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FIRST POEM ON EKUSHEY

Mahbub UI Alam Chowdhury
I have not come, where they laid down their lives Under the Krishnachura trees, to shed tears.
I have not come, where endless patches of blood Glow like so many fiery flowers, to weep. Today I am not overwhelmed by grief Today I am not maddened with anger Today I am only unflinching in my determination.
The child who will nevermore get a chance to rush into his father's arms, The housewife who, shielding the lamp With her sari, will nevermore wait By the door for her husband, The mother who will nevermore draw To her breast with boundless joy her returning son, The young man who, before collapsing On Ute earth, tried again and again To conjure before his eyes the vision of his beloved, In their name, In the name of those brothers and sisters, In the name of my language. Nourished by the heritage of a thousand years, In the name of the language in which 1 am accustomed to addressing my mother, In the name of my native land, I say, I have come today, Here on the open grounds of the university, To demand their death by hanging, The death of those who killed
My brothers and sisters indiscriminately.
I have not come here to weep for them Who gave their lives under Ramna's sun-scorched Krishnachura trees
For their language, Those forty or more who laid down their lives For Bangla, their mother tongue, For the dignity of a country's great culture, For the literary heritage of Alaol, Rabindranath, Kaikobad and Nazrul, For keeping alive the bhatiali, haul, Kirton and the ghazal, Those who laid down their lives For Nazrul's unforgettable lines:
"The soil of my native land is purer than the purest gold." Forty budding lives fell
like innumerable Krishnachura petals On Ramna's soil.
In the husks of the seed Sprouting there from, I can see Endless drops of blood, The blood of young Rameshwar and Abdus Salam, The blood of the most brilliant boys of the university. I can see each drop of blood Shining on Ramna's green grass like burning flames, Each boy a piece of diamond, Forty jewels of the university, Who, had they lived, would have become The most precious wealth of the country, in whom Lincoln, Rolland, Aragon and Einstein had found refuge, In whom had flourished some of the Most progressive ideals of this century's civilization.
We have not come here to shed tears Where forty jewels sacrificed their lives. We have not come, either, to plead For our language to the killers Who arrived with their rifles loaded, With orders to shoot our brothers and sisters. We have come to demand the hanging Of the tyrants and the murderers. We know that our brothers and sisters were killed, That they were mercilessly shot. That one of them was perhaps called 'Osman' just like you, That perhaps one of them had a clerk for his father Just like you, or that one's father was growing Golden crops in some remote village of East Bengal, Or was a government functionary.
Today those boys could be living just like you or me. Perhaps one of them had his wedding day fixed Just like me.
Perhaps one of them had left on his table, lust like you, his mother's letter Received a moment ago, Hoping to read it when he got back From the procession he went out to join. Those boys had harboured concrete dreams in their chests, And they were killed by the bullets Of the cruel tyrants.
In the name of those deaths I demand that those who wanted To banish our mother-tongue be hanged,
I demand that those who ordered
The killings be hanged, I demand that the traitors Who climbed to the seats of power Over the dead bodies of my brothers and sisters be hanged.
I want to see them tried and shot as convicted criminals
On that very spot in this open field.
Those first martyrs of the country.
Those forty brilliant boys of the university, Each of them had dreams of building A quiet home in the bosom of this earth With his wife, children and parents.
They dreamed of analysing
The scientific theories of Einstein with greater depth, They dreamed of finding ways To put the atomic power to man's service In the cause of Peace.
They dreamed of writing a poem
More beautiful than Tagore's "The Flute Players".
O my martyred brothers, The spot where you laid down your lives Will continue to glow Even after a thousand years.
No footprints of civilization can wipe out The marks of your blood from that soil, Although procession after procession Will one day converge here And shatter its vague silence The tolling of the university bells Will daily announce the historic hour of your deaths, Even if one day a violent storm Erupted and shook the building's very foundation. Whatever came to pass
The brightness of your names as hallowed martyrs Would never grow dim.
The cruel hand of the murderers
Can never throttle your long cherished hopes. Some day we shall surely win And hail the advent of justice and fair play. O my dead brothers, On that day, your voices, The strong voices of Freedom, Will soar from the depths of silence. The people of my country, on that day, Will surely, from the gallows, hang Those tyrants and murderers.
On that day, your hopes will shine like flames In the joy of victory and sweet vengeance. *
"This poem was written at 7:00pm on 21“ February 1952
Translated by Kabir Chowdhury