Short Story By Sahadat Russell
The day I told the story to a friend, we were sitting by the stone steps of a pond to the north of Agradoot High School’s field.
Alongside the killing and relentless death marches of 1971, another silent procession trudged on through Jessore Road toward the Indian border, a procession of lives trying to escape the war. In that crowd were Anshuman, his wife Malati, and their six-year-old son, Anu. Fleeing from their village of Monirampur, they stopped one night at an empty school for shelter. Late into that night, Anshuman suddenly woke Malati. In a sleepy haze, she thought the army had attacked, but Anshuman quickly clasped a hand over her mouth and whispered, “Quiet, don’t make a sound, or you’ll wake everyone.”
As her fear subsided, she saw Bodi, a freedom fighter, standing nearby with a local boy named Haricharan. Bodi and his group had been helping people cross into India. She looked at Anshuman, puzzled, and he slowly lifted his hand from her mouth.
My friend interrupted the story at this point and said, “He’s handing over his wife to the freedom fighters? No faith in them!”
Ignoring him, I continued.
Anshuman whispered to Malati, “My heart just can’t take running anymore. You go, take Anu and cross the border. I’ll fight in the war. I’ll come back for you when the country’s free.”
Malati looked at him in shock. “What are you saying? We set out together to escape; I’m not going without you.”
He squeezed her hand and replied, “Malati, we have to save this land. You save Anu; I’ll save our country.”
“But what if something happens to you?” she asked, her voice trembling.
“Nothing will happen. Haricharan is going with me. Bodi Bhai is here, too. Don’t worry. If they don’t accept me into their group, I’ll be back before dawn.”
Without waiting for a reply, he disappeared into the darkness with Bodi and Haricharan. Malati sat there on the woven mat, clutching her sleeping son close, her eyes fixed on the door. She stayed that way until the call to prayer signaled dawn. Slowly, people began preparing for the journey ahead, waking those still dozing and readying their things. Someone nudged Malati, urging her to pick up Anu and move quickly.
“Anu’s father has gone outside,” she said to anyone who approached, “We’ll leave when he returns.”
By 7 a.m., everyone had departed except Malati, still waiting, holding onto her hope and her child. Then a freedom fighter appeared, a young man she hadn’t met, and informed her, “Anshuman Da has gone with the guerrillas toward Faridpur.”
Malati sighed, held her son close, and rose to her feet. She asked for directions to the border from anyone she met, and they walked, Anu sometimes on her hip, sometimes toddling beside her. At one house, when Anu began to cry from hunger, a woman gave her two pieces of flatbread soaked in water, which he ate quietly.
As evening approached, they were walking by the side of a deserted road when a Pakistani army jeep rolled past. Malati’s throat went dry with fear, but she held Anu tightly, muttering a prayer. Another jeep appeared behind the first, stopping suddenly beside them. Two soldiers jumped out, followed by two Razakars in white caps and long tunics.
One of the soldiers pointed a rifle at her as a Razakar barked questions, “Where are you coming from? Is this your village?” Malati managed to shake her head, clutching Anu to her.
One of the Razakars reported to the officer in Urdu, “Hindu kafir, sir,” was all Malati understood. She found herself dragged into a dilapidated shop by the roadside. They shoved her to the ground, her arms pinned beneath her as one of the soldiers pressed a rifle butt against her throat. In the distance, she heard Anu crying, but they’d muffled him.
The officer entered the room with a glint of satisfaction, as one by one, the men took turns. The final Razakar was just finishing when Malati’s consciousness flickered back. Then the soldier with the rifle struck her head once more, and everything went black again. By the time she awoke, they had left. She crawled toward the shop entrance, whispering her son’s name, but a bullet struck her in the back of her head.
I paused the story here, looking at my friend. His face was solemn, and he muttered, “God alone protects.”
“How?” I asked, surprised.
“Look at the mercy of sparing that innocent child.”
I paused for a moment, looking back at him, then continued the story.
Left alone, Anu sat beside his mother’s body by the roadside, the vast emptiness around him. After crying until he was exhausted, he finally laid his head on her lifeless chest and fell asleep. Sometime in the night, he woke and began crying again. As dawn broke, the boy looked for any sign of human life, but all around him was emptiness. Only flies buzzed around his mother’s lifeless body. In the noon heat, hungry and tired, he chewed on some grass, his little body too weak to cry anymore.
Then, a Pakistani jeep approached in the distance. He raised his arms and wailed, “My mother is dead! Don’t hurt her anymore—she’s dead!”
The soldiers stopped in their tracks. They looked at the small boy beside his mother’s corpse. Without a word, they left, their jeep fading into the distance.
But not before one final act. They left two bullets in his small body, one through his chest, the other through his eye. And he lay still beside his mother, his final cries stilled forever.
I finished the story and looked at my friend.
“What now? Say something,” I urged.
“What is there to say?” He looked at me, horrified.
I smiled sadly. “God does what’s best for us.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Because, in that moment, even God had nothing kinder to offer Anu than death.”
Writer: Sahadat Russell