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Death and Glory

Shayera Moula

Hi, I am Glory. The other day, I had a dusky conversation with the soul of a muktijoddha. He called himself Death. On a blood-red bed sheet, I placed myself sitting cross-legged as he blew his words into my ears. Too ashamed about the situation of the country, I couldn't bring myself to face him directly this year (not just yet) and so I listened quite attentively for some time.

He spoke with broken sentences through his tears as I stared into the blank wall in front of me. Fatigued and exposed, the wall revealed the inner me. At the same time while he spoke thoughtfully in pure Bangla, I found myself only half understanding his words.

“That's the problem with your generation,” he suddenly snapped, “you easily give up the past. You forget who brought you your mother tongue and you forget who gave you your own land and identity!”

“Thank you” I replied. It was a pun. I was grateful that he knew my generation well and I was thankful that he gave his life for my identity. Now let's move on shall we? So I asked him whether he lived till 16th December but unfortunately he lived right up to 29 hours before the moment of great Victory.

I would have said “glory” but that's what I am. It's not what the muktijoddhas were. They were Death. All of them, even the ones alive! No one seems to care about what they did and no one really has the time to thank them for their courage and honor. They are Death. We are glory…we are the second basket of youth after Independence and we rely on books and our parents to talk about the war. We bring joy to our country through maasti and cocaine. We are glory indeed. But then my thoughts were suddenly interrupted.

“I wish I could live longer to see it all. I wish I was around to see the smiles I gave to my country,” he said softly.

“HA! That's a first. You are really better off dead!” I shook my head and explained, “The country is a mess, okay? You gave up your life for us but we couldn't do anything to pay back! We are all materialistic and we can't wait to turn anything grotesquely black to untainted white!” This time I was in tears and trying to catch my breath. I was frustrated at how we sit once a year to sing and dance for our Independence and suddenly for the next 364 days, we can't wait to complain about the flaws of our state!

So he comforted me just the way he comforted all the people of our country 35 years ago. He lifted my face with his audacious yet faithful hand. For the first time, I saw him eye to eye. Both of us were crying; one wished to live and one wished to die.

Slowly he spoke again and said, “It took all independent states decades and decades until they managed to find themselves in peace. You just have to wait. We did too. We waited until we couldn't take it anymore and I know that someday people across the country will realize what they are capable of. After all, bravery is embedded in every Bengali blood. It was never easy and it never is easy, but with the right aim and focused attention, you can do what you know is right.”

“But…” I tried but he left. He was gone. Once again I was by myself, thinking when I will see him again. Perhaps next year or perhaps never, I can't tell but I do know what he said was correct. We just have to look deeper and understand how far we have actually come as a nation. We have to iconize ourselves as leaders towards a good path and most of all; we really have to pass on the correct trend to the third basket of youth in the post-Independence Bangladesh.