By Anusree Gupta
Anil Choudhury rushed through the paddy field with his trusted servants. He had his rifle ready to fire in case of any attack.
The squad of three were beating the crop around when they heard, “Baba! The cub is running away!” It was Choudhury’s three-year-old daughter, Bharati. Perplexed to hear her voice in that paddy field, Choudhury turned around. To his dismay, his only child was standing beside a full-grown Cheetah, trying hard to rub its belly, giggling at the thought that she has caught a cheetah cub all by herself. Choudhury’s body went limp. His gun dropped to the ground. Burying his face in his hand he sat down, crestfallen. He can’t watch his daughter turn into prey to a beast who was wreaking havoc in the village.
“Babu dekhun”, his servant shouted asking his master to look up. Choudhury slowly gathered courage and shuffled through the thickets searching for his gun. Grabbing the gun, he looked up and saw the Cheetah has already brushed itself past Bharati and was walking in the direction of the forest. Fearing any false moves. All of them stood still while Bharati kept shouting, “Baba the cub is running away. DO something. It’s running AWAY!”
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It was one year after Independence. The country was now broken into bits. Choudhury, a Hindu Zamindar in the Muslim dominated Rajshahi district of East Pakistan, present-day Bangladesh, had to face many challenges. Even his rifle, his trusted companion, was taken away from him; seized under the decree – Hindu families are not allowed to keep arms in their household. But the seize was short-lived as the rogue cheetah started his rampage around the village. The Officer-in-Charge came personally with his gun and a plea for help, “Save us from this beast…”
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It had been years, but Bharati still insisted her father narrate the story.
The eldest among her eight siblings, this story empowered her. She felt like the brave-heart that stood tall beside the beast, undaunted.
Bharati was known for her courage, be it fighting to protect her young siblings or pulling a snake out of a rat-hole. She enjoyed the challenges that life threw at her in her own small world. Even her father, Choudhury beamed with pride at the fine young woman Bharati had grown into.
She was in Class VIII when her mother stopped her from going to school. “It was time for her to learn some housework if she wants to be a good housewife”, her mother retorted to her father’s protest. Even though their parents fought, Bharati was happy to know she didn’t have to go to school anymore.
Little did she know her lessons didn’t end there.
The next morning, Choudhury called his daughter to the courtyard and handed her his prized rifle. Bharati stood confused unable to put the pieces together. Was this her first lesson to be a good housewife?
“Your mother can stop you from going to school but she can’t stop me from teaching my daughter how to wield a gun.”, Choudhury said, quietly.
Bharati smiled.
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The first lesson was simple. Choudhury taught Bharati the correct way to hold a rifle.
“Your left hand or the non-firing hand should be steady. Do not slack. Tighten your shoulder. One false move and you can break your collar bone.” Her father kept the instructions coming and Bharati kept making mental notes of the same.
She could hear her mother wailing from inside the house. Cursing her father for ruining their daughter. Bharati looked at her father. His expression was sombre. He didn’t seem to pay attention to any of it. He was focused, primarily on the lesson. Bharati somehow knew what was coming. Cold shoulder and curt replies for weeks. Maybe the worse of the chores had her name written on them. Her heart dropped a bit. Choudhury saw his daughter slump a bit. He knew very well what led to that. But he had to be tough.
He slapped Bharati on her back, “Stand straight!”
Bharati felt the sting and immediately obeyed.
The next day, Choudhury transformed the backyard into a rifle range. Mud birds hung from the tree. A clay pot was positioned on top of some tall bamboo. There was a rough hand-painted target on an old sitting mat which now hung from the mango tree. Bharati walked out in awe. The brave heart will now be invincible, she thought.
It didn’t take long for Bharati to master her aim.
“It’s in your blood”, beamed Choudhury when Bharati shot the toughest target – a mud bird perched on top of the highest branch hidden by the leaves.
Days passed by and soon the gun became a part of Bharati’s life. She spent afternoons shooting birds down from the sky. Even her mother had given up her act. She knew it was futile to stop her now.
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It was the 1960’s. The political and humanitarian aspects of East Pakistan were highly perturbed. Riots were raging all over the country. The Hindu minorities were fighting for their existence. Their houses were looted and torched. Children were murdered brutally in front of their parents. Women were abducted and raped indiscriminately. And thousands were slaughtered. In this strife for survival, there was a massive exodus of Hindus from East Pakistan to a different part of India. Many left their homes behind and travelled by foot with feeble hopes to make it to the other side safely.
The times were trying. Every day brought fresh renewed terror. What if they were the next target?
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Anil Choudhury sat quietly in his study. His brows furrowed. Hands clasped tight. He was nervously shaking his leg. What should he do now?
The Officer-in-Charge called him that morning. Rumours of the attack were taking rounds in Rajshahi, and his village would be next. With two young, unmarried daughters at home, he couldn’t find a way to fend off the threats. Yes, he had a gun, but will only 12 bullets suffice the attack? He highly doubted it.
Bharati stood quietly by the door. Her father’s demeanour worried her. The man who stood tall against all adversities was now cowering in fear. She quietly walked up to him. Choudhury looked up; his eyes wary. He forced a feeble smile at his daughter and said, “Don’t worry. We will fight this. Together.”
“Ogo shuncho!”, Choudhury’s wife called him outside.
Choudhury walked out, shocked. Hundreds of villagers were standing in his courtyard. They were begging in desperation. “So, the rumours have reached them.” Choudhury thought to himself. It was not just his family now; his people needed his protection too. He nodded and let them in.
Hundreds of Hindus. Twelve bullets. One gun.
He prayed to the Almighty to stand by him and give him strength.
Bharati and her siblings started gathering rations for the people they were hosting. It was going to be a long night, that is, if they survive this.
By the evening, the lights were extinguished. The children were shushed. And everyone laid low in the dark, praying to God to save them this last time. Anil sat by the window, keeping himself hidden from common sight, with his gun in hand – which was loaded and ready to fire. Bharati watched his dad, concerned. She'd already had a heated argument with her parents regarding her plan to help her father with the patrol. But that was in vain. She was strictly forbidden. They didn’t want their seventeen-year-old girl to get involved. It was too risky.
But Bharati was adamant. She knew she had to do something. She quietly crawled up to her father. “What do you want? I said no!” growled Choudhury.
“Baba, listen to me. I will take care of myself. Just let me help you with the bullets. You won’t be able to handle so many things at the same time. Please baba.”, pleaded Bharati.
“No. Please say no. What if they get her? We won’t be able to show our face to anyone if something happens to her.”, cried Choudhury’s wife.
“Nothing will happen. I have taught my daughter well to take care of herself.”, Choudhury replied, flatly.
He handed the magazines to his daughter and instructed her what to do in case of an attack.
It was two in the morning. Everyone was asleep. Even Choudhury was nodding off. Bharati was the only one awake. She stared into the dark. “Is our future going to be like this? Pitch black?”, she wondered. Suddenly, Bharati saw a movement at a distance. She quietly, picked up the gun from her father’s side and held it ready. If push comes to shove, she will do anything to protect her family.
Somewhere at a distance, a twig snapped and Choudhury woke up with a start. Bharati lifted a finger asking her father to stay quiet. Choudhury complied. They waited for what seemed like hours, but no attack came through. Bharati didn’t move from her post for the rest of the night. She knew she can’t let go of the rifle now.
At sunrise, she saw a police constable walking towards their house.
“Boro babu has sent me. He is sending a band of officers. They have been dispatched for your protection.”, he said to Choudhury.
“Finally!”, relief flooded through Choudhury’s face as he let the constable in.
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Fifty years have passed.
The memories of her past came flooding in, as she picked up a picture from the dusty pile. A young Bharati holding a gun aiming at something she cannot remember now.
Times were tough then. But those were the times that made her stronger.
By Anusree Gupta