Somoyer proyojone Zahir Raihan

Preface: This is the first time I am putting an effort to translate the short story of Zahir Raihan. This is my humble effort to include all of you, to meet me and my two young minds who need to know about the liberation of Bangladesh but understand very little, about the ever controlling protocol of the story telling about that subject matter.
I wrote this so far. The story is available out there. If you would like to be excluded from this, please let me know.
Thank you.
Tamanna Ferdous

Translation
Crunch line of an inevitable Time
Zahir Raihan
Adaptation
A prose poem
(Experimental)

Anecdote

A few days ago, I went to a nearby front liner base camp , run by the freedom fighters , to collect information. The camp commander was busy like hell. At that busy moment, he gave me a notebook and said, "Have a seat. Read through this notebook. Let me finish a few tasks at hand. After that, I will have a chat with you."

I took my hand out to take the notebook.
A notebook, with a red cover on a binder. Dust, ink stains and greasy black spots darkened the paper space, and turned the pages filthy here and there.
I opened the notebook.
The handwriting was of a feminine type, with a salient persona, subtle along the written letters. A bit off-track doodling, here and there.
I began reading.

Silhouette, fallen on the occult pool of thought in liquidation

In the beginning, it used to hurt, to see someone dying.
For no good reason, it used to feel as a tenderness in aching. Perhaps it used to cause a trickling droplet of teardrop, even. Now, all these are much easier. Perhaps all these feelings are much easier. Perhaps these feelings are all blurry now, that is why. Death news spreads at a pace. Dead bodies are laid in rest. Oblivion within a blink of an eye, in the very next moment.

I took the rifle to my shoulder and stepped up the little valley. I gazed upfront. An ever expanding sky. One fenced bed for the butternut squashes. A young squash was still hanging. The breeze was shaking the squash, with a subtle gush, off and on. Few paddy fields. Two palm trees. Another village, visible at a distance. News spread that they built their base camp there. One day, they belonged within us. We remained together, stayed together. Shared bed together. Dined together. Slept together. Gossiped around the same table. When necessity called by chance, we quarreled . We loved. Now, a wild rage runs through the blood if they are, still there, for the show. Eyesight soars in a blister. Hands, restless in a clueless surge of an emotion. A lunatic mayhem , an engrossing outcry, when I am able to shoot them. When blood runs wild in the killing spree. A manic laughter occupies me in the aftermath, when one in the enemy is down. Ruthless in hatred, I spit on the dead faces, dead bodies.

There is a paddy field upfront. A few grazing cattle on the isle. One Goat. Noisy, in a continuous manner. A flock of birds flew over to a distant village. Something was apparently moving there. Skepticism, and I, Stood there, still, with a fixed gaze. A report to the camp commander followed there in the aftermath.

“Sir, it seems that they will approach.”

He was leaning forward on a map, laid in detail, upfront, a meticulous one, he. He looked up. A pair of reddish eyes. Devoid of sleep for the last two days. Too occupied a soul. He looked in the eyes. Asked, “ What is there that got you?” I responded, “ Perhaps I realized a movement.” He intervened. “ It is not. They are not supposed to progress before a couple days or two. Go and check closely.”

Came back to my own spot. Pondering kept the continuity absorbed, undisturbed. At times, dizziness turned into an almost clutch. Sometimes, blurry vision disturbed. Perceived a fluke, perhaps, that is why.

Even though, by the river Buri ganga, the launch terminal and the confined space of the rest area , I saw something, not to be a fluke. Heard that it sheltered many people. When I reached there, I saw nothing.

I saw a lump of blood, on the floor, dense as a flan. Stains of boots. So many footsteps, barefooted. Smaller in dimensions. Larger in dimensions. Baby sizes. Some traces of maiden hair. Two fingers. One ring. Streaks of Blood stains, here and there. Black hued blood stains. Red hued blood stains. Human body parts, hands. Feet. Toes. Lump of blood on the floor, dense as a flan. A shard of a human skull. A fragment of a brain. The traces of foot steps on the slippery bloody surface. Quite a few streaks of blood, with smaller traces, with larger traces. Traces of blood. One letter. A wallet. A cotton towel. A pair of flip-flops. A few cookies. A frozen chunk of blood. One nose ring. One comb. Stains of boots. A white lace turned red in soaking blood. A hair pin to stick braided hair. A matchbox.

There was a clear trace to drag a body, away. Dumped on a pool of blood, a bunch of bullets were lying scattered there, haphazardly. The adjacent draining pipe line was shut off. A pool of blood was clogged there, as if, a dumped affluent of an erupted volcano. I, a disclaimer patsy of time, was a witness, there. A panicked I, rushed to flee from there, within a breadth of breathing time. I was not a loner. Numerous, countless people, were there too, with me. Numerous people were rushing, for life, like a platoon of ant.

(To be continued….)

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