the smell of home

8/9/2019 The Smell of Home

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About the Author

The author is a teacher by profession. She studied

English language and literature, and Asia Studies at the

University of Amsterdam as well as Indology at the

University of Leiden in the Netherlands. Her previous

works include children’s books, novels, a collection of

poetry and a language textbook published byRoutledge. In her works of fiction, she is inspired by

Sufi thinking and by the Persian poet, Sufi mystic and

philosopher Omar Khayyam.


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To the children

who survived the war of 1971 in Bangladesh

but never made it back home


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Copyright © Mithun B. Nasrin (2015)

The right of Mithun B. Nasrin to be identified as author of this

work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and

78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may bereproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any

form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,

recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the

publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims

for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British

Library.

Cover artist: Rokhsana Sultana

ISBN 978 1 78455 637 2 (Paperback)

ISBN 978 1 78455 639 6 (Hardback)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2015)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd.25 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5LB

Printed and bound in Great Britain


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Acknowledgements

While I was busy writing something entirely

different than this novel, all of a sudden, my brains

were sensing a new feeling inside me, like 'The

Smell of Home'. In a second I saw a Robiullah

sitting on the floor of my atelier with the other

characters sitting next to him, taking the form of real

people. They told me their tale and I have just

written it down for them. Therefore, I must express

my gratitude to all the characters in my novel for

being present around me.

While writing this novel, I also felt the presence of a

very different person, Mr Mustafa, the editor for

Tumpa Prokashoni, Banglabazar, Dhaka, who have published several of my novels and children’s books.

Through the years, he has become like a brother. It is

Mustafa who lit a candle inside my mind to write

about the war victims. He made it clear to me why

writers and novelists must use the weapons of words

against war, devastation and mostly against war

criminals. After that conversation with him, I did not

have to think long. I have chosen my path as a writer


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against war. So a huge thanks to Mr Mustafa, who

has always believed in me.

I must also thank the cover artist Ms RokhsanaSultana, who previously has drawn several other

covers for me too. A huge thanks to Babor S.M.

Bodiuzzaman, who also made a valuable

contribution to the cover design. I must also thank

all of my family members for their belief that I could

make this world a better place. Huge thanks to myfriends too for showing great interest while I was

writing this novel.

Above all, my heartfelt thanks to Annette Longman,

the chief editor of Austin Macauley, for publishing

this novel and Vinh Tran of the production team, as

well as everybody else involved in bringing out this

novel in a remarkably short time.

Let's all hope that this novel will make people realise

that war is not the answer to everything.


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1

Today is his eightieth birthday. He is sitting in their

small sitting room, on his wheelchair, coughing

loudly and sounding like a grumpy old bear. In the

month of December, he always catches a bad cold.

He does not like it. He wants to be healthy andstrong in December. He wants to be okay especially

on the sixteenth of December, as he says. Someone

has called him from abroad, probably to congratulate

him and he is shouting back, ‘ No, no! No cakes, no

flowers, no. No one is coming. Yes, she is okay. We

are all okay.’ He turns off his mobile phone andmumbles something inside his mouth.

He brushes his thick brush-like silver moustache

with the back of his palm. He always has a grey

beanie on his large head, covering both of his ears.

Under the beanie, his grey hair is thin. His skull is

almost visible. On the top and around both his ears,

there is still a sign of some curly hair, which once

might have been thick. There are one or two shreds


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of very dark hair still lingering around his forehead.

He pulls the dark green shawl tighter around his

huge neck, which makes it look like an old tree

trunk. His toeless two feet are hanging down like the

palms of a monkey.

He wants to talk to her about something. But she

can’t hear him well from her small bedroom with the

door closed. The TV is playing loudly next to him.

He has had a box attached with it. This box he gotfrom a friend of his. Well, friend – he has no friends.

Not that she knows of. But he likes to call that guy

his friend. The guy who lives in London. The guy

who sends him news and newspapers, who is a

reporter and works as a journalist for a newspaper

which is printed in London, in his own language.

He likes reading a newspaper in his own

language. It is not just liking it. It is more a ritual. He

has made a religion of it, she thinks. Nowadays she

is sure of it. He holds the big brown envelope with

both his palms near his mouth and tears the envelopewide open with his rickety teeth. Then both of his

palms are inside the envelope, searching for

something very precious. He slowly takes out the

newspaper, keeping his eyes closed. His fingers

touch the newspaper surface softly.

No, sorry! Oh, sorry. She begs for forgiveness in

her quietness. ‘Forgive me, baba, I am so sorry.’ But

then she curses herself and corrects her mistake.


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‘ Not father. No, he is not my father.’ This mistake

she has been making all her life, calling him ‘ baba’.

Again she corrects her repeated mistake in deep

silence. No, he is not her father. And she has never

called him father. Certainly not ‘ baba’. Still, she

wants to call him ‘ baba’ loudly and many many

times every day. No, not many times – all the time!

Actually she wants to call him baba all the time.

Shout at him, scream at him in her worst nightmares.But she does not do so. No. She has never done such

a thing.

Once more she begs for forgiveness in her

solitude. She feels deeply sad and apathetic towards

him. Why can’t she just remember the simple facts

of life? He, the man in that wheelchair, who is not

her father, does not touch his newspaper with his

fingers. Maybe he did once upon a time, in the days

when he had fingers, when he was able to aim his

rifle straight at his target. But he has not had fingers

for many years now. Yes, for many years he has not

had toes either. She knows these facts. And still she

forgets. How stupid and sad that she keeps forgetting

about the facts of her father ’s life. Again she makes

a note of correction in her heart, ‘ No, he is not my

father.’

The guy in the wheelchair, who has got his birthday today, who has turned eighty, who is not

her father, who has no fingers and toes, who is


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sitting on his wheelchair, makes a joyous cry. ‘Aha,

Bangla! Bangla letters! Bangla newspapers! News

from Bangladesh!’ She knows every moment of this

ritual. Now he will touch the headlines over and

over, throughout the newspaper, with both of his

fingerless palms. He will read the headlines aloud

and then comment on them. He never agrees with

any headline, never, she thinks. But then, what does

she care?Why should anyone bother about such an

insignificant matter? But again, she has not been

bothered about anything for a long, long, time. Since

a time unknown, she has given up bothering.

Nothing matters in her life. Nothing matters at all in

their lives. But what are their lives? What have they

got to do with the word ‘life’ itself?

Her father, who is not actually her father, has got

his birthday today. He has turned eighty. Is that a

long lifetime? Maybe. Anyway, who cares? It is his

birthday. But again, it is not really his birthday. Hesaid he did not have a birthday. In his part of the

world, no one needs a birth date. But everybody in

this part of the world, the part where they have been

living for many long years now, they all have a

birthday and also a birth time. She and her father,

who is not her father, did not have any birthday or birth time.


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When they entered this country many years ago,

they had to have a birthday. The immigration office

needed to know their date of birth. Without a

birthday, how could they be born or exist? How

could they be humans? Even animals in the zoo have

birthdays and those birthdays are celebrated with

cakes and coffee. So they had to have their birthdays

fixed. Their birthdays were created in the

immigration office by the immigration officer, byguessing their age. So her father, who is not really

her father, was born on the sixteenth of December.

And she was born on the twenty-fifth of March.

Those were their birthdays, decided and fixed by the

immigration officials. How relieved they all sounded

when all those problems were solved. Not having a birthday? Not knowing when and how you were

born? Not knowing how old your parents could be?

Only a serious criminal would not know the answers

to those questions about matters of fact. But now

things are different for them, now that they have

birthdays and they know their names. That makes

things much better.

But again, their names. They did not have good

names. They did not have a family name. And their

names did not match with each other. Their names

did not prove their identity. What was her father ’sname? Well, he is not her father. But what was his


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name? Robiullah.1 Robiullah what? What about

what? What comes before or after Robiullah? The

immigration officer was asking him questions. He

had been looking hungry as he sipped coffee from

his ceramic mug. But now he was looking angry and

sad. And the interpreter was looking sleepy and

indifferent.

With an unconcerned voice, the interpreter said,

‘You know, everybody has a surname, like ‘deBroek ’, ‘Spinoza’, ‘Van de Spek ’, ‘Bush’ or

‘Saddam’. Even the Pope has a surname. How on

earth can you not have a name like that? This officer

needs a name after your name. What do they call you

in your own country? Please don’t waste government

time by lying to a government official. It could be

held against you in court. You could be thrown out

of this country for lying and cheating, do you know

that? What do they call you in your homeland?’

He mumbled some words inside his mouth. In

despair, his eyes were searching for a bit of supportand sympathy from the interpreter, who was a

middle-aged white lady. This lady, although a

foreigner, talked his language! It was amazing but he

felt proud and thankful to her. Her bulky body made

a gesture which he did not understand. Her small

eyes were covered by excessive burnt amber eyeshadow and glistening mascara. He could not read

1 Robiullah – a common male Muslim name in Bangladesh.


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the language of her eyes. And she did not understand

his emotions. ‘This lady may talk my language, but

she does not know my culture’, he thought and

heaved a deep sigh. Is there no one here who could

understand him a bit better?

It was not very clear to him what exactly they

wanted to know from him. Lying and cheating?

Those words broke his heart. He had seen those

words in action. But he had never made himself partof those sorts of words. ‘Well, in my village, they

called me Dofader Saheb.2 You see, I was a dofader

there. And a very honest one. I checked all

Chaukiders,3 to make sure they had fulfilled their

duty honestly. They called me a good dofader.’ His

tearful eyes were trying to picture a distant time and

place. But the immigration official groaned as if a

shaking mountain was about to crack. ‘Okay, mister

Dofader. That’s what we wanted to know from you.

It was not that difficult to bring out your surname

out of your own mouth, was it? But why were you

trying to hide it from the government? Has your

name got a connection with any secret sects or

terrorist groups?’

He mumbled again, ‘ No, no. I am not a terrorist.

I am a freedom fighter. I fought for my country’s

freedom and we won. We won the fight!’ His eyes

2 Dofader – chief of village night guards; saheb – Mr, sir.

3 Chaukider – village night guard.


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shone bright. ‘Well, Mr. Dofader, what sort of work

did you do for a living in your own country?’ He

looked at the immigration officer with a puzzled

look. ‘But I told you, I was a dofader in my village!

And they trusted and respected me.’ There was a

grisly pain gripping his voice. ‘Well, Mr. Dofader,

since you don’t want to give us a straight answer, let

me tell you we don’t have time to play games with

you. We have written down everything you have toldus. The immigration office will let you know their

decision through your lawyer.’ The interpreter took a

quick breath and opened her mouth but shut it again

quickly, seeing that the immigration officer stood up

with the coffee mug in his left hand.

After a long period of waiting, they had to go to

their advocate’s office to discuss their interview with

the immigration officials. There was a different

interpreter this time, a middle-aged Asian-looking

guy with a big tummy. He was all the time checking

his black working diary, even though most of the

pages were empty. He said something to the

advocate which they did not understand. He

translated everything with a big smile, even though

the words had no connection whatsoever with a

smiling face. The interpreter told them the

immigration office thought they were dishonest liars.The girl could not possibly be his family, because

her name did not match with his.


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He started mumbling again. ‘Well, you see, she

is my family. And I don’t lie!’ Looking at her face

for a sign of approval, he continued, ‘Well, you see,

of course she had a family of her own. Her father,

Bisha, I mean Bisshonath, was my friend. Well,

perhaps not really a friend. You see, they belonged

to the ‘scheduled caste’. You may as well know,

they were my neighbours. Bisha has a couple of

daughters. Well, at least he had them then. Well, he,I mean my friend, uh, my neighbour had some

children, uh, daughters. And she is – er – was his

daughter, before she became my daughter-in-law.’

He let out a deep sigh and wiped his eyes with the

back of his palm.

There was a sneer on the advocate’s face. ‘This

little girl is underage, Mr. Dofader! Where is her

marriage certificate?’ He looked very puzzled now.

‘Her marriage certificate? What is that?’ Their

advocate did not smile anymore. His tall white figure

was tense. His white pale face filled up with blood,

giving it an almost orange hue. Almost grunting in

his throat, he asked, ‘Okay, imagine this little girl is

your daughter-in-law. How did she get married with

your son? And where is your son? How did they get

married? How can I ever prove it to the justice

system in this country without any evidence ordocuments of any sort? You have got no papers of


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this marriage? Can anybody send you these

documents? Or even a photograph, maybe?’

His two fingerless palms were covered with twogloves. The empty sheaths for the ten fingers were

sagging in all directions. His fingerless two palms

reached towards her as if some evil power was going

to snatch her away from him. He held her tight to his

chest with his arms. He murmured a story into her

ears while still gazing at the advocate. ‘It was a beautiful spring evening. A warm breeze came

floating softly, carrying the sweet smell of wild

spring flowers. The bridal party had eaten a good

meal. The moon was already up, bright and shiny.

We were waiting for the auspicious moment. The

bridal flower-garland lay on the brightly polished

copper plate, next to the priest, ready to be

exchanged by the bride and the groom. The bride,

Mala, looked like a fairy in her dark red sari. Just a

bit further was Borun, my eldest boy. He was

standing idly under a banana plant, watching how

Mala was wedding her groom.’

‘And suddenly she came running, picked up the

bridal garland, and threw it onto his neck! Borun

was standing perplexed. They all gasped. What had

she done! The boy belonged to a Muslim family! But

the priest continued solemnly reciting the HolyGeeta4 and the whole bridal party chanted their

4 Geeta – Hindu holy book.


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prayers. That’s how they wed! That’s why she is my

daughter-in-law. That is why she is my family and

nobody is ever going to take her away from me. No

law, no power. None.’ Her father, who is not her

father, held her tight against his chest and took her

out of the advocate’s office.

He was still whispering, ‘Look, it is okay if you

don’t feel like talking. You don’t have to talk now.

But when Borun comes back, then you must talkwith him. Because he is your husband. My boy

Borun, remember? You played ‘hide and seek ’ with

him. You fought with him. He collected bird’s eggs

for you. You stole mango-pickle for him, from your

mother. He is your husband. My son Borun is your

husband. And we are a family. You must remember

that and must not ever forget’.

Well, that all happened a long time ago. So long

ago! Life is so very long. It is simply not possible to

recall all of it at one given point of time. They are

still in this country, even though many attempts weremade by the immigration office to send them away.

But their stern advocate managed to keep them here,

by proving that they came from a place devastated

by war. And she has been ill. She has been ill all the

time. She does not remember much of her illnesses.

Or she simply does not care to recall. She has anillness called ‘aphasia’. She has often been

hospitalised. She can’t live one day without her


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medication. But she lives. Her life, their life

continues. Besides, who cares? Why bother about all

these minor facts of life?

But he cares. Her father, who is not really her

father, cares and he is bothered by everything. Now

he is watching an old recorded programme which

they broadcast from England probably. He is

shouting at the TV screen, ‘Of course, he is a war

criminal. Of course he should get capital punishment! They should all be brought to justice!

All the war criminals should be hanged. Who are

they to stop it? Who are they to meddle with our

country’s affairs? We are a free people. My

motherland is a sovereign state. We fought for her

freedom.’ His loud voice fills their little sitting room

with distress. The neighbour upstairs is knocking on

the floor with her walking stick, shouting something

like, ‘You allochthones,5 sticking to this country like

glue, can’t you keep quiet?’

She is sitting on the floor in the corner of her bedroom. Their one and only bedroom. Their house

has only one bedroom. Her father, who is not her

father, has never needed a bedroom of his own. He

does not see the point of it. Why should a man need

a separate bedroom? In his own motherland, he

always slept on the open veranda, on a mat made byhis mother from palm leaves. When his bride came

5 Allochthone – a Dutch term for non-white immigrants.


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to live with them, his elder sister, who was married

close by to them, had suggested that he must make a

fence to cover one corner of the veranda. But he did

not bother.

His wife slept with his mother inside their house,

on the mud floor, on a mat. Only when all the

married sisters came home for Eid-ul-Fitr or Eid-ul-

Azha6 or other festivities, they would push out his

wife to the open veranda. And she would hang herwet sari such a way that it created an innocent fence.

Ah, innocent! He did naughty things to her. And she

wanted him to be more and more wild! He kept her

awake all night long.

Those nights were their own precious nights. On

such days, their village Imam would call for the

morning prayer earlier than was necessary, it seemed

to them. Or at least that’s how it felt. His wife would

depart from his chest long before the morning prayer

call came floating through the misty air. Before

dawn, she would have her dip in the cold water ofthe pond to wash away her marital sins. Rice and

lentils would be steaming in her kitchen for her

hungry husband’s breakfast.

Then came their children one by one. The fence

of her wet clothes was no longer there. Sometimes

he missed her wet sari fence. But then, there were

6 Eid-ul-Fitr, Eid-ul-Azha – Islamic feast days.


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social worker. He would look at her seriously and

would ask her questions about their bedroom

situation. Most of the time she would nod. Her

noddings were neither affirmative nor negative. But

after a while, they all lost interest in their one-

bedroom case. All of their curiosity died off like a

candle wick.

Her father, who is not really her father, is now

reading out loud from the newspaper. ‘Ah, Bangla! News written in Bangla! Printed in Bangla! Why do

I need a heaven when I can read and talk in Bangla!’

The neighbour upstairs is now hitting the old

wooden floor with her stick and shouting louder,

saying things in Dutch, which he can never

understand.

In fact, she does not understand either. She never

understands anything. Understanding is something

never required of her. Like now, she is sitting in her

small bedroom, in a corner, on the light oak-

coloured laminated floor. Her yellow ochre printedcotton frock is spread around her. She looks at her

frock. Small pink flowers are shining on the bright

yellow, which reminds her of a huge mustard field

reaching the horizon. Maybe she has seen such a

golden field. Maybe she never has. It could all be a

part of her dreams. But again, she has not dreamt adream for time unknown. She does not know how to

have a dream.


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There is a small bed in her room too. Nolleke

found this bed for her and brought it to their house.

It was a children’s bed, made from a sort of plastic.

The white plastic was worn out here and there. But it

was still very useable and she would fit on it nicely.

Children are big in this country and all children’s

things are huge. Her father, who is not her father, did

not see any point to this event either. Nolleke also

found an old smelly mattress and a stained pillowand some white bed sheets with pink and green

embroidery needlework on them. She even put a nice

bedcover on the bed to cover her dirty old blanket.

One day Nolleke even brought some white lilies for

her in a black flower vase filled with water. And that

was the very last time she came to keep an eye onthem. Nolleke’s last report to the psychiatrist said

that this family did not need her help anymore.

She still recalls the white lilies. But Nolleke’s

face has faded away from her mind. Could it be that

her help did not leave any imprint of significance in

their lives? Like her father, who is not her father, she

also did not see much point in a social worker being

so devoted to them. So much help was offered by her

and they did not know how to react to her kindness.

Help and kindness was abundant in their lives. The

help was needed but they did not cherish it. Theycould not live a thankful life, like others do.


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He has changed the channel of his TV box and

has started shouting at the news reader now, ‘Of

course. What do you think? Those are murderers,

war criminals--! You hear me? Do you hear? Do

you?’

No. She does not hear. Nothing at all. She is in

her bedroom, sitting in the corner on the laminated

floor. Her flower printed cotton frock spreads over

her legs, creating a golden field and the tiny pink,red, orange and purple flowers are playing hide and

seek with each other. It is cold outside. The first

December snow is falling. Inside her tiny bedroom,

darkness starts creeping in. Suddenly a sharp stink of

urine fills the air. Tall dark shadows are marching in.

Their malicious laughter hits her eardrums. The

shadows start to dance. While they are dancing, they

transform their shapes into reptiles. They are now

dancing around her. Their large arms are stretching

out to touch her. Now they have taken the form of

some sort of animals. These vicious animals are

touching her. What are they? Hyenas? Snakes?

Demons? She wants to scream.

She is feeling very hot. She starts to sweat

heavily. A horrible thirst wants to break her chest.

Her dry tongue comes out from her mouth, hanging

out like a dog’s tongue. She is trying to lick her armswith her tongue. The drops of sweats are

disappearing on her tongue top. She licks her dry

the smell of home

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