The Deep Scars
It was the year 1960. I was in Grade 4 attending Kurmitola Cantonment Primary School, Dhaka, Bangladesh (then East Pakistan). My father was in the Pakistani army and we lived at the military compound. There was a parade ground sandwiched between the army barracks and the family quarters.
It was Friday – Muslim Sabbath day. There was no such thing as TV and our family did not even have a radio. On a day like this, we brothers normally played ludo or a snakes and ladders board game. But that Friday turned out to be an exception. I was bored and at some point, I went to the bedroom window overlooking the parade ground.
Curiously, I saw some unusual activity. There were three soldiers (jawans) in uniform, which was uncommon for a Sabbath day. Two of the soldiers were holding bayoneted rifles standing about a cricket-pitch length apart, guarding the third soldier in combat gear with rifle, backpack, helmet and heavy boots. He was running back and forth between the two guards. His hunchback posture told me that his backpack was unusually heavy, probably loaded with bricks and rocks. I had never seen such an unusual drill. Despite my youth, I had no problem figuring out that it was a corporal punishment.
As I stood at the window holding the grille watching the man’s ordeal, my heart first became heavy and then began to ache. It was about ten in the morning and the day was getting hotter as the sun glided up the sky. From his slow, tiring motion – as if he might collapse at any moment – I got an impression that the soldier must have been on the drill for a while. Unable to cope with my inner distress, I walked away from the window, but after a while could not resist to check if the drill was over.
My troubled heart became increasingly anxious for the punishment to end. At about noon, I heard the azan for the Jumma Friday prayer. A flickering thought crossed my mind and offered some hope: after the prayer, the namajees would return to the barracks and their homes. One of them might be the officer who ordered this punishment. Perhaps he might sympathize with the soldier’s ordeal under this hot sun and order to call it a day.
I kept my eyes focused on the mosque, waiting for the prayer to be over. The Friday prayers with their sermon always run long. That day it seemed endless. Finally, I saw the namajees leaving the mosque and I held my breath in anticipation.
I thought I must be hallucinating – it was all a mirage in this hot, desert environment – for I saw the namajees walking past, noticing nothing, let alone stopping for a moment to sympathize with the victim’s ordeal. My tormented soul yelled, “Hey men, don’t you see?”, before it drowned in despair and hopelessness. It was as if I was watching through my cell’s grilled window a fellow inmate was being flogged in the prison yard. And, each lash made two scars: one on the victim’s body and the other on my soul. My welled-up eyes blurred my vision. I walked away from the window. And did not return.
Sixty-five years have passed since the painful episode, but the scars haven’t yet shown any sign of healing.