Short Story
One Day in April*
artwork by amina
It was April. Bhushan, having just stepped out of his hut, was surveying the sky. It was hot; the tall trees on the west side of the shallow canal had not yet cast its shadows on the water. Bhushan could not wait any longer. He hopped onto his small dingy boat and began rowing. If the boat strayed a bit, the sun glared right into his eyes, revealing his unshaven face. In the glare of the sun, the exposed part of his face shone like a mirror, and made him look rather unsightly. Bhushan grimaced and cursed. The mid-day sun was one obvious target of his anger, but in fact nothing in sight was spared of his invectives. Yet, if he closed his mouth, Bhushan - with his small eyes twitching from inside his forehead - was rather quite innocent looking. He was the kind of person who would calmly say his name and declare that he was not one of the lowly rrishi. As if he was deeply ashamed that his surname was Das, but nonetheless he was not a cobbler by profession. In fact, Bhushan was a farmer. Now fifty years old, farming was the only profession he had known all his life. This truth was written all over his body -- anyone could read it for himself. His muscles were all swollen. The eggs on his calves seemed like hard balls, and a vein protruding from his heel ran through his knee. All these convincingly proved that Bhushan was and had been a farmer all his life. He had worked only with the soil, and with nothing else. He had planted seeds, cleared weeds, cut paddy and carried rice on his shoulders to the granary. And this was also true that except for his little hut and some ten kaatha of land near his home, he owned nothing else. This is how Bhushan would explain his situation: "You see, my parents were rather well-off, in fact you can call them landowners – Zamindars." Having said this, Bhushan, with his twitching eyes, would cast his glance towards the horizon and survey the little field with his eyes. His bones were thick, his paws large. After years of tilling and shoveling, his hands had become flat. And after years of carrying loads, his head, flat like a square tin plate, had sunk inside his shoulders. His never combed his rough and graying hair. A little tuft of hair sat on his top head that gave the appearance of a wig. If you pressed his tuft of hair a bit, it seemed it would drop off and reveal his steel-like skull. Bhusan was best known for a particular body language. While at work in the field, he would raise his neck every now and then and stare at the horizon far away. Sometimes he stared at the sky before returning to work. Who knows what he thought while staring at the sky above or the horizon afar. There were quite a few reasons for his sour mood today. Rows of paddy were heaped on the farmland in the dry lake. One could see them as far as the eyes stretched. Birds were pecking grains all over the place, but he had none at his home. After repaying the loan taken last monsoon, none was left of his share of grain. Not even a bit of hey left for feeding his two cows. Those two were puffing. On top of this, his stupid little son was missing from home. At least the boy could prove useful by taking the cows out for grazing on the green. In the morning, hoping that someone might hire him, Bhusan had gone out with his scythe. He did get a job at the Mallik's, where they asked him to fix the fence. He was busy doing that, when he suddenly saw three boys approaching him. Bhushan was surprised to find that the three carried guns, just the way policemen did. Two of them wore no shirts. Bhushan immediately recognized those two: they were children from a neighboring village. They went to school and also worked on farmland, at least that's what Bhushan knew. The one with his shirt on was unfamiliar to him. "What's up Bhushan? The new boy asked. Bhushan stared at him, unable to respond. "You have to join us, OK?" One of the two he knew said. "Got to hold the gun like this, you got to fight." One of them -- he also wore no shirt - aimed his gun up at the sky and fired. A loud sound exploded. Bhushan, scared, dropped his scythe. "Uh, you scared me, my God, what a sound!" Bhushan said nervously. The one with his shirt on spoke, his eyes yellow, his stare like that of an eagle, the sides of his nose wrinkled, "Bhushan, make this country your own, make it free. We can no longer stay with Pakistan." Bhushan had heard about some disturbances. Dhaka was in the midst of a turmoil, people were dying there; same thing in Khulna. Of course, these were rumors. Disturbances were nothing new in the country. Watching the gun and hearing its sound, he felt scared. "We want you all to join us. What d'you say, won't you be able to use the gun, eh?" The three boys soon left. Bhushan did not understand what was going on. Those kids were carrying police guns, that itself was a serious matter, he thought. Bhushan's payment for his day's work was 1.50 taka. As soon as he reached home, his mood soured. The two cows were still standing there tied. As there was no lunch to be cooked, Bhushan's wife brought some stale rice soaked in cold water that was saved from morning. His two infant boys -- with no clothes on - were deep asleep in the shade of a coconut tree. Bhushan's hut was exposed from all sides; only the coconut tree offered some shade, but his hut was burning hot. Bhushan asked, "Where is Haridas?" His wife replied, "He has gone out somewhere since morning." Bhushan's little yellow eyes burst in flames, "Heck, freaking bastard, I am going to bury him alive today, let him come home first." There was nothing to be done with the two cows. Their large black eyes lit up as soon as they saw Bhushan. "See if you can get them something to eat," he told his wife. "Me, from where?" his wife said. "Oh, stop blathering. Do, if you can, as I say." It was after this conversation that Bhushan had taken his boat out. Boiling under the April sun, the canal's muddy water had become real hot. The air too was hot like fire. Bhushan could hear the creepy sounds of grass burning on the field. Rather absent-mindedly, he looked at the shallow canal; out there near the horizon, the heat shimmered. Beyond its white smoke, villages stood along an uneven green line. He could still remember his early childhood. On the east side of their courtyard stood a tall mango tree. As he reflected, Bhushan could see himself even now lying naked in the shade of that tree on a hot summer afternoon. He could even see his waistband. His father had a pair of drooping, graying moustache. He could see him too. As if to see his father a little better, Bhushan stuck his head out and cast his glance above the canal. With the sun about to set, the tall trees on the sides of the canal had begun blowing soft breeze. Bhushan saw new leaves sprouting; he felt a strong wind blow by him as he rowed past a berry tree. Twigs and creepers from the tree hung close to the water. "But there is nothing particularly serious," Bhushan thought for a while, before coming to the conclusion. Nothing has changed in this country. This canal has been flowing who knows for how long, God almighty knows who owns it. I do exactly what my father did. Even the berry tree by the canal remains the same. Bhushan shook his large, rather cumbersome head in earnest, "Even Haridas, that sonofabitch, remains the same." With the movement of head, his rough, thick hair hung down on all four sides. He continued rowing sullenly. He was edging closer to the bank. The village bazaar was not far. The canal, like a silver wire, had snaked through the lake far to the south. Bhushan took his boat towards the middle of the canal, anchored it right behind Ratan's grocery store and walked down carrying gourde leaves, plantain and a couple of bottle-gourds. Bhushan breathed heavily as he came down to the edge of the bazaar. He was already late, the bazaar was bustling with people; practically every well-bodied man was there. It seemed more crowded than usual, the noise was almost deafening. Suddenly Bhushan saw Haridas, sitting in a teashop nearby, happily chatting and howling. Enraged, Bhushan began quivering, his brown eyes fired up and his face turned totally square. Bhushan would have sprung on Haridas like a tiger, but he had the vegetable loads on his head, his hands were busy too. He did not know what to do. Angry like hell, he quickly put down his loads and rushed to Haridas screaming. Standing on the edge of the shop, he roared, "Come here, you sonofabitch, freaking swine, you good-for-nothing, I won't spare you today." As soon as Haridas saw Bhushan, his mouth dried up. Scared, he began coming down from the shop. Bhushan was at the bottom, as if ready to tear off Haridas's head. Then at that very moment, some loud, grave sounds came floating from the side of the canal. Bhushan knew these sounds were made by motor launches, especially when they docked at the bank. But here, in this shallow canal, one never saw a motor launch docking. Bhushan and Haridas were now facing each other. At that very moment, bang, a bomb blew off with a loud noise. Bhushan could see the tall and ancient tamarind tree shaking from its roots. Crows atop the tree fluttered and crowed loudly. The sounds again hit them -- first a very loud one, so loud that they tore one's eardrums; then came sharp, metallic sounds pouring out of a machine made of iron. Bhushan's loin-cloth flapped against his knee. With his two feet stuck to the ground, Haridas stood in front of him dumb-founded. The din of the bazaar died down, and a silence descended. It was impossible to describe such a silence. Fear rose high up in the sky; piercing screams made the silence impregnable. The sounds were heard intermittently. First a somber gummmm, followed by a metallic echo – chaiiin. Soon Bhushan could no more hear the sound of the motor launch. Bhushan, following Haridas's scared glance, turned around and saw that from the side of the river, galloping through the alley, a man was coming towards them. He wore khaki shirt and trousers, a cap hung over his head sideways. He was a fair skinned, tall, and large man. The man was screaming loud, but Bhushan was unable to figure out what he was saying. He hurled such words as beiman (ungrateful), malaun (idol worshiper heathens), kafir (unbelievers). Bhushan heard those words and kept staring at the short handgun in the man's hand. As if this man was multiplying himself, Bhushan soon saw another man, just like the first one, running next to each other. With a clicking sound, they came walking up the alley and took position along the riverbank. Soon they heard a new sound: tat a tat. His ears began buzzing. By this time, Haridas had moved to the side a bit. Bhushan, his eyes moist, looked at the April sky rather absent-mindedly. The sun was still glaring atop the tall trees. Again he heard the sound, tat a tat. This time Bhushan saw people falling off, just the way tall trees fell off once cut from their trunks, and lying down unhurriedly. Thus far Bhushan had stood still; most people in the bazaar had also remained still. Suddenly the silence was broken, and people began running screaming aloud. As they ran, some of them stumbled. Some would take a last look at the river and then fall down holding their stomach. Blood would gush, making a squirting sound. The blood flew so rapidly on the shiny earthen road that one could see white foams forming above. Grass became drenched: heavy with drops of blood on top, grass blades began quivering. The tat a tat sound went unabated. Bodies began piling atop one another, just like gunny bags. Bhushan saw Haridas standing not far away. He was about to run toward him, but instead Haridas fell on the ground. Looking behind, Bhushan saw the man with a short handgun in his hand standing right behind him. His large fair face was sweaty and all red in anger. From very closer quarters, Bhushan saw his two little eye sockets; he could even smell his sweat. The man shouted at the top of his voice, "You bastard, are you a Hindu?" Bhushan could see nothing any more. His large hands hardened like steel, he looked at the man's throat once or twice, then stared silently for a few moments. Making up his mind, in a quick single jump, he reached Haridas. Haridas was lying still, only his eyes seemed to suggest any signs of life. Bhushan drew his mouth close to Haridas's face and spoke very softly, "Haridas, my little boy, my darling." With his rough, jagged hand, he caressed over the boy's face and body and spoke lightly in the softest possible voice, "Haridas, my son." Then there was a single cracking sound. Bhushan's square pillar-like body shook twice, and then stopped, freeing him from all senses.
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