An Unremarkable Rescue – Rashed Nabi

The unofficial blackout had descended and a suffocating darkness enveloped the entire area. He had never been in this part of the outskirts, so he had a hard time finding his way back to town. In the distance, he could see the lights of the train station. The road that crossed the station was no longer safe, as the Pakistani army had set up a camp between the road and the station. Any Bengalis who crossed that point risked being brutally interrogated and tortured. He heard that two days earlier a student his age had been picked up at the level crossing and later found abandoned by the roadside. He assumed the bypass would be safer, but he didn’t know how to get there. He mentally sketched a map and hoped it could guide him. With a deep breath, he gripped the handlebars of his bicycle and moved from the main road to a dirt path.

When he came to the level crossing on the bypass, a fox came running towards him. In the darkness, its silhouette and bright eyes frightened him; he mistook it for a jackal. The creature stopped a meter away and let out a whimper. It must have been hungry and as frightened as he was. At that moment, a shrill whistle sounded, and at the sound of the whistle, the fox leaped back and disappeared into the darkness. A train, probably full of soldiers, threw its headlights on him. He jumped off his bike and ducked down. 

Darkness fell again as the train passed. He got up and picked up his bike. The unfinished bypass was rough. It was originally intended to be a new bus route to Dhaka, but work had been halted even before the military crackdown launched in Dhaka by the West Pakistani government. The road was bumpy and at each jolt the bicycle bell made a sound. To silence it, he kept his right hand off the handlebar and held it, which made biking difficult. 

He had no idea how long the bypass ran. All he knew was that when it reached the main road, he’d have to turn right to get to town. But it seemed endless, and with each pedal stroke he felt someone was following him.

As he neared the main road, a muffled, menacing voice called out to him.

“Ke jai re? Who goes there? Stop!”

He was so startled and frightened that he lost control and tumbled off his bike.  Two men jumped out of the dark and tackled him to the ground. He could tell they weren’t Punjabis, as Bengalis called the Pakistani army, because they spoke Bengali. One of them yanked him up by the collar, while the other swiftly gagged him with a piece of cloth. They dragged him across the bypass towards a brick kiln. One of them shoved his bike into a roadside ditch. 

There was a small office beside the kiln, and for a moment he thought they were taking him there. But they pushed him past it and led him to a shack at the far end of the kiln. It was hidden from view, concealed from the bypass by the office and from the main road by the kiln wall. 

Once inside, one of the men ungagged him. There were three more people sitting on the bed made of straw. One of them pulled out a shotgun and held it pointlessly. Another said, “search him, if he is carrying a message. He can be a rat.”

“Are you an informer for the Punjabis?” asked the third one. “Ei, tor naam kee… what’s your name?” 

He rubbed his sore mouth and gave a shaky reply. “My name is Jafar... Informer? me?”

They searched his pockets and then stripped off his shirt. Someone suggested that his pants should also be taken down. 

“He might have hidden the message under his underwear.”

But instead, someone groped around Jafar’s hip and shoved him from the back. He stumbled on the straw bed, landing next to the shotgun. Fear almost paralyzed him. He made a cautious move to sit up, careful not to appear threatening. A dimly lit kerosene lamp in the corner cast more shadows than light. He felt dizzy and wondered how many people were around him. 

“Can you answer? Are you an informer?” someone asked again.

“He is just a kid,” said another. “What grade are you in?” He asked Jafar.

“Eleven.” 

Jafar replied with hesitation and fear that anything he said would be treated with suspicion. Probably he should have said ten or twelve. No answers seemed right to him. Luckily in the shadow they couldn’t see the confusion and fear in his face.

The other man remained firm in his conviction and muttered irritably. 

“You never know, they can use these innocent kids more easily.”

Until now, Jafar had feared for his life. Since the conflict had broken out, violence erupted in all forms – kidnappings for ransom, murders over suspected ties to the Punjabis, or simply acts of revenge for past hostilities. But the repeated questioning about whether he was an informer made him believe they were a resistance group, not kidnappers. 

He looked up at the man who was demanding to know whether he was an informer. He tried to answer boldly: “No.” But his voice cracked, and the word came out weak. The interrogator continued to press.

“Then why were you going to the station… to the army camp?”

Now it made sense to Jafar why they thought him as an informer. From the bypass, turning left on the main road would take him to the station; turning right to the town. They grabbed him before the point of turning and simply assumed he was going towards the camp.

He tried to clear it up. “I was going to the town – not the station.” 

Despite his effort to remain firm, his voice trembled again because he knew even going to the town could arouse suspicion. There was another army camp stationed in the town.

“Why?  People have fled the town. What is your secret business that you’re risking your life in this dark?”

“To rescue Sams…”

“What do you mean by ‘to rescue’… from the army?”

“No. My parents fled the town yesterday. They had been going back home from my uncle’s house. But the army raided the town and they could not go. Sams was in the house.

“How old is he?”

“Five...”

“Five years… almost two days… he is probably finished. Didn’t you hear? The Punjabis are going from door to door, killing people?”

“No…!” Jafar let out a muted cry and broke down. 

Nobody tried to console him. Instead, one of them asked indifferently.

“Where were you? How come your uncle’s house was safe and yours was not. Is your uncle a Punjabi henchman?

Jafar stopped sobbing and lifted his head.

“His son… my cousin …” His voice broke again. “The army took my cousin to the camp. Tortured him. Broke his right hand so he couldn’t join the guerrillas.”

He paused to compose himself and then resumed.

“My uncle owns a watch repair shop. Everybody in town knows him. He’s not a crook like you.”

This last remark hit like a slap. The interrogator jumped up and grabbed Jafar by the hair. He raised his hand to strike Jafar. But before the blow could land, one of the men, the same one that had knocked Jafar to the ground on the bypass, stepped in. He shielded Jafar to protect from the blow.

Jafar collapsed in the embrace. He broke down again, sobbing uncontrollably.

Before anyone could react, a gunshot froze them. It came from the south, near the river. More shots followed. The bursts came in waves, stopping and then starting again, before finally falling silent. No one in the shack spoke or moved, as if the slightest movement would get them hit. When the gunfire stopped, they heard the rumble of an army truck, coming from the direction of the station. It turned and drove into the bypass. They saw its headlights sweep across the road, but the soldiers inside were unlikely to see them in the hidden shack. 

“His bike is by the road,” someone whispered.

“They probably won’t see it,” another voice replied.

The truck rolled past without stopping. But they all knew it would return soon because the bypass led nowhere. It was likely a routine patrol to create panic among villagers and the guerillas in hiding. The truck returned after a few minutes and drove away towards the station.

Jafar stood up and said, “Can I go?” 

Nobody answered or paid attention to him as if he didn’t exist. One of them glanced at his wristwatch in the dim light and said, “News hour, let’s hear the bulletin.” 

He pulled out a small transistor radio from under the straw. With a few careful turns of the knob, he tuned to All India Radio. A voice crackled through the static and announced in Bengali, “Akashvani Kolkata… Eight O’clock special evening bulletin…Refugees from East Pakistan continue to pour into West Bengal…”

Someone snarked under his breath: “This is no longer East Pakistan. It’s Bangladesh. We now have our own government!”

No one reacted. The radio’s reception was clear, but the sound was kept low to muffle within the shack’s walls. So, everyone leaned in and strained to catch every word. 

When Jafar tried to rise, someone tugged him back down but nobody said a word. The newscaster’s voice was giving a grim account of the refugees fleeing. There was news about sporadic clashes between the Pakistan army and guerilla. Details were scarce, but the fragments were harrowing. The villagers were taking heavy tolls. The news made the air in the shack heavy. The shadowy men grew restless and whispered to each other. Even the whispers had a tone of urgency about what they could do. 

As the tension in the shack intensified, desperation seized Jafar. He would have to reach the town and save Sams before time ran out. He picked up his shirt and stood up again. Nobody noticed him. He was no longer their concern. Someone tossed some casual remarks at him. 

“Be careful! If anyone stops you, throw dust into his eyes.”

When he came out, the one who had protected him followed quietly into the dark. Jafar thought the man was making sure that Jafar was not hiding himself and plotting something while not under watch. But when they reached the bypass, the man spoke.

“It’s not safe for you to go to town alone. I will come with you. But we can’t take the main road. Let me hide your bike first.”

Jafar was taken aback. After hiding the bike behind the office, the man came back and gently touched Jafar’s shoulder.

“My name is Naeem. Let’s go this way.”

They moved quietly along the bypass in the direction Jafar had come from. After a few meters, they took a dirt path that crossed the rice fields, parallel to the main road. Soon, the monsoon would arrive and this entire area would vanish underwater. In the distance, the villages lay in complete darkness. 

Above, the sky was full of stars. In the pale glow of the stars and the crescent moon, the surroundings began to take shape. But Jafar felt exposed and vulnerable. If anything went wrong, there would be no cover to hide. Although it was still early evening, the silence was so profound that each of their footsteps created an unsettling echo. Naeem broke the silence to help Jafar relax.

“Hey, tell me about Sams. Five years, you said? I hope he got some food or sneaked into some neighbour’s house. Kintu keo kee aache… most people fled…” 

A sudden crack of gunfire cut him off. Instinctively, they both dropped to the ground. Naeem turned to see if it was from their hideout. He felt relaxed that the sound was coming from further east, from the direction of the station. They stood up, glanced east more closely and then Naeem spoke again, or rather whispered.

“Another group is probably trying to attack the army camp. Not a wise move!”

They continued walking in silence. Up until now, Jafar had not thought for a moment that his plan carried any risk. Now, even with Naeem beside him, fear seized him. Sensing Jafar’s nervousness, Naeem spoke in a reassuring voice.

“You see the village? It’s about a kilometer. On the other side of it is the power station. It’s guarded, but don’t panic if the guards stop us. They would only want to make sure we aren’t there to blow anything up. I have crossed this path many times. I even know some of the guards.”

Jafar nodded, too ashamed to speak. How foolish he’d been to think he could bike alone to town. To avoid uneasiness, he tried to change the subject.

“I have seen you before. Are you from this town?”

You haven’t,” Naeem replied gently. “You were just a kid when I left. Your cousin and I were schoolmates. I recognized you when you were talking about your cousin. The day he was taken, I warned him not to go home because I knew his dad’s store was under watch. Your cousin and I had planned to cross the border together.”

He paused for a while, and then resumed. Now in the pale light, Jafar realized that Naeem was not as old as he had thought. As he was looking for some words to carry on the conversation, Naeem went on.

“After school, I moved to West Pakistan.”

Apparently, the silence was also gnawing at him. He knew too well that if they were spotted by the enemy, it would be the end. To keep the fear at bay, he continued talking to Jafar, almost as if to himself. 

“If the conflict hadn’t broken out,” he murmured, “I’d have graduated from the University of Karachi this year. 1971 started badly for me. I flew back from Karachi in January because my mother had been seriously ill. I don’t think I could ever go back.” 

Silence fell again. With Naeem beside him, Jafar suddenly felt a quiet comfort. He wanted to talk about Sams, but Naeem seemed to be lost in thoughts. Naeem spoke again, without disturbing the stillness.

“When a war breaks out, no one truly wins, not even when it ends. And we don’t know how long this one will drag on.”

Jafar nodded, keeping his voice low. “I just hope it ends soon and we don’t have to whisper all the time.”

“Yeah,” Naeem smiled faintly. 
As they entered the town, Naeem whispered, “I hope Sams hasn’t lost hope.” He asked Jafar about the location of his house. The stores were shuttered and streets were empty. The emptiness shocked Jafar, but Naeem had expected it because for the past few days he had been helping families flee the town. When they were passing the Bata Shoe store, someone wrapped in rags abruptly emerged from the shadows. He had the appearance of a panhandler or a sadhu, but Naeem became alert. He held Jafar in one hand and slid another in his back pocket with eyes kept on the stranger.

The man came closer and in a raspy voice said, “Babura… boys, if you give me char ana, I can tell your fortune… yes, just a quarter.”

Jafar was curious and tried to catch the stranger’s words. 

“What did he say?” he asked, but Naeem nudged him forward.

The stranger’s voice grew thicker, “Char anna and one gets free...” 

As they walked past him, he spoke in a louder and clear voice.

“Come on! Where are you going? It's a great deal!… Oh Bengalis, no deals are good deals for them!”

Naeem was still quiet and tense. He spoke when they walked far enough from the stranger.

“We’ll not take College Road. Your house is too exposed. We will take the back road.”

Jafar quietly followed him.

When they entered the house, Jafar rushed into his room, calling out, “Sams.” There was no response. He went from room to room. With despair he ran to the yard beyond which there is the kitchen. Naeem followed him. When they reached the middle of the yard, Jafar whispered again, “Sams.”

A cat jumped from the top of the cupboard and came running to him. 

“Meow!” 

Jafar picked him up.

With surprise, Naeem asked, “This is Sams?” 

Before Jafar could answer, the cat meowed again. Jafar thought Naeem would be angry with him that it was only a cat. Instead Naeem put his arms around him and spoke softly with the warmth of an older brother. 

“You silly boy! I also had a cat in Karachi. Go, get him some water. We can’t stay here for long. We are being followed. The beggar you saw on our way was a spy.”

When they were about to open the door, an army van stopped in front of the house. They both panicked and closed the door. A shiver ran down their spines. Jafar saw Naeem bring out a revolver from his back pocket. But the van turned right and went towards the college buildings. Naeem rushed Jafar.

“Let’s go quick. We’ll take a different route. We will go towards the Kali temple by the river and from there cross the river. If anything happens, we can hide in the temple. 

He patted Sams and whispered, “Sams, no meows until we cross the river, OK?” 

Sams responded mutedly, “Meow.”

With a trace of smile, they stepped out to return to safety.

*****

Rashed Nabi has lived in Ottawa for nearly two decades, after growing up in Bangladesh. He writes fiction and critical essays in English and Bangla and is the author of the Bangla short story collection They Are None of Us.