[1] In other words
i.
Dirt isn’t all that ancient. They say this planet is almost five billion years old. Its rotation has changed over time. Its revolution, too. The way time has come to be, the way it has evolved, seconds have shortened,
s t r e t c h e d, slowed, sling s h o t t e d . Hawking has left us with the idea that time is finite, but boundless. And, dirt didn’t come to be until only 450 million years ago. Rock formations eroded into dust in a process called weathering. Those specks compounded for the first samples of dirt. Wispy, hair-like stems pulled away from fossils; rhizoids pulled in water and nutrients to the surface. They began the process of soil-making; pulling in life-building compounds into dirt. Soils gave way to fungi, roundworms, and other creepers. A few more million decades, and the planet’s surface was covered in trees, life teeming on the ground and beneath. In a fashion, roots were the original organs of the world, transporting oxygen, carbon, nitrogen, hydrogen, converting elements, processing, creating new life. A sort of rhythm, music, cyclical, uninterrupted, a sort of rhythm, cyclical, uninterrupted, a sort of rhythm cyclical uninteru— Ice boulders to magma to sulfur to lush greens to meandering rivers to heat to amino acids to a fertilized egg to a cry in the backroom of a village bungalow to a slow down. A still.
ii.
An inhalation. A breath. An open mouth. A Sixth child is born. We constrict this moment to February 8th, 1966 in Bahadurpur, Beanibazar in the Sylhet district of Bangladesh. Note the story of how Srihatta became Sylhet is both compelling and for another time another day. It would have given more futile detail to this story. But the swirl of it all may be too much[2]. The sixth child was built cell by cell for nine months in a shaken womb of chemical compounds— could have been the tamarind tree,
the boat at the river’s edge,
the water lily brought inside and sitting on the writing desk. But here we are, venturing into the life of a child loved and held and adored. This child is of the dirt and will become the dirt[3]. In the interim this child will carry some semblance of Jibon[4]. And in this life, there will be moments that seem so harsh, so pivotal, so distinguished, so memorable. But let us never forget about that C2952H4664O832N812S8Fe4[5] breaks back into the sulfur that brings us back to the most base steps: water to lipids to protein to that wail of waking for the first time again.
This sixth child, she is a daughter. We know, the record of humanity runs two hundred thousand years, the most detailed of it six thousand years old or so Humor me, Reader, as we focus on the inconsequential history of this sixth daughter. Things may seem futile, but you and I, if ever our bodies ache, this ought to be a reminder the pain won’t be felt forever. Let us share in her cycle, as it is ours, too.
iii.
Taj, her father’s jewel. Chubby-cheeked, somber eyes with something else indescribable. Perhaps stubborn or spiteful or playful or taciturn. Of her siblings, she is most comfortable with the bungalow and the guest house at the uttan[6]. By five years old, she is sporting a pixie haircut, wearing boys’ shorts and button ups, sits passenger on her father’s motorcycle, and is known to have a liking for mango fruit leather. She is athletic, loves to ride her bicycle, swim, and has a penchant for holding the badminton racket, though she misses the birdie every time. She lives post-1947.
iv.
In 1947, dirt is carved and divvied, as if immobile[7]. As if the water doesn’t brush against the edges, draw sediment in exhale as if in the Spring the riverbanks don’t narrow, the rivers don’t flush and glisten as if the waters don’t subside in December, as if people don’t wait for magh[8] and harvests.
Dirt has no regard for allegiance citizenship Borders are blurred and ever shifting. In 1905, Sylhet was included with Assam to create a single province in the British Raj[9]. In 1947[10], due to a referendum, East Bengal was joined with Pakistan. This referendum included Article 3, which designated Sylhet as part of East Bengal. Bengal itself was split in two. Hindu went to India. Musulman[11] went to Pakistan. Sylhet was cut from Hindu-majority Assam. Pakistan would be the aspirational land for the Musulman; a haven away from British stooges. It was pulled together, East and West Pakistan as one nation, with India in the middle.
West Pakistan was comprised of the North-West Frontier, West Punjab, Sindh, Baluchistan, Bahawalpur, Chitral Dir, Hunza, Khairpur, Swat, Karachi, and a few tribal areas. It was a parliamentary republic with Islam as its state religion and had a population of 33 million.
1,600 miles apart, East Pakistan was comprised of Sylhet, the Hill Tracts, and the larger East Bengal region. It was a socialist state with secularism[12] and had a population of 35 million. It had disproportionately fewer seats in Parliament. An inequality between the two parts of the country was established at conception. To appease, East Pakistan was allowed to have its own capital, Dhaka, with its own local government.
v.
Sylhet was separated from Assam, regardless of ethnic relativity or shared cultures or familial ties. The maps still show a separation. But, in Sylhet, dirt moves with the waters. When it rains, Assam seeps into Sylhet, the barbed wire fence cannot hold us back from one another. In 1947, Taj’s mother (a toddler herself) crossed into newly formed East Pakistan from Karimganj, Assam as a refugee. She was one of five children (three brothers, two sisters). Their parents had died during the war; the children were split across multiple households. The boys were quickly sent away to boarding schools, then universities in England. The two daughters were married off. Taj’s mother to a man who came with his own soil, heavy with story.
His family was a part of the Jamindar Brahmin group which went as far back as the 7th century in Beanibazar[13]. Some generations before 1947, a brother remained Hindu, another converted to Islam. There was no animosity, contrary to what British historians would have you believe. Rather, they lived across the pond from one another. Their wives had afternoon chaa[14] together. They celebrated one another’s holidays, weddings, daily lives. Even post-1947, prasads were sent from the temple to the Musulman family members after pujas. The Musulman family members practiced rites of passage rooted in Hinduism. Mukhe bhaat for a newborn. Gaye holud for the young bride. Raksha bandhan from a sister to her brother. In Bengal and in Sylhet, these stories of integrated society are common. The region is rife with plurality. We find come from it Baul[15]. Bauls are mystics, Sufis, musicians, nomads, Muslims, poets, nuisances, orators, spiritual guides, Hindus, free, impoverished, illiterate, minstrels touting Nobel-winning ballads, hungry, heartbroken, transcendent, and aspirational: Mati’r manush[16]. They travel from village to village, town to town, at home always. They are foreign nowhere. Perhaps Siddhartha[17] was simply looking to be a Baul, and instead he found Buddha. Bauls’ identities are always forever coming into focus as they walk from village to village, strumming their ektara or dotara[18]. Their songs are about Kali and her lover: he gets bit by the snake, and now they are in struggle. Or…was it Adam and Hawa? How intertwined everything is this work of fungi and roundworms and the other creepers[19].
vi.
In 1948, West Pakistan declared Urdu to be the national language. Bengalis did not speak Urdu, not at home, not at the local bazars, not in school, not at the government offices, not during poetry recitals, not when humming Rabindrasangeet as they bathed. not even alone with their loves. By 1952, Bengalis were losing ways to explain their inability (and disinterest) for mastering a foreign language[20]. University students established the Bhasha Andhalon[21]. They wanted Bangla as the official language of East Pakistan. Students demonstrated for three days. Ten individuals were murdered at the protests. There were more protests in 1956; three more individuals were murdered. Court martial law was established in East Pakistan in 1958. East Pakistan’s President Sheikh Mujibur Rahman was arrested in 1966. More protests and clashes followed; ten more dead. 100 in total were killed due to political violence from 1949 to 1968. This is the number officially documented.
1968 to 1971 was known as the Crisis Phase in Pakistan. In 1968, West Pakistan discovered secessionist plans. They arrested President Sheikh Mujibur Rahman. They arrested 34 other intellectuals, three of whom were killed in prison. Another nineteen were killed while protesting these arrests. Then another 675 were killed. A bit of a cycle of oppression, protest, murder. East Pakistan elections were held in 1970, Sheikh Mujibur Rahman’s party Awami League won. They proposed transferring powers from the federal government to the East Pakistan government. The student bodies, the voters, the farmers, the housewives, the disc jockeys, the pop stars, the bauls, the Adivasis, the Hindus, the Muslims, the Buddhists, the Christians, they all supported it. In Dhaka, there was more political violence; 170 were killed.
vii.
On March 19, 1971, 50 more killed. Taj is five years old.
March 24, 1971 1,000 are killed. The death count has reached 2,017 because Bengalis continue to speak their mother tongue in their homes and offices.
March 25, 1971 A state of emergency is declared across all of Pakistan. There is a calculated strategy in 16 paragraphs scratched across five notepad pages. General Tikka Khan comes to be known as the “Butcher of Bengal.” Operation Searchlight is launched across all of East Pakistan all at once. Overwhelm the inferior and impure[22] in Chittagong, Comilla, Dhaka, Jessore, Khulna, Rajshahi, Rangpur, Saidpur, Sylhet. Jagganath Hall dormitory for non-Muslim students at Dhaka University, 34 students’ bodies are taken under brushfire. Puran Dhaka, a majority Hindu population is attacked; an estimated 7,000 people killed. 3,000 arrested. Professors killed. Sheikh Mujibur Rahman has been arrested. Ramna Kali mandir demolished, its shikara[23] crumbled over 100 bodies.
The transistor radio does not always work. Taj does not understand all the news reporter words. But her father is always near this box. He is always fiddling with the knobs.
March 26, 1971 West Pakistan launches a military offensive against Bengali nationalists. These are predominantly farmers in lungis and undershirts, gamsas wrapped around the foreheads, no shoes not even flip flops. And the Awami League is formally banned.
March 28, 1971 Iran and Indonesia express support for West Pakistan.
March 31, 1971 India expresses support for East Pakistan. Taj’s mother cuts Taj’s nails on Friday mornings. She has her hair cut once every three weeks. The nail clippings and hair clippings are collected and buried at the foot of the ancient tree that grows outside of her grandmother’s prayer room. This is the prayer room across the pond and the family temple. “All parts of our bodies should be returned.”
April 1, 1971 1,000 civilians are killed in towns outside of Dhaka.
April 2, 1971 The Soviet Union appeals for a ceasefire.
April 3, 1971 Malaysia and Turkey express support for West Pakistan.
April 6, 1971 West Pakistan troops have captured Jessore from East Bengal rebels. Boro Saab[24] informs Taj father’s he will be encouraging Nana Babu and Dr. Babu[25] to leave the village. “It has become obvious Hindus will thrive O’par[26].” Taj’s father does not agree. “This is as much their land as it is ours. When we became Musulman, they protected us, shared what could have been solely theirs. This house of yours…they could have taken it away when our people converted ages ago. You cannot push them out now.” But, Taj’s father himself could be a beggar. He has gone too far.
April 7, 1971 The US appeals to West Pakistan for a ceasefire.
April 12, 1971 China expresses support for West Pakistan. Nana Babu and Dr. Babu are brothers. Nana Babu is a Jamindar and manages the properties and farms and businesses. Dr. Babu is the village doctor. They have a daughter each. One’s daughter is in university for English literature in Kolkata. The other’s daughter is in medical college in Kolkata. Their daughters are modern, wear pencil skirts and drink alcohol. They are different from their village cousins.
April 14, 1971 East Bengal rebels declare independence from West Pakistan.
April 15, 1971 The war continues. A senior Pakistani military official says, “We are determined to cleanse East Pakistan once and for all of the threat of secession, even if it means the killing of two million people and ruling the province as a colony for 30 years.[27]” Pohela Boishakh is every Spring. The New Year celebration! Rains and flood and rice water paddies overflowing. Panta bhaat[28] and fish and a few bhortas[29] on the side. This year, there are refugee camps where we imagine the special foods are being made and young women walking in their white saris with their red borders. But a few steps down the lonely path in the shade, and another wrong turn, there may be empty bamboo huts and slaughtered farm animals picked apart by stray dogs and crows. In a single moment, omen and joy. Perhaps this is why Bengalis are so romantic. We live in extremes. Taj and her family are at home. Her oldest sister is 21. She is married. Her husband has a Tata SUV he drives through his family’s tea garden. Her other sister is to be married in a few weeks. Another sister is next in line for marriage. Her two brothers are in Bangla medium schools, somewhere between the ages of 13 and 8. Taj’s boishakh is a hand-me down frock from her youngest sister, the lace still fresh, the pleats ironed just right. It is mishti[30] made by her mother, smaller in size than usual, as there isn’t enough milk or sugar to make them their usual size. She makes her eyes bigger. Could the mishti get bigger if her eyes are bigger? Not likely. The mishti is so small.
May 6, 1971 India announces 1.2 million Bengali refugees have fled to India.
May 20, 1971 At least 8,000 Bengali Hindus are massacred in Chuknagar. Nana Babu and Dr. Babu’s daughters both graduate from university in Kolkata. Each is offered a job in Kolkata; both choose to build their lives there.
June 1971 India provides weapons and trainings to Bengali soldiers, also known as krishok[31], kabi[32], housewives, widows, teenagers. These soldiers are known as Muktibahini[33]. Boro Saab informs the Army[34] that there are two Hindu Jamindars in the village. They are wealthy with much land. They can be scared and pushed into West Bengal. They have ties there. Of course, if they left, that would leave their land without a Jamindar. He will help the Army by managing the land once they leave. It will be difficult, but he will manage. The Army doesn’t object. Boro Saab[35] mentions he also has a nephew in the village, fond of the Hindus. He’s been peculiar since childhood. They will pay him a visit, of course. Boro Saab meets with local business men, the man who sells rice and cooking oil, the tailor, the milkman, the mechanic, the pharmacist. They live on Nana Babu’s land. “These Hindus don’t belong here, Saab.” Boro Saab does not disagree. He offers them chaa and biscuits. “You are welcome here. You must feed your families. The Army will not deny you that, of course. I can guarantee you that.”
viii.
The Army does not come to Bahadurpur too often. Sylhettis here are known to be observant Musulman. Most women cover their hair, men go to the masjid for their prayers, and children are taught verses from the Quran at a very young age. The Army does stop at Taj’s family home every so often. This is their third time. When they hear the trucks, Taj’s sisters rush to lie flat in shallow graves, a layer of burlap between them and the cool, wet dirt. It will take a strong wash and oiling to get the smell out of their hair. Taj crouches in a large cooking pot. The kind used to cook during wedding feasts. She remembers seeing the cook add buckets of water to boil for the basmati. Pulao is always served at weddings. But here, she must remember not to make a noise. Not even a breath through her mouth. Her brothers hide under the cots in the storage room. They had pulled these same cots for guests during her oldest sister’s wedding. Their aunt from Kumar Para[36] had come weeks in advance. That was a noisy time. But here and now, her father’s long plays are thrown to the ground. The porcelain bowl on the dining table is smashed, dhal splattered across the bottom of the china cabinet. They force her brother-in-law to take them to the tea garden. Their wives love the tea from Sylhet. So fragrant, you know? The women working at the garden are Khasi, Manipuri, Garoan. They drape their sharees for mobility. They stand out dark against the green, green foliage. Young and slender. The married women’s sindoor[37] vivid in their hair parts; Hindu women are approved as war loot[38]. In the garden’s guest house, tea is poured—no cream, no sugar—it takes longer to cool. The conversations last longer. The eyes have time to roam further. At home, the broken china pieces are collected and stored in a box. All the village families are saving the parts of everything. Taj’s parents have collected a broken tea set, broken serving dishes, a broken transistor radio, and a library of broken long plays.
ix.
Taj is a quiet and diligent child. Her cotton bag made of an old sari is always ready under her bed. It holds a fresh set of clothes, a pair of close-toed shoes, a cotton sheet she can hold at night, a small pillow, and some kishmish[39]. Whenever they hear the Army is headed their way, she grabs the bag and goes to the back door. The kitchen is on the way down this second hill. There are packets of uncooked rice and lentils kept near the door. Some days they walk towards Sunamgonj, the smell of swamp thick and sitcky. Some nights they spend the night at an aunt’s house in Moulvibazar. She misses school often, and her newest dresses look drab and dull. Her classmates always change. Some girls never return. Her clay cooking set is part broken, part lost. She knows, above all else, when walking through the marshland, she must not let the informants hear her.
x.
The war is loud and some ways away from Bahadurpur. It is a war in the cities. A war on the writers and professors and doctors and photographers and students and intellectuals and political leaders. They say it is a war on the greatest minds. Cripple the nation before it can be built. It is even a war on the fashion design houses and hair salons and factories and pharmacies and restaurants. In Sylhet town it is nuanced, strategic, and present in the most intimate places. College girls line those pretty brown eyes with kajal, don their mothers’ sharees and operate as spies. They take notes and hide them in their bouffants. They pass them to the hawker at the tea stall, “Ek cup dudh chaa, Bhai[40].” Two taka and a handwritten note slipped from hand to hand.
These college girls attend Razakar dinner parties. They tilt their heads back and laugh. The Army officers fixated on their gazelle necks. Such brilliant eyes. College girls are enthralling. On occasion, those officers see a quick note scribbled and slipped into a purse. Sometimes those officers recognize a face from the student protests as a face at the parties. And sometimes, these young ferocities are tied and gagged and thrown into caged huts and raped and raped and raped. Some live to give birth. Some take their own lives. Some leave their babies at the madrasas[41] and disappear. If they don’t disappear, they return to the tea stalls. Abar[42].
xi.
Lai works at Taj’s family house. He is the caretaker, the driver, the butler, the party planner, the everything. He had been a military man in the British army. He had been to Egypt during World War II. He was medaled and respected. He was well read. Ethical. Conscious of Heaven and Hell. An Indian man. Then an East Pakistani man. He was too polished and worldly for his class, but born too low for a high life. He used aftershave and went on walks after dinner. He wasn’t eccentric. He didn’t want the cosmopolitan city life. He was Lai.
He came back to the village and became Taj’s first love: her confidant, her protector, her playmate, her best friend. He has no children of his own. He gives her coins to pocket for school, buy a snack from the street vendor, maybe some jhaal muri[43], but don’t eat so much you get a stomach ache. Bhabi[44] will know.
He makes sure the village girls are protected from the Army. He checks in on the eleven, twelve neighboring families in the evening. He prays in his room, not at the masjid. His medals are packed away in his suitcase. Not the one under the bed with his escape clothes, but the one stowed away in the closet. His uniform is always ironed—white pants, white dress shirt, black leather shoes. His hair always washed and parted to the left. He is buried neck deep in the mud by the Army. Forced to recite verses from the Quran. Taj sees from the bottom corner of the prayer room’s window. The prayer room is where she collects dry flower petals leaves pretty rocks. The Army leaves. Taj’s brothers dig Lai out.
xii.
Days before her wedding, Lai finds Taj’s sister at the uttan. She is staring at the tree. Strange fruit hanging from branches. He quickly ushers her back to the house. Her wedding is in days. He tells only Taj’s mother. They continue on with the wedding; the bride doesn’t remember whose faces swung from the branches. They serve whole fried fish to each guest, a whole stuffed goat at each table, pulao, tehari, biryani, jilabi, gulab jamin, mishti doi, gulab’er sharbat, falooda, the list of foods is exhausting and astounding. Where did they acquire so much? For days on end. As if there is no Army. The wedding is for the ladies. The married ones reign here. Share styles, hair pining tips, advice for womanly things. Pull out their own wedding sharees, compare the embroidery from one decade to another. Taj finds the meenakari sharee most beautiful, so heavy she cannot lift it. “How do wear and walk in them?” “You have time to get strong before wearing one of your own. Don’t rush.” The couple divorces before the month long celebrations are over. This sister will never remarry. She is known to make the best duck roast and donuts. She is famous for these until her last breath. On that last breath, she will look to the right, will mutter something, will smile, and will be gone. And Lai will die years later, old, no known lover, no children, but will have had asked Taj six times over long distance calls, “Choto’r dekhtham nai?[45]” Taj and her husband and the little one will plan a trip to Bangladesh. The little one—three years old, in The Shoe Factory on Main Street, Paterson, New Jersey—will choose a pair of black leather shoes as gift for Lai six months before their trip to the village. But Lai will have left four months after she makes her choice, not the patent leather. But the soft leather.
xiii.
November 8, 1971 US places weapons sanctions against West Pakistan, after having already armed them earlier in the summertime.
November 21, 1971 Muktibahini launch a military offensive.
November 23, 1971 West Pakistan declares a state-of-emergency. Saudi Arabia, Jordan, Libya, and Iran sent weapons to West Pakistan[46]. Nana Babu and Dr. Babu pack their belongings. They take their wives to the railway station. One-way tickets. They find their daughters in Kolkata. Taj’s father sends letters to them often. He never receives a response from either.
December 3, 1971 West Pakistan launches a military offensive.
December 16, 1971 90,000 West Pakistani troops surrender. On the day of Liberation, an uncle of Taj’s runs through the village. A college student himself. Gamsa tied around his forehead. Dressed in all white punjabi and pyjama. “Joi Bangla! Joi Bangla! Amader joi Bangla![47]”
His screams and sweat and pace give everyone goosebumps. Is he right? Has he lost his mind? Can it be true? Can we be free? In nine months’ time, three million Bangladeshis are said to have been killed. They have killed more than Niazi anticipated.
The day after Liberation, Taj’s classmate’s older sister’s husband—a Muktibahini—and his brother are kidnapped by Razakars. The next morning, they are returned to their house in Sylhet town, bodies chopped and held together in polythene bags, nothing like the parts of a cow on Qurbani[48]. One bag holds the note, “Leave. How many will you have us qurbani?[49]”
xiv.
You see, Reader, our Sixth child is Ma[50]. A short word. She comes from the dirt.
Don’t you hear it?
Ma comes from Mati.
xv.
Directly across from the ancient temple, there is now a family masjid. It was built in the months after the war. Eleven, twelve families pooled together all their broken china from the Army visits. The floor is tiled and cool. An array of blues and greens and faded reds along the walls. A mix of whatever was saved through those nine months. Across the pond, there is still the family temple.
Nana Babu and Dr. Babu are gone now. When we pray, in the temple, in the masjid, we press our foreheads to the ground and surrender. The prayers racketeer through the layers of ground, bounce against one another, mix and mingle and make their way to the core. Imagine all those utterings pushed through the layers of sediment and melted together in the heat and energy of the barysphere. Imagine the belt of that ask Imagine what it is that God hears
xvi.
I was born in Paterson, New Jersey eighteen years after Liberation. My umbilical cord was sent back to desh[51] for burial. It is somewhere at the foot of that same ancient tree. My root. Some nights, I feel the taan[52]. It is when the smell of rainy roads in the heat and the jasmine plant in the kitchen window come together. But I am here, raised on American Girl magazines, jeans, top 40 playlists; by the scent of my body soap and the strange expression on my face at tea stalls, they already know I am not entirely theirs.
xvii.
At a family dinner, Boro Khala[53] says she has heard from Nana Babu’s daughter. She is retiring at the end of the year from her position at University of Calcutta. She taught literature for decades. Boro Khala is a journalist, writes in the Bangla newspaper about Sylhet, its history, what’s happening today. “Of course we both use language.” The conversation moves on. When we gather, we circle back. The stories of missing persons, the family splintering, the weddings and babies. Fifty-three years. Then there is pause. Teacups are refreshed. We carry on. Mati’r taan[54] keeps us here. This cousin has a wedding in the Summer. That uncle was deported. Which cousin bought a house? The cousin with the son who finished high school early? He is now doing his PhD. I know this too: when I am buried, rhizoids will bring the fungi, the roundworms, the creepers. Reunion! They will soften my body, relax the muscles, bring me back to the soil I come from. My destination pre-determined. Reader, so many nights I think of what it must feel like to break down and cry to revel in what’s happened. What is it that we carry in our time, our bones, our blood, our boxes, moving from one place to another. A vapor slipping through the idea that this this this thing is important this hand painted glass for sharbat only this shoe for that pencil skirt my favorite barista at the corner shop the grocery store with the opal apples those weeds growing between the garbage can and the garage wall grays in my husband’s hair the crinkle in his nose when he smiles Nanu’s preserved lemons Should I weep as I carry it all closer to the ground? Weren’t we all made for dirt’s play? Don’t we all get taken in by this civilized ground we know as “the grave”? There it is…
…it’s pull to the core, it’s push
and growth through the foliage,
the fodder for the siyal[55]?
In that case, let me be joyful!
Let me live!
Let me show you what is to be a woman from Bengal from Sylhet from Beanibazar from Bahadurpur from Paterson a happenstance slingshotted across oceans and times and dreams
Let me show you what this soil can create
this softness
orthoba
this ferociousness
orthoba
this destiny that is mine[56].
[1] In other words
[2] Allow me to still share a few important, wide swaths of detail…for context, if you will. Sylhet is the anglicized name of Srihatta. It is what we call the area still, today. During Muslim rule, it was known as Jalalabad. There is time and dirt in between the two names.
This is enough history for one footnote. It would be appropriate to return to the Sixth child.
[3] Have you ever held a fistful of ground in your hands? Rubbed it between your palms? That is you, too.
[4] Life
[5] Chemical formula for hemoglobin
[6] The house at the landing of the hill where guests come to before reaching the main house. There is also a separate building for the kitchen, another for the washing area, and another for prayers. The prayer ghar sits near an ancient tree and a pond. Across the pond is the family’s Hindu temple.
[7] A moment’s pause for the British’s deep conviction in futility.
[8] Bengali month; this is late January to early February
[9] British rule in the Indian subcontinent began in the 18th century. Sylhet was of strategic importance due to its proximity to Burma.
[10] India and Pakistan won their independence from the British in 1947.
[11] Muslim
[12] On another day, let’s talk about Bengal’s love of socialism. I have a suspicion it has to do with Bengal’s poetic soul. A brother’s hungry stomach mars the beauty in any day. Of course, the West wasn’t a fan of Bengal’s affinity for socialism. You’ll see that impact when Bengal fights for liberation.
[13] There is a millennium-old temple in Supatala. Another in Nidhanpur. Both are in Beanibazar. Seven copperplate inscriptions were found from the early 7th century Kamprupa King. These seven plates made 200 Brahmins into Jamindars. These people were affluent.
[14] chai
[15] Bengali qawwali; the terms can also be used to describe the musicians.
[16] People of the dirt
[17] Gautama
[18] strumming their single-string or double-string instruments
[19] …yet how easily we forget what it is they do…simplify, release, reunite.
[20] A tongue can be foreign.
[21] the language movement
[22] Bengalis were thought to be inferior and impure by West Pakistan.
[23] tower
[24] Taj’s father’s uncle. He inherited most of the family’s land and wealth, as he was the only surviving son. His sons will inherit his wealth, not Taj’s father. Taj’s father’s home and land are given to him as an afterthought. It would be a shame if Boro Saab had impoverished kin. “A key…to the house…for you and your children to have a homelife.”
[25] They are Taj’s father’s cousins from another uncle. It is their shared forefathers who had split in faith. One Hindu, one newly Muslim. These forefathers chose to remain brothers, protected one another, shared joys, and lived across the pond from one another. Their families continued this way of living.
[26] On the other side; reference to the other side of the border in West Bengal where the Hindus are.
[27] The statement was made by General A.A.K. Niazi, Commander of the Eastern Command of the Pakistan army during the Bangladesh war in 1971. He made this statement during a meeting with Pakistani President Yayha Khan, expressing his determination to suppress the independence of East Pakistan at any cost.
[28] Cooked rice fermented in water
[29] Mashed vegetable dishes, spiced to your liking and heavily fragrant with herbs, dill, cilantro, Thai basil, shallots, garlic leaf, and Adivasi leaves that have no translation.
[30] Sweets
[31] Farmers
[32] Poets
[33] Freedom fighters
[34] West Pakistan military
[35] A Razakar, orthoba Volunteer; They are a paramilitary force in East Pakistan organized by General Tikka Khan. The force commits war crimes, including murder and massacre, rape, and looting.
[36] A neighborhood in Sylhet town.
[37] The vermillion powder Hindu women apply along their hairlines to show their status as married women
[38] There was a fatwa in West Pakistan during the war that Bengali Hindu women taken could be considered war spoils, plunder, prize.
[39] raisins
[40] One cup milk tea, Brother.
[41] These are not schools solely for Islamic instruction. They teach the sciences, arts, literature. They house orphans. They shelter the poor. They are havens and institutions of their own. Again, something for another day, but how many were co-opted by the Razakars? How many left young boys scarred and feral?
[42] Again.
[43] Spiced puff rice salad
[44] Sister
[45] Won’t I see your little one?
[46] It is important to note that Bengalis thought to be unIslamic, though a majority practice Islam. How can the story of Adam and Hawa be intertwined with the story of Kali and Lakhinder? How can water and beef be called Ma? How can you touch the ground beneath her feet? But let us spin that web on a clearer day.
[47] Victory to Bengal! Victory to Bengal! It is our free Bengal!
[48] Eid ul Adha
[49] sacrifice
[50] Reader, rest assured, I am her daughter. I came out of this dirt, too I am Choto.
[51] Bangladesh
[52] pull
[53] Ma’s oldest sister. This is the same sister who was a newly wed during the war. Her husband kept the Army at bay with bags and bags of fragrant tea.
[54] Dirt’s pull; orthoba, gravity.
[55] Foxes
[56] Reader, let me move you in this little time we have. For tomorrow, what are we?
Author’s note:
In mid-July, Bangladeshi university students launched nationwide protests against the civil service quota system. This selection system created unfair advantages for a select group of the Bangladeshi population. On July 15, 2024, 25-year old Abu Sayed was murdered by police officers while peacefully protesting. His killing symbolized the brutality of the state against its people, and the protest movement evolved from demanding change in the quota system to demanding Prime Minister Sheikh Hasina’s resignation. Hasina resigned from her position on August 5, 2024. An interim, caretaker government was established with chief adviser Dr. Muhammad Yunus at the helm. Dr. Yunus has said his government’s “foremost promise is to ensure that everyone can enjoy the fresh air of freedom.”
Simultaneously, as of late August, Bangladesh has been inundated by floodwaters, leaving millions of people displaced. Year over year, flooding has been on the steep incline in Bangladesh due to its minimal elevation above sea level, climate change and rising water levels, and its position within the floodplains of multiple major river systems.
This essay was written prior to the protest movement and the recent flooding. The writer hopes this essay will be a reminder of the tenets that enabled Bangladesh’s liberation. The writer hopes violence against students, journalists, indigenous people, and communities all across the globe comes to a swift end. The writer hopes the land and people can serve one another. This is a time for revolution, rebirth, and a rewrite of what is possible. Let us band together, uplift one another, amplify one another’s voices, and make space for one another. This dirt swells and contracts during and beyond our last breaths.
Nadia Choudhury writes across poetry, prose, lyric, and narrative. Her poems have appeared in Four Chambers Press, Cosmonauts Avenue, Slipstream Press, and Peripheries Journal, and an essay in The Offing. The Bangalore Review will publish her micro fiction in an upcoming edition. Nadia received the Truman Capote Fellowship while completing her MFA at Rutgers-Newark. She currently resides in Texas.
