A Political Night at the Lakeshore

A Political Night at the Lakeshore

Around 12:30 at night, I was returning home, walking along the Hatir Jheel shore behind the Sonargaon Hotel in Dhaka. The shore was deserted apart from two dogs coming towards me. One had a guitar hanging around his neck; I recognized him. Five years ago, when I was writing my novel How I Was Disappeared I met him one afternoon right by this lake. He was sitting at the base of a coconut tree, looking at the lake while strumming the guitar with his paws and singing "My Golden Bengal, Thee I Love."

I told him that time, "It is dangerous for you to sing this song under the rule of the Awami League. They might think you are joking about the national anthem. They have already drafted a law punishing those commenting on the history of the Liberation War. “ The dog stopped the song immediately and began instead on BNP's party anthem: "The first Bangladesh is my last Bangladesh, Bangladesh is my life, Bangladesh is my death..."

That same dog stopped me tonight and asked, “Jamil shaheb, isn't it? You’re still alive?”
“Would you be happy if I had died?” I answered.
"Doesn't matter,” the dog remarked, "many important figures are being wiped out..."
"That's right,” I said. “You guys haven’t caught Covid?"
"Not yet." Pointing to the dog beside him he said, "my friend, Sabachkin. Russian."
"I got that from the name." I looked at the dog's face and asked,
"Gospodin Sabachkin, when did you come to Bangladesh?"
In Russian accented Bengali Sabachkin answered, "An unnecessary question. We are talking serious political issues here."  
"Like what?"
Sabachkin said, "For example, what is the meaning of life, what is the purpose of existence."
"Clichés," I said. "Don't you have anything else to do?"
"I am amazed by your intellectual shallowness," he replied.
I was shocked. I had no idea anyone could say such insulting words directly to someone's face.

A gust of wind blew the branches of the trees on the shore.

"How could the search for meaning of life be a political issue?" I asked.
"Everything is political," Sabachkin said as if he knew everything, "Without politics, not even a leaf moves."
I smiled. "What political message did you get from the wind that blew through those trees?"
Avoiding my question, he said, "All animals are political. It would be shame if I had to explain this."
Well, I understand that animal life is political. So what?"
He said, "You are a politically unhappy citizen. Don't you feel that?”
"What good would it be  if I did?"

Suddenly I noticed that the dog beside Sabachkin was laughing quietly, flashing his incisors menacingly as if to bite. I had done nothing to justify them biting me, I thought. I had nothing to fear. To lighten the mood, I asked the dog his name. He said it was Gafur. I was shocked. One of my childhood friends' name was Abdul Gafur. Just last night I started writing a story about him, 'Abdul Gafur's Explosive Youth.' It’s his love story, which happened almost 20 years ago.
"May I ask why you go by the name Gafur?" I asked the dog.
"Kakaya raznitsa?" he asked in elegant Russian. "What difference does it make?” I laughed and asked, "Are you Russian too?" He asked back, "Could Gafur be a Russian name?"
Sabachkin interrupted, “A Russian name would be Gafurov. If you go to the Caucasus, you will see many Gafurovs. They will serve you red wine and mutton. They are very hospitable and extremely friendly; if a Gafurov accepts you as a friend, he will not hesitate to give his life for you. But if you ever do anything wrong, like looking at Gafurov's young niece in a way Gafurov doesn't like, he will take your head off your neck with one stroke of his sword."
I was thinking, why is this guy telling me this? What is his intention?
"Politics, everything is political!" said Gafur.
Sabachkin said, "Right now, bureaucrats are the most politically conscious group in Bangladesh. Not just conscious, but hyper-conscious. Politics of this country is not under the control of politicians anymore; it is in hands of bureaucrats. The Prime Minister's office is controlled by bureaucrats. It is bureaucrats who have kept politicians in power. There is no need for people to vote. The Prime Minister is a fake idol; the ministers are duplicates of that fake idol. What can a duplicate be but another duplicate? The bureaucracy is the de facto government. All power to the secretariat! If five secretaries get together to go before the Prime Minister and say, we have identified Jamil Ahmed, a journalist who lives on shore of Hatir Jheel, as an enemy of our nation, today we will take him under police remand, shove a dozen boiled eggs up his ass and make him sing 'The first Bangladesh is my last Bangladesh,' the Prime Minister will tell them, do what you think is best, I am on your side."

"Do you know who aligns with whom, Mr. Jamil Ahmed?" Gafur asked.
"I don't know," I said, "I have no desire to know!"

As the two dogs started laughing, Hatir Jheel's sky and air trembled. When their laugh stopped, Gafur began to play his guitar. That tune: "The first Bangladesh is my last Bangladesh, Bangladesh is my life, Bangladesh is my death…Bangladesh Bangladesh Bangladesh!" The wind echoed around Hatir Jheel. "Stop!" I screamed loudly, "what's going on?" Gafur's guitar stopped. Sabachkin took out a cheroot from the pocket of his shorts and lit it. In the light of the burning matchstick, I noticed he was smiling as if he knew everything.

Just then, two enormous rats appeared, each at least four feet tall; both had long mustaches like porcupine quills, and wore black vests with many pockets, wide belts with a gun at the waist, automatic rifles on their shoulders and Che Guevara caps on their heads.

Quickly, Gafur and Sabachkin disappeared. Those two enormous rats stood before me; one asked: "Where did they go?" I pretended to be surprised and said, "Who?" "Those two traitor sons of bitches; where did those bastards go?" hissed the other rat.
"Haven't seen anyone like that," I said.
"Hey man, why are you lying?" said the first rat.  I pretended to be a bit angry and said, "You can’t go around bullying whoever you want! If you need to find a traitor, you can find... ."

 Before I could finish, the two rats pulled guns from their waistbands. "What do you mean, whoever?" one of them gritted his teeth. The other said, "Why are you roaming around late at night during lockdown? Who are you?"
"I am the press," I answered boldly.
"Press? What press?" two rats asked in one voice.
"Prothom-Alo Daily."
"Where's your card?"
I took out my ID card from my pocket. A rat picked it up and held it under a streetlamp. The other rat leaned over and looked at the card. Right off, both became furious: "Hey man, this is no time for jokes."
"Meaning what? What joke?"
"You piece of shit, where is Prothom-Alo on here?"
My photograph was in the middle of my ID card. In bold English letters above my photograph, it said 'Mediastar Limited'; below was the address. 'Prothom-Alo' was not written anywhere.
They said, "Man, do you think we are stupid? You are strolling with a card of some unknown Mediastar, and say it's Prothom-Alo?"
Stubbornly I replied, "Mediastar IS Prothom-Alo."
"How? How is Mediastar Prothom-Alo?
"That's right!" I started with audacity, " Prothom-Alo Daily is owned by Mediastar. You've got to be stupid if you don't know that..."
"What?" one of the rats snarled, hitting my right knee hard with the butt of the rifle, and said: "We are stupid?!" Immediately the other rat punched me in the stomach with his rifle barrel. "We gonna show you what stupid is!" Then they started beating me indiscriminately while using an unspeakable vocabulary. As I was being beaten, screams of “mom!” and “dad!” rang from my mouth and the silent, lonely shore of midnight echoed them pitifully. At one point I fell and saw hordes of rats coming up the slope of the shore from the depths of the lake; small, normal-sized rats; they were not as enormous as the two armed rats in uniforms busy beating me, but all together they made a tremendous herd as they all were standing on their hind legs, watching me and my two oppressors eagerly.

At that moment, a monkey was seen walking on two legs from the direction of Bangla Motors along the deserted sidewalk. In his right hand was an aluminum pipe and he blew into it. When they heard the sound, my attackers came to a halt and gazed at the monkey with astonishment.

The monkey's voice rang out in the air of Hatir Jheel through the pipe.

For allegedly indulging in conspiratorial activities, the police of the Hatir Jheel police district took Jamil Ahmed, an investigative reporter from the daily Prothom Alo, into safe custody.

Translated from the Bengali by Moin Kadir; editorial assistance Shabnam Nadiya