Walking through the yard, down the empty and wet road, my thoughts wandered back to the days when dawn used to be my best friend, when it had not ceased to instill hopes and inspirations in me, when the world looked brighter and fuller under the orange and yellow castings of the sun on a thin layer of clouds. I walked along the path, my chin buried in my chest and my eyes fixed on the road below until I reached the post-office. The tinted horizon reflected the redness of the blood patches on the surface of Earth. It brought back memories that I wished to bury inside me forever. So I always prayed for a few more hours of darkness, not in order to sleep, but to gather myself and prepare for another day in this lifeless body.
Like a ritual that had been for the past 5-6 months now, I stopped at the door of an old, droopy building. It was a two-storey. I pushed open the door, swinging aside the signboard which had “Dacope Post Office” written on it in Bengali. The big Persian clock on the wall struck seven the moment I entered. I sat down on a chair in a small corner of the room and began to club together the letters that had arrived the day before. Soon after, the room started filling with men and women, one after the other. Before I knew, it was already a chaos.
I talk about this day specifically because this was the day I entered into their story, playing a small but significant role. Wearing a black burkha she stood at the door and looked around, seeking assistance. The eyes of men scanned her from top to bottom trying to spot any hint to who she was, but she was perfectly covered. Dissatisfied, she was going to turn and walk away when she noticed me. I think she heaved a sigh of relief and ran to me instantly.
“Can you write a letter for me?” She asked in Bengali.
“হ্যাঁ. বসতে,” I agreed. Her soft, matured voice suggested she must be in her early twenties, around 4-5 years elder to me. Her accent also told me she was not from any village in Dacope. “Maybe a refugee,” I thought. Those days, during the partition of Bengal, many refugees came to the post office, posting letters to confirm their well-being to their loved-ones left behind in India. Despite having a majority of Hindus, Dacope was now a part of Pakistan, East Bengal.
She sat down on the chair in front.
“To?” I asked her, holding a British envelope in my hand.
“
Rajeshwar,” She pronounced the name so softly I could barely hear it.
“Address?” She gave me the address. The receiver was from Gaighata, a village that was now in the Indian division of Bengal.
“From?” I asked her. When she did not answer my question but kept her head buried, I guessed her hesitation.
“I am from
Khulna, not from here. I’m like you. I won’t tell anyone.” I assured her. I had lived in a small village near Khulna district in the west part of Bengal with my father, mother, and three brothers, when they decided to include my village in East Bengal. ‘Doosra Pakistan’ as they called it. Muslims began capturing the houses in Khulna, which was prominently a Hindu dominated district then. In the course of 5-6 months since, I saw the number of Muslims gradually increasing and that of Hindus consequently decreasing. We were trying to cross the river from the side of my village and reach Hugli when my family members were all shot dead, or cut into halves by swords in front of my eyes. I survived somehow, hiding inside a tomb, but could save none of them. When I reached back home, the entire village had been burnt. My father’s Muslim friend, thinking me as his responsibility, brought me to Dacope, East Bengal. Getting work wasn’t very difficult because I was amongst the few educated ones.
“What’s your name?” She asked me.
When you’ve been placed in an unknown land with unknown people who only consider you their enemy, when you see murders taking place everywhere around you and when that blood has been splashed on your bare face too, you cannot trust anyone easily. Even if it’s a young, teenage girl.
“Rajjo.” I replied.
“
Sharmila. From Sharmila” She meekly decided to put her faith in me.
“What should I write?”
She began dictating me the contents of the letter.
“Dear Rajeshwar,
I am still alive, if you’ve been wondering. I do not know whether you are in perfect health or not or even if you live in the same house now. But still, I’m writing to you.” She kept looking at the door impatiently while she spoke.
“I had been abducted while we were shifting to your village in Gaighata. He…” she paused, thought for over a few seconds, then continued, “He brought me to Dacope, abused me, and left me on the street, thinking that I was dead. However, I survived. I think his name is Rafiq; that’s what they call him. His elder brother is a good man. He took me to their home and gave me shelter. However, how can I trust them anymore? He has made many women suffer the same way I have and some have even died. The fact that hundreds of people witness his atrocities changes nothing at all. He is blinded by the love for his nation and hatred for us Hindus. I feel very alone and vulnerable here. I want to come back home. I cannot live in the same house with the man who shattered my womanhood. I thought that the shame and the fear would fade away with time. However, it hasn't. Instead, the fears only seem to grow stronger, to the point where their weight on my chest can never be lessened.” She slid a hand inside her Burkha and wiped her tears, “I do not know if after reading this bitter letter you would still want to marry me. But I’m pleading you to save my life. If you reply, I’ll be sure that you still love me.
Yours only, Sharmila.”
She finished speaking, not looking up once the entire time. I could tell she felt humiliated. The partition had changed the fate of many women like us. I felt sorry for her, but I didn’t know how to console her. I kept on writing until it was done. When I finally put the letter in the envelope, she stood up and ran out through the door, without turning back even once.
I did not see her for a few days after that. Nor was there any letter for her. I wondered what must have gotten off her, but I had no way to find out. Then one day, I saw her peeping in through the post-office door. I recognized the same hesitance and stance of her body. When her eyes found me, she swiftly walked across the room to where I was sitting.
“Any letter for me?” she asked.
“I’m sorry, but there isn’t any. You did not even mention any address
to where he should write to you.”
Before I completed my sentence, she turned around and walked back as swiftly as she had
entered. I stared after her, bewildered.
She kept coming every day after that, for a week or more. I kept refusing when she asked me about the letter. No more words or condolences were exchanged between us. Until on the 11th day, when, after my negative reply to her usual question she sat down on the chair.
“I hope he’s fine.”
I sensed the dismay in her voice. “He will be. I’m sure. The situation is less intense in Gaighata than it is here.” Having nothing more to offer than mere words, I tried to be of whatever little help I could be.
“He’ll write. I’m sure.
He’ll address it to this post office. If you get any letter from him, will you keep it for me? It’s difficult to come here every day, hiding from people’s constant watch. And I don’t want the letter to be delivered where I stay.”
I assured her that I will keep the letter with me and she thanked me. I did not see her after that for quite some time. But what I did see one evening was a letter addressed to her.
“To Sharmila”, it read. While putting orderly the other letters, I watchfully slipped this one in my bag, hoping she will come back soon, asking for it.
She did. Same hesitation, same swift walk. Before she could ask me, I pulled the letter out of my bag and gave it to her. I could almost see her smile through the netted black burkha. She managed to tear open the envelope with trembling fingers and held the letter upside down in front of her. She stared at it for a while, and then smelt the words scribbled on it. Hugging the letter tight, she started weeping silently. I wanted to reach her and run my hands over her head, just like my mother used to do, whenever I cried. But I knew better. I kept doing my work pretending I never saw a thing.
She handed the letter over to me and asked me to read it to her.
“My Sharmila,” I started, but she gestured me to lower my voice. I began whispering to her, “I am so relieved to know you’re alive, to say the least. I have wept every day and night since I was told you were missing. I died a thousand deaths thinking what may have happened to you. I am very sorry for all you had to suffer. If I could, I’d undo it all. But don’t you worry, I’ll come there as soon as possible and I’ll take you with me. We’ll run away from this cruel, violent world to somewhere where there’s only love. We’ll build a world of love for ourselves. I will struggle to give you all the happiness you deserve and compensate for all the pains you’ve been through. I remember the promise I made to you by that beautiful sunset that day. Keep strength, my love, for that’s all you have now. Don’t break down, Have faith in God. I will come meet you as soon as possible and when I hold you in my arms, you’ll have a completely different belief of the woman you truly are. I think that will make us both incredibly full of smiles.Love and wishes,
Rajeshwar.”
Her
burkha was wet with tears by the time I finished reading. I gave the envelope back to her and she stood up and left without saying another word.
Next I saw of her was around a month later. I was not expecting her anymore because I believed Rajeshwar must have taken her with him by now. Not that I had forgotten her, she wasn’t someone I’d forget so easily. This time, there was a man accompanying her. A Muslim, definitely not Rajeshwar. She pointed at me, but the man chose to stay at the door itself. She walked up to me and sat down.
“Do I have any letter?” She enquired.
“From him? No, none.”
“I want to write a letter, to him again.” She said in a tired, loose voice.
“I thought he must have come to take you. Did he not?” I looked surprised.
“It’s not that easy. Where he stays is far from here.
Moreover, coming all the way, crossing boundaries is no child’s play. There is a lot of turbulence in the country; it’s not easy for people from India to travel to Bangladesh now. He tells me that.” She pointed to the man at the door, who stood gazing outside.
“Is he
Rafiq?” I inquired.
“Rafiq? Oh no! I would never even see that man’s face, living in the same house. This is his elder brother. He says if Rajeshwar doesn’t come in a year, or reply to my letters, he will marry me and I should comply."
“Oh! Does he misbehave with you?”
“Na baba. He is a good man. He told me he loves me. That’s when I told him about me and Rajeshwar. I thought he’d kill me too, but he understands. I didn’t have to hide from anyone while coming here today. He brought me.”
“Good for you.” I smiled at her. “What do you want me to write?”
She started to dictate to me, “
Rajeshwar, I have been waiting for you. I know it’s not very easy to cross the border and reach this side of Khulna but you have promised me. There are many other women here waiting for their husbands, father, brothers to come and take them. Why don’t you all form a group and come together? You will also be safe that way.
It hurts me to see the
suffering of those women who had to accept their abductors as husbands. They have no other option. I don’t want to meet the same fate! Some initiatives are being taken by the government to recover those women and to send them back to their parents. However, you must be knowing, it requires much more than mere efforts. A woman’s body is not her own anymore. It is now only a question of the honour of her family and community. Therefore, some bastards like Rafiq think that abducting a woman and raping her is the best way to disgrace a family. These men don’t understand the importance of our feelings. The woman has forever been the sufferer and shall continue to be so, I guess.
Rajeshwar, now the dew laden leaves and the glittery water of the sea do not have vibrancy enough to fill the void in my soul. Only and only you can do that. I don’t know if you’ll find this letter or you’ve already left for me by the time it arrives, but I shall pray for your health. Yours always,
Sharmila”
She thanked me for helping her with the letter and went back to the man, following him out the door.
The next 7-8 months passed by with the same ritual, she came in once a week with the man who kept standing at the door, inquired about the letter, got a negative response from me, smiled and followed him back outside. In the course of time, she even started asking me about my health. I asked her about her well-being too. We had no idea whether Rajeshwar had died, been forced to get married or on his way here. All she knew was that he did love her as much as she had always loved him. She had feared his love would be shaken on hearing about her abduction and the fact that she being a Hindu lived with Muslims. However, his only letter that she had received had wiped all her doubts away as the rain that year had washed the bloodstains from the ground. The blood does not vanish; it remains forever. It only seizes to be seen anymore.
Eventually she stopped coming. I did see her around in the streets once or twice, so I know she still lived here. I did not have strength enough to go ask her about Rajeshwar. His absence was evident. When I finally did cross paths with her while going back home one evening, I realized she was no more a hesitant refugee. She was a lonely citizen, but not lacking any amount of strength. I asked her if she had any news from Rajeshwar.
“You should be able to tell me that. Do I have any news
from Rajeshwar?” She questioned back. I nodded my head in negation.
“It’s okay. He’ll come
out looking for me. I’m going to meet him someday. It’s not supposed to end this way and I wouldn’t let it. There’s so much more we had to accomplish together. His dream was to visit the Taj Mahal with me.” She smiled from behind the Burka. “We’ll be there one day, together.”
Just then the same man, Rafiq’s elder brother came from behind and told her it was late, that they should be heading home. I don’t know if he got her to marry him, but I know he’ll never get her to love him. I stood over there, amazed, wondering where this woman gets the strength to live life! Nothing was right, nothing could soothe the pain of the barbarous atrocity committed on her, but nothing could even deter her faith. Her broken heart had mended mine; her trust in life had reinstated mine. I realized the miracles that even a parted love could perform. If not for anything else, I now wanted to forget my pain and live on for a feeling like that, for a feeling like love.
The next morning when I walked through the yard, down the empty and wet road, dawn became my friend again. It began to instil hope and inspirations in me, like the good old days.
