She was just thirteen when Mukti Juddho rattled her life. ‘Mukti Juddho’ the word that brings her to tears; she cannot forget the tremors of the heavy boots of “KHAN Sena” – the main culprits of swarming up the green pastures of Amar Sonar Bangla with clusters of War Children – the pain of deep bruises that can never fade away with time.
The eldest of thirteen siblings, my mother saw the uncanny behavior of life at an age that for a bong girl was meant to play, sing, dance on the melodious note of Tagore and live every moment of childhood. Her childhood is gone and can never be back no matter how hard we try to put things together to get a better life. Her Dad, obviously, my grandfather whom I did not get a chance to meet ever in my life as he was already the brightest star in the galaxy of peace and everlasting contentment by then, was the only man alive in her hopes to save and protect his daughters from being slaughtered by the beasts who rape and murder woman in the name of political satire that provokes war.
The voluminous, dark and exaggerated Icchamoti River makes my mom recall her days of greener meadows. She recalls how her dad taught her how to fight, showed her the way to hide, suggested methods to protect her and her siblings from being falling prey to the dirty hands that could probably tint her body with the ugliest filth the world had ever produced. Rapes, political murders, hooliganism are always an inseparable part of any war. War kills everything. A woman’s body is traded by the vultures who later feed on the left overs. Left overs – I mean you, me and them who are born under the social taboo of calling themselves as Woman. I miss him. I really want to see him once, the man my mom trusted and believed in so much and always sought him in times when the evil wrapped her in the vicious circle of fear of losing her identity.
Can you tell me why am I recalling past? Coz, there are regrets in turning back. Regrets that shattered the lives of thousand innocents who did not deserve death and disgrace coming to them at a same time. Celebrating the Mother Goddess with such pomp and grandeur repeatedly reminds me of one particular thing that we are born as women and all the evils are bound to come upon us and oh my gosh , we are equipped so well that we will fight back the evil like Durga Maa – that’s what our satirical society expects from us.
Nirbhaya is immortal. Rohtak is inescapable. The asuras and KHAN senas are still roaming freely and I emphasize they are not in disguise. They are fearless, violent and more powerful than ever. A country with one fifty crores of people fail to safeguard their women, daughters and sisters. We don’t need a war to get raped nor we need a riot to be victimized. They foxes are present in our homes, lanes, streets and in our mind that prevents us from moving freely in the society. We are in chains and we know the reason for being in chains.
Are you listening to me? No! This is the probable answer and I am used to this word. They will mock, laugh and fool around us. We are hopeless, tired and they are the energetic ones who will keep on fooling around us, use our body and throw us in times when we need them to answer to the world what made us lose our virginity and that also bearing all those tortured pains. Maybe, we were clad in a shitty short LBD that provoked them, or our extrovert nature made them feel that we are available.
Whatever may be situation, only we are answerable. The ‘Swachh India ‘ expects her sons to be clean – cleaner and the cleanest and we the daughters the unwanted ones to be the dirtiest and filthiest forever and never ending.
