“In fact, I am a bastard." He was apathetic.
The pen just dropped from my hand. Since this morning, I have been preparing personnel files of newly hired laborers in my office located in one of the skyscrapers in Dubai. The dusk was settling down and I was running late for an event. Thankfully, he was the last recruit.
For Bengali standards, he had quite fair skin. He was a tall man of around fifty years of age, had pale, hollow cheeks, dark circles under the eyes, lanky silhouette, and a gaunt presence. As part of my job, I asked his and his father's name.
After introducing himself, he stated, "My father's name was Abdullah."
"This name is quite uncommon for a Bengali," I remarked casually.
"You are right, Sir. In fact, I am a bastard.
My Ma did not know his name or their names. Neither did they know hers,” he continued with an empty expression on his face.
As I resisted the urge to raise my eyebrows questionably, it seemed as though he read my mind.
"No, no, no, please don't think ill of Ma. She has nothing to do with it. I know you thought that Ma was a hooker. She was not,” I told him.
You see, sir, everything in the world comes with a price tag. Many people, like me, come here for slavery. That's the price tag for the luxury of having food on our table, the leisure of sending our children to school, the opulence of having enough money to buy Ma's medicines.
Unfortunately, freedom too, is an expensive commodity. Ma and a few hundred thousand more women paid that price.
Some say the numbers were exaggerated – they were in hundreds only. I wouldn't really know. Perhaps that's true. But Sir, even if it was just one woman who got raped, how is it justified?
Would you dare to imagine if that one woman was your mother or your wife or say even your teenage daughter, shivering with fear and begging for mercy from those ruthless beasts?
People say Ma was very lucky that she survived the rape camp. Most didn't.
Might I even add, Sir, that Ma is quite an ugly woman? Have you ever seen what a 14-year-old mother looks like? She was just a child. She was just a little child when they took her.
Sir, shall I tell you an interesting medical fact? Did you know that a person can abruptly lose their speech for good? Aren't you surprised that she came out alive from there? You sounded amazed when you heard my father's name. You told me it's not a common Bengali name. You were right. It's not. But you will still find that name in the birth certificates of hundreds of people that are my age.
Do you know what Abdullah means? Slave of God! Sir, forgive me, but do you want to hear what those slaves of God did to my Ma, one of the many helpless women.
"Sir, why are you sweating. Why are your ears turning red?
As his blank eyes pierced into my soul, I felt uneasy.
"Ok, ok, I am not going to bore you with more.
But shall I skip that part too – about what awaited her when she returned? It was the burnt debris that she once called home.
Sheikh Mujib, our Jatir-Janak, "Father of the Nation'', termed these women Birangona (Heroines). As if these heroines had not seen enough, the ordeals repeated – they witnessed the same bloody affliction, but this time, of Behari women by our fellow Bengali men.
Why are women treated like nothing more than a tool to teach lessons to men?
You keep a beard. I presume you must be a Muslim. Ma is also a Muslim. They said those terrified Behari women were also reciting the Kalema (the Muslim's declaration of faith) when our 'brave' Bengali brothers took them away after killing their male family members. I was told that my father must have been a Muslim too.
Sir, can you imagine how one feels to grow up as a war souvenir in society -- and what a person goes through when his own fellow-countrymen mock him because of his fair complexion and tall stature, a glaring reminder of his illegitimacy? How does he face his helplessness when he sees himself in a mirror and finds the hints of a rapist sneering at him? When his Ma wakes up crying uncontrollably in the middle of the night and starts beating the remnant of her gruesome past. The pain of knowing he would never be more than that for his Ma trumps any amount of physical pain she could inflict.
Oh! Excuse me, Sir, for beating my gums for so long. I am wasting your valuable time. I know you are a busy man. Any other questions, Sir?"
"No. That would be all." I said while looking at my watch.
After his departure, I put his file in the cabinet, locked the office, and went straight to the Pakistani embassy to celebrate Independence Day.