The Unwanted Child (6/1)

Following my father's wishes, I first enrolled in the Physics Department at Dhaka University. But within a few days, I realized physics wasn't for me. Eighty percent of higher physics had to be memorized. When I had stomach aches as a child, my eldest uncle would mix dried chilies with coconut and feed me rice—supposedly this would cure stomach ailments overnight. Just like swallowing that ghostly dried chili remedy without understanding how it could possibly soothe a troubled stomach, higher physics was much the same—swallowing without comprehension.
 
So I left that behind and came to Jahangirnagar. I enrolled in the Chemistry Department. My father didn't object to this decision—though really, when had he ever been involved enough in my affairs to object! Chemistry had appealed to me since my higher secondary days. I found connections with life, with nature. Life, nature, and chemistry—like three children of the same mother.

But fate had other plans. The first and most devastating blow of my university life came on the seventeenth of Kartik. That day, my shadow left me behind, took eternal leave from this world, from the struggle of keeping someone unwanted alive. From that day forward, I began to feel I truly was unwanted. Again that fear, that shame gripped me. I became a rootless, withered tree. Wherever I went, whoever I approached, I kept feeling I had no refuge, none of this belonged to me, I would soon have to leave. But where would I go? I had no home. My home had been carried away three and a half feet underground, and no one had thought of me even once.

The days after Nanu's departure became difficult for me. I couldn't think of myself as anything but a homeless child. I don't know how the first year of my undergraduate studies passed—I only know that considerable time went by, and my ledger of achievements remained consistently zero. We all went to Mymensingh to observe Nanu's first death anniversary. A milad was held at the mosque, and at home we all recited the Quran and prayers together, seeking forgiveness for Nanu's soul. After so many years, returning to my childhood home, I broke down in tears.

It seems like yesterday when, trying to skip studies by claiming I needed to urinate, I got beaten with a hoe handle by Nahar Chowdhury while running away. Today it's been a year—the hoe lies there still, my study room neatly arranged, all the memories tidily organized too, only Nahar Chowdhury has become the past. Even now I can hear Nahar Chowdhury's booming voice in my ears, the sharp whistle of my laughter, how my uncles' fury overflowed onto the other players after losing the football match! Spilling tea on Nanu's smoke-white sweater during evening tea. Then hiding under the almond tree, Nahar Chowdhury coming out with a kerosene lamp to search for me. In the drowsy afternoons, sitting down to make stuffed baby eggplants, rubbing eyes with hands soaked in dried chilies and dancing like a monkey all around the house...where did those days disappear? They probably haven't gone far, they're right here beside me. Otherwise, why would my dead past hiss in my ears like snakes in this cold, empty hollow!

We stayed in Mymensingh for quite some time. Two or three days after returning to our Gazipur home, one morning Father went to the market and brought back a whole kilogram of beef, telling Mother to cook it all together. My eldest sister had come that day too. Mother's beef is like ambrosia! Beef curry with potatoes, dry-fried beef kalia, and beef fried dry with spinach—Mother cooked these three dishes. Along with kalajira bharta, she cooked five or seven types of lentils together in a thick preparation, and mourala fish with lemon leaves. Ah!

We all sat down to eat at two in the afternoon, Father seemed quite cheerful. Though Mother had prepared everything, she had forgotten one main thing. That was pulao. Father loved eating pulao with meat. Sitting down to eat, Father said sweetly, "What's this, Savera's mother? Didn't you make pulao today? Did you forget?"

Mother was flustered. How could she forget to cook pulao today! Mother was completely deflated. Father reassured her.
— "It's alright, don't worry. Why take so much tension? Today we'll try something new. Right, Savera?"
— "Yes, Ma. Father's right. We weren't going to eat pulao today anyway. You sit down. Let's eat together."

Still, Mother couldn't be consoled. A regret and guilt seized her heart. Seeing everyone enjoying the meal with great pleasure, Mother felt somewhat at ease.

That night we all talked together late into the evening. Father seemed the most excited of all. He kept calling each of us over, showing affection, and bursting with pride from time to time. All his children were on the path to success, they would have places in society's higher ranks. He was deeply satisfied.

After spending family time, we all went to our respective rooms to sleep. Around two or two-thirty at night, Mother's wails filled the house. We all rushed to Mother's room in panic. We saw Father struggling on the bed, unable to breathe properly. My elder sister and younger sister broke into tears. I quickly called the hospital and requested an ambulance. Mother heated oil and began massaging Father's chest and back. But Father's condition kept deteriorating. Soon the ambulance arrived, and we all rushed to the hospital with Father on a stretcher. Mother wept continuously. Around four in the morning, the doctor declared Father dead. Everyone seemed to turn to stone. If you looked carefully, you could see only Father's throat rising and falling. Mother couldn't handle this shock. She lost consciousness.

In my entire twenty-one years of life, I had never entered Father's room and touched any of his belongings. Father's written letters, certificates given in his honor, commendations, awards, books—nothing, I had never even touched his glasses. My sisters would handle those things, look at them; Father would show them too, tell stories about them. Perhaps I had never felt the need, or Father had never felt the need either. So I remained distant from everything.

That day was the first time in twenty-one years that I held anything belonging to Father, and it was his death certificate. I envy my own fate. How many people in this world have such fortune that their first and last touch of their life-giving father comes through his death certificate, through giving him his final bath! The shadow of support that others have over their shoulders is their father's hand—a very strong hand! And the shadow of support over my shoulder is the bier of my father's final journey! Is this also life? Oh yes, this is indeed my life! Strange! Even the Creator feels no compassion...for such a life!

Mother regained consciousness almost at evening's end. We still hadn't buried Father. We had kept him so Mother could see him one last time. Mother crawled forward like a mentally unbalanced, frantic middle-aged woman toward Father's bier. Father's face was still peaceful then, as if death's weariness couldn't touch him at all. Just as he would eat the vegetables cooked by Mother's hands every day, satisfied with a full stomach, and take his after-meal nap—he seemed to be sleeping just like that. Mother stared without blinking; she stroked Father's face, eyes, forehead with her hand. The carefully preserved love of all these years—today it was time to leave it alone. Silently Mother rose from Father's side; she went to the room and brought Father's sheet, Father's two favorite books, Father's glasses and mosquito net; she put them in my hands and said to give these to Father wherever we were taking him. Having said just that, she went inside the room.

Only then did I stir to life. I felt I was conscious, I was well. Blood flowed in my veins. Father had died, Mother had lost consciousness, my sisters kept losing consciousness, waking up a little later to weep again and flood their hearts—all this was happening, and I was awake. This was no nightmare. Mother had given me some of Father's belongings. Yes, all this had truly happened. I should cry, but my eyes were dry, still. Several of us together took Father to his new home. Returning, I could no longer recognize our old house in Gazipur. It felt like I had mistakenly entered some primordial cave, where only some scattered skeletal frames lay around.

Until a few moments ago, I knew only that Father had died. Returning, I discovered that several other souls had also perished. Countless memories bled in their hearts, some strong hand had come and shattered everything to dust. I wonder, are they now thinking of themselves as homeless like me—like those lonely, helpless, shelterless boys in orphanages? Are they suffering terribly like me? Disconnected from daily life in a single moment, just like me? I used to feel the same way...!

After Father's death, Mother never again put pulao to her lips. Those foods that were Father's favorites, but which Mother had forgotten to cook that day and couldn't feed him for the last time—Mother would never touch such foods. Whenever pulao was cooked at home, Mother would sob and say, "The man loved pulao so much. I couldn't feed it to him. Even that night he wanted to eat it. With such joy he brought so much meat from the market to eat with pulao. Why don't I die? How could I forget! I couldn't feed him! That very night he left me and went away! I have no place to keep this sorrow! Allah didn't take me away!"