Sending Nur Hussain away to Gangasagar was the only option I could think of. I could take him back to Raihan Talukder and say I was sorry, I could not find employment for him in the capital. He would not be my responsibility any longer. I would come back and begin a new life. I would rent a flat in another city, or in another part of the city, find something to do, or just disappear one day, so that nobody could find me. Not even Moina Mia.
But Gangasagar was a long way from Dhaka. It would not be a pleasant journey if Nur Hussain and I were not on good terms. What would I do if he resisted getting on the bus in the crowded inter-district transport terminal and then screamed for help? Some freedom-fighter-turned-radical-nationalist might go out of control and attack both of us.
I decided to be cordial with Nur Hussain, if that was at all possible. I wanted to remove the distance between us, the distance that had grown in the last few days. I wanted to speak with him again, slowly, to make things clearer to him, to make him understand why what he was doing was taking us in the wrong direction.
He did not give me a chance. He was obsessed, terribly obsessed. He began by chanting Joy Bangla, quickly moved away from it, then spoke his mind. ‘My eyes are open now,’ he said. ‘My heart is sad no more.’ He was sincere. He was like the artists of the underground world who painted those graffiti on city walls. ‘I have made a pledge to myself and nothing,’ he said, ‘not even Sheikh Mujib, has the power to shake it.’
Suddenly he was like God, so arbitrary, yet so passionate. Everything was in his power, huge or trivial. He could make the whole famine-ravaged country disappear with a small blow, and create a beautiful, balanced country in its place, putting a new army of gentle, honest, responsible, charismatic, intelligent and patriotic people there. He spoke, then slept for a while, and then woke up only to speak again.
No, I could not think of taking him anywhere; not even to the local streets, let alone to Gangasagar. I was not as confident as he. He was wiser than I, firmer and better. He was an idealist; pursuing noble principles suited him. His perceptions were sharper than mine, more perfect and deeper and possibly quieter and finer than mine. But this was not the time to consider who was better; it was time to understand who was more practical and better suited to survival over the others. I knew I would not be able to turn back time or heal it. Sheikh Mujib was trying and failing, despite his long and outstanding record. What I could do was pass through life without noise. For that reason I would have to take care of myself. Wasn’t that why we had liberated the country—to understand our priorities and fulfil them, undisturbed, untarnished, as earnestly as possible? Let us face the truth: why should I feel guilty for being alive? Why should I sacrifice my life in order to prove that I am strong? No, I would not accept that either. Life is not supposed to make things complex. It is to unwind things, by giving simple answers to simple questions. Besides, individuals must be more cautious about their lives at moments when governments do not seem to respond sincerely to their needs. A government ought to be sincere to its people—that felt like a distant, unnatural thought to me now. It might happen elsewhere, in countries where people did not need governments, where governing was a spiritual need rather than a political imperative for leaders, but not in our land, not in a hundred years.
I guess he still had some respect left for me, for when I offered him food, he ate silently, and slept or lay down silently in his bed when I went to sleep, and did not flee to Gangasagar when the door was open.