On a Thursday, I went back home, and I took a walk.

On the sidewalk, I saw a splash of maroon on a grey block.

I thought of pedestrians who chew betel leaves and spit them out

Making scarlet stains on the pavement as they walk,

But, I thought, this stain is not like the others.

I asked my friends-what is it-and they told me: Oh

That's Abhijit's blood,

He talked too much.

The street I was on was named Kazi Nazrul. The rebel poet-

A rebel-an icon-a treasure-an idol-he wrote-

Of rising, of piercing the earth and heavens, of pushing through the Almighty's seat

His words beat all the drums and strung all the strings.

Abhijit was a writer walking on Islam Kazi Nazrul Avenue, on another Thursday.

Around the corner, they had gathered

They had put down their tea cups and said

They didn't like Abhijit talking

Like that about their God

So they marched down Kazi Nazrul Avenue

Hacked him with an axe

Until he couldn't speak anymore.

Served him right, they said

Abhijit, he was a disgrace to humanity

He talked too much.

I looked up and saw Raju Bhaskarjya,

I saw stone eyes blindfolded in protest

I looked at Abhijit's blood again,

It had boiled and spilled and dried.

"Are you now forever blind?"

Read more

On curating Slam Poetry Nights for Dhaka Lit Fest tomorrow

I asked the stone people

No one said anything.

I see you've taken up writing, my mother told me over dinner,

Don't write about religion

Don't write about politics

We're only looking out for you, we don't want to lose you-

But when I closed my eyes to sleep, the room closed in on me

I saw maroon on the grey sidewalk.

The stifling summer air took my strength as it rose up with the heat.

You've always been spirited, my friends told me over tea,

Be careful about what you write

Be careful about what you share

We're only looking out for you, we don't want to lose you-

But when I looked away at the wall behind them, all the walls closed in on me

I could only see maroon on the grey sidewalk.

The smothering summer air took my hope as it rose up with the heat.

Perhaps tomorrow I will wake up and see my stone people

Blinded and gagged

As the air keeps rising.

Tomorrow, perhaps I will

Rip off their blindfolds and their gags

As the Kalboishakhi comes down.

The people who love me don't want to lose me

But I don't want to lose my words.

I'll let it spill, if need be.

Moneesha R Kalamder is an economist and writer.

This poem was performed at the SHOUT X DS Books' Slam Poetry Nights session at the Dhaka Lit Fest on January 5, 2023. 
'On A Thursday on Kazi Nazrul Avenue' was first published in The New Quarterly, Issue 150.