"Ekattarer Jishu" (Jesus '71)

By Shahriar Kabir

Translated by Mahjabeen Hossain

The Punjabi soldiers slowly headed north, burning down towns and villages as they went. Since the beginning of May, the villagers had started moving further north towards the woods. Many had even crossed the border to Cooch Bihar and West Dinajpur.

The border was not far off. Some would still make regular visits across the border. But, in the middle of June, when everyone saw the small town across the river in flames, those who were intending to go left for good. Only a few collaborators of the Jamaat-e-Islam and the Muslim League stayed back, along with a few old men. Desmond de Rozario, who tolled the church bell, was one of those few old men.

Father Martin used to be in charge of the church. When he heard that the Punjabis had killed missionaries at Jessore, he too left for the city.

"They are killing missionaries as well. I am going to the city. If you sense trouble, go to India. The Indians have given shelter to our people. God will take care of them," Father Martin had said as he drew the sign of the cross.
His head low, drawing lines on the earthen floor with his big toe, Desmond had replied, "Where else can I go, Father?"

He had thought about it a lot. Where else could he go? His fellow Santals went wherever they wished, whenever they wished. Nomadism ran in their blood, inebriated each and every mote of
i their being. But Desmond had come out of that nomadic euphoria many years back. He now felt like an old, sprawliQg banyan tree, his roots spread allover the village.

Desmond was only twelve when the church was founded. Father Nicholas had been the priest then. It was he who had baptised Desmond. "Don't leave the House of God. He will protect you," he had said. Desmond had been living in the church ever since.

There was a lush green lawn beside the church. Between the lawn and the cemetery, there was a wall. Abutting the wall were two small, whitewashed rooms with a red-tiled roof. They were Desmond's. He spent most of his time there and tolled the church bell. He believed that the Lord had endowed him with holiest task. of all.

Desmond would work in the garden and clean the church in the morning. In the evening, he would play with the children, whom the Lord loved. So many times the fathers had read out to him from he Bible, "But Jesus said, Suffer little children, and forbid them not to come unto me: for of such is the kingdom of heaven."

Silence hung heavy on the almost empty villages. Unlike the young, the few old men who had stayed back couldn't keep the village alive. Waves of pain crashed down deep inside Desmond's heart. When Nibir's grandfather and Haripad's uncle narrated the atrocities the soldiers were perpetrating in the city, he could not hold back his tears.

Desmond spent the whole of July alone. He did not enjoy gardening any more. Yet he kept his mornings busy performing the daily chores of the church. He dreaded the afternoons. He wondered how and where the bubbly children had disappeared. Who had cast the evil spell? The more he thought, the heavier his heart became.

There used to be colorful birds chirping and capering on the raintrees along the churchyard. The birds were no longer there. Also gone were the butterflies whose wings had made colorful designs on the lush lawn. Only pale sunshine sneaked through the leaves of raintree and embraced the church. Sighing silence shrouded the village. The air, it seemed, was the cursing breath of a witch. Desmond could only writhe in overwhelming pain.

When it became unbearable, Desmond read the Gospel of Matthew that Father Ganguly had given him. He could not read well. The words kept fading out. Still., he would continue, spelling every word and reading out loud, "Now Peter sat without in the palace: and a damsel came unto him, saying, Thou also wast with Jesus of Galilee. But he denied before them all, saying, I know not what thou sayest. And when he was gone out into the porch, another maid saw him, and said unto them that were there, This fellow was also with Jesus of Nazareth. And again he denied with an oath, I do not know the man. And after a while came unto him they that stood by, and said to Peter, Surely thou art one of them; for thy speech bewrayeth thee. Then began he to curse and to swear, saying, I know not the man. And immediately the cock crew. And Peter remembered the words of Jesus, which said unto him, Before the cock crow, thou shalt deny me thrice. And he went out, and wept bitterly."

He wept every time he read about the Crucifixion. Yet, he would go on. He felt the holy words drove away the silence, deadly as the devil. He kept reciting from the Bible till nightfall. He dreaded the silence, despised it at the same time.

One rain-soaked night in late August, they came to Desmond. He was cleaning the crucifix in the dim light of the hurricane. He heard footsteps at the doorway, looked up and saw three young men, drenched to their nails, standing there. Water rolled down their hair like pearl drops and their eyes sparkled in the faint light. He kept staring at them for a while. They seemed like three angels from heaven. Desmond became so overwhelmed that he could not speak.

The three looked at each other and then one of them smiled and gently said, "We will stay here tonight, Desmond Dadu."

"Uncle Dasu of your village said you are a good man," said another.

At first he did not know what to say to these angels who had come to stay at his place. Then he mumbled and said, "Why won't I let you stay. ..you are soaking. ..you must be uncomfortable. Come and sit by the fire. ..everything is wet."

They put down their bags and sat by the small stove. "Uncle Das spoke highly of you. He said you could help us. You are the only reliable person."

Eighty-two-year-old Desmond blushed. What were the angels saying? He shook his head. "He isn't right. But I'll certainly help you. The Lord bless you all."

Desmond chatted with the boys late into the night. The angels had brought divine words for him, he thought. They knew why the birds did not sing and the butterflies did not dance any more.

Only they could bring back happiness and harmony. They would bring back the sounds of joy and erase the venomous shadow from the earth. Delight sparkled in his dim eyes.

"God bless you. ...God bless you. ..." Desmond kept muttering.

"We will teach you how to use a rifle and throw grenades," one angel told him with a smile.

"Certainly, certainly," Desmond said in ec,$tasy and excitement. Time passed like a swan wading through crystal clear water.

Desmond lost track of time. In the mornings he would walk down to the river bank. Sometimes he would go all the way to the city. The Punjabi soldiers ignored or teased him. At night the room lit up as the angels came and talked. Hymns rang in his ears. Meanwhile, grenades exploded and machine guns rattled in the faraway city. The sound of one grenade multiplied into a hundred and rang in his ears like the chiming of church bells. Desmond could not sleep in excitement.

One day, before dawn, the angels said goodbye to him, wished him well, and promised to see him again.

Once again Desmond was left alone at the mercy of the dreadful silence, overpowering and unbearable. With the help of a walking stick he wandered about the village. He collected a few sun plant leaves for Haripad's uncle who was suffering from rheumatism.

Standing at his door he called out, "Haripad's uncle, are you at home?" But there was no reply. He stood before another locked door and called out, "Nibir, O Nibir!" From one corner of the courtyard a mangy, hairless dog glanced at him. Desmond became petrified. The villagers had deserted the village. He walked back unsteadily towards the church and tolled the church bell. The untimely bell tolled solemnly. Perhaps this solitude and silence would some day drive him to madness.

Often Desmond visited the village across the river. The villagers still had not abandoned the village, believing the Punjabis would not raid this remote area. Desmond had asked the villagers to move in with them and not live in the church alone. He had only nodded with a pale smile. He knew that an uprooted plant never survives.

One night the small village across the river too was in flames. The screams and wails of helpless people filled the air. Desmond became restless in desperation, unable to do anything. Within the walls of the church he felt like a trapped mouse. Sometimes he knelt before the crucifix and mumbled something. Moments later he flung out of the church hearing the faint, desperate cries drifting through the air. A raging fire was burning houses and trees to ashes and killing innocent people ruthlessly. Desmond helplessly watched the destruction. It was as though he had been nailed to a cross.

Desmond wept until the gloom of the night disappeared and the blazing fire had been extinguished. Supporting himself on his stick, he slowly walked towards the village as day broke. He knew no one was alive. Demons killed like that. Fire was still flickering in some places. Burnt and charred bodies lay scattered everywhere, emitting a sickening smell. Karam Ali's family was buried under their burnt- down hut. His granddaughter still clutched a burnt doll that Desmond had bought for her. A little later, he decided to bury everyone. If left unburied, the bodies would be devoured by wolves, dogs, and vultures. He decided to pray for the departed souls. He believed all men and women were equal in the eyes of God.

On his way to the church to fetch a shovel, Desmond suddenly stood still. Facing the river, a little girl crouched under a krishnachura tree, as if waiting for someone to fetch her. He rubbed his eyes to make sure he was not mistaken.

He tiptoed towards the girl and asked her gently, "Who are you?" The girl was startled and did not reply. There was profound fear  in her eyes.

 "What's your name?" Desmond asked again, this time more gently.

She tried to speak but could not.     

He felt sad and hugged her. "What's your name, my dear?" he asked again.

She desperately tried again but produced only sounds. Then she nodded.

"You can't speak, can you?" Desmond cried out. His heart sank as he embraced the mute girl. Then the two broke into tears.

While Desmond dug the graves and buried the charred bodies, the little girl stayed in his house. At night she accompanied him to light candles at, the graves and pray for the dead. He believed the souls of those killed by the brutes would go to heaven.

The boys came back a few days later. Desmond told them how he had found the girl. Their faces turned stiff in anger as they listened to Desmond.

"We know who informed the Pakistani soldiers. We will never forgive them," vowed the boys.

Before leaving, they hugged the little girl and said, "She'll speak when our country gets its independence."

Desmond nodded and assured them, "Don't worry. I'll teach her to speak."

At midnight Desmond felt relieved when he heard explosions in the faraway city. In the morning he comforted the girl. "My dear, don't be afraid any more.

Desmond thought the scoundrels had left the city. The sky no longer lit up at night, nor were there any gunshots. The sound of explosions filled his heart.

One morning he said to the little girl, "Come, let's weed the garden and sow some flower seeds."

The two of them raked the soil and sowed seeds of marigold, cosmos, and sunflower. Every morning they sat in the garden to see the new plants sprouting. It was a new game.

At last Desmond confronted the dreadful moment. They had gone to sleep, happy hearing the loud explosions at midnight. Suddenly, at twilight, a loud noise at the main entrance of the church woke him. Excited, angry voices could be heard but the words were blurred. He hid the little girl and came out, leaning on a stick. Someone banged at the door. As he slowly opened the door, the scene before him chilled his blood. Surrounded by a group of hyenas, stood the angels of heaven, their hands tied behind their backs and their bodies covered with dirt and blood.

"Hey, you old haggard, do you know them? They were roaming around your church," one of the brutes said in a shrill voice.

Desmond glanced at his beloved angels who used to deliver divine words. He stared at them in disbelief. Their eyes still twinkled with divine light. He murmured, "They are the angels of heaven."

The hyenas howled again, "Why don't you speak? Haven't you seen them before?"

"No," said Desmond in a trembling voice. He then walked back to the room leaning on his stick. His head drooped. He buried his face in the Holy Bible and uttered again and again, "No, my Lord, no. ..."

The frightened little girl sat crouched in one corner of the room. The words of Jesus on the cross rang in Desmond's ears, "My God; my God, why hast thou forsaken me?" Desmond wept silently. The uproar outside the room dragged him out The brutes were hastily making something against the wall with wooden planks. His heart seemed to shatter. What were they doing?

In a short while the gang had made three crosses and mounted them on a pile of earth. The three angels! Oh Lord! Desmond stumbled and fell on the ground as he tried to rush towards them.

The faces of the three angels turned blue in pain but they did not utter a sound. Desmond lifted up his head from the ground and looked at the sky against which three huge crosses were silhouetted. The sight of the crucifix in the courtyard had instigated the gang of scoundrels to plan this a killing.

The three freedom fighters, who had blown away the enemy camp the night before, became Christs that morning. Against a cloud, Desmond see~ to see the apparition of Christ on the cross. "Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?.... .my God, my God; why hast thou forsaken me?"

The gang of brutes left noisily. The boys mumbled something, their heads drooping to one side. Blood dripped from their hands and bodies and formed a red pool on the green grass. Desmond rushed towards a cross and collapsed underneath it. Now he could hear the words clearly, not once but thrice. They embedded themselves in his heart. "Independence, my independence."

At that instance a terrifying sound of thunder rocked the heavens and the earth.     

Three days later, while Desmond was reading about the Resurrection of Jesus, he was suddenly distracted by the sound of footsteps at the door. Three angels stood there with smiling faces, shining eyes and pearly beads of sweat, three freedom fighters like the ones before them. The face of the mute little girl lit up again. The final words from the Gospel of Matthew flashed before Desmond's eyes, "And 10, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world." Gradually each word turned into millions of crucified Jesuses.    

"We've come," said one of the angels.    

Desmond broke into tears. Through blurry eyes he stared at thousands of Jesuses.

 

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"Ekattarer Jishu" is included in Husne Ara Shahed's Muktijuddher Shatagatpa, Vol. 1 (Dhaka: Globe Library, 2001). Mr. Kabir's short story "Ekattarer Jishu", was made into highly acclaimed movie.