The constant upheavals began when my peaceful slumber was shattered by a rain of bullets on March 25, 1971. I watched in fear from the balcony of our flat in Banani, while your grandfather went up to the rooftop with the neighbours. The children, including your mother, wanted to see as well, but I shoved them inside.
After three days of anxiety and confusion, we learned that a war was upon us. After a short stay in Badda, we fled to Manikganj, since the military had not infiltrated the countryside yet.
Judging by the stability of the situation, we alternated staying between my village and your grandfather's, which were five miles apart. We returned to our flat around June, when the military had begun attacking the countryside and Dhaka had cooled down to an extent. But the state of relative safety fluctuated; we stayed wherever we felt the most at peace, whether it was in the city or the village.
Those nine months were spent being tossed around by circumstance. This uprooting finally stopped after December 16, when we could finally return home and safely settle ourselves without the fear of another upheaval.