Rain since dawn. Steady and relentless. Pouring without pause. Hard to tell what time it might be now. Halima Begum has no desire to leave her bed. Her body aches all over. The pain in her back throbs whenever it rains. She couldn't sleep at all the first night. All the old memories came flooding back.
Thoughts of her parents. Of her husband. None of them are alive anymore. Only her son remains—Kader. His real name is Abdul Kader. Her precious jewel. He never saw his father, Abdul Khalek. He heard about him from his mother. Six months before his birth, his father was martyred by police bullets.
Memory stirs of 1968. That year she married Khalek. An arranged marriage. Halima was in eighth grade then. Due to the social environment, it was no longer possible for her to walk to school through the village paths with her developing body. The boys would mix adolescent excitement with their rhymes and poems. Some would make declarations of love, others would play bamboo flutes. It disgusted Halima Begum. She couldn't tell her mother anything. But her mother was always worried about how to give her daughter into the hands of a good boy.
Halima's first meeting with Khalek was beside her sick mother's bed. When her mother's life-lamp was flickering. A dark night. No one else in the room but her mother. No one came during the day either. Because of her long illness with tuberculosis, no one visited the house. At first, relatives used to come. They would express sympathy. Now no one comes. Everyone is busy with their own households. She tends to her mother herself. Medicine, food, care. Her mother's condition is very bad. Great difficulty breathing. Hands and feet cold. As if her mother is slowly transforming into a corpse.
Lonely Halima weeps softly. A sound at the door. Another sound. Halima startles. Who is it? I'm Khalek. You won't know me. My home is in the next village. On my way back to Dhaka, the doctor gave me this packet. Here, take this—your mother's X-ray report. Halima fearfully opens the door. Seeing the young man standing there with the X-ray report, her fear and anxiety melted away. It felt as if she'd known him for ages. Such a dear person. From Khalek she learned that her mother's lungs were nearly finished. Death was near. That very night her mother died. She wasn't beside her when death came. She had gone to make tea for Khalek. When she returned, she saw Khalek's right hand clasped in her mother's fist. That night Halima wept bitterly. Seeing her tears, Khalek couldn't hold back his own. He consoled her, wiped her tears with his handkerchief.
Khalek made their wedding very grand. He didn't take a single penny as dowry. He fulfilled every wish in Halima's heart—left nothing incomplete. Halima was blessed with her mother-in-law's love and her husband's affection. Khalek worked in Dhaka. He would come home Saturday evenings. Stay through Sunday and leave Monday morning. Sometimes this routine changed. He would suddenly come home at night and surprise Halima. Then leave again at dawn. Once he took her to Dhaka. They saw a movie. The two of them ate biryani at a hotel. Went shopping. Halima would think—can so much happiness last!
Khalek would come home in the evening. Come eagerly. If he didn't find her free, chaos would ensue. So after finishing her household work, Halima would bathe early. Bathing late in the day left her hair damp and smelling bad. Besides, her body wasn't feeling well either. Nausea. Her mother-in-law, guessing the situation, brought an amulet from the religious teacher. An amulet around her neck. Halima looked somewhat pregnant. Her mother-in-law would oil her hair. Thick hair. Like monsoon clouds. The comb wouldn't go through. It pained her mother-in-law. Still, she would lovingly part it. Kill the lice. Halima thinks she'll tell Khalek her secret today. Last week she kept meaning to tell him but couldn't.
Evening turned to nearly dusk. Halima keeps looking at the distant road through the courtyard and thinking—any moment Khalek will come! Other Saturdays he's never this late. He reaches home by five in the evening. After Maghreb, the Isha call to prayer sounded. The worshippers finished their prayers and went home. Still Khalek hasn't come. Unknown fears crowd her mind. No sleep on her eyelids. Only one thought—what has happened to the man of her life!
Since their marriage, she hasn't spent a single Saturday night without Khalek. Khalek would come and create such a commotion, lifting the whole house up. All night long he wouldn't let her sleep. This talk, that talk. Sometimes politics, sometimes household matters. He would say, You know, this state of the country won't last. The Agartala Conspiracy Case is false. The Punjabis want to keep us suppressed. Sheikh Mujib and Maulana Bhashani will show them what's what. Mao Zedong, CIA, Colonel Gaddafi, socialism, democracy, strikes, blockades—he would talk about so many things. Halima understood some, didn't understand others. Once he lovingly told her he'd take her to Dhaka and enroll her in school. Make her pass matriculation. If she wanted to study more, he'd let her study further. College. University. Hearing this, Halima would turn red with embarrassment. Does a married woman go to school? What would people say!
Sunday. The newspapers reported: police opened fire on a procession of students and citizens in Sher-e-Bangla Nagar. Four students including Asad killed. Fifty injured. A 25-year-old passerby named Khalek died on the way to the hospital after being wounded.
Halima tried to retrieve the body. She couldn't. The police made the corpse disappear. She remembers Maulana Bhashani's words. Defying Section 144, hundreds and thousands of marchers went to Paltan and held a funeral prayer in absentia, praying for Asad's soul. They didn't heed police restrictions. They told IG Mohiuddin saheb, pushing out their chests—if you have to shoot, shoot me. I won't obey Section 144. I've come to pray, and pray I will. The marchers didn't mention Khalek. Only Asad and Asad. Brother Asad's blood will not be in vain. We want Ayub Khan's downfall. Halima didn't like this. She wondered—what answer will she give to the unborn future! All these useless thoughts. La ilaha illallahu muhammadur rasulullah.
Halima returns to reality. The rain seems to have stopped a little. She doesn't want to lie down anymore. Her back aches. Come on, let me get up now. Kader will come home again. Friday is his day off. Let me prepare something good. Just like his father's nature. He creates such commotion the whole village lifts him up. All his friends wait to see when Kader will return home.
As a student he had quite a reputation. He passed SSC from Bahirchar High School with three letters, first division. Halima's chest swelled with pride! Now perhaps her hopes would be fulfilled. The chairman wanted the boy. Would teach him and make him his own. Halima didn't agree. She decided to raise her son through her own struggles and hardships. Kader got admission to Dhaka College. Lives in a mess. Couldn't get a hostel seat. Without connections, getting a seat is difficult. He does two tutoring jobs. The money his mother gives isn't enough. He doesn't like Dhaka's environment. Can't fit in at college or at the mess. The lectures the professors give in class—he can't grasp them. All his friends take private tutoring to make up. He can't afford tutoring. Given what professors charge, it's impossible for him to manage.
Kader doesn't go to college regularly. Goes one day, doesn't go for five. His heart doesn't settle in college. Gradually he stops going to college altogether. He doesn't tell his mother, keeps it secret. Sometimes he goes to the manpower office. If he gets a chance to go to the Middle East, he could give his mother some happiness. Poor woman has only suffered all her life. Never found happiness. Going to the Middle East, Solimuddin and Kolimuddin brought back so much money. Built buildings. Bought land. Made jewelry. Colorful saris, clothes. Kader can't think anymore.
Rahimuddin. What did he have? He worked as a laborer in other people's houses. Now look at his condition after going to Kuwait! Drunk on money, his feet don't touch the ground. A magnificent house. He puts on all kinds of perfumes. You can tell from far away that Rahimuddin passed this way. Cassettes blare at his house all the time. VCR runs at night. He serves guests with Tang.
This can't go on. He'll tell his mother everything openly. Share his unspoken pain with her too. He needs a job. To survive, he has to do something. Jobs exist even without formal education.
Allah's infinite mercy. Kader got a job. Photostat operator, total salary 900 taka. Office in Motijheel. Office from 9 AM to 5 PM. Half day Thursday, closed Friday.
The city's situation is tense. A 54-hour strike, from 6 AM Wednesday to 12 PM Friday. No vehicles, factories, offices, courts, schools or colleges will run. Everything closed. Kader wanted to go home Tuesday itself. But his boss wouldn't let him. If you work during the strike, apparently you get an extra 100 taka per day. Three hundred taka in three days. Not bad! He could buy his mother a beautiful sari.
Processions since morning. Students marching. Teachers marching. Workers marching. Intellectuals marching. Procession after procession. Dhaka trembling with marches and slogans. Kader gets caught up in one of them at Motijheel. His plan was to slip into the office when he found a gap. But that never happened. The police blocked the procession in front of the Allawalah Building. Arguments broke out between the angry crowd and the police. Chasing and counter-chasing ensued. Then at one point, tear gas, followed by bullets.
At quarter past midnight, Kader opens his eyes and looks around. Doctor, nurse, blood, oxygen. Why? Where is he now? In a hospital. Why is he in a hospital? He tries to move his hands and feet. The nurse stops him. Don't move your leg. It will cause damage. A bullet hit your right ankle. It was severely damaged, so we had to amputate. You'll be fine in a day or two. Nothing to worry about.
Thursday afternoon, Kader was released from the hospital. He was supposed to stay another few days. But with the increasing number of wounded patients, he was discharged due to lack of space. The hospital ambulance brought him as far as Sowari Ghat. He has to make the rest of the journey alone. By boat, by taxi. Kader lacks the courage. He lingers at the dock, hoping to find someone from his village.
What's this, Kader bhai! What's happened to you? Why is your leg bandaged? asks Selim, standing beside him. Selim is Rahima's younger brother. Rahima used to study with him. There was something between them. Rahima got married. She lives in Dhaka with her husband. Selim must have gone to visit her. Selim, take me home. My leg's in bad shape. The police shot me.
When Kader reached home, dusk was falling. His mother was heading to the pond to fetch water. Seeing Kader leaning on Selim's shoulder, she stood stunned. The water pitcher under her arm fell to the ground. The water never got fetched. The western sun scattered red light across the horizon and sank away.
Four days later, a registered letter arrived in Kader's name. It read: For the offense of disobeying official orders, under Section 19 of the Bangladesh Workers Employment (Standing Orders) Act 1965, you are hereby dismissed from service effective 22/07/1987.