Kafkaesque reality and Bangladesh******

Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive, But to be young was very heaven! -William Wordsworth Wordsworth could not describe more precisely and eloquently the victory of the French Revolution than he did in the above couplet of his poem, "The Friend". For all who went through the trial and tribulation of the nine-month Liberation War, this was the perfect expression of emotion and feeling when the moments of victory arrived. Comrades-in-arms were absent and that was quite a reminder to the freedom fighters converging at the Race Course (now Suhrwardy Uddyan) that "I shouldn't have been here to witness this momentous event for the Bangalees". They did their job but the land they freed soon started becoming unfamiliar to them. After 40 years it has become unrecognisable to them. Such is the change that it can better be compared with the metamorphoses of Gregor Samsa, a travelling salesman, into a monstrous creature. The metaphorical change is no less applicable for the country the martyred and living freedom fighters liberated 40 years ago. In the Kafkaesque world, absurd reality may be one of the themes but if the mirror is beamed from the opposite direction, the absurdity may assume new meanings to the viewer. No matter if it is absurd or magic realism, the underlying message cannot be dismissed offhand. The difference between the Bangladesh of 1970 and the Bangladesh of 2011 presents no less a Kafkaesque reality. Only we fail to admit the change we have undergone. Absurdity through long association becomes normal and normalcy is considered absurd in a state of intoxication be it with power, vainglory or just toxic substances. The majority of people here today would have looked like an alien from another planet to a martyr if she could come to life to see for himself or herself how those alive are now living. This is no case of identity crisis nor is this a desperate search for a new identity. In fact, people could not care less for any such lofty ideals because values and ideals have almost been banished from this God-forsaken land. Today all things considered detestable during the War of Liberation are the norms and the rare breed of oldies still ruing over the missed chances with a feel for the past is nothing but a misfit. The enormity of this reversal of roles does not sadden many. Such is the distortion of mental makeup that the rogues and the most notorious command esteem if not in terms of respect at least in terms of intimidation. What should have been considered a great tragedy is no longer allowed to prick the conscience. Unsurprisingly, therefore, unearned money has become the criterion of ruling the roost. Deception, corruption, dishonesty, unfaithfulness and lack of love for the people and the land have become the ways of accumulating money and power. It is a Bangladesh, the freedom fighters and martyrs should find quite unfamiliar to them. They certainly did not make so much sacrifice for a bunch of corrupt and greedy people to squeeze the blood from the emaciated body of farmers and workers of factories. What alchemy has been at work to make people of modest means crorepatis (millionaires) almost overnight? Surely, a few have exploited the faceless multitudes to do the trick. Or else, this is impossible anywhere under the sun except perhaps in some African and Arab countries where abundant natural resources are being controlled by the ruling classes. A poor country that was initially dependent on foreign aid could not have produced an obscenely moneyed class with all the attendant perverse traits like possessing the most expensive cars and luxury villas where deer and rare species of animals were kept to feed their whims. Contrast these with the barefooted freedom fighters who ignored the rains, winter, hunger and above all the torture inflicted on them when caught and the absurd reality is reinforced in its perverse form and content. How much pain a mother of her only son volunteered to endure when she gave him the blessing to join his friends in the guerrilla war against the occupation force. That freedom fighter along with his comrades-in-arms was picked up from his Maghbazar residence and never did he return. His mother, once leading the most luxurious life possible in the provincial capital, never ate rice for the 14 years she survived since returning dejectedly with the tiffin carrier she took with her to Ramna police station to feed him. What a sacrifice it is for a woman -a mother! Again contrast her sacrifice with the politicians who feel no qualms about bartering the nation's interests for personal gains from foreign companies or consultancies or the businessmen who make windfall profits by raising prices at will or marketing spurious products or medicine or adulterated foods at the expense of the common people gasping for breath under the steamrolling inflation, how unreal and obnoxious the scheming mechanism looks! But then this is the reality -better say, Kafkaesque reality in today's Bangladesh.