The day started exactly as every other day. Rising over the enormous buildings, still rooftops, the sun warmed the brick walls.
Things start to feel unusual as the people who fed me are not here this morning. As I stand on the corner of the rooftop, I see not ten or twenty but thousands of young voices chanting – ‘Tumi K Ami K, Rajakar Rajakar. K Bolechhe K Bolechhe Shoirachar Shoirachar!’. The voices which often sang beautiful songs in the morn were blocking roads with banners in hand. Young voices gathering and rising like smoke.
Looking from the top, the harmony was natural. Terror was there in the air but not in the voices of the youth.
I observed curiously. The people who laughed their hearts out, the ones who couldn’t open their eyes for the morning classes, are all here but for what? I have lived among them long enough to observe their habits and know how they interact. This was unusual.
A sudden sharp sound cuts through the air, and I fall down unconscious.
I don’t know what the time was when I came to. I gather myself again and fly to the next building only to hear thousands of cries. The ones who chanted bravely are helpless. Screams rose from the streets. The sky, which was clear, suddenly appeared with shades of grey. Grey – from gas, fear and fire.
Another sharp sound, one fell and then another.
Lines of uniform blocked the roads. Still, as if the youngsters don’t care about the uniforms, they chanted – ‘Quota na Medha, Medha Medha!’.
Yes, the uniform which promised to save the city and the people, were shooting recklessly at the young. ‘Bhaiya, shohid!’ I hear voices loud, trembling and broken trying to hold the tears. Bodies lay still. Some eyes open. Fingers curled. Posters soaked red – not in colour but in real blood. Friends who promised to stay with each other till the end carry the lifeless bodies knowing that may be their last journey together. Ambulances were louder than ever.
‘Ekta manush k marte koyeta bullet lage, sir?’ – says one man in the so-called law enforcement uniform. The men who took an oath to save the country were counting bullets to kill the innocent. I was helpless as I see the young humans covered in blood and crying for help.
Sundown. I tucked my head beneath my wing. That’s how normally my day ends – we rest, even when the world is burning. We just wait for the new day. A new morning of hope – maybe tomorrow they won’t kill those I love, those who feed me. Maybe the voices will rise and no one will be sacrificed, and maybe the sky will be filled with new hopes and new songs of change.
It has been 10 long months. July to May – we have come a long way.
A new Bangladesh is under construction – not just with speeches but with the courage of those who stood and fell. I might have freedom with my feathers – but they were of no use when my loved ones needed me the most.
Today I am a bird, still flying over the city. But now, I am singing a different song.