desires as well. Together, they were lost in memories and the watch’s prediction.

 

Time flies fast. Their baby boy was born and is two years old now. So far they had seen no sign of the second prediction coming true until ‘facts became stranger than fiction’. A sudden upsurge started after the Prime Minister’s mocking remarks, calling the students “Razakarer nati”––the grandchildren of the traitors of the Liberation War. Abu Sayed, a student of Begum Rokeya University, used his magical lathi (stick) to defile so many bullets but last of all one bullet pierced his chest. His magical lathi multiplied into millions of lathis. The power of lathis of the Gen Z proved mightier than those of the canons. The Prime Minister fled to the neighouring country and his corrupt ministers have been caught like large Rui and Katla are caught in nets. The Gen Z called it a second liberation. Dhaka’s streets turned into sea of jubilant crowd celebrating freedom. Kaniz and Akber and their boy joined in the celebration.

Over these years the Krishnachura tree has grown luxuriantly. The broken branch, though bent, endured. New foliage filled in its scarred niche, and this season it stands in full bloom with its blazing clusters. Kaniz and Akber were relaxing on the balcony, sipping tea and looking at the flaming clusters and the green foliage and a bird’s nest nestled on a secure branch. Suddenly the doorbell rang. Kaniz hurried to open it. Peeping through the peephole, she froze––there stood a man with beard, his eyes and brows so much like Rana’s.

“Released from Ainaghar––secret prison where the Government detained people––after revolution,” Rana’s voice was weak, yet mixed with the same firmness as his skeleton figure stepped through the door.

 “Ammu, Ammu, I’ve come back to you––where’s Ammu, Kaniz?”

Kaniz burst into tears, laying her head on Rana’s shoulder, searching for words to answer his question. One, two and three minutes passed, but failing to find any words she collapsed on the floor.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

No training of the traffic police 

But more expert in disciplining the traffic

All over Bangladesh.

No training in politics

But more expert in disciplining politics

All over Bangladesh.

Never did the job of cleaning

But shows the public how to clean

All over Bangladesh.

Who are those little heroes, bold and bright?

Who face the bullets, stand for what's right

To prick the conscience of our elders' insight.

 

Poems

 

Who Are They?

No training of the traffic police 

But more expert in disciplining the traffic

All over Bangladesh.

No training in politics

But more expert in disciplining politics

All over Bangladesh.

Never did the job of cleaning

But shows the public how to clean

All over Bangladesh.

Who are those little heroes, bold and bright?

Who face the bullets, stand for what's right

To prick the conscience of our elders' insight.

 

 

Humanity!!

Humanity! You are so much injured!

So much battered!

Your shattered body is crawling

At places in Palestine and Israel

I can see your injured chest

carrying an arrow

outflowing red red blood

submerging the Gaza Valley.

I can hear your death-groan

In the cry of shell-hit babies

In the cry of men and women

under the missile rubbles!

I can read your angry look

Your silent curse is towards  Hamas

Towards  Israel

And towards the USA– the  so called  

conscience of the world.

 25 Oct 2023

 

Petals of a Bud 

Still a bud, yet to bloom, covering its red red petals

You pluck it off and took it to your chamber 

You began to molest it, tore off the tissues 

With a lot of sadistic pleasure. 

Ah! the unbloomed petals

Smeared with blood!   

The petals are carried away 

I can see the  images of  a mortuary. 

Translations Related

 

A Photograph

(“Ekti Photograph” from the poetical work Ek Phota Kemon Anal, 1986 by Shamsur Rahman. Translated by Md. Abu Zafor)

Do come in, please! Come in!

And what’s up?

You’re fine, sure! How about the kids?

After a small talk–

Pointing at the still photograph on the white wall

I said to my questioning guest,

“This is my youngest son who is no more,

Like a piece of stone

He was drowned in our village pond.

About three years from now, at a crow-cawing grisma[1] noon.”

 

How easily had I narrated this!

My throat did not tremble a bit

No sigh heaved up ripping my heart

Eyes did not moisten with tears.  

I am startled to hear my own voice.

What indifference! how cold!

Three years from now– only three years–

Once how I weaved a deep sorrow!

Meanwhile, which malevolence has turned

My mourning-river into a dreary char[2] so fast?

As the guest has left, I stood again

Before the photograph’s curious eyes

With a waning grief

From inside the frame, my son keeps gazing without a wink

His gaze, devoid of any anger or abhiman[3].

---

[1] Grisma is the hottest season in Bangladesh.

[2] char in Bangladesh is the landmasses formed through the sedimentation of huge amount of sand, silt and clay over time carried by big rivers.  

[3] This Bangla word has hardly any equivalence in English. It is sort of feeling like ‘a silent protest of anger’.

Translations

 

Great is that Man

(Dhanya Sei Purush” from Shamsur Rahman’s work Abiram Jalbhrami, 1986. The Bengali poem is written about the man who contextually refers to Sheikh Mujubur Rahman, Father of our Nation)

Great is that man – who emerges from the deep water of a river –

At the moment the sun is rising.

Great is that man who from the blue hill top

Walks down the green carpet of the dale–

Teeming with butterflies.

 

Great is that man– who emerges from an autumnal  beel

Flying myriad-coloured birds.

Great is that man–who, after a famine, rushes out

from a harrowed land

Dreaming of crops.

 

Blessed are we, sure!

We see that you still come from a distant horizon

And we anxiously wait for you

Like the thirsty deer in hot summer noon

Looking for water.

 

Piercing your bosom blood-red jaba has bloomed like Pride

And we stare at those flowers.

Our eyes want not to wink

Our traumatic guilt-ridden heads droop down.

 

Look, one by one, all are treading the wrong path–

A sheer downfall!

Like disco dancers they have stated dancing at Manisha’s Minar

Keeping their conscience into oblivion.

 

Trustworthiness is now making hidden-holes

For the good and well-wishers.

Facts are falling apart like potters’ broken earthen pots.

 

The flatterers’ lips are so fluent,

Profusely producing words, days and nights.

Look, some fruit tree is loaded with makal fruits.

Love and affection are drying up

Like sun-burnt grasses

Look, today, there is no difference between crows and cuckoos.

Under countless tricks and excuses

The tricksters are embellishing the autocrat’s head with crown.

 

Look, none of the head is able to rise

Even a little higher than your knee

By no means none could exceed that height.

Losing you we were like evening shadows–

Slowly melting into darkness.

Our days got shrouded with grief.

 

Losing you, in days of crisis,

We were mourning sitting in our dunghills.

Our tears made the sky grief-stricken

But you have transformed that grief into life’s hymn

Because we know that you are more living than the living.

 

Great is that man, on whose name shimmers the sun

For ever, Sraban’s rain, like music, pours down on this name 

Winds never allow dusts gather on this name.

Great is that man on whose name the moonbeam-cranes 

Spread their wings.

Great is that man on whose name flutters our Freedom

–       like the flag.

Great is that man on whose name

Echoes  ecstasy of our Freedom Fighters.

Mohammad Nurul Huda: A Bangladeshi Poet and Beyond | 

Review of Rashid Ashkari's "Nineteen Seventy One"

 Click to read

August 15 in Shamsur Rahman’s poems: A tribute to Shamsur Rahman and Bangabandhu

https://www.tbsnews.net/thoughts/august-15-shamsur-rahmans-poems-tribute-shamsur-rahman-and-bangabandhu-289360

Arguments Related to Translation: A Global Perspective

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//Dreams Unfulfilled Forever//

 

That is not impossible, when

Our life is cheaper than a rat, or a cat

When killings become a culture.

 

Yet some deaths haunt our conscience

Cost a great deal from us

As the Death of our Father did.

The beauty of a drop of dew on a grass leaf

The smiles of a shapla on a lake water

The whistles of a doel sitting on a wall

Were all more charming to you than

The charms of a General’s badge.

 

You wanted to find a meaning of your life

In a madly pursuit, few could understood.

The dream to showcase your motherland beyond

Remained beyond, unfulfilled forever.

Come down on wings of angels

Pass some time with seagulls at Teknaf

Become a scholar gypsy, avoiding us enough. 

 

 

 

  

I am Khuki

What are you doing professor?

Why are you gazing at me this way?

Why are you calling my hair, golden fibre?

It is no more golden– simply call jute fibre!

What are you searching into my eyes?

It is no lustrous with a woman of sixty.

But I know you are sad, tired of

Looking at vultures tearing off heads

Decomposed flesh out of the grave

Disfigured, grim bloated after postmortem.

 

Professor, do not grieve, this soil is holy

Look at the trees, at the blue sky

I am khukhi, my name rhymes with pakhi.

 

Juggernaut 

Something dearest was in my heart

I left it somewhere.

A desperate attempt was to return to it.

But I got lost, I didn’t know how.

No mobile phone, no address could I remember

Modern ICT baffled me.

A juggernaut in disguise on my way.

 

A graveyard I have crossed

Met some dead people

Some known some unknown

A little solace have I got

When my dearest friend with awe,

Peeped from grave’s foot, and saw.

 

A rarest heart was he

God’s favourite die young!

A line of worry in his face  

Thinking of human race.

 

‘Haven’t  you read Waiting for Godot’ said he,

‘All absurdities you must ponder normal

But my friend fight against juggernaut 

The evil must be defeated at last.’