A War’s Love: The Six Letters

• Letter 1
• Author: Raihan
• Date: March 5, 1971
• Location: Azimpur, Dhaka, Bangladesh
• Dear Ayesha,

My heart has been restless since this morning. Last night, I saw a crowd of people at the Paltan intersection – fire in everyone's eyes. The country is in turmoil now. The lights at the intersection of the alley seemed to be burning with fear and extinguished. I don't know what will happen next. But do you remember, ten days ago, how we spent the last afternoon of Falguni sitting by the lake of Dhaka University?

The other day, I asked you a strange question: "Ayesha, if you knew there was a storm ahead,  would you still sit down or run away?" I don't know why I asked you that. But today, I realize that we really have a storm ahead of us. The marches, the slogans, the blood, and the screams of the people – everything is chasing me. When I close my eyes, I see how restless I am.

Dad is very worried. He said, "It is not enough just to study;  it is necessary to stand beside the people. "There's a fire burning inside of me. It seems like everything can change at any time. Your parents must be scared, too.  I wouldn't be surprised if they sent you somewhere safe. Yet you are the refuge of peace known to me. The smell of flowers on your hair still haunts my memory.

Look, you must be careful. Your little brother (his name is Tuhin, isn't it?) Didn't the study stop? The university is not far from your home, but there is a daily curfew on the streets,   and no one knows when it will close. I heard that there were riots in Brahmanbaria, Comilla, and many other places. Something can happen in Dhaka at any time.

I think we now have two options: one,  to stay away from fear, and two, to stand in the face of the storm. I don't know what is right for me. But I know I don't want to lose you. We don't want our dream of a new day to be ruined.

Honestly, I want to talk to you; I want to sit nearby. I dreamt the day before yesterday that you were standing under a big mango tree wearing a white salwar-kameez; I ran and grabbed your hand and suddenly woke up. I opened my eyes and saw a kerosene lamp in the corner of the room. Outside, the call to prayer was coming in the morning. I was crying a lot, you know? Because of how beautiful that scene in the dream was and how different the reality was!

Be good to you. You don't know how calm your heart will be when I get a letter written in your hand. Write how you are, how your family is, and if you have any advice for me. We may have a lot of gaps in this city, but every time we cross distances, through wars, through sorrows, we want to find each other.

I waited,

Your

Raihan

• Letter 2
• Author: Ayesha
• Date: March 10, 1971
• Venue: Beside Parade Ground, Dhaka Cantonment Area
• Dear Raihan,

It was great to receive your letter. Since that night I have been waiting for you to write a letter! Time is such that a letter seems to be our only refuge.

You know, I live around the cantonment. Although the house is old, there is a small courtyard full of green trees and flowers. Mother gets up every morning and waters the flower garden. Everyone at home is scared now. Some military officers known to my father say the situation is deteriorating very fast. So my father said last night, "Aisha, the danger of war is high. " I was silent then. What can I say? Only the moment we last met kept spinning in my head.

Listen, what are you going to do? You haven't thought yet. I don't feel like you—the smell of anger, discomfort, and grief all around. Yet the day you said, "I want you by my side for the rest of my life," I thought that this one assurance would keep me alive against all obstacles.

Yesterday, my mother suddenly brought up the topic of my marriage. "In these turbulent times, there is no time to think about marriage. "It was very strange. When he heard the name marriage, he used to give the opposite lecture. You know, sometimes I wonder if Mom was talking about you. I didn't ask.

You are right; Tuhin's studies are now being run at home. Dad bought him a small table so that he didn't have to go out for coaching, tuition, or anywhere else. Going out is dangerous now.

Ryhan, I don't know what hard times are coming. I tell you, take care of yourself. Listen carefully to your father. Your father is a very sensible man. I also pray that this situation ends soon. And the dream of the two of us under the mango tree you told me – I can see it every night when I close my eyes. Do you know how scary it is to listen to music these days? It seems that there is so much crying around – the music is no longer awake in it.

Please write again. I'll be waiting. If you decide to go ahead in the face of a storm, I will always be proud of you. And if you choose to step back, there is no shame in that – because it is more critical for us to live well. I want you to be safe.

Be well. Pray for me; I am here for you—even in these dark times.

Your

Ayesha

• Letter 3
• Author: Raihan
• Date: May 20, 1971
• Location: Unknown Border Camp in India
• Aisha,

Take my salaam. I couldn't send a letter in a long time. So much has happened that I don't know where to start. What happened on the night of March 25 cannot be expressed in words. The Punjabi army (who were invaders to us) entered Dhaka. The sound of gunfire all around, the screams of the people. My father and I were looking for an escape route. That day, I realized how hard it can be to survive.

Dad and I finally crossed the border to get here. It is a small refugee camp with mud houses,  muddy roads around it, and a lot of people coming and crowding. Crying for food. A lot of young people, like me, are training. Freedom fighters are gathering,  jumping against the enemy with weapons. How are your parents? Are you still in Dhaka, or have you gone somewhere else?

Ayesha, I enrolled in guerrilla training. I was scared at first, but it still does. But the mind says this fight is for our liberation, for our survival. I told you before, "I'm not going to war to show heroism; I'm going to give you a free country in the future." "Remember  sitting on the roof with my hand on your arm and saying this?" There were tears in your eyes.

Here the lights have to be turned off in the evening, for safety. At night, gunshots can be heard in the distance. There are some doctors and volunteers at the camp who are helping us with the rations. I don't always have my dad by my side. He told people in the surrounding villages about the city and sometimes tried to arrange for refugees. I said to him, "Dad, how much more can you do?" He laughed and said, "Boy, I have only thought about myself for so long in my life; now I have to do something for the people." " When I see that smile, my heart breaks. I know he trusts me.

You know,  I still dream at night – you call me and say, "Raihan, I need you so much. "I want to run to you, but I can't. My legs are wrapped in mud; blood is dripping from my hands. When I woke up,  I saw that the floor of our camp was completely wet from the rain, then how the inside was crying.

I don't know how you are. You must be living in fear and panic. There is no healthy way to send a letter now; this letter will go to Bangladesh through a freedom fighter. If he can deliver, you will get it.

Ayesha,   I can't tell you how much I miss you. Your innocent face gives me strength. I have sworn that after ending this war and having achieved freedom, I want to see you again. And then I will hold your hand and confirm our marriage, no matter how much your mother objects.

Pray. If you survive, we will meet again. And if I don't live, remember, I will take my last breath with only you in my mind.

Iti,

Raihan

• Letter 4
• Author: Ayesha
• Date: June 30, 1971
• Location: Somewhere Unspecified, Outside Dhaka
• Raihan,

I received your letter this morning. The person who brought it was familiar with you in the training camp. Early in the morning, he went somewhere else. I was sitting by the bedroom window crying when my mother came and patted my head, and my father said from behind, "Why are you crying?" I couldn't know.  I wanted to shout, "My Raihan is now in that great battle!" But I couldn't.

How is your father? I don't get the news. My father also had a terrible accident – after March 25, when the situation in Dhaka deteriorated, we went to a relative's house in Mirpur. That's where my dad got sick. I heard that he was secretly trying to raise funds for the freedom fighters. He's a little better now,  but he's breathing all the time. It is difficult to find a doctor during the curfew.

Raihan, you know, I'm a timid person. But these days, I've become so strong. People find true courage in fear. The fear of losing you scares me tremendously, but from that fear is born the longing for love. I pray to Allah in the last hour of every night so that you stay healthy that Father does not suffer anymore, and that we have an independent country.

The house I'm in isn't safe either. I heard that soldiers were searching the neighborhood. Many are leaving the village further inside. If this letter ever reaches your hands, know this—I am willing to sacrifice everything for you. I will even stop studying if we have to live together in a shaded village. Sometimes I wonder, will we not find a room where there will be only the call of crickets and the breeze?

I have heard that a strong autumn wind will blow in the country towards Kartik, and then maybe the war will be bloody. I'm not ready, but young people like you are standing up. Please tell me how you handle it! Reading your letter, I cry and feel proud that you are moving forward with a great goal.

Write again if you get the chance because the words of a few letters keep me alive. And I look forward to the day when everything is over. We can both breathe fresh air—under a little free sky, the sound of children playing in the alley,  your father's smiling face, and the sparkle of relief in my mother's eyes.

Yours,

Ayesha

• Letter 5
• Author: Raihan
• Date: November 1, 1971
• Location: Temporary Camp of War, Sunamganj Border
• Aisha,

I can write to you again after a long time. I got the previous letter, where you wrote about your father's illness. I feel so bad. I don't know what to say. In this situation, it isn't easy to take care of my father and keep track of him. But I hope you and your mother are taking as much care as possible.

The war has now reached another level. I had more training – I had to learn different techniques. I also took part in detonating dynamite near an armored car. My hands were shaking at first, but a few of us could. Honestly, my heart still pounds when I think about it. What a terrible death of man! Yet, they are our tools for freedom.

I have heard that help is also coming from India. All the leaders say that there will be a big attack very soon, maybe before December. We are hopeful. We're having a lot of success in small battles. But the invaders still occupy the cities, and you who are in the areas under their control – the most significant risk is yours.

You know, it's starting to get cold here. We keep the body warm by lighting a fire at night. Sometimes, I think of you lying on a mud bed. The smell of the house where you used to cook khichdi comes to my nose. I don't know how, but it's playing in my mind. The memories left behind are like moonlight – suddenly peeping into the deep darkness, then disappearing again.

Aisha, even after the war is over, we may not be able to be the same again. But I hope to see the same faith in your eyes. Your fears, your tears—most of all, your boundless love—keep me alive.

I want to hear your voice.   If you hold out your hand, I'll hold it tight. But now it's just darkness and the sound of explosions. And the ultimate dream of our lives—freedom—is calling from afar like a shining lamp.

I look forward to your reply. The exchange of letters in the camp is now easier, so I hope it will not be as late as before. Be good, and have courage.

Iti,

Raihan

• Letter 6
• Author: Ayesha
• Date: December 28, 1971
• Location: Old Dhaka House
• Dear Raihan,

Alhamdulillah! We are free! On December 16, the festival began all over the country. My mom and I cried like crazy. Dad, despite being an octogenarian patient, went to the verandah and watched the cheers of the people. He was silent for a while when he saw the Bangladesh flag being hoisted, then suddenly said in a tiny voice, "We have won!" That day was the most glorious day of my life.

I haven't received your letter for a long time. Still, I kept hope in my mind: maybe you are fine, you can not write time. And today, the very night before, your friend—who had given you a letter before—came in and left a letter that said you were hurt. I felt the ground swaying under my feet. But now you are in the hospital in Sylhet. How his chest froze, Raihan. I pray that you get well soon.

Our freedom has come,  the tide of joy in the streets of the city,  but how can we forget the nightmare of so much blood, so much loss? I saw an older woman in Sadarghat; she was still looking for her son. Many are returning home; many are not returning. There is joy and sorrow in every home.

My father is still alive – this is my absolute peace. He asks about you repeatedly. He always liked you, though he said little. Mother sometimes cries for no reason – saying, how much sacrifice the freedom fighters made, how will our life be every day again?

Raihan, you get well soon and come home. We'll bring you and think about marriage. You were the one who said, "In a free country, I will build a new family with you!" I really want to decorate, Raihan, an elementary family where we will sit in the sun on the verandah on a winter morning, and your father may inquire—"Daughter-in-law, what did you cook today?" My mother may scold you affectionately—"Hey boy, you are awake so late!" And I'll pull the veil off and laugh.

I'm waiting. Your so-called mango tree—where the two of us dream—may not be accurate, but we can plant a tree in our backyard. Birds will nest there, and we will talk and sing every afternoon. Is this dream too big?

I hope you respond quickly. Or if there is a delay in responding,  it will come suddenly one day. Knock on the door, and I'll be amazed to see you. I will cry with my head on your chest, and then there will be no more fear – my days are spent thinking about this.

Let's end it. All my prayers and love for you. I can laugh,  sleep,  and dream when I know you're alive. The belief that we will build a house in the light of an independent country makes me hopeful. Get well soon, my brave soldier.

With eternal gratitude,

Your Ayesha