sympathetically at the stories of our flight from Pakistan. had informed me with a smile, holding the fish up in the air. mach,” “Ilish (hilsa fish), she From the she had added, pointing to a startlingly clear, protruding eye. Padma. “Taja (fresh),” And indeed, the sleek body, silvery as a sitar note, faintly bluish-green on its back, had winked in the vivid sunlight. It is a medium-sized small in the the downward ilish (“They’re wintertime”), slant of its mouth and the angular line of its lower jaw giving it a vaguely determined air. I cannot remember the last time I had seen one. Born and raised in dry, dun-coloured, sprawling Karachi city, all this, fish of green grass and ty-sized rivers, relatives, Dhaka’s sudden swathes post offices, is new to me. My grandmother is talking about 1971. Every Bengali in 1972 talked about 1971, about the war, refugees and subsequent release from the daily horror. was 1947 all over she says as she holds both ends of the fish with her hands “1971 again,” and vigorously saws it back and forth across the blade. Fish scales fly in all directions and a few sizzle upward, float momentarily at the top of their arc, aquamarine and topaz spangles, before gliding down on the cement, In 1947, during the Partition, my grandparents had fled from Calcutta (now Kolkata) along with other Muslims. Whole (neighbourhoods) slaughtered in paras a day, my mother had said. Babies thrown over walls. Trembling adults and crying children fleeing pell-mell. ………………………………………………………………………. she says again and nods approvingly, the corona of sprung hairs around her head stirring “Taja,” with the motion. Behind her against the wall are two empty flowerpots and a red earthen bowl with drained rice starch or crisping her saris. Their shadows, peasant-dark doubles, are sharply etched on the peeling yellow limewash. A column of ant is marching up the sides and round the rim of the bowl. From An Ilish Story Khademul Islam (Islam 2005) Passage2 *Easy to understand
sympathetically at the stories of our flight from Pakistan. “Ilish mach,” (hilsa fish), she had informed me with a smile, holding the fish up in the air. From the Padma. “Taja (fresh),” she had added, pointing to a startlingly clear, protruding eye. And indeed, the sleek body, silvery as a sitar note, faintly bluish-green on its back, had winked in the vivid sunlight. It is a medium-sized ilish (“They’re small in the wintertime”), the downward slant of its mouth and the angular line of its lower jaw giving it a vaguely determined air. I cannot remember the last time I had seen one. Born and raised in dry, dun-coloured, sprawling Karachi city, all this, fish rivers, relatives, Dhaka’s sudden swathes of green grass and ty-sized post offices, is new to me. My grandmother is talking about 1971. Every Bengali in 1972 talked about 1971, about the war, refugees and subsequent release from the daily horror. “1971 was 1947 all over again,” she says as she holds both ends of the fish with her hands and vigorously saws it back and forth across the blade. Fish scales fly in all directions and a few sizzle upward, float momentarily at the top of their arc, aquamarine and topaz spangles, before gliding down on the cement, In 1947, during the Partition, my grandparents had fled from Calcutta (now Kolkata) along with other Muslims. Whole paras (neighbourhoods) slaughtered in a day, my mother had said. Babies thrown over walls. Trembling adults and crying children fleeing pell-mell. ………………………………………………………………………. “Taja,” she says again and nods approvingly, the corona of sprung hairs around her head stirring with the motion. Behind her against the wall are two empty flowerpots and a red earthen bowl with drained rice starch or crisping her saris. Their shadows, peasant-dark doubles, are sharply etched on the peeling yellow limewash. A column of ant is marching up the sides and round the rim of the bowl. From An Ilish Story Khademul Islam (Islam 2005) Passage2 *Easy to understand
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