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NON-FICTION

Coming home

DILARA MAWLA MONZUR
(Continued from last week)
The moistened pillow would tell me I had been crying silent tears. The wails and screams of that ill-fated girl's mother pierced my ears. It was living hell I was going through. I had not gone to see my friend for the last time. I couldn't bear the thought of seeing her wrapped in a shroud. On the third day, I mustered up courage, for my mother kept saying that the girl's mother would feel good to see her daughter's friends around.
What I confronted there, for that I was least prepared. I saw my friend's mother, lying on the carpet, her head resting on a cushion. I, along with other friends stepped into the room. The lady sprang up at the sight of us. She screamed, then, started sobbing and wailing.
"You are too late! She got married and is at her in-laws now, but you know what? She went empty-handed. There was so much I had in mind for her, but she took nothing, just went empty-handed!'
She looked into the distance as she said this. She was not crying any more. That far away look stayed for a while. Then she returned to normal, and gave us a smile, and asked us the usual questions that we were so used to sharing with her. We did not answer, for now it was our turn to cry. Oh! How those pent-up feelings gushed out in the form of tears and stifled sobs, hard to explain the feelings we were going through then!
Troubled thoughts never seemed to leave my mind. The nights seemed too long, and I desperately waited for daybreak. The sound of the 'Azan' seemed so soothing to my ears! I shared the room with my three other sisters. The youngest sister shared a room with my parents. I have three brothers. By the Grace of Allah, we are eight brothers and sister. One sister left for her eternal abode in 2010, creating a vacuum in our lives. Of my brothers, one was not in Pakistan at the time, for when the War of Liberation broke out he was at the heart of it. The two brothers who were there shared a room. It was a three-bedroom house. The authorities had kindly consented to independent accommodation for our family, while in the case of those bungalows, two or more families shared each bungalow. The place was Warsak P.A.F. Officers Residential Area, vacated on an urgent basis to be turned into a oncentration Camp. The place in itself was beautiful. It was the circumstances that were making things ugly! I remember my delight at the sight of the beautiful rose garden that greeted my eyes. I have not seen such beautiful big roses since then, so many colours, black too.. Lush-green lawn, surrounded by tall trees, and flowers planted in rows, that was the front-side view. It was the mango tree that caught my fancy.
The confined officers could not suddenly give up their old habit of dressing well, and eating well. This became an eye-sore to the observers and was reported. The money that each officer was given on a monthly basis was cut down to half, with the cynicism, 'Cut down your living standard. It seems you were being given too much to be able to afford a grand living. That's a waste, and cannot be afforded.'
In fact, it was not their money that made life smoother initially, but the savings those people had in the bank and had withdrawn, fearing some abnormal situation would come up. Worse was to come. As the second year of confined life began, we were greeted with the news that from then onward no money would be given to us, just rationed food, and oh, what coarse stuff it was! What about clothing and other necessities? All the saved up money was going into that and some were even getting worried at the dreaded thought of getting penniless! Despite all, the prisoners wished to keep their spirits switched on and tried to make life as normal as possible. They would get together, sing some patriotic songs, which eventually reached the ears of the authorities, and that too was reprimanded. However, the school that was run by the officers, out in the open land, to keep their children in touch with books and studies was not interfered with. Some college-going boys, including my brother, requested special permission to attend classes in Edward College Peshawar, and Allah's mercy was there, for they were granted that permission, escorted by strict security, and on roll call while leaving and coming back, just like real prisoners! The principal of the college, knowing the situation they were in, did not charge them any fees, a very noble gesture on his part, or education in such a prestigious college would have cost too much to be within their means. Allah surely is merciful. It is just that all in this world have to go through trials at different points in life! We had faced the trial, and were praying with all our hearts to be given enough courage, patience and resilience to make it to the end successfully. All prayed fervently day and night. At last came the bright day with the sweet tidings, music to our ears. Our prayers were answered. We were going to Bangladesh! We could not contain our joy. First Alhamdulillah and then 'Joy Bangla' was how everyone who heard the news reacted. Then all got into chorus and paraded the camp grounds shouting slogans of'Joy Bangla'.
We were to go to Bangladesh in three batches. Our family was in the first batch. My brothers had about a hundred pigeons or so. It pained them to give them away, for they knew they would turn into food, and so they did, they were told later. My mother and father, together, had spent hours in the vegetable garden, and those vegetables were waiting to be plucked! They looked at their garden for some time, as if to say 'goodbye'. My mother had a chick hatched by pigeons. The rare thing about the chick was that it flew more and was on its claws less. It always flew over and sat on my mother's shoulders the moment she caught sight of her. My mother gave it to a woman who came to our house often to sell bangles and such stuff. The way she cried for that chick, anyone would have thought she was crying for a person!
Just when we were about to board the vehicle that was to take us to the railway station, 1 ran up to my father and gave him his box of medals and awards, saying 'You forgot to pack these, Abba.'
'Just leave them where you found them,' he said.
'O.k. then I will keep it with my things,' I said.
'No!' Just that one word and the look in his eyes told me I had to put them back where I found them, though it made me sad. They were souvenirs. Why was he leaving them behind?
One last look at the house, the place, and we were all on board. The vehicle started to move.
'Joy Bangla!' the officers chanted in chorus, their faces beaming, and eveiyone joined in too.
I remember my mixed emotions as we were about to leave Warsak. Quite natural for one to feel that way! The land seemed to be calling out, 'Don't leave! We'll miss you!' It was just my imagination making me remember my life there, from infancy to teens! Then I was back to normal, excited at the idea of leaving for Bangladesh, my home, the place where I really belonged, the land of my roots! I was grateful to my parents for the love, warmth and affection showered on us even during those hard times. In their glee, nobody seemed to mind the discomfort of a very uncomfortable train journey to Karachi. We were perched on a 1947 bogie! I think they could not come up with an older one! Once in Karachi, we were kept in a transit camp for a week, and finally the blessed day arrived.
The B.A.F. Officers' Mess was thronging with people. While everyone was seen taking turns in going to the washroom, I took a stroll outside and looked around, admiring the greenery that surrounded the place.
"How beautiful my country is!" I thought.
Just then my eyes fell on the portion of the building that wore the traces of devastation, the effect of shelling, or bombing, giving some glimpses of the atrocities committed by the Pakistan army there. For a split second, I imagined myself caught in the gruesome happenings of that period...and came out with a shudder. By the time I returned from the stroll and went inside, I saw that most of the people who had come with us had left for their homes. I noticed some relatives who had come to greet us.
I said, "Assalamu Alaikum!”
My mother said in a low voice, 'Show your respect.'
I was confused, "I did!' I smiled and looked at the visitor. 'Perhaps you didn't notice."
My mother pointed to the feet, for she wanted me to do it the Bengali way, by touching the feet. I just stood there, puzzled.
The visitors understood and quickly said, "That's o.k. No need!"
Then came the pinch, 'They are not Bengali-oriented. They will go through a hard period of learning!"
Since then I have been learning, and to this day. 1 am a grandma now and I am still learning, for after all, there is no end to learning! Despite my learning through trials and errors, and blunders, I feel fortunate to be in my motherland, and for breathing the air of an' independent state.
"May our independence always be safeguarded,” I heard myself saying under my breath. “May Allah keep our nation's integrity!"
(Concluded)
D1LARA MAWLA MONZUR HAS WRITTEN FOR THE BANGLADESH OBSERVER, THE INDEPENDENT AND THE WEEKLY TIDE. SHE HAS ALSO TAUGHT O AND A LEVEL STUDENTS.