Tarannum Sattar

Pohela Boishakh is here. The first day of the new year. The first celebration. The “Mongol Jatra”. The paintings, the sunshine, the colors , colorful sarees and big bindis, big eyes darkened with kohl and pretty smiles.
Of course, I’m talking about the women who are probably sitting right now by the corner of the bed waiting for the moment they will adorn themselves in the freshly unwrapped saree. If you are doing this, it’s normal. It’s a festival. It is normal for women to be excited and happy and dressed up and in a mood to celebrate, as much as the men and children do.
Why am I talking about women only?
Because this day, last year, was all about the women.
April 14, 2015. Pohela Boishakh. There was a huge crowd celebrating in TSC, when suddenly, as if out of nowhere, about 30 men made their way into the crowd while playing the loud noise of vuvuzela that pierced through everyone’s ears. The rowdy individuals, who were about to be famed as infamous, hurled their negative energy inappropriately on the women who made the mistake of walking through the parade.
Those demons fatally attacked the girls dressed in red and white on an open ground on the day of Bengali festival. The beasts that swooped in on the delicate skins made sure that those women never dare to celebrate any other events in their entire lives. They abused them physically, verbally, mentally. They damaged and tarnished the reputation of men and proved what animals they can turn out to be in times of their hunger.
Those “sexually frustrated” perpetrators got away that day. Unharmed. Undetected. Unrecognized.
There was a huge protest countrywide later. Fingers were pointed on the law enforcers who reportedly refused to come and address the ongoing assaults while it was still on inside TSC. The public protested and the police reacted. What happened that day? Where was the police? Why weren’t they present in the scene even after they were informed? How did the miscreants escape? Did they dodge the eyes of the law enforcers or the protectors had simply chosen to shut their eyes?
When the common people protested the nonchalance of the uniformed officers on duty, they then showed their power, anguish and capability. They mercilessly beat up the students who were demonstrating a protest campaign against the assault. Them, they beat, mercilessly.
Now, they were talking.
A few weeks into the incident, none of the guilty were even recognized despite of CCTV footages, let alone arrested. Like all other incidents that become the food-for-movement, this assault chapter was also layered with a dust cover.
This is a jungle. The beasts roam free.
A year later, the day arrives again. This year, the hype is about Hilsa, the national fish of the country, that has traditionally been the typical favourite of the Bengali people. The long tradition of eating hilsa and paanta rice on Bengali New Year’s day is in the menu of doubts now. The country’s fish is being protected.
Many will now write editorials about how the government is trying to divert public attention, so the other pending decisions are not dug up from the burials.
Case like Ramna blasts that is still pending after 15 long years.
This year, in order to prevent any such bombing or physical assault, the administration has taken necessary measures to prevent any horrendous activity. They have asked the women to dress up decently, also, they have asked all the celebrators to get back home by 5 in the evening.
On the other side of the parallel universe, I wrote an anger note, a hate note, a disgust note on behalf of all those mothers who will hold their daughters to their chest and try to soothe them as they get panic attacks every now and then. My heart goes out to all those women who were demolished while preserving and celebrating a culture that could not and did not even step up to protect their honor.
In each of these stories, there is one angry woman who wants security more than justice.
Meanwhile, post April 14, 2015 incident, I was returning one particular night from my regular walk when I heard shouts of victory for Bangladesh in a cricket match. Traditionally, a local parade broke out. I swiftly made my way towards my house to avoid the crowd but they somehow caught up with me.
“I hear a faint noise grow louder by the second. I turn back and, to my utter horror, see a bunch of men march towards me. Flags raised, they chant Bangladesh! Bangladesh! Following them were 30 more, each of them playing a vuvuzela. I took off my earphones and heard the shrill sound.
Chill ran down my spine.”

The writer is a poet and journalist