About the Author

The author is a teacher by profession. She studied

English language and literature, and Asia Studies at the
University of Amsterdam as well as Indology at the
University of Leiden in the Netherlands. Her previous
works include childrens books, novels, a collection of
poetry and a language textbook published by
Routledge. In her works of fiction, she is inspired by
Sufi thinking and by the Persian poet, Sufi mystic and
philosopher Omar Khayyam.

To the children
who survived the war of 1971 in Bangladesh
but never made it back home

Copyright Mithun B. Nasrin (2015)

The right of Mithun B. Nasrin to be identified as author of this
work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and
78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the
publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this
publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims
for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British
Library.
Cover artist: Rokhsana Sultana

ISBN 978 1 78455 637 2 (Paperback)

ISBN 978 1 78455 639 6 (Hardback)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2015)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd.
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LB

Printed and bound in Great Britain

Acknowledgements

While I was busy writing something entirely

different than this novel, all of a sudden, my brains
were sensing a new feeling inside me, like 'The
Smell of Home'. In a second I saw a Robiullah
sitting on the floor of my atelier with the other
characters sitting next to him, taking the form of real
people. They told me their tale and I have just
written it down for them. Therefore, I must express
my gratitude to all the characters in my novel for
being present around me.
While writing this novel, I also felt the presence of a
very different person, Mr Mustafa, the editor for
Tumpa Prokashoni, Banglabazar, Dhaka, who have
published several of my novels and childrens books.
Through the years, he has become like a brother. It is
Mustafa who lit a candle inside my mind to write
about the war victims. He made it clear to me why
writers and novelists must use the weapons of words
against war, devastation and mostly against war
criminals. After that conversation with him, I did not
have to think long. I have chosen my path as a writer

against war. So a huge thanks to Mr Mustafa, who

has always believed in me.
I must also thank the cover artist Ms Rokhsana
Sultana, who previously has drawn several other
covers for me too. A huge thanks to Babor S.M.
Bodiuzzaman, who also made a valuable
contribution to the cover design. I must also thank
all of my family members for their belief that I could
make this world a better place. Huge thanks to my
friends too for showing great interest while I was
writing this novel.
Above all, my heartfelt thanks to Annette Longman,
the chief editor of Austin Macauley, for publishing
this novel and Vinh Tran of the production team, as
well as everybody else involved in bringing out this
novel in a remarkably short time.
Let's all hope that this novel will make people realise
that war is not the answer to everything.

Today is his eightieth birthday. He is sitting in their

small sitting room, on his wheelchair, coughing
loudly and sounding like a grumpy old bear. In the
month of December, he always catches a bad cold.
He does not like it. He wants to be healthy and
strong in December. He wants to be okay especially
on the sixteenth of December, as he says. Someone
has called him from abroad, probably to congratulate
him and he is shouting back, No, no! No cakes, no
flowers, no. No one is coming. Yes, she is okay. We
are all okay. He turns off his mobile phone and
mumbles something inside his mouth.
He brushes his thick brush-like silver moustache
with the back of his palm. He always has a grey
beanie on his large head, covering both of his ears.
Under the beanie, his grey hair is thin. His skull is
almost visible. On the top and around both his ears,
there is still a sign of some curly hair, which once
might have been thick. There are one or two shreds

of very dark hair still lingering around his forehead.

He pulls the dark green shawl tighter around his
huge neck, which makes it look like an old tree
trunk. His toeless two feet are hanging down like the
palms of a monkey.
He wants to talk to her about something. But she
cant hear him well from her small bedroom with the
door closed. The TV is playing loudly next to him.
He has had a box attached with it. This box he got
from a friend of his. Well, friend he has no friends.
Not that she knows of. But he likes to call that guy
his friend. The guy who lives in London. The guy
who sends him news and newspapers, who is a
reporter and works as a journalist for a newspaper
which is printed in London, in his own language.
He likes reading a newspaper in his own
language. It is not just liking it. It is more a ritual. He
has made a religion of it, she thinks. Nowadays she
is sure of it. He holds the big brown envelope with
both his palms near his mouth and tears the envelope
wide open with his rickety teeth. Then both of his
palms are inside the envelope, searching for
something very precious. He slowly takes out the
newspaper, keeping his eyes closed. His fingers
touch the newspaper surface softly.
No, sorry! Oh, sorry. She begs for forgiveness in
her quietness. Forgive me, baba, I am so sorry. But
then she curses herself and corrects her mistake.

Not father. No, he is not my father. This mistake

she has been making all her life, calling him baba.
Again she corrects her repeated mistake in deep
silence. No, he is not her father. And she has never
called him father. Certainly not baba. Still, she
wants to call him baba loudly and many many
times every day. No, not many times all the time!
Actually she wants to call him baba all the time.
Shout at him, scream at him in her worst nightmares.
But she does not do so. No. She has never done such
a thing.
Once more she begs for forgiveness in her
solitude. She feels deeply sad and apathetic towards
him. Why cant she just remember the simple facts
of life? He, the man in that wheelchair, who is not
her father, does not touch his newspaper with his
fingers. Maybe he did once upon a time, in the days
when he had fingers, when he was able to aim his
rifle straight at his target. But he has not had fingers
for many years now. Yes, for many years he has not
had toes either. She knows these facts. And still she
forgets. How stupid and sad that she keeps forgetting
about the facts of her fathers life. Again she makes
a note of correction in her heart, No, he is not my
father.
The guy in the wheelchair, who has got his
birthday today, who has turned eighty, who is not
her father, who has no fingers and toes, who is

sitting on his wheelchair, makes a joyous cry. Aha,

Bangla! Bangla letters! Bangla newspapers! News
from Bangladesh! She knows every moment of this
ritual. Now he will touch the headlines over and
over, throughout the newspaper, with both of his
fingerless palms. He will read the headlines aloud
and then comment on them. He never agrees with
any headline, never, she thinks. But then, what does
she care?
Why should anyone bother about such an
insignificant matter? But again, she has not been
bothered about anything for a long, long, time. Since
a time unknown, she has given up bothering.
Nothing matters in her life. Nothing matters at all in
their lives. But what are their lives? What have they
got to do with the word life itself?
Her father, who is not actually her father, has got
his birthday today. He has turned eighty. Is that a
long lifetime? Maybe. Anyway, who cares? It is his
birthday. But again, it is not really his birthday. He
said he did not have a birthday. In his part of the
world, no one needs a birth date. But everybody in
this part of the world, the part where they have been
living for many long years now, they all have a
birthday and also a birth time. She and her father,
who is not her father, did not have any birthday or
birth time.

When they entered this country many years ago,

they had to have a birthday. The immigration office
needed to know their date of birth. Without a
birthday, how could they be born or exist? How
could they be humans? Even animals in the zoo have
birthdays and those birthdays are celebrated with
cakes and coffee. So they had to have their birthdays
fixed. Their birthdays were created in the
immigration office by the immigration officer, by
guessing their age. So her father, who is not really
her father, was born on the sixteenth of December.
And she was born on the twenty-fifth of March.
Those were their birthdays, decided and fixed by the
immigration officials. How relieved they all sounded
when all those problems were solved. Not having a
birthday? Not knowing when and how you were
born? Not knowing how old your parents could be?
Only a serious criminal would not know the answers
to those questions about matters of fact. But now
things are different for them, now that they have
birthdays and they know their names. That makes
things much better.
But again, their names. They did not have good
names. They did not have a family name. And their
names did not match with each other. Their names
did not prove their identity. What was her fathers
name? Well, he is not her father. But what was his

name? Robiullah.1 Robiullah what? What about

what? What comes before or after Robiullah? The
immigration officer was asking him questions. He
had been looking hungry as he sipped coffee from
his ceramic mug. But now he was looking angry and
sad. And the interpreter was looking sleepy and
indifferent.
With an unconcerned voice, the interpreter said,
You know, everybody has a surname, like de
Broek, Spinoza, Van de Spek, Bush or
Saddam. Even the Pope has a surname. How on
earth can you not have a name like that? This officer
needs a name after your name. What do they call you
in your own country? Please dont waste government
time by lying to a government official. It could be
held against you in court. You could be thrown out
of this country for lying and cheating, do you know
that? What do they call you in your homeland?
He mumbled some words inside his mouth. In
despair, his eyes were searching for a bit of support
and sympathy from the interpreter, who was a
middle-aged white lady. This lady, although a
foreigner, talked his language! It was amazing but he
felt proud and thankful to her. Her bulky body made
a gesture which he did not understand. Her small
eyes were covered by excessive burnt amber eye
shadow and glistening mascara. He could not read
1

Robiullah a common male Muslim name in Bangladesh.

the language of her eyes. And she did not understand

his emotions. This lady may talk my language, but
she does not know my culture, he thought and
heaved a deep sigh. Is there no one here who could
understand him a bit better?
It was not very clear to him what exactly they
wanted to know from him. Lying and cheating?
Those words broke his heart. He had seen those
words in action. But he had never made himself part
of those sorts of words. Well, in my village, they
called me Dofader Saheb.2 You see, I was a dofader
there. And a very honest one. I checked all
Chaukiders,3 to make sure they had fulfilled their
duty honestly. They called me a good dofader. His
tearful eyes were trying to picture a distant time and
place. But the immigration official groaned as if a
shaking mountain was about to crack. Okay, mister
Dofader. Thats what we wanted to know from you.
It was not that difficult to bring out your surname
out of your own mouth, was it? But why were you
trying to hide it from the government? Has your
name got a connection with any secret sects or
terrorist groups?
He mumbled again, No, no. I am not a terrorist.
I am a freedom fighter. I fought for my countrys
freedom and we won. We won the fight! His eyes
2
3

Dofader chief of village night guards; saheb Mr, sir.

Chaukider village night guard.

shone bright. Well, Mr. Dofader, what sort of work

did you do for a living in your own country? He
looked at the immigration officer with a puzzled
look. But I told you, I was a dofader in my village!
And they trusted and respected me. There was a
grisly pain gripping his voice. Well, Mr. Dofader,
since you dont want to give us a straight answer, let
me tell you we dont have time to play games with
you. We have written down everything you have told
us. The immigration office will let you know their
decision through your lawyer. The interpreter took a
quick breath and opened her mouth but shut it again
quickly, seeing that the immigration officer stood up
with the coffee mug in his left hand.
After a long period of waiting, they had to go to
their advocates office to discuss their interview with
the immigration officials. There was a different
interpreter this time, a middle-aged Asian-looking
guy with a big tummy. He was all the time checking
his black working diary, even though most of the
pages were empty. He said something to the
advocate which they did not understand. He
translated everything with a big smile, even though
the words had no connection whatsoever with a
smiling face. The interpreter told them the
immigration office thought they were dishonest liars.
The girl could not possibly be his family, because
her name did not match with his.

He started mumbling again. Well, you see, she

is my family. And I dont lie! Looking at her face
for a sign of approval, he continued, Well, you see,
of course she had a family of her own. Her father,
Bisha, I mean Bisshonath, was my friend. Well,
perhaps not really a friend. You see, they belonged
to the scheduled caste. You may as well know,
they were my neighbours. Bisha has a couple of
daughters. Well, at least he had them then. Well, he,
I mean my friend, uh, my neighbour had some
children, uh, daughters. And she is er was his
daughter, before she became my daughter-in-law.
He let out a deep sigh and wiped his eyes with the
back of his palm.
There was a sneer on the advocates face. This
little girl is underage, Mr. Dofader! Where is her
marriage certificate? He looked very puzzled now.
Her marriage certificate? What is that? Their
advocate did not smile anymore. His tall white figure
was tense. His white pale face filled up with blood,
giving it an almost orange hue. Almost grunting in
his throat, he asked, Okay, imagine this little girl is
your daughter-in-law. How did she get married with
your son? And where is your son? How did they get
married? How can I ever prove it to the justice
system in this country without any evidence or
documents of any sort? You have got no papers of

this marriage? Can anybody send you these

documents? Or even a photograph, maybe?
His two fingerless palms were covered with two
gloves. The empty sheaths for the ten fingers were
sagging in all directions. His fingerless two palms
reached towards her as if some evil power was going
to snatch her away from him. He held her tight to his
chest with his arms. He murmured a story into her
ears while still gazing at the advocate. It was a
beautiful spring evening. A warm breeze came
floating softly, carrying the sweet smell of wild
spring flowers. The bridal party had eaten a good
meal. The moon was already up, bright and shiny.
We were waiting for the auspicious moment. The
bridal flower-garland lay on the brightly polished
copper plate, next to the priest, ready to be
exchanged by the bride and the groom. The bride,
Mala, looked like a fairy in her dark red sari. Just a
bit further was Borun, my eldest boy. He was
standing idly under a banana plant, watching how
Mala was wedding her groom.
And suddenly she came running, picked up the
bridal garland, and threw it onto his neck! Borun
was standing perplexed. They all gasped. What had
she done! The boy belonged to a Muslim family! But
the priest continued solemnly reciting the Holy
Geeta4 and the whole bridal party chanted their
4

Geeta Hindu holy book.

prayers. Thats how they wed! Thats why she is my

daughter-in-law. That is why she is my family and
nobody is ever going to take her away from me. No
law, no power. None. Her father, who is not her
father, held her tight against his chest and took her
out of the advocates office.
He was still whispering, Look, it is okay if you
dont feel like talking. You dont have to talk now.
But when Borun comes back, then you must talk
with him. Because he is your husband. My boy
Borun, remember? You played hide and seek with
him. You fought with him. He collected birds eggs
for you. You stole mango-pickle for him, from your
mother. He is your husband. My son Borun is your
husband. And we are a family. You must remember
that and must not ever forget.
Well, that all happened a long time ago. So long
ago! Life is so very long. It is simply not possible to
recall all of it at one given point of time. They are
still in this country, even though many attempts were
made by the immigration office to send them away.
But their stern advocate managed to keep them here,
by proving that they came from a place devastated
by war. And she has been ill. She has been ill all the
time. She does not remember much of her illnesses.
Or she simply does not care to recall. She has an
illness called aphasia. She has often been
hospitalised. She cant live one day without her

medication. But she lives. Her life, their life

continues. Besides, who cares? Why bother about all
these minor facts of life?
But he cares. Her father, who is not really her
father, cares and he is bothered by everything. Now
he is watching an old recorded programme which
they broadcast from England probably. He is
shouting at the TV screen, Of course, he is a war
criminal. Of course he should get capital
punishment! They should all be brought to justice!
All the war criminals should be hanged. Who are
they to stop it? Who are they to meddle with our
countrys affairs? We are a free people. My
motherland is a sovereign state. We fought for her
freedom. His loud voice fills their little sitting room
with distress. The neighbour upstairs is knocking on
the floor with her walking stick, shouting something
like, You allochthones,5 sticking to this country like
glue, cant you keep quiet?
She is sitting on the floor in the corner of her
bedroom. Their one and only bedroom. Their house
has only one bedroom. Her father, who is not her
father, has never needed a bedroom of his own. He
does not see the point of it. Why should a man need
a separate bedroom? In his own motherland, he
always slept on the open veranda, on a mat made by
his mother from palm leaves. When his bride came
5

Allochthone a Dutch term for non-white immigrants.

to live with them, his elder sister, who was married

close by to them, had suggested that he must make a
fence to cover one corner of the veranda. But he did
not bother.
His wife slept with his mother inside their house,
on the mud floor, on a mat. Only when all the
married sisters came home for Eid-ul-Fitr or Eid-ulAzha6 or other festivities, they would push out his
wife to the open veranda. And she would hang her
wet sari such a way that it created an innocent fence.
Ah, innocent! He did naughty things to her. And she
wanted him to be more and more wild! He kept her
awake all night long.
Those nights were their own precious nights. On
such days, their village Imam would call for the
morning prayer earlier than was necessary, it seemed
to them. Or at least thats how it felt. His wife would
depart from his chest long before the morning prayer
call came floating through the misty air. Before
dawn, she would have her dip in the cold water of
the pond to wash away her marital sins. Rice and
lentils would be steaming in her kitchen for her
hungry husbands breakfast.
Then came their children one by one. The fence
of her wet clothes was no longer there. Sometimes
he missed her wet sari fence. But then, there were
6

Eid-ul-Fitr, Eid-ul-Azha Islamic feast days.

other things to attend at. Their lives were getting

bigger and fuller each day. After the days hard
labour, he had to join the evening meetings. The
leader would talk about present abuse and future
freedom. He would be home very late. His nights did
not belong to him anymore. His motherland needed
his care and slowly slowly, a stone wall of desire for
freedom came to stand between him and his family.
But that was all such a long time ago. He did not
feel like recalling such memories. There were other
things to be taken care of. Other things, like
surviving in a new found land, which was unclear
and cloudy. That country, which caused him so
much dizziness, had also given him a shelter. It was
not easy. But safe and sound.
At the very beginning, Nolleke, the tall and thin
social worker who was in charge of their case, would
talk with him about their household situation,
especially about the bedroom. She offered her
assistance in finding a two-bedroom house for them.
But he did not see the point. Nolleke wanted to know
about the nature of their relationship. She wanted to
understand it. But it remained incomprehensible to
all of them. As days went by and guesswork did not
deliver a clear result, Nolleke became intensely
curious. Her curiosity became an obsession. The
psychiatrist who treated the allochthone family
would read the reports about them from Nolleke, the

social worker. He would look at her seriously and

would ask her questions about their bedroom
situation. Most of the time she would nod. Her
noddings were neither affirmative nor negative. But
after a while, they all lost interest in their onebedroom case. All of their curiosity died off like a
candle wick.
Her father, who is not really her father, is now
reading out loud from the newspaper. Ah, Bangla!
News written in Bangla! Printed in Bangla! Why do
I need a heaven when I can read and talk in Bangla!
The neighbour upstairs is now hitting the old
wooden floor with her stick and shouting louder,
saying things in Dutch, which he can never
understand.
In fact, she does not understand either. She never
understands anything. Understanding is something
never required of her. Like now, she is sitting in her
small bedroom, in a corner, on the light oakcoloured laminated floor. Her yellow ochre printed
cotton frock is spread around her. She looks at her
frock. Small pink flowers are shining on the bright
yellow, which reminds her of a huge mustard field
reaching the horizon. Maybe she has seen such a
golden field. Maybe she never has. It could all be a
part of her dreams. But again, she has not dreamt a
dream for time unknown. She does not know how to
have a dream.

There is a small bed in her room too. Nolleke

found this bed for her and brought it to their house.
It was a childrens bed, made from a sort of plastic.
The white plastic was worn out here and there. But it
was still very useable and she would fit on it nicely.
Children are big in this country and all childrens
things are huge. Her father, who is not her father, did
not see any point to this event either. Nolleke also
found an old smelly mattress and a stained pillow
and some white bed sheets with pink and green
embroidery needlework on them. She even put a nice
bedcover on the bed to cover her dirty old blanket.
One day Nolleke even brought some white lilies for
her in a black flower vase filled with water. And that
was the very last time she came to keep an eye on
them. Nollekes last report to the psychiatrist said
that this family did not need her help anymore.
She still recalls the white lilies. But Nollekes
face has faded away from her mind. Could it be that
her help did not leave any imprint of significance in
their lives? Like her father, who is not her father, she
also did not see much point in a social worker being
so devoted to them. So much help was offered by her
and they did not know how to react to her kindness.
Help and kindness was abundant in their lives. The
help was needed but they did not cherish it. They
could not live a thankful life, like others do.

He has changed the channel of his TV box and

has started shouting at the news reader now, Of
course. What do you think? Those are murderers,
war criminals--! You hear me? Do you hear? Do
you?
No. She does not hear. Nothing at all. She is in
her bedroom, sitting in the corner on the laminated
floor. Her flower printed cotton frock spreads over
her legs, creating a golden field and the tiny pink,
red, orange and purple flowers are playing hide and
seek with each other. It is cold outside. The first
December snow is falling. Inside her tiny bedroom,
darkness starts creeping in. Suddenly a sharp stink of
urine fills the air. Tall dark shadows are marching in.
Their malicious laughter hits her eardrums. The
shadows start to dance. While they are dancing, they
transform their shapes into reptiles. They are now
dancing around her. Their large arms are stretching
out to touch her. Now they have taken the form of
some sort of animals. These vicious animals are
touching her. What are they? Hyenas? Snakes?
Demons? She wants to scream.
She is feeling very hot. She starts to sweat
heavily. A horrible thirst wants to break her chest.
Her dry tongue comes out from her mouth, hanging
out like a dogs tongue. She is trying to lick her arms
with her tongue. The drops of sweats are
disappearing on her tongue top. She licks her dry