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.
