Abecedarian of the Things the Bangladesh Liberation War has been for my mother

Aditi Bhattacharjee

a fateful beginning, announcing the sad

belligerence of her fate, a life affected

crushed at the very beginning, fear

defining the demons that would

eke their roots in her mind. Things she can never

forget — the abduction of her father for 19 days

girls trying to flee, neighbouring villages burning.

Hate is a strong word that forgot to consume her. She

intimidates easy, rescues pigeons and bats in an urban

jungle she has learnt to call her home, her own, while

kites remind her of her girlhood days in rice fields and mud

lawns, gathering mangoes or catching fish at the local pond or

making fires from dung cakes. Those were good

nights, she says, when she could sleep easy, no one chased her

out of the village into the forest, wartime memories has

poisoned her dreams. She wakes up screaming

quite often these days. There is no respite, 2022 is 1971 again.

Russia has invaded Ukraine, while my mother peels a banana flower

sitting on the living room floor, insisting that I must learn this

trying to teach me, lest this remnant of her true heritage be lost like my

uncles I didn’t know about in my 30 years of existence. I offer her tea to

veer her off the news telecast showing missiles and war heads. She seems

worried and in her childishness that only old age brings forth, says this is

x-rated. It seems foolish for her that movies and books are banned and

yet wars go on. She looks at me askance, “why are they fighting?”

and I stand there helpless unable to give her zen.

Aditi Bhattacharjee is an Indian writer, currently pursuing an MFA in Writing at The New School, New York. Her work has appeared or is upcoming in Lunch Ticket, Evocations Review, Vagabond City, The Remnant Archive, PIle Press, SLAB and elsewhere. She is interested in war histories and fun space facts.