Translation of Cease Fire from Selina Hossain's Fugutive Colours
Ceasefire
Taherun asked her husband, "What are you doing, Bir Pratik Nuruddin? Are you ready to have your lunch now?"
"What have you prepared?"
"Lafa greens and shidol bhorta, mashed dried fish."
"Yes, I'll eat now. Serve the rice."
Nuruddin's face brightened at the thought of food. He smiled with a childlike enthusiasm. It was hard to imagine this man as a fierce freedom fighter. From all around, the villagers came to see him when he returned home a victorious hero. People were overwhelmed by his achievements. He was awarded the title of "Bir Pratik." Everyone started addressing him as "Bir Pratik Nuruddin." Gradually everyone except Taherun gave up calling him by that name. Now and then she called him "Bir Pratik Nuruddin" to remind him of his glorious past. He felt both joy and pride at this. He was a poor man. He didn't have much to pride in, no money, no wealth. His honour was his only asset. The memories of those days were his only wealth; they were very precious. No one could steal them from him. No thief, no hijacker. No one!
Taherun brought a plate of rice. Seeing the greens and fish bhorta on top of the heap of rice, Nuruddin felt hungry. His mouth began to water.
He hadn't been aware of his hunger before seeing the plate of steaming rice. Sometimes he told himself his hunger should be satisfied with pebbles because he collected pebbles from the bottom of the river. He told himself that a poor day labourer shouldn't feel hungry.
Taking the plate from Taherun, he said, "Bring your plate and eat with me." Taherun brought her plate from the kitchen and sat down.
The pot in which she had cooked rice lay empty near the chula. Taherun knew exactly how much rice was needed for the two of them. Not a single grain exceeded the amount nor fell short.
Nuruddin was proud of his wife's skill at estimating how much
was needed. He asked, "How do you manage to cook exactly the right amount?"
Taherun did not bother to answer. She knew men would never understand these things. They just couldn't understand household stuff but would of course never admit it. But she ate with her husband. This was something she enjoyed doing. When she was young, she saw that her mother and aunts would wait to eat after the male members of the family had eaten. She couldn't imagine doing that. She and her husband enjoyed each other's company while they ate. They discussed things, shared jokes. That was the only time they could do so. All day they collected pebbles. And, on returning home, she had to cook, coat the floor with wet clay, wash pots and pans, clean the place. Eating together was a luxury. A few moments of happiness. And she loved to share them with her husband.
When she sat down, she noticed that Nuruddin was eating with undivided attention. He had poured some hot water onto his plate. She knew he did it sometimes, specially when he was really happy. That was the time he realized that he didn't deserve anything other than watered rice. With his kind of earning how could he expect anything better? Taherun knew her husband's habits and supported his ideas. She felt he could never be wrong in his actions; a person willing to sacrifice his life for his country could never be wrong. That's why he had got the tide of "Bir Pratik" she thought.
She told him, "I'd like to have watered rice also."
"Go ahead then," said Nuruddin, without looking up from his plate.
It was difficult for him to talk with his mouth full of rice.
A bubbling noise accompanied the rising steam as Taherun also poured water onto her hot rice. She giggled and told her husband, "My plate is like the river. The river Dahuk."
Nuruddin laughed with his wife. He swallowed his mouthful. The peals of their laughter reached the yard.
Nuruddin commented, "It seems as though your plate is full of pebbles."
"Pebbles? We are pebble people after all, aren't we?"
They both became quiet. Were they really pebble people? They bowed their heads, mixing the rice with mashed dried fish and spinach.
The green bits of the lafa floated on their plates like lotus leaves on a pond. They seemed to be saying, Forget your unhappiness, forget your sorrow.
Nuruddin rubbed his eyes with his left hand. So did Taherun. They hadn't got their wages that day. The employer had told them they would not be paid that week.
How was she going to feed Bir Pratik Nuruddin? She dried her eyes. She slowly ate her food.
How was he going to tell her that he was hungry when he would no 'longer be able to buy rice?
It was not that easy to put nee on a plate. Whenever Nuruddin thought of that he was shaken. It was amazing how it took up the whole of one's time just to put rice on one's plate. For this he spent all his time near the Banglabandha and Tetulia highway and cleaned the pebbles and collected them in heaps. There were others who collected pebbles from the Dahuk. Young men, sometimes younger boys, brought thousands of stones which fell into the Dahuk, brought in by the Mahananda. Both these rivers had collected the love, pain, sorrow of people over the years. The love of a lifetime which couldn't be repaid. Nuruddin grew pensive. He thought of their daughter, their only child. She was at her in-laws' and they hadn't seen her in weeks, perhaps months. How could they afford to visit her? They were the poorest of the poor. It really didn't suit them to have extravagant thoughts. Taherun looked thoughtful as well.
She finished eating and said quietly, "Haven't seen her in a long time."
"Let's go and see her."
Nuruddin's eyes lit up for a split second before losing their lustre again. It would be sheer luxury. It was no use thinking about going to see their daughter. It would be best if they didn't think about it at the moment. The love they felt for her should be kept in their hearts, in silence. They finished their meal.
They were both trying to forget what had happened the day before . They were both burning with anger and sorrow. But they didn't express it to each other. Instead, they tried to focus on other things. Taherun had kept his tide "Bir Pratik" alive by using it all the time. She felt proud to use it. No one else in the whole village had that tide.This was her only treasure. The most valuable thing in her mud hut. It was like sleeping in
one's own bed. They were content with it, if not happy.
They stared at the Kanchanjanga at leisure. It could be seen beyond the fields. Through the mist, its tip shone with the gold of the sun. They gazed at the beautiful scene in wonder. They had a lot in their lives: the rivers, the mountains, and the pebble hills. They had to sell the last of their land to moneylenders and yet they had the dreams and courage to fight, seek, and not to yield. They would fight again if need be.
In fact they were trying to forget yesterday's incident.
As Taherun got up with her plate, she asked, "Would you like to drink some water?"
"Yes, please."
Taherum washed her own plate and poured some water in it. Nurud-din drank half the water and washed his hand with the rest. He wiped his hand and mouth with his lungi. What was he to do, he thought to himself. It was frustrating if he didn't have anything to do. He lit a cigarette. Taherun hummed a tune as she finished her work in the kitchen. It was a favourite habit of hers. Nuruddin listened to her song. He had found something to do, and it made him happy. The world was full of things to do. One just had to look in the right place. He went out into the courtyard.
He had to look for work in order to remain alive. He had had to do a thousand different kinds of jobs after coming back from the war. Ta-herun's song grew louder, and he felt as though the lovely mountain had come near his house. It glowed with the music. At the same time he felt as though the Dahuk was in his yard. He started picking up pebbles from the river bed, standing in chest-deep water. Now it seemed that all those who collected pebbles were present in his house.
Nuruddin felt utterly lonely. It was as if there was no one but Taherun beside him. The stars were making a procession in the dark sky and Taherun's music created a magical atmosphere. It was then he understood why his wife was so proud of his tide, why she wouldn't stop calling him "Bir Pratik." He puffed hard at his cigarette. His heart overflowed like the Mahananda. It seemed as though he could touch the sky and collect the stars to weave a necklace for his wife.
Taherun came out after finishing her work and enquired, "Are you going to bed now?"
114 Selina Hossain
"No." He shook his head. He knew he wouldn't be able to sleep that night.
Taherun said, "Neither can I. Let's sit in the courtyard."
She brought some jute sacks from the house and spread them in the courtyard. She bent over Nuruddin's back and picked at his summer boils. She filled her lungs with the cigarette smoke. There was a time when she smoked a lot. She quit the habit during Mona's wedding. It wasn't worth it. She tried to tell Nuruddin to give up smoking, but he wouldn't listen. He was a chain smoker who lit a new cigarette with his unfinished one. Taherun knew that he would finish the whole packet that night.
They were still trying to forget yesterday's incident.
Sitting where she was, Taherun addressed her husband from behind, "Bir Pratik!"
Blowing the smoke from his mouth, Nuruddin answered, "Do you remember how long ago it was? The war?"
Taherun said, "Twenty-seven years" without even counting for she knew it by heart.
Nuruddin laughed. He started coughing and uttered with some difficulty, "Bhatia asked me to forget about the war."
Taherun was not disheartened. One can't just forget by being told to forget. The war was not such a trivial thing. She didn't pay attention to what Nuruddin was saying.
Suddenly he got up and pulled his wife by the hand and said, "Let's go to the river bank."
Taherun agreed. It would give her peace of mind if she went to the river bank. They used to do this often when they were newly married. Nuruddin was just 26 and Taherun 18.
Time seemed to have sped since then.
After he came back from the war, there was nothing in their house. The razakars and the Pakistan army knew that he had joined the liberation struggle even though he had informed no one he was going to fight. They killed all the members of his family. His four siblings and his parents were all shot, and their bodies thrown into the Dahuk river.
He didn't cry when he came back to the empty house. He watched the sky, the empty lands where his neighbours' houses had been. They were all coming back. Nuruddin didn't see any human beings. Instead
he saw the mountain top, shining in the sunlight. He was dumbfounded at its beauty. That was the time he realized a lot of people had to lose everything to acquire the freedom of this country.
One day a lot of people gathered around his empty' house. Everybody came to see freedom fighter Nuruddin of Tetulia, Dhamnagar. The amazement of the curious onlookers didn't cease. Some of them touched him, some stared at him. But Nuruddin's head was filled with a roar, the roar of the river. Or was it the stone-filled land? The land which had taken away all his father's energy and had left him weak? As he thought of his family, all that came to his mind was the stone-filled land. The land which did not speak but gave birth to life, to laughter and to tears. Nuruddin sat with his head on his hand.
Someone removed his hand and asked, "How did you fight the war?"
He chuckled looking at the young people. What could he say? How could he describe how he fought? He would make mistakes if he tried to narrate the story. So he kept quiet. He looked into the distance, beyond the fields, far into the horizon. He suddenly felt that there were no boundaries.
Yet more questions.
"How many Pak soldiers did you kill?"
"Weren't you scared?"
"We thought of you often."
"Your father was a good man."
"Your mother was a good woman."
"We will all help you."
"We will build a house for you tomorrow."
"Eat at my house tonight and sleep there too. You can return to your own place in the morning."
"You can sleep in your new house tomorrow."
"Let's go now."
Nuruddin just said that his father had dreamt of having a shallow pump so that he could grow paddy in his own field.
He started wailing. "Oh, Allah!"
That was the first time he cried. As he continued to cry, more and more people crowded around him. He felt suffocated. He kept his head
between his knees and tried to feel the pebbles in his body. He had to have the strength of a boulder. Solid, immovable.
Days passed quickly for Nuruddin after that.
The villagers all helped him to make his house. They arranged his marriage with Taherun. He felt as though everything was happening too quickly.
When he talked about earning money, Taherun said, "Why don't you plough the land."
At this Nuruddin kept quiet. He knew that this was one-crop land. Only aman could be grown here. For boro one needed a lot of water, a shallow pump. How could one support a family with only one crop? There would be new members in his family soon. Thinking of a new member, he started smiling.
Taherun asked, "Why are you smiling?"
"Just like that."
"You have to tell me why you are smiling."
His smile turned into a laugh.
"It's the thought of you having a baby that makes me happy."
Taherun hugged him hearing this. Nuruddin felt that pebbles would not hinder people like him from ploughing from any land.
Taherun spoke with her face against his chest, "I'll plant the seeds with the child on my back. I feel so happy just thinking about it. My son will eat rice grown on our own land."
Life seemed to hold no fears for them. The years ahead glowed with hope.
But Nuruddin's planning was in vain. They couldn't lead their lives the way he wanted to. The baby came, and it became difficult to carry on with a piece of land that yielded only one crop. So he started collecting pebbles from the river Dahuk. He searched the river bed with an iron rod to find pebbles. Then he picked them up with a shovel. He filled his basket with pebbles and carried it on his head to the bank.
The river bank looked very different with heaps of pebbles. Big and small heaps of pebbles. Nuruddin realized that mountains like these kept him and people like him alive. But these mountains belonged to someone else. The businessmen from Bhatia bought these heaps with money. There were another set of people who cleaned the sand from the pebbles. The pebbles were sorted into heaps of the same size. They
all looked so beautiful. Sometimes their shapes were beautiful, at other times their colour. Taherun worked with her baby strapped to her back.
Nuruddin no longer dreamt about fields of crops. He had sold all his land. The house was the only thing left.
Taherun would sit down under a tree when she was tired. When Nuruddin came to sit beside her, she would say, "Bir Pratik, I want to drink some water."
Nurrundin would bring some water from the river for her. As she drank the water, her heart felt like the pebble field. The water was absorbed very quickly by it. Their lives had changed. But .Nuruddin didn't get disheartened. He felt that there was a lovely underground land below the river. It was much more beautiful than the stone-filled lands above. But it was this work that allowed him to remain in his village. He would otherwise have been a day labourer and would have had to go where there was work. He did not want to leave this place. There would have been no point of the war then. It was on this land where he wanted to feel the taste of a free country. He wanted to be alive among the trees, the fields, the rivers, and the people. All of these were close to his heart. He had grown up amidst these. His parents, his childhood - all had to be sacrificed for the war. Even then he didn't want to move. He didn't want to be a gipsy; he abhorred gipsies.
He hated the Bhatia landlords who had come and bought their lands at low prices. They were the gipsies. They had left their own places and come to their village to make a fortune.
One of these men couldn't stand Nuruddin. When he heard about Nuruddin being a freedom fighter, he said, "What nonsense! Who said he is a 'Bir Pratik? He is no such thing. He is just being clever!"
One day Nuruddin tried to choke Hashmat by gripping his throat. He warned Hashmat that he would break his skull if he ever said this again. You rascal! You had to come to my land to become a landowner. You don't have any land of your own!"
Nuruddin's neck veins were visible as he muttered, ICYou didn't fight for the country, did you? You got it with the blood and sweat of people like us who fought and freed the country. Now we have become a problem, huh? We will fight again and drive you out this time! Either you stay here or I do!"
Hashmat didn't continue the conversation. He was a razakar, a traitor. He had fled from Mymensingh with a lot of money. A relation of his had helped him. Now the razakars were getting strong.
Nuruddin's days passed like this. Sometimes standing face to face with the enemies of the country and at other times thinking of a new war. In the meantime he continued to heap pebbles. "See, I have made a Himalayan mountain!"
Nowadays Hashmat was acting differently. There was a minister from his party in the cabinet. Fie told Nuruddin, "Forget about the war. It's not going to do you any good. The T3ir Pratik' tide doesn't mean a thing."
Nuruddin was dumbfounded. He wondered how people could forget about those days. He couldn't believe people of this country could forget. He sat near the river for a long time.
Taherun told her neighbour, Gedu's mother, "It's late. My husband will be home soon. I should put the rice on."
"What is it that you call him?" Gedu's mother asked.
"Bir Pratik." Taherun felt proud saying this.
Till that afternoon they had collected pebbles and made heaps to be taken to Dhaka by trucks.
Why wasn't her husband back, she thought to herself. Was he having a row with Hashmat again? Was Hashmat telling Nuruddin that he would get him as the razakars had members in the cabinet now?
Nuruddin was still not back when Taherun finished cooking rice. She left the house to look for him.
She saw him sitting on the banks of die Dahuk. She sat beside him and called him, "Bir Pratik!"
Without looking at her, he said, "We will fight again. We need another war."
"What did you just say?"
"You heard me!"
"Let's go home. You have to have your lunch."
A few days later some young boys came and stood beside him. He didn't stop working. He was paid according to the amount of work he did. So if he stopped working it would be his loss.
Taherun was working beside him. She stopped as the boys approached.
One of the boys said, "You are a freedom fighter, Bir Prauk Nurud-din."
Taherun answered, "You are right!"
As Nuruddin looked up, the young man said, "I work for the BBC. Can I interview you?"
"Why?"
"You fought for the independence of the country"
"The war is not finished yet," Nuruddin said quietly.
"No?"
"No." His voice was firm. He didn't look at anything.
The journalist was somewhat surprised. What was Nuruddin talking about, he wondered. He wanted to interview people for a report. The people of the village pointed at Nuruddin when he had asked around.
He put his tape recorder in front of Nuruddin and said, "What were you saying, Mr Nuruddin?"
"What I said was that we are in a ceasefire."
"Ceasefire?" the journalist echood. Nuruddin returned to his work with a smile on his face. He didn't look at the journalist. The noise of breaking stone continued.
The journalist said, "Could you please repeat what you just said? We are in a ceasefire'?"
"I learnt this word during the war. Now I know the meaning of the word. We need another war."
The journalist stared at Nuruddin for a while. All his hair was grey. The veins on his hands could be seen. One could count his rib bones. The torn T-shirt couldn't hide everything.
A bit later Nuruddin said something to Taherun which the journalist did not understand.
Translated from "Ceasefire" by Jackie Kabir
Taherun asked her husband, "What are you doing, Bir Pratik Nuruddin? Are you ready to have your lunch now?"
"What have you prepared?"
"Lafa greens and shidol bhorta, mashed dried fish."
"Yes, I'll eat now. Serve the rice."
Nuruddin's face brightened at the thought of food. He smiled with a childlike enthusiasm. It was hard to imagine this man as a fierce freedom fighter. From all around, the villagers came to see him when he returned home a victorious hero. People were overwhelmed by his achievements. He was awarded the title of "Bir Pratik." Everyone started addressing him as "Bir Pratik Nuruddin." Gradually everyone except Taherun gave up calling him by that name. Now and then she called him "Bir Pratik Nuruddin" to remind him of his glorious past. He felt both joy and pride at this. He was a poor man. He didn't have much to pride in, no money, no wealth. His honour was his only asset. The memories of those days were his only wealth; they were very precious. No one could steal them from him. No thief, no hijacker. No one!
Taherun brought a plate of rice. Seeing the greens and fish bhorta on top of the heap of rice, Nuruddin felt hungry. His mouth began to water.
He hadn't been aware of his hunger before seeing the plate of steaming rice. Sometimes he told himself his hunger should be satisfied with pebbles because he collected pebbles from the bottom of the river. He told himself that a poor day labourer shouldn't feel hungry.
Taking the plate from Taherun, he said, "Bring your plate and eat with me." Taherun brought her plate from the kitchen and sat down.
The pot in which she had cooked rice lay empty near the chula. Taherun knew exactly how much rice was needed for the two of them. Not a single grain exceeded the amount nor fell short.
Nuruddin was proud of his wife's skill at estimating how much
was needed. He asked, "How do you manage to cook exactly the right amount?"
Taherun did not bother to answer. She knew men would never understand these things. They just couldn't understand household stuff but would of course never admit it. But she ate with her husband. This was something she enjoyed doing. When she was young, she saw that her mother and aunts would wait to eat after the male members of the family had eaten. She couldn't imagine doing that. She and her husband enjoyed each other's company while they ate. They discussed things, shared jokes. That was the only time they could do so. All day they collected pebbles. And, on returning home, she had to cook, coat the floor with wet clay, wash pots and pans, clean the place. Eating together was a luxury. A few moments of happiness. And she loved to share them with her husband.
When she sat down, she noticed that Nuruddin was eating with undivided attention. He had poured some hot water onto his plate. She knew he did it sometimes, specially when he was really happy. That was the time he realized that he didn't deserve anything other than watered rice. With his kind of earning how could he expect anything better? Taherun knew her husband's habits and supported his ideas. She felt he could never be wrong in his actions; a person willing to sacrifice his life for his country could never be wrong. That's why he had got the tide of "Bir Pratik" she thought.
She told him, "I'd like to have watered rice also."
"Go ahead then," said Nuruddin, without looking up from his plate.
It was difficult for him to talk with his mouth full of rice.
A bubbling noise accompanied the rising steam as Taherun also poured water onto her hot rice. She giggled and told her husband, "My plate is like the river. The river Dahuk."
Nuruddin laughed with his wife. He swallowed his mouthful. The peals of their laughter reached the yard.
Nuruddin commented, "It seems as though your plate is full of pebbles."
"Pebbles? We are pebble people after all, aren't we?"
They both became quiet. Were they really pebble people? They bowed their heads, mixing the rice with mashed dried fish and spinach.
The green bits of the lafa floated on their plates like lotus leaves on a pond. They seemed to be saying, Forget your unhappiness, forget your sorrow.
Nuruddin rubbed his eyes with his left hand. So did Taherun. They hadn't got their wages that day. The employer had told them they would not be paid that week.
How was she going to feed Bir Pratik Nuruddin? She dried her eyes. She slowly ate her food.
How was he going to tell her that he was hungry when he would no 'longer be able to buy rice?
It was not that easy to put nee on a plate. Whenever Nuruddin thought of that he was shaken. It was amazing how it took up the whole of one's time just to put rice on one's plate. For this he spent all his time near the Banglabandha and Tetulia highway and cleaned the pebbles and collected them in heaps. There were others who collected pebbles from the Dahuk. Young men, sometimes younger boys, brought thousands of stones which fell into the Dahuk, brought in by the Mahananda. Both these rivers had collected the love, pain, sorrow of people over the years. The love of a lifetime which couldn't be repaid. Nuruddin grew pensive. He thought of their daughter, their only child. She was at her in-laws' and they hadn't seen her in weeks, perhaps months. How could they afford to visit her? They were the poorest of the poor. It really didn't suit them to have extravagant thoughts. Taherun looked thoughtful as well.
She finished eating and said quietly, "Haven't seen her in a long time."
"Let's go and see her."
Nuruddin's eyes lit up for a split second before losing their lustre again. It would be sheer luxury. It was no use thinking about going to see their daughter. It would be best if they didn't think about it at the moment. The love they felt for her should be kept in their hearts, in silence. They finished their meal.
They were both trying to forget what had happened the day before . They were both burning with anger and sorrow. But they didn't express it to each other. Instead, they tried to focus on other things. Taherun had kept his tide "Bir Pratik" alive by using it all the time. She felt proud to use it. No one else in the whole village had that tide.This was her only treasure. The most valuable thing in her mud hut. It was like sleeping in
one's own bed. They were content with it, if not happy.
They stared at the Kanchanjanga at leisure. It could be seen beyond the fields. Through the mist, its tip shone with the gold of the sun. They gazed at the beautiful scene in wonder. They had a lot in their lives: the rivers, the mountains, and the pebble hills. They had to sell the last of their land to moneylenders and yet they had the dreams and courage to fight, seek, and not to yield. They would fight again if need be.
In fact they were trying to forget yesterday's incident.
As Taherun got up with her plate, she asked, "Would you like to drink some water?"
"Yes, please."
Taherum washed her own plate and poured some water in it. Nurud-din drank half the water and washed his hand with the rest. He wiped his hand and mouth with his lungi. What was he to do, he thought to himself. It was frustrating if he didn't have anything to do. He lit a cigarette. Taherun hummed a tune as she finished her work in the kitchen. It was a favourite habit of hers. Nuruddin listened to her song. He had found something to do, and it made him happy. The world was full of things to do. One just had to look in the right place. He went out into the courtyard.
He had to look for work in order to remain alive. He had had to do a thousand different kinds of jobs after coming back from the war. Ta-herun's song grew louder, and he felt as though the lovely mountain had come near his house. It glowed with the music. At the same time he felt as though the Dahuk was in his yard. He started picking up pebbles from the river bed, standing in chest-deep water. Now it seemed that all those who collected pebbles were present in his house.
Nuruddin felt utterly lonely. It was as if there was no one but Taherun beside him. The stars were making a procession in the dark sky and Taherun's music created a magical atmosphere. It was then he understood why his wife was so proud of his tide, why she wouldn't stop calling him "Bir Pratik." He puffed hard at his cigarette. His heart overflowed like the Mahananda. It seemed as though he could touch the sky and collect the stars to weave a necklace for his wife.
Taherun came out after finishing her work and enquired, "Are you going to bed now?"
114 Selina Hossain
"No." He shook his head. He knew he wouldn't be able to sleep that night.
Taherun said, "Neither can I. Let's sit in the courtyard."
She brought some jute sacks from the house and spread them in the courtyard. She bent over Nuruddin's back and picked at his summer boils. She filled her lungs with the cigarette smoke. There was a time when she smoked a lot. She quit the habit during Mona's wedding. It wasn't worth it. She tried to tell Nuruddin to give up smoking, but he wouldn't listen. He was a chain smoker who lit a new cigarette with his unfinished one. Taherun knew that he would finish the whole packet that night.
They were still trying to forget yesterday's incident.
Sitting where she was, Taherun addressed her husband from behind, "Bir Pratik!"
Blowing the smoke from his mouth, Nuruddin answered, "Do you remember how long ago it was? The war?"
Taherun said, "Twenty-seven years" without even counting for she knew it by heart.
Nuruddin laughed. He started coughing and uttered with some difficulty, "Bhatia asked me to forget about the war."
Taherun was not disheartened. One can't just forget by being told to forget. The war was not such a trivial thing. She didn't pay attention to what Nuruddin was saying.
Suddenly he got up and pulled his wife by the hand and said, "Let's go to the river bank."
Taherun agreed. It would give her peace of mind if she went to the river bank. They used to do this often when they were newly married. Nuruddin was just 26 and Taherun 18.
Time seemed to have sped since then.
After he came back from the war, there was nothing in their house. The razakars and the Pakistan army knew that he had joined the liberation struggle even though he had informed no one he was going to fight. They killed all the members of his family. His four siblings and his parents were all shot, and their bodies thrown into the Dahuk river.
He didn't cry when he came back to the empty house. He watched the sky, the empty lands where his neighbours' houses had been. They were all coming back. Nuruddin didn't see any human beings. Instead
he saw the mountain top, shining in the sunlight. He was dumbfounded at its beauty. That was the time he realized a lot of people had to lose everything to acquire the freedom of this country.
One day a lot of people gathered around his empty' house. Everybody came to see freedom fighter Nuruddin of Tetulia, Dhamnagar. The amazement of the curious onlookers didn't cease. Some of them touched him, some stared at him. But Nuruddin's head was filled with a roar, the roar of the river. Or was it the stone-filled land? The land which had taken away all his father's energy and had left him weak? As he thought of his family, all that came to his mind was the stone-filled land. The land which did not speak but gave birth to life, to laughter and to tears. Nuruddin sat with his head on his hand.
Someone removed his hand and asked, "How did you fight the war?"
He chuckled looking at the young people. What could he say? How could he describe how he fought? He would make mistakes if he tried to narrate the story. So he kept quiet. He looked into the distance, beyond the fields, far into the horizon. He suddenly felt that there were no boundaries.
Yet more questions.
"How many Pak soldiers did you kill?"
"Weren't you scared?"
"We thought of you often."
"Your father was a good man."
"Your mother was a good woman."
"We will all help you."
"We will build a house for you tomorrow."
"Eat at my house tonight and sleep there too. You can return to your own place in the morning."
"You can sleep in your new house tomorrow."
"Let's go now."
Nuruddin just said that his father had dreamt of having a shallow pump so that he could grow paddy in his own field.
He started wailing. "Oh, Allah!"
That was the first time he cried. As he continued to cry, more and more people crowded around him. He felt suffocated. He kept his head
between his knees and tried to feel the pebbles in his body. He had to have the strength of a boulder. Solid, immovable.
Days passed quickly for Nuruddin after that.
The villagers all helped him to make his house. They arranged his marriage with Taherun. He felt as though everything was happening too quickly.
When he talked about earning money, Taherun said, "Why don't you plough the land."
At this Nuruddin kept quiet. He knew that this was one-crop land. Only aman could be grown here. For boro one needed a lot of water, a shallow pump. How could one support a family with only one crop? There would be new members in his family soon. Thinking of a new member, he started smiling.
Taherun asked, "Why are you smiling?"
"Just like that."
"You have to tell me why you are smiling."
His smile turned into a laugh.
"It's the thought of you having a baby that makes me happy."
Taherun hugged him hearing this. Nuruddin felt that pebbles would not hinder people like him from ploughing from any land.
Taherun spoke with her face against his chest, "I'll plant the seeds with the child on my back. I feel so happy just thinking about it. My son will eat rice grown on our own land."
Life seemed to hold no fears for them. The years ahead glowed with hope.
But Nuruddin's planning was in vain. They couldn't lead their lives the way he wanted to. The baby came, and it became difficult to carry on with a piece of land that yielded only one crop. So he started collecting pebbles from the river Dahuk. He searched the river bed with an iron rod to find pebbles. Then he picked them up with a shovel. He filled his basket with pebbles and carried it on his head to the bank.
The river bank looked very different with heaps of pebbles. Big and small heaps of pebbles. Nuruddin realized that mountains like these kept him and people like him alive. But these mountains belonged to someone else. The businessmen from Bhatia bought these heaps with money. There were another set of people who cleaned the sand from the pebbles. The pebbles were sorted into heaps of the same size. They
all looked so beautiful. Sometimes their shapes were beautiful, at other times their colour. Taherun worked with her baby strapped to her back.
Nuruddin no longer dreamt about fields of crops. He had sold all his land. The house was the only thing left.
Taherun would sit down under a tree when she was tired. When Nuruddin came to sit beside her, she would say, "Bir Pratik, I want to drink some water."
Nurrundin would bring some water from the river for her. As she drank the water, her heart felt like the pebble field. The water was absorbed very quickly by it. Their lives had changed. But .Nuruddin didn't get disheartened. He felt that there was a lovely underground land below the river. It was much more beautiful than the stone-filled lands above. But it was this work that allowed him to remain in his village. He would otherwise have been a day labourer and would have had to go where there was work. He did not want to leave this place. There would have been no point of the war then. It was on this land where he wanted to feel the taste of a free country. He wanted to be alive among the trees, the fields, the rivers, and the people. All of these were close to his heart. He had grown up amidst these. His parents, his childhood - all had to be sacrificed for the war. Even then he didn't want to move. He didn't want to be a gipsy; he abhorred gipsies.
He hated the Bhatia landlords who had come and bought their lands at low prices. They were the gipsies. They had left their own places and come to their village to make a fortune.
One of these men couldn't stand Nuruddin. When he heard about Nuruddin being a freedom fighter, he said, "What nonsense! Who said he is a 'Bir Pratik? He is no such thing. He is just being clever!"
One day Nuruddin tried to choke Hashmat by gripping his throat. He warned Hashmat that he would break his skull if he ever said this again. You rascal! You had to come to my land to become a landowner. You don't have any land of your own!"
Nuruddin's neck veins were visible as he muttered, ICYou didn't fight for the country, did you? You got it with the blood and sweat of people like us who fought and freed the country. Now we have become a problem, huh? We will fight again and drive you out this time! Either you stay here or I do!"
Hashmat didn't continue the conversation. He was a razakar, a traitor. He had fled from Mymensingh with a lot of money. A relation of his had helped him. Now the razakars were getting strong.
Nuruddin's days passed like this. Sometimes standing face to face with the enemies of the country and at other times thinking of a new war. In the meantime he continued to heap pebbles. "See, I have made a Himalayan mountain!"
Nowadays Hashmat was acting differently. There was a minister from his party in the cabinet. Fie told Nuruddin, "Forget about the war. It's not going to do you any good. The T3ir Pratik' tide doesn't mean a thing."
Nuruddin was dumbfounded. He wondered how people could forget about those days. He couldn't believe people of this country could forget. He sat near the river for a long time.
Taherun told her neighbour, Gedu's mother, "It's late. My husband will be home soon. I should put the rice on."
"What is it that you call him?" Gedu's mother asked.
"Bir Pratik." Taherun felt proud saying this.
Till that afternoon they had collected pebbles and made heaps to be taken to Dhaka by trucks.
Why wasn't her husband back, she thought to herself. Was he having a row with Hashmat again? Was Hashmat telling Nuruddin that he would get him as the razakars had members in the cabinet now?
Nuruddin was still not back when Taherun finished cooking rice. She left the house to look for him.
She saw him sitting on the banks of die Dahuk. She sat beside him and called him, "Bir Pratik!"
Without looking at her, he said, "We will fight again. We need another war."
"What did you just say?"
"You heard me!"
"Let's go home. You have to have your lunch."
A few days later some young boys came and stood beside him. He didn't stop working. He was paid according to the amount of work he did. So if he stopped working it would be his loss.
Taherun was working beside him. She stopped as the boys approached.
One of the boys said, "You are a freedom fighter, Bir Prauk Nurud-din."
Taherun answered, "You are right!"
As Nuruddin looked up, the young man said, "I work for the BBC. Can I interview you?"
"Why?"
"You fought for the independence of the country"
"The war is not finished yet," Nuruddin said quietly.
"No?"
"No." His voice was firm. He didn't look at anything.
The journalist was somewhat surprised. What was Nuruddin talking about, he wondered. He wanted to interview people for a report. The people of the village pointed at Nuruddin when he had asked around.
He put his tape recorder in front of Nuruddin and said, "What were you saying, Mr Nuruddin?"
"What I said was that we are in a ceasefire."
"Ceasefire?" the journalist echood. Nuruddin returned to his work with a smile on his face. He didn't look at the journalist. The noise of breaking stone continued.
The journalist said, "Could you please repeat what you just said? We are in a ceasefire'?"
"I learnt this word during the war. Now I know the meaning of the word. We need another war."
The journalist stared at Nuruddin for a while. All his hair was grey. The veins on his hands could be seen. One could count his rib bones. The torn T-shirt couldn't hide everything.
A bit later Nuruddin said something to Taherun which the journalist did not understand.
Translated from "Ceasefire" by Jackie Kabir
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