“Are you listening to your son?” In half-articulated baby steps and lisping words, the innocent prince makes his sweet request on the floor— “Father, I’ve grown big now! I don’t like my tricycle anymore. Didn't you promise to get me a red bicycle?” Mother Fazilatunnesa turns to her husband with a gentle smile, “Do you hear your son’s demand? Russel wants a real bicycle now!” Father Sheikh Mujib reassures him affectionately, “Alright, I’ll bring it for you tomorrow.” The pouting little face turns a bit more solemn, “You forget every morning, Father! You stay buried under mountains of office work all day, surrounded by uncles... Wait, let me get a pencil and paper. I’ll write it down for you so you don’t forget to tell Rahman Uncle!” Instantly, a fountain of hearty laughter echoes against the four walls of that familiar second-floor room at Dhanmondi 32. On a snow-white bedsheet sits the tender-hearted father in a sleeveless undershirt and checkered lungi, as innocent little Russel wraps his arms around his beloved mother's neck, flashing a toothless grin. The father thinks for a moment, “I must remind Muhit tomorrow.” As Mother passes the betel nut box, Father asks, “Pass me my pipe, please.” Lighting the pipe, Father gives his hand that familiar flick to extinguish the matchstick; a fragrant curl of smoke floats into the air. Mother tucks a folded betel leaf into her cheek. Just as a fairytale woven from years of shared joys and sorrows begins to gleam in their eyes, a deep, peaceful slumber descends upon little Russel’s eyes. When afternoon arrived, it was time for that familiar rhythm! Swooping into Road 32 from the narrow stretch of Road 31, crashing down with a sudden thud. Dusting himself off, back on the bicycle pedals! Soaring as if on the wings of dreams toward the lake’s edge... The white building on the eastern bank was the boundary of his run. Meanwhile, on the veranda, stands an anxious, loving mother watching intently. Whenever he strayed beyond the boundary, her desperate call would ring out— And it is that very call that suddenly wakes Russel! Upon waking, what is this eerie silence? Mother is not in bed; Father, who stood like a towering shadow of protection, is nowhere to be seen either. All around, there is only the terrifying roar of gunshots, the stench of gunpowder, and agonizing groans! With hurried steps and terrified eyes, little Russel inches forward. Red, sticky stains of blood are scattered across the floor. Overwhelmed by horror, harsh screams, and demonic chaos, the disoriented child starts to run. Reaching the top of the stairs, the little soul freezes in horror— Lying motionless in a pool of blood is the greatest father of a thousand years! A mountain of grief swells inside his chest. Sobbing uncontrollably, he runs downstairs and wraps his tiny hands tightly around familiar Muhit Uncle— “They won’t kill me, will they, Uncle?” Suddenly, the heavy hand of a ruthless, moustached assassin grabs him tightly. Though tears burst from his eyes, no sound comes out in sheer terror. His innocent eyes weep with a helpless plea— “Uncle, please take me to my mother!” “Come, let us take you to your mother...”— mockingly replies the killer. Grasping at a sudden spark of hope, the little boy in his maroon shirt and half-pants follows along. But alas! His burning desire to reach his mother turns to ashes in a single instant—when he beholds his mother, also lying lifeless, bathed in blood. Now, with a trembling voice choked with tears, he begs— “Please send me to Hasu Apa!” Driven on false promises of being taken to his sister, he is shoved into another blood-drenched room. Along that crimson path, his eyes fall upon one lifeless body after another—father, mother, brothers, uncles... all silent in a sea of red. The tender, soft-bodied child trembles uncontrollably. Folding his small hands, he pleads— “Uncle, please don't kill me! Please let me go!” Even his innocent heart realizes that in this world, no one will ever wipe his face with the corner of a loving saree again. He remembers his colorful dream of a red bicycle... he remembers Mother standing by the lake watching him... playing horse-rider on Salim Uncle's back... All those memories and a chest full of agonizing grief crush this delicate flower bud all at once. At that tragic crossroads of carrying the unbearable weight of a thousand heartbreaks, a merciless black bullet pierces his faultless heart! A stream from a crimson ocean gushes forth... From afar, carried by the morning breeze, comes the sacred call to prayer— “As-salatu khayrum minan-nawm...” (Prayer is better than sleep...) All bonds across births and lifetimes vanished in a single moment amid the demonic jubilation of the assassins. The angelic child Russel lay face down in a dark corner of House No. 32. From the depths of the heart echoes the eternal condemnation of the poet: “You were at the purest age of life, surrounded by storybooks and toys! Yet the world has grown so fiendish today— Has it no guilt in drinking the blood of a child? O destructive world, take my condemnation! Wherever nameless children fall and perish,

I beg for forgiveness—I ask for forgiveness in the name of civilization.”* Jumping onto his father’s shoulders, eating rice fed with deep affection by Hasu Apa, and the cherished days of love from familiar faces remain frozen forever in the memories of red blood at Dhanmondi 32.

Author: Dr. Abul Hasnat Milton, Journalist, Political Analyst & Chief Editor, The Source News Bangla