It all started at nowhere else but Kabirul Alam’s own home. That
day while watching a soap opera on the television his wife
Sharmeen Sultana suddenly said, ‘I can’t cry like before any
more. It used to be so easy--a wave of tears would sweep me
over…while reading a book or after hearing a tragic tale of
someone. Now I feel my heart grow heavy; my eyes do itch but
tears do not come in them. I wish I could cry; it would have
felt so good. Even when my father died--such an untimely
death--I could not cry.’
Her voice grew thick and heavy. Surprised, Kabir looked at his
wife--Sharmeen's eyes were swelling, a reddish glow was on her
face. But no words passed his mouth, he considered it an
extremely private affair, so private, so intimate a thing it was
that nothing could be said about it. He thought, one did not
even know when one was going to cry or what would trigger it.
He noticed it and was surprised when after her father’s death
Sharmeen did not cry at all. Her brothers and sisters pleaded
with him to make her cry; but he could not do it. How was he to
make someone cry if that person did not feel like crying? About
such matters sheer helplessness took hold of him, all he could
do was to put his hand on the griever’s shoulder to show
sympathy. If she understood it, well; if she did not, he
thought, he could do very little about it.
Little did he know then that something so private like crying
would become an object of everyone’s interest. In fact, he, at
that time getting ready to participate in one of the late night
talk shows on the television, did not have time to ponder on it.
He used to be an acclaimed political analyst--during the
eighties, when the country was under military dictatorship, his
friends, amazed the way he dissected the existing socio-economic
conditions, would listen to him attentively. Since the fall of
the military ruler and the restoration of democracy he had
remained silent only to become vocal again, and was making his
voice heard on television and in the newspaper. Perhaps because
of this long silence a pent-up anger was brewing in him, and
because of this, when all the fellow talk-show goers were either
mildly criticising the government or showing a fond enthusiasm
in its work, Kabir’s comments were filled with scathing remarks.
Sometimes they were so strong that they embarrassed the
authority. On such occasions, the host of the programme would
give a timid half-smile and said, ‘Mr Kabir, you are getting
worked up. Let us talk about something that will help to calm
you down. If you kindly spend a few words, sir, on that
Bangladeshi film which has just won a prize in an international
film festival.’ This invitation to speak on some silly film when
he was boiling with anger and frustration was certainly
insulting, but it did not deter Kabir. He smiled in reply and
said, ‘I am not getting worked up, and this is not a question of
getting unreasonably excited over something trivial. If you have
any argument against what I have said let us talk about it.’
Then he realised that he was on a live programme, he seized on
the opportunity, his words were transmitted unedited,
uninterrupted to the audience, ‘This night-time problem-solving
project, which you have started in the name of talk show, in
which we talk about all the problems the country is facing and
go home happy and content, is nothing but a ploy to put the
toiling masses to sleep. They happily go to bed every night
thinking that the problems of their everyday life have been
solved, that at the end of the tunnel there is a ray of hope.
And every morning your audience wake up to reality, realising
that the problems have remained problems, there is no chance
that these problems will be solved soon. You have just tried to
derail the conversation by mentioning that film; you want to end
the programme with a happy note. Entertainment! You thrive on
it, aren’t you? Be it as it may, it delights me when my country
fares well in the international arena, I am happy that that film
has won a prize.’ The host remained spell-bound for a few
seconds, before he ended the programme he said a few words about
how hopeful he was about the country and its people’s future.
This was just an instance as to how Kabirul Alam had put the
television-wallahs into trouble. Still they invited him, for the
audience diligently wrote letters and sent emails to the host,
expressing their support for Kabir. Besides this, his
participation made the programme more lively and spontaneous;
what was a talk show, after all, if it was not a little spicy, a
little polemical? So even though the threat of danger loomed
large over their heads, the producers still invited him.
That day, the day Sharmeen was talking about her not being able
to cry, Kabir ran into another embarrassing situation on that
night’s talk show. The smart hostess, near the end of the
programme told her guests to give a ‘summary’ of their speeches,
and Kabir, when his turn came, irritated by the flurry of
enthusiasm in the government that the three speakers before him
had shown, said, ‘I don’t see any reason to feel optimistic
about the current situation. On the contrary, the way things are
going on I think a grave danger is awaiting us. I do not see any
ray of hope at the end of the tunnel.’
At this point the hostess, smelling danger in the air, quickly
intervened; she said, ‘We hope that the clouds, if there are
any, will be lifted. Human beings cannot live without hope, we
will not survive if it is taken away from us.’
But there was no stopping Kabir: ‘Humans, an indomitable will
that they have, do not live on hope alone. Man survives even if
there is no hope left. How he survives or how people of our
country are passing their days in such a situation is a million
dollar question. Perhaps it’s because the word impossible is not
there in our dictionary. Like you, I, too, believe, a change is
in the offing. But unlike what you have said, this change will
be very big and will make a long-lasting impact in our life. It
will change the course of history. If you look at Bangladesh’s
history closely you will know that in every 19-20 years a great
upheaval takes place. It has happened in 1952 when the Bengalis
have laid down their lives to make their mother tongue Bengali
the state language. Or take 1971, when three million people died
for the independence of our country. Or 1990, the military
dictatorship ended in a mass upsurge and democracy was
established. All these events have witnessed bloodshed. Without
blood the course of history cannot be changed. The change that
is knocking on the door of our history will be like that of
1952, 1971 or 1990. Yes, I am talking about violence…bloodshed.’
Despite the outmost caution that she had taken the hostess had
failed to keep the programme off such risky comments. She almost
choked when she had to end the programme with a gung-ho mood,
she promised herself that she would never host any show with
Kabirul Alam in it.
Not that Kabir had been thoughtful in using his words; they
quite spontaneously came out him. His wife’s big black eyes had
hovered before him, the eyes that instead of water were now
gleamed with the glow of blood. He knew not then what danger he
was bringing upon himself. When the recording was finally done
and he was out in the street he noticed a change in the air. He
had never thought so but up until now that someone was following
him. He felt uncomfortable. The television-wallahs only invited
him; they did not feel obliged to give him a ride. And why would
they? They were giving exposure to the guests by inviting them
to the show, why would they care how they were going home. It
was also true that no poor people came to the talk shows in the
middle of the night. All the guests, save for Kabir, had their
own car. He got a trishaw. It was one and a half in the morning:
the roads were desolate; the discomfort still stalked him. He
felt if he had turned round he would know who were following
him. As the suspicion would not leave him even after getting
home, he went to the veranda and saw two people standing at the
entrance to his house. They left after a while.
At home Sharmeen was anxious. Every night she thought whether he
would be able to return home safe. She liked his new busyness,
knowing that if he had not had this tendency to hide himself
from the others, he would have become famous long ago. Within a
few months, Kabir had become the talk of the town. Sharmeen had
seen people, both known and unknown, talk about Kabir’s courage,
his sharp arguments and the lucidity of his vision. She never
doubted his intelligence, the power of his wisdom; that he had
fallen behind his peers was solely to be blamed on his
uncompromising stance on many issues. She loved Kabir for this,
success in life she did not want, if that meant selling one’s
soul to the devil.
They had passed so many years together, yet Sharmeen thought
they had met only yesterday. It was in 1985 they first got to
know each other at the university, they got married in 1991.
That year, their only son Joutho was born. After graduating,
Kabir took up journalism, at that time the country’s media was
in infancy, it did not fetch well. Sharmeen, on the other hand,
joined a government-run college. Joutho was now fifteen years
old, how beautiful he was as a child, now his feature had become
a little rugged, there were signs of an unknown disturbance in
his tender face, as though he had gone through a tempestuous
time.
When they both were home, they usually sat in the drawing room
and chatted about their day. But, today Kabir was a little
reserved.
‘What happened?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Are you worried about something?’
‘Nothing serious.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Two men followed me home today from the television station,’
Kabir said; he regretted telling her for she would be worried.
A cold shiver ran through Sharmeen, but she did not let Kabir
know anything about it. She smiled and said, ‘It must be all too
familiar to you. You faced this before.’
‘There was a military dictatorship at that time. I was young
then…’
‘Leave it. What can they do?’
‘That I do not know. Now I have to think of the safety of you
and Joutho.’
‘Don’t worry. They won’t dare to do anything.’
Yet Sharmeen worried; she could not sleep at night. Kabir, too,
worried. More than worry, from the next morning, he started to
be eaten up with a sense of discomfort. Two men who followed him
everywhere he went did nothing to hide their presence. He had
very little time to worry: as soon as he reached the office, the
news came in that a slum in Maghbazar was set fire to. A
television channel was airing it live and like many others he
stood before the TV and watched: poor men and women scampered to
and fro, people wailed. The news, when it made it to the front
page of every paper the following day, was treated badly, as
though it was like any other news item, as though it was no
major humanitarian disaster. Only one report, put in a box, in
one of the papers touched everyone’s heart: Hossain Mia, one of
the residents of the slum, had been a street vendor before he
was evicted by the police. When the fire broke out he was
looking for a job in the other part of the city, his wife Mamtaz
Begum was working in someone else’s house as domestic help; at
home, in one of the shacks that burnt to pieces, were their two
children, one six and the other was two. After seeing the fire
the six-year-old ran out to safety to realise it later that he
had left his two-year-old sister in the shack. The settlement
quickly turned into a mangled char of ashes, there was no sign
of the little girl, as though she had melted into thick
bellowing smoke. The reporter wrote: ‘Hossain Mia said, “I used
to sit at the corner of the street and sell vegetables. The
police told me to shut it down. Now you people have killed my
suckling. What has she done to you? A whole place doesn’t burn
down on its own unless someone sets fire to it from all sides…”
Mamtaz Begum was wailing; and their son stared vacantly into the
emptiness where the slum used to stand. The family that had just
lost its youngest member, the people who had lost their homes
and the life’s savings--there was no tear in their eyes, only a
gleam of blood in the eyes, as though they, too, were burning.
It was the last line that startled Kabir the most. He thought of
Sharmeen. But before he could think more, the incident repeated
itself and within a day every newspaper ran the same kind of
different reports:
Ahmed Ali has been undone. With his entire life’s savings he has
bought a tailoring shop in Badarganj bazaar. Now, after so many
years, he has been told that the shop has been built on
government land. A few days ago the entire bazaar, along with
Ali’s establishment, is bulldozed. He and the other shop owners
are passing their days in untold misery. Ahmad Ali comes to the
place where his shop used to be and wails. The people who gather
round and watch him, in their eyes there is no tear, there are
only blocks of blood red, as though someone has planted the
blacksmith’s scalding hot iron in those eyes.
The prices of essentials have been skyrocketing. With his fixed
income Mahiuddin has not been able to buy a drop of milk for his
children. Every night he waits in the bazaar for the rotten fish
that are sold at a price that he can meet, but that, too,
nowadays is getting difficult to lay a hand on as the queue for
rotten fish is getting bigger by day. ‘My children have been
nagging me to have chicken. It is difficult for me to by rice
and dahl, how am I supposed to get them chicken?’ Mahiuddin
chokes. Those who stand near him, like his shadow, grow
melancholic. Their eyes gleam like a brick kiln with blobs of
blood glowing in them.
Reports like this started to pour in: jute mills have been laid
off, hundreds and thousands of workers have been made jobless;
for weeks flood affected people have been waiting for relief, no
help has yet reached them; the micro-credit lending companies
are threatening their poor clients who have failed to repay the
loan instalments with dire consequences; the lament of those
whose relatives have died in police custody, tortured before
killed. Every report ended with the fact that none of these
people described in the report, not a single one of them, could
pour their hearts out, they could not cry, there eyes failed
them. Every eye, instead, seethed with a soft mass of blood.
Columnists saw this as an opportunity to write something new and
mysterious: for the next few weeks, op-ed pages were littered
with this new phenomenon that had been plaguing everyone’s eye.
The television-wallahs did not let go of such a burning issue--
a live talk show was planned in which besides a couple of
intellectuals and a national health expert, Kabir was invited to
talk.
The last few days’ newspapers had left Kabir in a state of
wonder; he remained perplexed. From the first day the incident
broke out the news caught his attention. Now he went through the
newspaper over and over; he even re-read the reports filed by
his own reporters and the reports that he could not run because
of space constraints. In all these reports, the reporters,
otherwise journalistically impersonal as they are in dealing
with their subject matters, could not be hide their emotion, and
for some reason the copyeditors did nothing to chuck the
emotional parts in the reports.
But how could such an incident happen in so many places at the
same time? Was it a part of some conspiracy? An evil ploy of
someone who wanted to tarnish the image of the government that
had recently taken power in a bloodless coup? But how could that
be so? It was not that the local reporters, working all over the
country, sat together and decided to file this particular kind
of reports. It was not possible. He did not know anything about
other papers, but he had seen the reports his own reporters had
filed.
Amidst all this he almost forgot the crisis that had befallen
him. It was not limited to being followed by those two men day
in, day out they had lately been calling him up. That day an
unknown caller in a polite tone said, ‘We have no problem with
your participation in the talk shows. People will get suspicious
if all of a sudden they stop seeing you on the idiot box. And
the audiences love you! But please do not say anything that will
deteriorate the law and order situation or foment violence. Your
diatribe against the government will land you in a frying pan.
Next time you must talk of optimism, of hope; and you must tell
the viewers how, under this new government, the country is
striding forward towards economic independence and prosperity.
We hope you will pay heed to this and will not force us to do
something unpleasant.’
Not only Kabir, Sharmeen, too, had been called. They tried in
vain to find the identity of the caller or what had made him
give these friendly pieces of advice or on whose behalf the
person had called. The television-wallahs felt the heat too, he
realised it as soon he reached their office for the show. The
producer, executive producer and the host of the programme sat
with him. The producer, with a gloomy face, told him, ‘Sir, we
are running the show under immense pressure. We did not want to
invite you. They told us to put you on the show, telling us to
request you to say something good about the current government.’
‘What kind of good things you want me to say?’
‘You know what I am talking about. They told us that they would
do something unpleasant to you otherwise. We are habituated with
getting instructions from them, but this is a different case
altogether…Please sir…’
The show started. With a wide smile the host introduced his
guests to the audience and requested the government health
expert to give a scientific explanation of the incidents. The
expert said, ‘How can I give any scientific explanation of
something so thoroughly unscientific? If it had happened to one
or two persons I would have called it a disease. If for any
reason our tear ducts get dried up we call it Dry Eye Syndrome.
Because crying is a fundamental human emotion, if our tear ducts
become dry, our eyes will itch, they will soon turn red. But is
it believable that the tear ducts of all the people of this
country have become dry? One thing I can assure you is that we
are not dealing with a disease here. These cock and bull stories
have been deliberately reported in the country’s media to
undermine the government and its authority. This is a ploy to
create panic among the ordinary people and to create anarchy in
the country.’
Now came the intellectuals’ turn and of them the first speaker
was Afsar Hussain, who after spending a decade in the United
States had just come back to enlighten his fellow countrymen.
His analysis was riddled with ant-US rhetoric; in his
characteristic tone he said, ‘If we, for argument’s sake, are to
believe the newspaper reports, we must, urgently, try to find
out whether the people the papers have talked about are unable
to cry or they do not want to cry. The idea that is in
circulation is that they are unable to cry; I think it is
totally wrong and I believe because of our colonialist mindset a
section of our intellectuals is thinking in this way. This is
another example that the Brits have colonised our mind. We must
not forget that psychologically our intellectuals are the slaves
of Colonialism and all around us there are agents of the US
Imperialism. If we read the papers carefully we will notice that
the eyes are becoming blood red. We know that the colour red
carries a symbol. We are ignoring this fact. It is wrong to
think that people are unable to shed tears; they have stopped
crying on purpose. Why will they cry? They will stand up and
fight back to the centre of Colonialist thinking and Imperialist
conspiracies. I think they are wearing this symbol of revolution
in their eyes, the most sensitive of human organs.
Another mahatma intellectual was Murad Azhar. Like Afsar, he
spent his youth in the US; upon his return, besides pursuing
intellectual activities, he had also set up a non-governmental
organisation. Where the fund for this organisation came from was
a mystery. His critics said the US government gave him money; he
never said anything about it. His speeches had been full of hate
for the US and a love for the Muslims. It was no exception this
time round. He said, ‘These incidents are products of the great
mystic movements during the British period. Lalon said… (What
Lalon, the mystic singer has said remains unknown for Azhar, the
Lalon expert, could not recall.)… Be it as it may, there is no
point in bringing in a sage like Lalon into such a trivial
matter. I want to say very firmly that this is a conspiracy of
the US Imperialism. It has planted its own agents into our
newspaper industry and these agents are hatching this
conspiracy. Through this they want to portray to the world that
Muslims are heartless, they are cruel. This is a pretext to
bring their so-called war on terror to this region. We must foil
this conspiracy with our united effort.’
Then the octogenarian intellectual’s turn came. Throughout his
life his speeches had circled around only one thing: The society
had to be changed through a socialist revolution. He said, ‘A
ball of fire is burning in our society. It is going to burn down
the castle of capitalism, imperialism, colonialism and the
feudal remnants in the economic structure of our society. The
capitalism that we have in our country is rotten in nature, even
a bourgeoisie economic system cannot be developed under it. We
have suffered a lot. Everyone has described the situation in
different ways, now is the time to change the society. To have
the revolution begin.’
The camera was on Kabir, the host, producer and the camera,
through which the audience waited him to speak. But they watched
him get up with immense anger and annoyance. It was an
unprecedented scene for no one on the panel had ever stood up
from his chair on a live programme. Sensing that something
unpleasant was going to happen the host thought of taking a
commercial break; it was too late by then: Kabir, live on TV,
pointed his middle finger at the other members of the panel and
said, ‘Shame on you. People are dying and you are only
regurgitating things from the book. I reject what you say.’
Without letting anyone say anything the producer switched the
programme off air. Kabir strode out of the studio and when he
started to walk for a trishaw he realised that he had made the
situation worse--around ten men mobbed him; on his way home they
followed him home in a microbus. It was so blatant, so obvious.
He thought: If they wanted to do any harm, they could have done
it long ago, when I was alone and walking on the street, he
thought, but giving me security was not their aim either. He
realised it too late; at home when he knocked on the door an
unknown men opened it.
‘Who are you?’ he asked.
‘Come in,’ said the person, as though if it was his house and
Kabir was trespassing. He closed the door after Kabir and told
him, ‘Don’t shout, we need to talk to you.’
A few more men sat lazily in the drawing room. Kabir knew panic;
a flurry of thoughts came to him, thoughts of Sharmeen, Joutho.
He hurriedly went into the bedroom; two men solemnly stood at
the door, inside Sharmeen sat at the edge of the bed, scared,
her face pale.
‘Why have you intruded into my house like this? What do you want
from me?’
‘Don’t ask so many questions. I have told you that we need to
talk to you.’
Kabir ran to Joutho’s room. Two men guarded the room, in one
corner Joutho stood, petrified, he cried out meekly at the sight
of Kabir.
‘Don’t move child. Stay where you are,’ one man told Joutho and
pushed Kabir towards the drawing room.
‘Pray sit,’ one of the men left his seat for Kabir.
‘Who are you? What do you want? Why have you intruded into my
house like this? How did you get in?’
‘You are asking the same questions.’
‘And you are not answering.’
‘Don’t shout.’
‘You have illegally…’
One of the men came forward and held up his identity card--they
were from a government agency. He said, ‘Now you know our
identity. We have come to talk to you. We had to break the door
to get in because your wife would not let us in. If she had let
us in we would not have to break the door. I apologise for any
inconvenience.’
None of them looked sorry, instead a flicker of smile instead
played on their faces. Their leader spoke, ‘We repeatedly warned
you not to say or do things that would jeopardise the country’s
social stability. You never listened. Today we have given you a
chance to rectify yourself. We have arranged today’s talk show,
and because of our instructions you have been invited. And what
have you done? You have created such a huge melodrama. What is
this, Kabir sahib? Why aren’t you paying any heed to what we are
saying?’
Kabir listened to him calmly. He thought they were dacoits; now
that he knew who they were he felt relieved. At best they would
try to scare him; what else could they do? He said, ‘I am not
bound to follow what you say.’
‘You are. Not only you, everyone is bound to follow whatever we
tell them to do. And everyone does listen to us, you are the
only exception. You have been rambling…’
‘I don’t ramble. Whatever I say is based on logic.’
‘That you do. And what you say is almost believable. But we know
that you lie. Your write-ups, your talks are nothing but a pack
of lies.’
‘This is not true. I do not lie.’
‘You do. Did you not say that the people of this country were
passing their days in untold misery?’
‘Yes I did say that. Isn’t it right?’
‘It is completely false. The people of this country are living
in peace. Why aren’t you leaving them in peace, Kabir sahib?’
‘I am not leaving them in peace? People are starving; the
country has plunged into an abyss of darkness.’
‘Kabir sahib, we are giving you a last chance. Admit that the
people of this country are living in peace and you have uttered
all this horseshit because you are one of the masterminds behind
this conspiracy.’
‘Impossible. I will not do it.’
‘You yourself have said that in the dictionary of the people of
this land the word impossible does not exist.’
‘I did say it, but that was a different context.’
‘Whatever the context is, we believe in what you have said. We
are giving you one last chance--go to a talk show tomorrow, any
talk show and say the things we have just said.’
‘I can’t do that.’
‘Don’t be so silly.’
‘I can’t.’
‘This is going to have disastrous consequences, Kabir sahib.’
‘No matter what you do I can never say such things.’
The man did not say anything more, he motioned to another man,
who brought Sharmeen to the drawing room and after making her
sit beside Kabir, tied both of them to their chairs with a rope.
‘Hey, what do you think you are doing?’
No-one replied. One of the men picked up Kabir and Sharmeen's
mobile phones and smashed them into pieces, they unplugged the
land phone. Two men then brought Joutho in, pale as a sheet of
paper.
‘You said we humans had indomitable will power, that there was
nothing that we human beings could not do. You said the word
impossible should not be there in our dictionary. Well, you are
right. And because we think you are right, it’s possible for us
to do what we are about to do now.’
As soon as the leader of the group finished his sentence, two
men flashed two knives and, with an amazing promptness, near
simultaneously rammed them into Joutho’s back and chest. Within
seconds he fell to the floor.
‘We hope this will stop your anti-state activities.’
Dazed, Kabir stared at Joutho’s lifeless face; Sharmeen fainted.
The men strode out of the house.
His co-workers got to know about the incident in the afternoon.
As Kabir did not go to work in the afternoon and he could not be
reached on the phone, an orderly from his office came looking
for him. Within an hour journalists from all the newspapers
gathered in Kabir’s house; one by one editors of every daily and
newsmagazine came. The incident angered them. Police also turned
up and sent Joutho’s body for autopsy. The post-mortem report,
to the surprise of everyone, came within an hour--the death was
reported as a suicide. It did not explain the marks on Joutho’s
chest and back.
The reporters stayed back; together they decided to unearth the
truth and report the incident as it had happened. But by then
the agency had already instructed the editors to run a report of
the incident, which it had prepared. The editors were told that
if they run anything but this made-up report in the following
day’s papers, they would have to bear the brunt. The report
described Joutho’s death as suicide, saying, ‘The young man
killed himself because of a family feud’. It also added, ‘We all
should be on guard so that such an incident does not happen
again.’
Sharmeen sat vacantly in the drawing room. Since Joutho’s murder
she had not had anything, neither had she moved from where she
had been sitting. Kabir stood before her, shook her by the
shoulder and said, ‘Sharmeen, your son has been murdered, our
Joutho is slain, please cry, let the world know about the
killing.’
With her blood-red eyes, she stared blankly at him. Before she
broke down and hid her face, she said, ‘You want me to cry?’
Moments later Kabir realised that there was blood in between her
fingers. When he removed her hands from her face he saw streams
of blood coming out of her eyes. When the journalists present in
the scene went back to file the report of the incident, they
were told by their editors about instruction from the agency and
the made-up report. When the reporters refused to follow the
instruction, the editors told them to have patience, that they
would try to do something about it; even though they knew not
what could be done in such a situation or to whom they would
seek justice.
Every television channel that night ran the fake news, the
following day every newspaper did the same. What happened in
Kabirul Alam’s house that day was never made known to the
ordinary people.
From the following day a strange set of events started to
happen-- newspaper offices were inundated with the news of
blood, instead of tear, coming out of the eyes of different
people, in different places across the country. The editors
remained in a fix as to what to do with such stories. When
hundreds of such news came in within a short span of two days,
the editors decided to sit together before running such news
items. In a meeting they condemned the murder of Joutho and
sought an explanation from the government. The editors also
reckoned that so far two thousand nine stories were filed in
about the strange incident of blood coming out of people’s eyes,
and they decided that every newspaper would run one single news
analysis on it. Kabirul Alam was given the responsibility.
The next day, every newspaper in the country, carried Kabir’s
analysis in blood-red on their front pages:
A Story of Blood and Tear
** Translated from “Ashru
athoba Roktopater Galpa” by Ahmed Hussain
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