CricBD » Prelude to Bangladesh

Epilogue

O most lame and impotent conclusion!
Othello
Shakespeare

    THE NOT-SO-YOUNG NAWAB was strolling in the garden of his house. It was late afternoon on the 15th of December 1971.
    The town had almost emptied. The Indian birds of death were still dropping their excreta carefully. Thus far the mansion had not been defiled. Even the army headquarters had narrowly missed a direct hit by a 1000 pound load, the biggest the birds had yet dropped.
    Prince, the Alsatian, waved his tail, assuring his master that he too was unafraid.
    The Nawab Climbed wearily up the stone steps to the terrace, thence to the kitchen, where heed prepared a pot of coffee. All his servants had fled!
   " The Indians are coming! The Indians are coming! "Ah well," he thought aloud, "let them bloody well come!"
    The angry sound of a jeep rose from the driveway. Then, scrambling up the steps in his customary haste, Major Akhtar burst into the kitchen.
    "Hello Akhtar! What a noise you always make. I thought the Indians had arrived!"
    "Not yet. Tomorrow perhaps. Or paratroops tonight. shit, what a mess. I'm afraid we're had it."
    "You always said it was a matter of time. What's it like at the front?"
    "We can barely hold out for the night."
    "It's all very sad, but such are the wages of war."
    "Now let's get to the point. What do you propose to do?"
    "Stay here, of course, and face the music which you chaps have so kindly orchestrated. A grand finale. I shall put on a record as they arrive. I taught you how to appreciate classical music, didn't I? It will be Siegfried's Funeral March. Some coffee?"
    "Seriously, you can't possibly here. They may kill you."
    "My dear Akhtar, I am already dead. The point is will they bury me! No, I think I shall survive. I always have. And if I do, I'll try and write a book about all this."
    "What sort of book?"
    "War & War. After the Indians take over this land, Akhtar, another kind of war will begin. Perhaps if I make a favourable start I shall continue. Write a whole series about Bengal - like another John Masters! But what will happen to you?
    "I suppose we shall all become prisoners. Shit, what a world, what a life! How it cheats and betrays one! I'm a painter. Think of the colours I could have chosen, and I had to choose khaki! Shit."
    "Artist as Soldier. That's you. Now if only I could have been a rebel! Believe me, I tried. I tried desperately to work the whole thing out. But just as I thought the pieces were falling in place, the puzzle solved, a piece was always missing. My mind found it difficult to accept the idea behind this war. So here I am - neither here nor there! But that has always been my position - the position of the Writer. Neither here nor there."
    "May I remind you that you once said: My dear Akhtar, sooner or later one has to take sides?"
    "Alas, I have always been sideless. This is not my kind of war. But I believe in Bangladesh - it is my dream, too. But - will that dream ever come true? Or will it become a nightmare?"
    "There is something about you which has always puzzled me. May I ask you a very personal question now that I have perhaps a last chance?"
    "All questions are personal, are they not? But I know what you mean. Go ahead."
    "Have you ever been In love? I mean really in love?"
    "Mmmm. The Sixty-Four Dollar Question. Very difficult to answer. But I'll try. Love, my dear fellow, is a much trumped-up, publicised, and romanticised - can of shit! Your favourite word. A perfect love relationship once existed between the cave-man and his mate. Functional, explicit, and, I should imagine, not without a little affection. Thereafter, a moment must have come when the cave-man became a trifle romantic - offered his mate a flower perhaps, made an aesthetic gesture. And that, my dear, was when all the fuss and bother about love began. Once the female became aware of the fact that she was beautiful in the eyes of the male, she discovered a weapon far more deadly than his club, or his fist, or his teeth. And that weapon she has wielded triumphantly to this day!"
    "Oh, come on. That is not what I meant."
    "My dear fellow, that is exactly what you meant, but you don't know it."
    "But have you ever been in love?"
    "How you repeat yourself! No. I have never been in love. But I have indeed loved, and still love, several things: music, art, books, good conversation, and, above all else - friends. Now I hope I have satisfied your curiosity. You should have understood all this a long time ago. After all, I didn't even fall in love with you, and God knows you gave me good cause to do that! Whatever happens, I shall never forget you, Akhtar. and now I have a request to make. Give me your revolver. You won't be needing it anymore. Only one bullet."
    "Why? Surely you don't mean...? Impossible! You wouldn't..."
    "For my dog, you ass! How can I leave him behind? I really love him! There, I have confessed!"
    "Balls! I must be going. The Brigadier is going to give us a briefing. Ha! The whole thing is so bloody funny. A briefing! How to surrender? Well, good-bye, and good luck! Insha-Allah, we shall meet again."
    "God bless you, Akhtar."
    The Major went away in his jeep, and later into captivity. A brave spirit, who would never be tamed. Not even by a million Indians!
    That night the mortars began whining over the town. Still the Indian Army did not want to hit any important targets. Why deface a place that would soon be theirs?
    At the front a fierce battle raged. Came dawn, and all the wars were over:
    The political war.
    The civil war.
    The real war!
    By nine o'clock, the Indian army entered the town, which was empty: save for the Pakistan army, the not-so-young Nawab, and his very much alive dog!

The End

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