felt sure it would all resolve itself: Sheikh Mujib would be Prime Minister, and the country would go on being her home, and the children would go on being her children.
In no time at all the world would right itself, and they would go on living ordinary, unexceptional lives.
50
25 March 1971
Operation Searchlight
T
hey blamed it on a sudden, collective deafness. How else could they explain the military planes that had landed at the airport,
the soldiers told they were saving the world? How else could they explain not knowing, not hearing? And later they would say they should have heard the birds leaping out of trees and flying east- wards, and the crickets fleeing, and the bats folding up, and the grass-green tiktikis hiding in crevices, under house slippers.
But they didn’t, and this is how it happened:
On the 25th Mrs Chowdhury invited them all to dinner in honour of Lieutenant Sabeer. All day there had been strange rumours floating around the city. Mujib was in talks about the election, and no one was saying whether the talking was coming to anything; at the end of Satmasjid Road, at the East Pakistan Rifles Compound, the place they have always called Peelkhana, there was speculation about a military attack; some university students had come out with bricks and broken chairs from the dormitories, trying to construct a makeshift barricade.
53
It was a bad night for a party, but Mrs Chowdhury insisted. The couple hadn’t been formally engaged, she said, not with all the troubles; nothing elaborate, just a small ceremony, maybe a ring for Silvi. She roasted an entire lamb, which sat on the table with a tomato stuffed between its jaws. Rehana did not feel she could say no; Sohail agreed to come as well – probably to test himself, Rehana thought. He avoided looking at Silvi and Sabeer and kept his eyes fixed on the lamb. Maya’s mood was especially black; she had been forced to leave Sharmeen at Rokeya Hall, where confetti was being thrown out of windows and a group of Bauls were singing at the bottom of the stairwell. She complained of the quiet in the neighbourhood, as though no one in Dhanmondi knew or cared they were on the verge of a revolution. She wanted to be on the streets, distributing leaflets and singing ‘We Shall Overcome’. The neighbours assembled around the table. Silvi was dressed in a heavy turquoise salwaar-kameez. Lieutenant Sabeer wore his uniform, as usual. Mr and Mrs Sengupta put Mithun to bed in Silvi’s bedroom and turned their attention to the aromas floating
in from the kitchen.
The party was quietly expectant. But no one heard anything, not even the sound of guava trees dropping their fruit, as they always do in March.
‘Well, then, let’s raise our glasses to Silvi and Sabeer, my beloved daughter, and my soon-to-be son-in-law. May God bless you both.’
They raised their glasses of milk shorbot. Rehana sat beside Sohail and tried to catch his wrist to give it a squeeze. But his hands were on the table, and he said, ‘Here’s to our country. May it emerge from this trial and stand strong.’
‘Hear, hear,’ said Mr Sengupta, leaning back and stroking his belly.
‘And to the proletariat! And to the revolution!’ Maya said, standing up and draining her glass in a hurry.
‘OK, OK,’ Mrs Chowdhury said, ‘now let’s eat.’
While Mrs Chowdhury plunged her knife into the lamb’s glossy, rippled back, a slow procession of jeeps and tanks
54
crawled through the city; it snaked out of the cantonment, crossed the railroad tracks into Bonani, where it split up, one line straying through Elephant Road, through Jinnah Avenue, and into the university compound. The other line made its way towards Peelkhana, green jeeps with green men waving the green Pakistan flag, a flapping sickle with its lavish, bent smile.
Oblivious, they devoured the roast lamb, smacking their lips and sucking on the bones. Later they would remark upon the crudeness of their
In no time at all the world would right itself, and they would go on living ordinary, unexceptional lives.
50
25 March 1971
Operation Searchlight
T
hey blamed it on a sudden, collective deafness. How else could they explain the military planes that had landed at the airport,
the soldiers told they were saving the world? How else could they explain not knowing, not hearing? And later they would say they should have heard the birds leaping out of trees and flying east- wards, and the crickets fleeing, and the bats folding up, and the grass-green tiktikis hiding in crevices, under house slippers.
But they didn’t, and this is how it happened:
On the 25th Mrs Chowdhury invited them all to dinner in honour of Lieutenant Sabeer. All day there had been strange rumours floating around the city. Mujib was in talks about the election, and no one was saying whether the talking was coming to anything; at the end of Satmasjid Road, at the East Pakistan Rifles Compound, the place they have always called Peelkhana, there was speculation about a military attack; some university students had come out with bricks and broken chairs from the dormitories, trying to construct a makeshift barricade.
53
It was a bad night for a party, but Mrs Chowdhury insisted. The couple hadn’t been formally engaged, she said, not with all the troubles; nothing elaborate, just a small ceremony, maybe a ring for Silvi. She roasted an entire lamb, which sat on the table with a tomato stuffed between its jaws. Rehana did not feel she could say no; Sohail agreed to come as well – probably to test himself, Rehana thought. He avoided looking at Silvi and Sabeer and kept his eyes fixed on the lamb. Maya’s mood was especially black; she had been forced to leave Sharmeen at Rokeya Hall, where confetti was being thrown out of windows and a group of Bauls were singing at the bottom of the stairwell. She complained of the quiet in the neighbourhood, as though no one in Dhanmondi knew or cared they were on the verge of a revolution. She wanted to be on the streets, distributing leaflets and singing ‘We Shall Overcome’. The neighbours assembled around the table. Silvi was dressed in a heavy turquoise salwaar-kameez. Lieutenant Sabeer wore his uniform, as usual. Mr and Mrs Sengupta put Mithun to bed in Silvi’s bedroom and turned their attention to the aromas floating
in from the kitchen.
The party was quietly expectant. But no one heard anything, not even the sound of guava trees dropping their fruit, as they always do in March.
‘Well, then, let’s raise our glasses to Silvi and Sabeer, my beloved daughter, and my soon-to-be son-in-law. May God bless you both.’
They raised their glasses of milk shorbot. Rehana sat beside Sohail and tried to catch his wrist to give it a squeeze. But his hands were on the table, and he said, ‘Here’s to our country. May it emerge from this trial and stand strong.’
‘Hear, hear,’ said Mr Sengupta, leaning back and stroking his belly.
‘And to the proletariat! And to the revolution!’ Maya said, standing up and draining her glass in a hurry.
‘OK, OK,’ Mrs Chowdhury said, ‘now let’s eat.’
While Mrs Chowdhury plunged her knife into the lamb’s glossy, rippled back, a slow procession of jeeps and tanks
54
crawled through the city; it snaked out of the cantonment, crossed the railroad tracks into Bonani, where it split up, one line straying through Elephant Road, through Jinnah Avenue, and into the university compound. The other line made its way towards Peelkhana, green jeeps with green men waving the green Pakistan flag, a flapping sickle with its lavish, bent smile.
Oblivious, they devoured the roast lamb, smacking their lips and sucking on the bones. Later they would remark upon the crudeness of their
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