At the birth of death

One sits silently. Her eyes blink sometimes. Sometimes her lips tremble a little, or they don't tremble at all. A lizard climbs up her shoulder thinking she's a statue. It's only the memories that break the silence in her mind and body—memories of losing her father, mother, and brother, and her house, burning. There is no other recollection either before or after that. Only a few minutes of her 15-year past remain in her memory, and someone seems to play that nonstop on her mind.

One talks nonstop. She says whenever or whatever comes into her mind; sometimes she hurls the words from the tips of her lips before they have even reached her mind. Sometimes she picks up words that are not supposed to come to her. She says nothing about herself though. Not about people either. Only about monsoon, a few rivers, a couple of kittens, jam-jarul fruits, a few sour berries. The sun shower, the evening star playing with dolls. In short, she brings up a new topic every day, forgets it and then comes up with another one the next day.

One cries, she keeps crying. She cries when she is awake or asleep; when she sits or lies down. She cries when she speaks, eats, or laughs. It seems as if she lives not by breathing, but by crying.

The one who laughs keeps laughing. Sometimes it goes on and on, and sometimes she pauses to take a breath. Others don't join her. Her laugh doesn't sprinkle light like a diamond. It spreads all over the room but makes no sound; it hits the cruel wall and returns to her as a rock. And she smiles the same smile back and forth.

There is one who does not laugh or cry or speak; she does not sit at ease either. She looks anxious, restless. She fidgets relentlessly like a headless chicken. It seems as if someone put her in a fire or left her in the water without teaching her how to swim. Or someone forced her to walk on slippery ice. At times, it seems as if she is sleeping on a bed of broken glass or sitting surrounded by snakes and worms.

Their eyes are open. Their eyes are closed. Their legs are spread.  There are blood clots on their legs, fresh blood, dry blood. Their legs are lifeless like wood, as heavy as stone. If they use all their strength, they can move only a little as if they are pushing tons of loads. They have no strength left in their bodies. They wait in the camp—but what are they waiting for? They don't know themselves. Those who become pregnant are dragged outside and pinched to death. Or they will be killed by inches—by raping, beating, or starvation.

But what will happen after the war?

No one dares to ask the question. Not even to each other. If it peeks into someone's mind, others huddle in fear. Such is life here that death seems more kind and inviting.

Thus, by spreading their legs apart, they live in the midst of death and die in the midst of life.

This story has been translated by Marzia Rahman.

Mojaffor Hossain is a fiction writer and literary critic of contemporary Bangla literature. He has published seven anthologies of short stories from Dhaka and Kolkata.

Marzia Rahman is a flash fiction writer and translator. Author of two books, The Aftermath and Dot and Other Flashes, she has been published widely in both print and online journals.