Zahir Raihan lost at the age of just 36, has always

Zahir Raihan lost at the age of just 36, has always

Zahir Raihan lost at the age

 

Zahir Raihan seemed to be the invaluable asset of world history in his story "In Need of Time". I told the story, must-read - in need of time - 

Zahir Raihan A few days ago I went to a front base of the freedom fighters to collect news. The camp commander was very busy. In that busy moment, he handed me a notebook and said, "Sit down." Read this book while sitting. I got some work done. Then I will talk to you. I reached for the book. A notebook bound in a red cover. Dust, ink, and oil stains have become dirty here and there. I opened the book. Feminine type handwritten. Occasionally a little random. I started reading. The first time I saw someone die, I was in pain. It was as if I was getting a little weak. Sometimes a tear may be born in the corner of the eye. Now it has become a lot easier. I don't know, maybe the feelings have become dull, that's why. News of the death comes. I see dead people. I put the body in the grave. I immediately forgot.

Carrying the rifle on my shoulder, I stood on the small tiller. I look ahead. Great sky. A laurel loft. The young gourd is hanging. Gently swaying in the wind. A few paddy fields. Two palm trees. Another village away. News has come that they are getting bases there. One day those were our part. Staying together. I slept. I ate. I fell asleep. I sat at a table and talked. I have fought when I feel the need. Loved it. Seeing them today, the blood of the body gets hot. The eyes became irritated. The hand itches. Shoot like crazy. I became desperate to kill. When I can kill someone, I burst into joy. Spit of hatred on the face of the corpse.

Paddy field in front. A few cows on top of Al. A goat. Constantly calling A flock of birds flew away to a distant village. The key seemed to move there. At that moment the vision became fixed. I informed the camp commander.

Sir, it looks like they can move on.

He was leaning on a map and doing calculations. He looked up. A pair of red eyes. Didn't sleep the last two nights. Says he didn't get left. He looked up. Said, what did you see?

I said, it seemed like a movement.

You got it wrong. He stopped me in the middle. They are not supposed to go ahead in a day or two. Take a good look.

I went to my place. I kept looking. Occasionally there is drowsiness. The vision becomes blurred. Maybe that's why I'm wrong.

But the view I saw in the spacious restroom of the launch ghat next to the Buriganga is not to be mistaken. I heard that many people took refuge there. When I went, I saw no one.

I saw.
Blood clots like pudding on the floor.
Boot stains.
Lots of bare footprints.
Short legs. Big legs. Young legs.
Some girl's hair.
Fingers of both hands.
A ring.
Blood pressure blood.
Black blood. Red blood.
Human hand Feet Ankle
Blood like pudding.
A piece of skull.
One bite brain.
Slippery footprints on the blood.
Many small and big streams. Blood flow.
A letter
Wallet
Towels.
One side slipper.
A few biscuits.
Blood clots.
A nose ring.
A comb.
Boot stains.
A white ribbon that has turned red.
Haircuts.
Desalaiya stick.
The impression of dragging a man.
In the middle of the blood scattered here and there.
The side drain is closed.
The blood flow is frozen there like lava.
I was watching.
Seeing that, I sighed and ran away from there.
I'm not alone. Countless people.
Countless people were running like ants.

Suitcase on the head, a bundle of clothes on the armpits. Hurricane in hand. Baby at the waist.

What a restless panic in the eyes.
No talking. Silent everyone.

Suddenly someone said, don't go there. Military. People were fleeing on all sides by boat. The military fired on them. Two or three hundred people died there. Don't go.

It was as if someone had tied a few stones to his feet.

Not alone. Countless people. Thousands of eyes. Shocking moment. Where are we going? There is no way back. That path is blocked under the pile of corpses.

Let's move forward. You can't trust. There may also be dead bodies standing in the way of the hill.

Where to go?

At the last moment, I heard the sound of a helicopter. And almost immediately we all started running. He is running wherever he can. Everyone is scattering around like a squid.

The helicopter landed overhead.
Then.

Then it seemed as if a lot of lightning struck at once. I fell face down on the ground. I can't see anything. Just a lot of words. The sound of machine guns. The cries of the children. How many people scream. Yawn A few dogs barking. Crying. The sound of machine guns. People's lament. A teenager's voice. You know. You know. He is calling the lost father. You know. You know. Then the silence of the crematorium. Pain in the chin near the neck. I slowly looked up. I saw. No, I didn't see anything. Everything became blurry. It seemed that darkness was coming down all around. I realized I was losing consciousness. Or dying.

Paddy field in front. A laurel loft. The young gourd is hanging. A few bamboo forests in the back. Four or five tents behind. An old building. That's where we live.

A total of twenty-seven people.

I was the first nineteen. Eight people were killed by mortar fire. When I dropped them off and returned to the camp, we were eleven.

One escaped that night. Gone, never came. Another died of a sudden illness. Before realizing the disease, he stretched his arms and legs and lay down. And did not get up. I found a letter in his book pocket. Written to mom. Mom. Don't worry about me, Mom. I'm fine

I gave the letter to his grave. Stay. Stay there There were nine of us then. Now I have reached Stash again.

Twenty-seven people.

Of different ages. Of religion. Of opinion.

Never talked to anyone before. There was no identity. I never saw the face.

Someone was a student. Someone is a day laborer. The farmer. Or a middle-class clerk.

Jute brokers. Or the fisherman of Padmapar.

Now everyone is a soldier.

Live together Eat. Sleep.

Carrying the rifles on one's shoulders and going out in search of an enemy, it seems as if we have known each other for a long time. I know. I feel like a very close person.

It seems that we are bound by an inseparable bond of long-standing kinship. Our existence and goal are the same. Sometimes we sit in a circle and talk at rest.

Stories of the past.

Current story.

Future stories.

Tukitaki various discussions.

The medicine is gone. Have to bring Only pulses and rice have been running for a few days now. It would not be bad to get some fish and meat. We are twenty-seven people. Only nine rifles. If only I could get a weapon. If everyone had a rifle in their hands, I would not have let any of their soldiers escape that day.

They came in a total of two hundred people. Forty-five bodies were left behind and fled. We chased. Until the ferry. I came back because the shots were gone.

When I came, I saw that the wives of innumerable boys, old men, and girls from the surrounding villages had come there.

Sweep in someone's hand. Photos. Ax. Pickaxe

They are sweeping the bodies.

Their hands are being cut to pieces with an ax. Feet Head. Chest ribs. An old man was screaming and crying while chopping a corpse into hundreds of pieces. You are marching on my paladar. You took it to Boudar. You're driving me crazy. You have burned my golden family.

I will read the wrath of Allah. I will read the wrath of God. Hate. Anger. Pain.

We resisted. And almost immediately they started crying. The sad lament began. At the end of the lament began to narrate the history of thousands of their sorrows.

No boy. No husband. Raped his wife. The young girl was taken away. It's been three months. Recent cows. Round rice. Body ornaments. Nothing. All looted.

Hate. Anger. Pain.

How can they live with so many chests? If everything had been shattered in an explosion, they might have tried to survive.

They are not alone. Lots of people. Seven and a half crore. One crore people have fled their homes and lands, three crore people are constantly fleeing from one village to another.

Fear. Panic. Panic

When I regained consciousness, I too ran away. Take the scent of terracotta. Lots of dead bodies. Black smoke pierces the coil.

I took refuge in a jewelry boat. The boy-old-girl-child was giggling. Villages on both sides are on fire.

A while ago, a few planes came and bombed continuously.

Nearby is a loose ball town. Still burning. Black frozen smoke is billowing into the sky. There is no man. No dogs. There are no animals. The empty houses stand like ghosts. Suddenly the voices of many girls were heard. I looked up. Some girls were standing together on the bank of the river, shouting and calling for the boat to be taken ashore. They want to get shelter in the boat.

No, no, beware, the boat will not sail. An old woman looked at them and snorted.

Why, what happened?

What will happen next? Bad girl. Market girl.

What does the market girl mean?

What do you mean, sir? Whore. Don't know whore? Her eyes wrinkled with hatred.

He is not alone. Many.

Many people looked at the prostitutes standing on the shore. No no no need to stop the boat. Let the dangers die. It is better to die.

Stop the boat. Suddenly a boy shouted from inside the crowd. A full-bodied beard. Red eyes like blood clots. Get them on the boat soon. He ordered in a hard voice. The old man replied annoyed. No, the boat will not stop.

Immediately the boy jumped up and grabbed the old man by the throat. Puppy I will pick you up and throw you into the river. What the hell is going on here?

Boat sheep and boatman. Pick them up.
A few silent moments. The boat capsized.
Frightened, the half-dead prostitutes came into the boat like sheep.
Little whore. Medium whore. Big whore.
Teenage whore. Young prostitute. The old whore.

The elite passengers of the boat moved to one side in hatred. The prostitutes said nothing. He sat huddled in a corner.

Lots of faces.

A face to look like my mother.

What is mom doing now?

My chest ached when I remembered my mother's words.

Younger brother Sister Studi. How are they?

Is he alive or dead?

I don't know. Maybe I won't know for a long time.

Yet one thing kept popping up in my mind.

Will I be able to sit at the breakfast table with them again?

Will my mother come to my closed door every morning and call me? Kiri, are you still sleeping? It's been a long time.

Get up. Don't drink tea?

Or.

Everyone is playing Keram on the roof of the house as a team. Can I do it again?

Or.

Leaving the mother as a witness, all together killed the father's pocket? Maybe. I don't know.

When you know, you think. The thought is a pain. But to think I once loved so much. Especially with Jaya.

Jaya of China Bhabhi. How I thought of him.

Ever in the rough background of the sea.

Sometimes in the middle of a wave-waking procession.

Sometimes in the privacy of a small house. During the day. At night.

In the darkness.

Or at noon. On the corner table of a restaurant. In solitude. Put two cups of tea in front of you for a long time without saying a word. It was nice to think.

Ichhamati, Karatoya, Muurakshi say the name of the river, the two of them swim in the water to play hanamachi with the waves.

Jaya has never seen the sea. He had a great desire to see the sea.

One day he smiled and said: You know, I saw the sea. When! Where? I was surprised.

Why in this city? Jaya said wiping the sweat from her forehead. Have you ever seen so much sea scattering in the streets of the city?

Deeper than the sea.
Roarier than the sea.
Moving.

It seemed that no matter how many obstacles came in front, everything would be swept away.

Billions of faces. The appearance is carved in stone. Fisted hands cross borders.

The sound of millions of thunderbolts or the sound of waves is meaningless to the roar of the procession.

I have never seen it before.

In February. Fifty-four. I have seen a lot in sixty-two, sixty, or seventy-nine.

But I have never seen so much tide of life.

I have never seen so many deaths before.

I look ahead. Great sky. A few laurel fish. The young gourd is hanging. A few paddy fields. Two palm trees. Another village far away.

I see it every day.

I have never seen Jaya so intense. A few bamboo forests in the back. Four or five tents behind. An old building. We have drawn many small lines with charcoal on that building. Those are the accounts of the dead.

Not ours.
Theirs.

Whenever I killed an enemy, I drew a new line on the wall. So it is convenient to keep accounts. I see often. Guni. Three hundred and seventy-two, seventy-three, seventy-four. I am waiting for the whole wall to be filled.

Those of us who have died. I also keep an account of them. But I remember that. Many spots in the mind. That too sometimes counts.

One day.

Several days ago. The Sector Commander came to our camp to see. We stood in line. I greeted him.

He asked us a question.

We gave almost the same answer.

I said, for the country. I am fighting for the motherland. I am fighting to liberate the country.

Bangladesh.

No, later it seemed that the answer was not right. We have talked for a long time. Is the answer correct? The country is a matter of geography. Whose boundaries change thousands of years. Changed. It will change in the future.

So what are we fighting for?

Friends made various statements to various people.

Someone said we are fighting for revenge. They beat our mothers and sisters like dogs and cats, that's why. I want to take his revenge.

Someone said we are fighting against injustice. Those bastards have tortured us a lot. Exploited. So I am fighting to drive them away.

Someone said I don't understand so much Maria. I am fighting for Sheikh Saheb.

Someone said, do you know why I am fighting? To kick the ass of all the thugs, thugs, brokers, scoundrels, moneylenders, and religious businessmen in the country.

I was listening to them. I was thinking. Sometimes I was arguing while taking part in the discussion.

But the mind was not full.

What are we fighting for? Giving so much life, so much bloodshed?

Maybe for happiness. For peace. To fulfill one's desires.

Or just to survive. To protect one's existence. Or in need of time. We are fighting to meet the needs of the time.

I can't think so much. I don't think so much in my little head anymore. It hurts. What I understand is straightforward. We have to drive them out of the ground. This is what is needed now.

The lines on the walls are growing.

The scars on the mind are also increasing every day.

He was shot in the wrist yesterday. It could have touched the chest without touching it. Only two fingers apart.

Rest for a few days now.

If he was near his mother, he would turn his hand on his head. Crying. He used to say with rebuke, Bahadur. Why did you go so far ahead? Couldn't stay behind everyone? And there is no need for such bravery, father. Son of a bitch, let's go home now.

The house?

Honestly, the human imagination is big weird.

When did they burn the house to ashes? Yet the mind wants to think about the house.

I got the news that my mother, father, brother, sister have all gone somewhere. Maybe in a village, in a village. In any refugee camp. Or:

No. I don't want to think that.

Jaira has no news. Where did the girl go?

I don't know. It is scary to know.

Just know, we will win this war today, not tomorrow. Or the day after tomorrow.

One day I will go back again. In my town, in my village. Then maybe many familiar faces will not be there. I will never see them again. I will love those whom I find.

I will tell the story of those who are not there but one day.

The story of that boy. He jumped in front of the tank with a mine strapped to his chest.

Or that old farmer. He picked up the rifle and said with a soft smile, "Let's go." He never came back. Or the five million dead children in the refugee camps.

One crore dead bodies in tens of thousands of villages.

Not one crore, maybe the calculation has reached three crores then.

One thousand and one night may pass. My story will not end.

Paddy field in front. Great sky. A pumpkin loft, young pumpkin hanging. Two palm trees. Another village away. The name of the village is Rohanpur. They are getting bases there, one day those who were part of us.

There is nothing else written in the diary.

I handed the book to the camp commander and asked, "Whose writing is yours?"

No. A freedom fighter with us.

Can I talk to him a little? I asked again.

He looked at me for a few moments while answering.

Then he said, he was caught in their hands in an operation a few days ago.

Then?

I can't say the next news. Maybe killed. He may have survived.

Unbeknownst to him, his eyes fell on the book again. I saw it upside down for a long time. Then I turned my face towards the outside.

Great sky. A gourd fish, a young gourd is hanging. A few paddy fields. Two palm trees. Another village away. There is a fire burning.