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Short Story

At the Window

Rashid Haider (translated by Jamil .Ahmed)
I could clearly see behind our house the ash heap beside which the huge date palm rose up into the sky, and in which the five babui bird nests swayed in the breeze. Even in the midst of such pain. 1 felt a joy on seeing them We had entered into the country on December 6th. That day had been for our group a mix of intense sadness and laughter, b At noon, before we left for our mission.
Nawsher Bhai. our group leader, came running to breathlessly inform us, I've got some good news for you fellows.
We were then dividing into pre-operational small groups, but we left it to come at a dead run. Nawsher Bhai said, Today India is going to accord us recognition. Oh. what joy there was on hearing this news! And in the excitement of the moment when Malek of our group raised his rifle in the air and Bang! Bang! let loose a few shots our team leader turned on him angrily: You idiot! Don't you know what this can lead to?
It seemed as if Nawsher Bhai himself wanted to shoot Malek dead, but instead he kicked Malek, and the latter on being flung five feet away understood the gravity of the act he had committed. The strong Pakistani army base, roughly a mile and a quarter away, till then had been unaware of our presence. Our intention was to creep forward at noon, gradually surround them on all four sides and launch the attack at evening. A winter day, dusk by five o'clock. But all planning was ruined by those shots of joy by Malek. We lost four of our comrades, seven were seriously injured and a further twelve were lightly wounded. The sound of the shots had alerted the Pakistanis to our positions. And there was nothing else to do but accept the result--we had come here knowing we could die or be injured. Whether we lived or not was something we did not think about.
It was as if we lived without any thoughts of living. Even after so much had happened, seeing the babui bird nests gave us joy. It was on the crest of that joy that we pushed on towards home--though I knew nobody was home, that nobody could be home. Roughly seven months back, four days after I left home, I had heard that our village was still standing, and that there were even a few houses intact. But there were no people there. Everybody had fled. .And though I knew there was nobody there of my family, yet even then that house seemed the best and sweetest place to be. Even if there was nothing else, at least my room would be there, the verandah and the yard, the well, and beneath the arch of the big tree, the thatch-roof kitchen.
I am surprised. They had not damaged the house at all. Though next door. Manu Uncle's house is not a house anymore, just the four charred stumps of its foundation, with blackened tin sheets and broken pots and pans scattered around. A dog among the livestock. 1 knew that dog well. It used to bark without cause. I saw it lift its head and take a good look at me. Dogs are supposed to follow at the heels of their masters. And though 1 was not its master yet I had expected its eyes to light up with a question: So you've come? It did not do so. It continued to lie curled up into a ball smelling the earth and soaking up the sunshine.
How astonishing that after I entered the house. 1 sat down after clearing my throat. Our home had at least five womenfolk: Mother, two sisters, the maid and my wife. Firoza. Before Firoza came, I would appear before the main door of the house and call out for Mother. My call changed after Firoza came. And one day my sister went ahead and said it--I didn't call for Mother as I used to before. Ashamed, from then on I would simply clear my throat to let them know that I was home. But today in this empty house who had 1 let know? The thought came momentarily, made me laugh, and then vanished. I went to the verandah adjoining my room and sat down.
My home, my room, all mine, yet looking at everything with new eyes I saw my boyhood running hither and thither across the yard, saw my mother on a winter night sitting by the stove cooking, the light from the fire lighting up her face, and then subsiding. Very clearly I sawTamizuddin, Korban, Bazlu and Dildar go out the main door carrying my father's dead body, my mother falling on the floor of this verandah crying. Saw myself in
wedding clothes bringing into this home Firoza. How long had it been? Not even eight months.
What was I to do now? Where would I go in search of Mother, sisters and wife? Where had they gone, there was nobody in neighbouring homes that I could ask. How would I know who had fled where? 1 found out soon enough that I did not have the strength to walk; it was as if I never had the strength to walk anywhere. Though even yesterday when with rifle on my shoulder I had sometimes walked, sometimes run, and even forded a canal with the rifle held high above the water it had seemed as if the only way to rest my legs was to lie down with death. But now having sat down with a thud, I understood that the verandah was inviting my body to let go, saying lie down, lie down, this is your house and to have your meal and lie down in your own bed is why you trekked through jungle and forest and field, played with death in canals and streams with the hot sun and rain beating down on your head--now it's time you got some rest. But I kept thinking, where could they have gone. To my maternal grandfather's? But that was far from here, not less than thirty miles. Even more importantly, my grandfather's house nestled close to Chairman Yunus's house, a man to be feared even more than the Pakistan army. I had heard that he had saved his own daughter by handing over his brother's daughter to the army. And to hand over my sisters and wife to him would be no matter.
How surprising, the moment the thought entered my mind my legs regained all strength, my legs acted as a spur, that if I delayed even by a second I perhaps would miss Chairman Yunus, that he too was using
his legs to flee. In a trice I jumped up--only to hear as 1 stepped on to the yard: Going?
A silent village, a desolate neighbourhood, an empty home, amid which what woman's voice called out to me: Going?
For a minute I thought it must be the wind calling. I cocked my ears. And this time there was no mistake: Going?
Who is it? Who's calling?
Standing in my own yard I felt as if I was standing in some unknown place, as if I ought to flee immediately. With my voice sounding strange to my own ears, again 1 said: Who is it? Who's calling?
I am.
At once my eyes flew towards the window in Mother's room overlooking the verandah, where I was astonished to sec Firoza's face. Her expressionless face, her two stone-cold eyes surveyed me. Instantly I forgot everything, Mother sisters this house all vanished; I went to the door of Mother's room screaming out loud her name only to see a big padlock swinging on the door. I rushed to the window. But to my shock Firoza stepped back and disappeared, and though I looked through the bars, behind it and to the sides, I could not see her.
Firoza! Firoza!
From inside the room's northern corner came the reply: Stand away from the window.
Why, Firoza, why?
I'm going to come to the window.
Why won't you come if I'm by the window?
That's why I won't come there.
Suddenly something burst inside me, and though I struck my head repeatedly against the thatch walls of the house Firoza still didn't come within range of my sight. In a calm voice she said, Step down into the yard. Firoza, Firoza, I didn't even dream of finding you, but why don't you come to me?
You step down into the yard.
Firoza, I'm your husband.
That's why you should be in the yard.
How strange! Haven't you come to me before, haven't you?
Step down into the yard.
Okay, Firoza. You see me like you do those others? We have seen each other's body, haven't we?
Firoza spoke even more calmly: Step down into the yard.
I felt like falling to the ground and crying out loud. I saw everything in the house as if in a mirror. Firoza's body was not only a mirror to me, I knew every inch of it, but even then she wouldn't appear before me, didn't want to show any of it except her face. Had she fallen prey to the Pakistan army?
Firoza, did the Pakistan army get you?
Yes.
When?
The day everybody fled the village.
So where are Mother, Raju and Shaju?
They managed to escape.
Why couldn't you?
Because I thought I'd get caught.
So did you giye yourself up?
No.
Making the air and sky tremble and weep, I said, Then it's not your fault. That's not your offence. You did not give yourself up, all over the country thousands of women have been defiled. I accept everything. Please come to the window.
Step down into the yard.
The blood rushed to my head. I aimed the rifle at the door and shot at the lock; It hit, but didn’t blow it off. As the bullet ricocheted through the tin door and went inside the room Firoza said, Please don't shoot.
I’m going to blow the lock off and enter the room.
Then you won't find me.
Firoza, Firoza, what are you saying?
I'm going to stand in line with the lock.
Meaning?
So the bullet hits me after coming through the door.
I couldn't think of what else to do. Should I use the rifle butt to break the lock? When I desperately began to hit the lock with the rifle butt, from the other side Firoza said, I told you, if you see me you won't get me, will never get me. Please step down into the yard.
In a pleading voice I asked, But Firoza, what is my fault?
You are not at fault. Believe me, you're my pride.
So why aren't you coming to the window?
Step down into the yard.
Firoza's direction sounds like an oracle to me. Like a man hypnotized I step into the yard and call out in a subdued voice: Firoza, I'm your husband.
I know.
So why won't you come before me?
In an unnaturally calm voice Firoza replied: I can't.
Suddenly the thought flashed through my mind, were there no clothes covering her body?
You, are you not covered?
Yes.
But what’s the problem? I'm your husband.
I'm now in the yard.
I saw that Firoza's face had appeared in the window. Again, like a man hypnotized, I called out: Firoza!
In a voice calm as the sky, Firoza merely answered, I can see you in full. Whatever you can see of me, see that only.
'Slightly abridged for publication.
Rashid Haider is a Bangladeshi writer. Jamil Ahmed lives in the UK