Poribanu

Satyen Sen

Born in Bikrampur under Munshiganj district in 1907, politician and litterateur Satyen Sen did his M.A. in Bangla literature while he was incarcerated for five years in 1931 for his alleged association with terrorist politics. Indoctrinated in Marxism, he steered the peasant movement and became the leader of Dacca District Krishak Samity and was arrested again in 1949 and imprisoned for four years. Soon after he was released, he joined the daily Sangbad as an assistant editor. He was jailed again in 1958 after the promulgation of Martial Law in the country. Released in 1963, he returned to journalism in the same newspaper. From 1965 to 1968, he was put behind  bars once again. In 1971, he crossed over to Calcutta during the Liberation War. After the country became Bangladesh, he returned to Dhaka in 1972 and devoted himself to the organizational work of the communist party. Although he made his debut in writing after he crossed fifty, he wrote profusely, mainly novels, for the next two decades. His writings border on the class struggle and the emancipation of the downtrodden. He was the founder of Udichi, a left-leaning politico-cultural organization. A bachelor, he died at his sister's home in Shantiniketan. He received the Bangla Academy prize for literature (novels) in 1970. He died in 1981
I couldn't recognize him at all. It wasn't surprising that I couldn't identify him; rather I would be astonished if I did. With unkempt hair and his face buried under a bushy beard, he was casting a look as if his eyes were bereft of senses. Wearing a lungi and dirty vest, he kept his skinny physique covered somehow. Looking at him, anyone would think that he was a mad man. Actually I also thought the same.
It happened during the dark fortnight of the lunar month. Even though it wasn't that late at night, a paralyzing stillness gripped the entire area. It was as if a dreadfully dangerous alarm like a heavy stone was lodged in the mind of the people. After occupying the district town, the Pakistani army was advancing towards the village. News trickling in said that the perpetrators had let loose a reign of terror in far-flung villages, situated at least 10-15 miles away from the river. The blood-curdling stories would send a shudder down the spine. It wouldn't take much time for them to cross the river and reach here! Across the river, the people of this village were spending their days and nights amid tension and fear anticipating havoc the invading troops were preparing to wreak on them. In rotation, the young and strong boys would go round the village to keep the nightly vigil. This was aimed at alerting the villagers, in case the enemy invaded; the guarding angels wouldn't put up a resistance, whatsoever that might be. Even this service was so essential.
Even though I was reading a book, I wasn't into it. My mind was itinerant. My thoughts were revolving round the looming danger, and right at that moment he almost barged into my room pushing the door wide open. Caught unawares by the suddenness of the incident, I got frightened and asked in a tremulous voice: "Who are you?"
"It's me, sir."
"Who's that me?"  Although the voice seemed to be known, I couldn't recognize it even after a lot of effort. Finally, I kept looking at him smilingly. Understanding my predicament, however, he came up with a solution.
" It's me, Haroon. Your student. I was teaching at the primary school here. Can't you remember, Sir? You helped me get the job." He introduced himself.
Now I could recollect it clearly. Haroon did his intermediate from our college. Born in a poor family, he had to struggle a lot to study this far, and then he had to look for a job, putting an end to his studies. Landing a job wasn't that easy! Finally, I got him into this teaching job at the primary school. Working for some years, he had earned some reputation as a teacher. After five-six years, all of a sudden he left the school and  vanished into thin air without trace. Since then three-four years had elapsed. Where did he come from after such a long time?
"So you are that Haroon! What happened to you? You look so distraught and broken. Where have you been for such a long time?"
In short, Haroon described his personal history for the previous few years. In the intervening period, he had been teaching in his village school for those years. When the struggle for an independent Bangladesh gathered momentum a couple of months before, he joined the movement chanting the 'Joy Bangla' slogan and abandoning his school and family. From then on he had been spending his nomadic life on roads, in villages and the homes of other people.
"That's good. But what happened to your health? Why do you look so frail and emaciated? We are also into it, but we don't look like you – it seems you haven't been eating for days." I vented my genuine concern.
"You are right, Sir. I seldom manage regular meals. It's been two months that the Pakistani occupation forces have set up their camps in our place.  They have been attacking village after village; they are accompanied by Muslim League hoodlums. I have organized the local Mukti Bahini. Right after their arrival, they have this information, and since then they have been conducting a combing operation in the area to find me and some others out. Everyone is traumatized, so nobody wants to give us any shelter. Do you know what I am thinking about? At times I think I am surviving somehow by eating the flesh of my own body. This is the reason why my health is like this."
I became speechless. "We are also in the movement", I felt ashamed at what I had said before. Both of us were in the same movement, but why the results were so different? He was wholeheartedly involved in the struggle; in fact, he left everything and took all possible risks for the movement, while my one was amateurish – safeguarding my family and other interests, I had set sail on favorable wind. This was what I felt intensely while talking to him. It didn't hurt me like this before.
"Have something first, Haroon, and then we'll talk."
"You are right, Sir. I really need to eat. But this isn't what I have come to you for from such a great distance. Please listen to what I have come here for."
" No…no. Have your food first. Whatever you have to say, I'll listen to that afterwards. Time isn't running out." I interjected.
Without giving him any opportunity to prolong the conversation, I went inside. Affronted by my request to arrange food for Haroon, my wife's face suddenly turned gloomy, and I said diffidently: "You can give him my share…"
"That's enough. You don't have to express your consideration like this. You go, and I am sending the food to the outer house." She said in restrained anger.

(To be continued)

Haroonuzzaman teaches English at Independent University, Bangladesh (IUB).