WRITERS AND THEIR WORKS

The Two Brigadiers

The jute godown had caught fire. There were thousands of jute bales in the large tin-shed. No one could say how the fire had originated. But as soon as the fierce tongues of fire leaped up and started to lick and swallow everything within reach the Fire Brigade was called in.

It came promptly and hurled itself into the battle so that the enemy could not advance any further.
There was a river close by and so the Brigade did not lack ammunition. Streams of water rushed out of their hosepipes like cannon balls.

A few firemen climbed up the ladders on the roof and rapidly began to unscrew the nuts and bolts and loosen the iron sheets. Some of them thrust their hosepipes through improvised gaps and began to shower water down below.

But the fury of the fire did not seem to abate. The iron sheets on the rooftop, growing hot, joined hands with the fire.

There was perhaps some wet jute in the bales which resulted in spirals of smoke rushing upwards like huge curled pythons. Not in an attacking mood yet, but getting ready to strike.

But hats off to the fire-soldiers. They went on obeying the instructions of their officer to the letter. There was not the slightest hesitation, not the minutest deviation. The situation, however, was terrible and it was gradually getting out of control. Fire and water seemed to be locked in a grim fight: a boxing match or a wrestling bout.

It was clear from the sound that the nuts and bolts on the roof joints were coming apart. One could clearly hear that sound. And one heard the loud hiss of the hosepipes pouring out streams of water on the blazing fire.

But stillness prevailed on the side of the men. Clamping their teeth they grimly fought the enemy in utter silence.

Suddenly from inside the hellish cauldron of smoke and fiery flashes came a sharp directive, like the unseen voice of God: "Firemen, get down. Get down!"

An officer, too, had climbed on the roof so that he could watch the manoeuvres of the enemy and appropriately plan his own line of operation. It was clear that a change of tactics on their part was called for.

Two other junior officers stood below on the ground. Another officer was directing the operation from the rooftop.

But where was he who gave that invisible command? "Firemen, get down!" One heard the words but where did they originate? Which was the source? No one could locate him.

Their eyes were helpless in the curling spirals of thick heavy smoke. Where indeed did those words come from?

Below they went on fighting the fire following the same strategy as before. But soon all the firemen and the junior officers began to shout in an anxious chorus: "Where is Mr Bhuiya? Where is he? The two junior officers began to cry at the top of their voice, cracked with fear and anxiety: "Mr Bhuiya….! Mr Bhuiya………!"

No one answered.

However, by then the question of one individual had become more important than the entire warehouse. It probably had jute worth millions of Taka stored inside it but still that was nothing compared to the price of a man's life.

Did officer Bhuiya fall down into the fiery pit of the warehouse? Anxious shouts rose from every side: "Mr Bhuiya……!"

There was a two-storeyed house built of corrugated iron sheet about ten or twelve feet away from the warehouse. The fire had not rushed that way. But, it too was covered with a thin screen of smoke.

Suddenly a thumping sound rose from the rooftop of the two-storeyed tin house. As if a monkey had jumped down and landed on it. The fire had not launched any attack on this side. The roof of the house was steep, and quite smooth and level. There were only the slight projections of nuts and bolts and the wavy edges of the corrugated sheets. There was nothing else to hold on to. Perhaps a monkey had jumped down on that roof.

But this monkey out-monkeyed all monkeys. On landing on the smooth tin roof he quickly slid over it, manipulating his agile skilled fingers around the nuts and bolts, and instead of crashing down with his heavy weight and breaking all his bones he landed on the ground on his two feet perfectly safe. In fact he ran on a few steps and only then he came to a halt.

"You shouldn't have gone up there, Mr Bhuiya. What were you doing there Mr Bhuiya?" Volleys of questions poured from his concerned colleagues. The unembarrassed monkey, however, quickly answered, "Duty is duty." Then, without another word, Sayeedur Rahman Bhuiya picked up a hosepipe in his hand and joined his colleagues in fighting the common enemy.

Such incidents were not uncommon in the professional life of officer Bhuiya. He turned into a different man when confronted with fire and danger. His friends and colleagues in the Fire Brigade jokingly called him "Mr Brigadier". The plain fact was that when he saw a fire raging he seemed to be staking his life to fight and beat it. On one occasion he nearly killed himself in trying to put down a roaring fire in a slum area. But it was no use adding to the list. There was not one, but many such episodes.

Sayeed Bhuiya used to say: "Look…., it was not just fire; fire meant disaster; it meant ruin. A man built something after many years hard work. It took tremendous labour and money and efforts to build a factory. And then this fire, this bloody son of a bitch, destroyed everything in five minutes time. Well, leave aside your factory or your apartment house. They were some blocks of cement, some wood, some bricks. But there might be human beings inside them. Could one evaluate a man's life in terms of money? Besides you would probably interrupt him at this point and ask, "Yes, Mr Bhuiya? What is there besides this?"

He would then slightly bend forward his slim, tight, dark body, light a cigarette and say, "Look duty is duty. Take, for example, the case of that jute godown. We may buy many foreign goods with…in exchange of....our jute. A lot of things which we don't manufacture in our country…. such as, certain medicines, various parts of our railway trains and steamers…. etc. In fact, how many things did we manufacture in our own country? So if we didn't get a lot of items from abroad the country would be in a bad shape. And jute made it possible for us to get these things. So? Tell me now what is meant by fire. And I belong to the Fire Service. I have a duty, don't I?
Why else do I go on drawing my salary month after month?"

While he said these words Sayeed Bhuiya's voice would rise unconsciously. But it would immediately come down again.

When his friends and well-wishers pointed out to him that his life was valuable, too, he would recall the words of his father and say: "Yes….Look….my father, late Abdul Majid Bhuiya, used to tell me: 'Son, consider the difficulties and distresses of other people as your very own. This is the only straight and simple road to be a man. There is none other. Don't you ever forget it.' That was what my father used to say."

Perhaps the words of his father or his image provided Sayeed Bhuiya with that immense courage when he faced fire or danger of any kind. Briefly, that was Sayeed Bhuiya for you. The Brigadier to his friends.

And then one day suddenly came, crashing down like an earthquake, March 25, 1971. Did this day or night need any explanation for nay man who claimed to be a citizen of Bangladesh?

After his normal day's work and the excitement of the current times Sayeed Bhuiya had got back home, taken his meal, and gone to bed. He was asleep by ten o'clock. Which was unusual. Perhaps he was very tired on that day and sleep had come to him early.

Suddenly the city of Dhaka shook and trembled as if it was having a foretaste of the Day of Judgement. One heard the sound of shells, mortars and brush fire on all sides.

Sayeed Bhuiya woke up with a start. He jumped down from his bed and rushed out. His frightened wife stood by him. Bhuiya looked on all sides and suddenly he noticed a blazing fire and spirals of smoke on the southern part of the city.

Bhuiya quickly put on his half-pant and a khaki shirt, gave his wife certain directions about security measures, and went out. His wife did not forbid him. She knew that it was no use asking him not to go out on such occasions.

Bhuiya took out his jeep from the garage and quickly arrived at the nearest Fire Station. Everything was happening too fast. There the killer weapons shrieked, clattered, roared and boomed…sht……….rat-tat-tat…!

It was quarter to twelve at night. An orgy of destruction had engulfed the whole city. All the telephones seemed to be dead. Bhuiya had asked his men to follow the flames. Accordingly they drove their vans and crossed streets after deserted streets.

As a fire-van reached the Plassey Barracks and headed towards the Salimullah Hall a small shell from an armoured car hit it directly. This was immediately followed by a volley of brush fires. All the firemen, hit by bullets at close range, fell dead. Some fell out of the van onto the road, a few corpses lay flat in the van. Rat…tat…tat…! The rifles went on shooting for sometime.

Sayeed Bhuiya totally failed to understand what was happening. A bullet had hit him on the chest. With one hand still on the steering wheel of the jeep he pressed his wounded chest with the other. He saw a military vehicle rushing towards him fast. Bhuiya felt somewhat heartened. He called out, almost in a
tone of challenge: "Hey brother officer…"

Bhuiya seemed to be calling out to the whole world. He shouted at the top of his voice: "Brother! Officer!"

Two military jeeps came and halted on both sides of him. A number of soldiers quickly got down. When Brigadier Aslam came up to Bhuiya's jeep he said as loudly as his bleeding wound would permit, "Brother, why did you kill my firemen? We were out on duty, you know. The city is on fire and we belong to the Fire Brigade as you can see……………."

"What is that?" barked another officer who stood beside Brigadier Aslam. "What did you say?" This time it was Brigadier Aslam himself who asked the question.

"I…….!" Bhuiya found it hard to speak up. With an effort he managed to say, "We were out to do our duty."

"So you came out to do your duty?"
"Yes."
"Duty?" Aslam's brother officer suddenly burst out laughing.
"Yes, that's right," said Bhuiya stolidly.

This time the two officers barked out almost simultaneously: "Listen, you bloody Bengalee son of a bitch, we too are out on duty. Our duty is to set fire to the city as yours is to put it out. Do you follow?"

All that Sayeed Bhuiya had learnt throughout his life had perhaps appeared before him at that hour as a huge question mark. He tried to say something but could not. Only his lips

trembled for a few seconds and then his hand slipped from his wounded breast and he fell dead sidewise on his seat.

What was Sayeed Bhuiya trying to say?

We would never know.

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