As I walked in the street late next morning, I did not see anyone before or behind me. There was no rickshaw on the road. The yard of the mosque, which had always sheltered some refugees, was empty now. The tea stall was closed, and the newspaper hawker next to it had disappeared.
I saw some children when I reached the crossroads, but they were not playing today. Looking at their sombre faces I could imagine something fearful was happening somewhere very close. One of the children pointed at the tin gate of an abandoned house under which I could see people’s feet. I would be the last person to be curious about anything today, but I walked to the gate and before I had touched its handle to open it, somebody from inside grabbed my hand and quickly pulled me in. There were a number of people there, some leaning against the wall, some sitting on the dust, some looking at the road through the small holes in the tin. One of the men, and he was none other than the imam of the neighbourhood mosque, whispered to me that a state of emergency had been declared across the nation and the parliamentary system of government had been dissolved in favour of the presidential system. He said Sheikh Mujib had declared himself president for life with extraordinary power; therefore the country’s Constitution was no longer at work now. ‘I have also heard some very disturbing news on the radio,’ he said. ‘Sheikh Mujib has banned all political parties in the country but one; the only party that will decide the fate of the nation is the Awami League.’
One of the men I found, sitting deep in the corner, was the keeper of the tea stall, where I had once entertained Abdul Karim. The Awami League would no longer be called the Awami League, he was explaining to another man; instead, it would be called Bangladesh Krishak Sramik Awami League from now on. ‘Why?’ asked one listener who looked like a factory worker or a rickshaw-wallah or a truck-assistant. ‘Weren’t Krishak (farmers) and Sramik (workers) part of the Awami League before? Then who did we support for so long?’
‘Why do you ask me why?’ said the keeper, irritated and angry. ‘I am not Sheikh Mujib. I do not make rules.’ A man who stood next to him touched his shoulder to request him to keep his voice down. The keeper nodded but when he spoke he became louder than before. ‘I am a shopkeeper,’ he said. ‘I don’t know anything. If you have guts, go to the president and ask him.’
I pushed the gate open and walked into the street. ‘Come back,’ said someone, probably the imam, but I did not care. As I walked, I heard him say with concern: ‘Don’t go there; they’ll shoot you; come back.’ I walked on. After the pharmacy building, I saw some people standing along the old brick wall. I saw the newspaperman among them. He knew me as a journalist and gestured at me to listen to him. When I went closer, he whispered that he had some bad news for me. Many newspaper offices were ransacked last night, he said, and all national dailies and periodicals were banned except four that were published under the guidance of Sheikh Mujib’s intellectuals.
I started walking again. As I moved towards the main road, I saw a line of police cars there, now under the command of the militia. They were occupying the intersection to face and dismantle any anti-Awami League demonstration. All the cars were covered with numberless posters showing Sheikh Mujib’s headshots.
The militia had shot six dogs in the morning and gathered their bodies on the road, a bystander told me. He was hiding behind the large garbage bin at the corner of the road, from where he observed the movement of the militia. ‘There,’ he said, pointing at a place twenty yards away. I saw the dogs’ bodies scattered upon each other, a few other dogs attending them sitting on their butts nearby. ‘Can you tell me what they want to mean?’
Another man who stood next to him hurriedly grabbed his neck to silence him. ‘They want to mean this,’ he said. ‘Will you shut up now?’
The two men moved further into the shade to make room for me but I did not want to hide. The fact that I could now walk in the middle of the road without being bothered by rickshaws, vehicles or pedestrians gave me an unbound happiness. I took a long breath, stretched my neck and arms and began to walk. As I approached the intersection to see the dogs more closely, one of the militiamen came to me on his motorbike. He said he had recognized me though I could not remember having met him before. He advised me not to be on the road on such a day because someone who did not recognize me might take me for a troublemaker which he was sure I was not. He asked me where I wanted to go, if he could give me lift. I did not know where I wanted to go, so I stood before him, silent, looking past him at the dogs. He was called by a tall, middle-aged man with a finely trimmed beard, who I guessed was his commander and who ordered him to leave immediately. Holding the clutch lever to the minimum position, the militiaman said he was going to Moina Mia’s and if I was also going there I could go with him. I looked back at the dogs, their mysterious silence sending a chill down my spine, but the militiaman pulled me to sit behind him.
‘I did it,’ I said, when I stood at Moina Mia’s door. ‘There is no need to send the militia. Nur Hussain is now sleeping in the depths of the earth in some unknown grave with hundreds of others who have died from the famine. I did it; I did not procrastinate.’
Startled, he took a few swift steps towards me and then watched me silently. Perhaps for a moment he thought Nur Hussain did not deserve to die for the crime he had committed, however odd and menacing the circumstances. Perhaps the massive man inside him quickly surfaced through the narrow buttonholes of his Mujib coat, and made his murky eyes glitter for a moment. It would be a moment only.
He invited me in and offered me a seat on the sofa. When I sat, he stood beside me quietly and put his hand on my shoulder.
I looked up at him. ‘It is okay,’ I said. ‘I am not sad. Nobody could go unpunished after assaulting our Supreme Leader Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman.’
He was glad that I had come to him to tell him my latest news. He would find something to say to Sheikh Mujib, he said. He would not have to fabricate a story. Sheikh Mujib would understand if he said the famine had taken Nur Hussain.
‘A leader like Sheikh Mujib does not depend on one person’s genius for maintaining his legacy,’ he said, probably thinking I was considering myself guilty for letting him down. ‘It needs a whole nation of people to create a leader like him and the same to keep him at the helm of power.’
Then he sat. His eyes became deep. He became the man I knew. He advised me not to talk about it and move on. It would remain between us. If I were asked where Nur Hussain was, I should say I did not know; he lived with me some time and then disappeared. Why he had disappeared was not a question to ask me; it was a question to ask him, Nur Hussain.
I would not talk about it, I said. What was there to talk about? One body among a million bodies would get lost as easily as a sesame seed. It would get lost without sound, without trace. Then I said goodbye. I would see him again, I said, and I would not forget his generosity; he had given me a chance to serve my country.
‘Would you like to mentor another speaker?’ he said, as I walked out of the door. ‘One who is obedient? One who follows the rules? One who speaks only, and does not think or dream or analyse or speculate? One who does not have that troubling part called conscience in his head, a worthy and desirable citizen? One who does not transgress?’
‘I will let you know if I do,’ I replied and walked towards the gate. ‘At this moment one seems to be enough.’