But he never came back
By: Shahereen Shums Bhargava (Sydney, Australia)
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To a two-and-a-half year old the word ‘Pakistani Army’ meant adults talking in worried tones, bastis being burnt down outside the high barbed wired walls of my khala’s in-laws’ house, where we had escaped to five days prior. My Abba was the Superintendent of Police of Chittagong district and had been selected by Sheikh Mujibur Rahman to lead his security detail whilst in the district — which made him a target of the Pakistani Army. We barely had time to pack, our security guards rushed Ma, my baby sister and I out by the back door as the invaders walked in through the front.
The events of April 13th are etched deep into my memory. Abba was called to duty early in the morning and Ma was pleading with him to not go as Chittagong had fallen and the Pakistani Army were hunting down members of the resistance.
During the commotion of my mother’s pleas, and while I was running and playing, I ran into a domestic help carrying a pot of boiling water — I ended up with second degree burns from chin down my right side. My mother deemed my accident to be a bad omen, and consequently locked my father in the store room to prevent him from leaving the house. But, as destiny would have it, my father convinced a domestic help to open the door, allowing him to leave. Abba left without seeing me, or saying bye to Ma.
He didn’t return that evening. Nor the next day. Or the day after that. Ma, Khala and Khalu contacted anyone and everyone for information; we went on long drives chasing fruitless information. We never heard from or of him. Our Abba just vanished from the face of the Earth. We knew he was murdered by the Pakistani Army but we were still hopeful and praying for his return.
But he never came back.
Glossary:
Abba — father
Bastis — slums
Khala — maternal aunt
Khalu — maternal uncle by marriage (maternal aunt’s husband)
Ma — mother
