The Mujibnama
An Epic on Sheikh Mujib, the Father of Nation
by Sayeed Abubakar
Translation in English: Sayeed Abubakar
Book 1
It was a hero who roared like thunder
With the voice of a lion on the seventh
March of Nineteen Hundred Seventy One,
At the Racecourse Ground of Dhaka, saying:
‘The people of Bengal want to get free;
The people of Bengal want to live; the
People of Bengal want to have their rights’;
He, like Prometheus, nourished into
His two eyes the dream of stealing fire
From Paradise and had a pain within
His bosom for the disgraced and oppressed
People of his motherland which surged up
Like the flood-tide of its thousand rivers.
It was a hero as green as trees who
Roared like Royal Bengal Tiger on the
Seventh March of Nineteen Hundred Seventy
One bathing in the silvery light of
The blazing Sun at the Racecourse Ground of
Dhaka, saying: ‘The struggle for this time
Is the struggle of liberation; the
Struggle for this time is the struggle of
Independence’; In his voice people heard
The tiger-tone of Haji Shariatullah,
Lion-man Isha Khan of Sonargaon and
Mansur-ul-Mulk Siraj ud-Daulah, the
Last independent Nawab of Bengal;
Spreading the cool shade of Banyan tree
All around, touching the blue sky with the
Firm head of Nazrul, it was a hero
Who at the Racecourse Ground of Dhaka, in
The fire-shedding March of Nineteen Hundred
Seventy One, having stolen the voice
Of Thunder asleep, uttered the call to
Get free; the crowd found in his large forehead
Lighting like stars the blood-stained flower-like
Souls of Sher-e-Bangla A K Fazlul
Haque, Abdul Hamid Khan Bhashani,
Huseyn Shaheed Suhrawardy and
All the language-martyrs of Nineteen
Hundred Fifty Two; I am one of his sons
Afflicted with grief, the last poet of this
Century, born at Ramvodrapur in
Keshabpur Upazilla of Jessore
District; I have stood here with a heart as
Broken as an earthen jar having a
Desire to sing his song. I will sing of
His victory, by whose name my country
Gets awake everyday and by whose call
The sleep of whole Bengal was suddenly
Broken one day, the song of liberty
Started ringing even on the lips of
The wing-broken magpies and in the long
Run, a blood-wet wonder-flower got bloomed
In the garden of earth named Bangladesh;
Bangladesh—the most beautiful homeland
Of mine—whose legends have been written on
The page of Age with the letters of gold.
I know, O God, the leaves of trees do not
Shake without your order; by your command,
The Sun provides its light tirelessly from
One corner to another corner of
Earth every day in the same way; by your
Command, flowers spread fragrance in air and
Birds sing in forests; for your kindness, so
Bright is the Moon, rivers are so wavy,
Erect are the Himalayas, oceans
Are so full of water, the pillarless
Sky is so blue, green are the forests and
This soil is so productive—all are so
By your mercy; your benevolence has
Made the flowers beautiful and the fruits
Tasty; who has such strength, can step a foot
On earth without your warm kindness? He, on
Whom you take pity, survives on the page
Of time getting immortal; all other
Names get obliterated easily
Like the letters written on the water
Of sea. If you smile on someone with your
Pity, even though he is a slave, he
Becomes the king; and if you get angry
With someone, even though he is a king,
He, getting beggar, begs from door to door.
Which way the Sun after day bows down in
Fear in front of you, and which way the full
Moon at the end of night sinks with bowing
Head and with eyes full of tears into your
Eternity, the same way, o God, my
Existence has stumbled upon your feet
Like a betel-nut tree broken by storm;
If you give light, I will be enlightened,
By that light my poem will dazzle the
Eyes of the whole world like the white moonlight
Of Autumn; if you give me strength, my verse
Following the path of Milton, Dante
and Homer will walk on the bosom of
Eternity; if you get pleased with me,
I, too, clasping the hand of my father
epic-poet Madhusudan, will cross
The impassable ocean of epic.
The resolve I have made in this morning,
O the most glorious, is known to you;
And I know, without your mercy, no hope
Is possible to be fulfilled and no
Expedition gets successful; I will
Sing of his ballad who is the greatest
Son of the great Bengali nation in
Thousand years, by whose bright declaration
The Sun of independence which had set
Suddenly at Plassey in Seventeen
Hundred Fifty Seven peeped again in
The sky of Bengal, by whose beckoning
Of finger the shackles of hundred year
Slavery were broken miraculously
And the whole nation started dancing in
Pleasure. I will sing of his ballad which
Way Valmiki filled the air of earth with
The hymn of Rama. Give melody in
My voice; and let my soul bask in the fierce
Sunshine which fetches bright morning on earth
Piercing the darkness of night; and pour down
Great infatuation of poesy
Maddened with patriotism into my eyes.
Whose mother is ugly on earth? Mothers
Are as holy as Paradise, dear and
Beautiful to their children. In the same
Way, motherlands are dear to all men.
Whose heart does not get cool looking at the
Face of motherland? Whose eyes do not get
Wet in the hard times of own country? The
Green shepherd too, who grazes cattle on
The withered desert sings of the beauty
Of his homeland. The starving peasant too,
Doing Jhum cultivation with skinny
Body at the bottom of the rough hill,
Sings of the glory of his birthplace with
Joy. Alas! Who is the stone-hearted one
Whose two eyes do not get filled with tears on
The foreign land remembering own land?
Who is the barbarian that makes an
Illicit affair with wanton woman
Violating the chastity of his
Motherland? On one side, there was
The last brightest Sun of Bengal, Bihar
And Orissa, Nawab Siraj ud-Daulah;
On the other side, there was the trap of
Conspiracy made by Ghaseti Begum,
Mir Jafar, Jagat Seth and the foreign
Pirate Robert Clive; the cumulus of
Danger were spread everywhere.
The well-watered, well-fruitful, well-fertile
Eden-like Bengal, green with abundant corn
Fell in danger again and again for
Her beauty and riches, which way a deer’s
Foe is its flesh and a beautiful girl’s
Danger is her own beauty. In the past,
The notorious Maratha cavalry
Came here to loot Bengal’s all property.
The Mughals came here; Man Singh, the robber,
Invaded the paddy-fields of Isha
Khan with his men. But Isha Khan the great
Responded courageously by breaking
Down the sword of Man Singh. Later came the
White bears in Bengal to devour the people
Sleeping in peace. To devour tearing its
Whole map, they gathered well-armed at Plassey.
The trumpet of war started blowing with
A great noise. On one side, there stood the self-
Sacrificing patriots; on the other
Side, there stood the selfish hungry foreign
Beasts white in color; between them, there were
A few indigenous ugly vultures.
O Bengal, the beautiful native land
Of mine, holy motherland! Again and
Again, what a distress descends on your
Lot! When were you free of foes? Tell me when
The venomous cobra of misfortune
Did not bite your son Lakhindar! By which
Curse, tell, you are the daughter of sorrow
Of earth, O beautiful Banga! Your sons
Who were blessed with milk and rice became
Again slaves by the irony of fate.
The Sun of Independence set in the
Ocean of Time, depth of which was about
Two hundred years. All the clouds of the sky
Of Bengal turned black in shame for the red
Blood of Siraj; the sun-rays wearing the
Burial cloth entered into graves; and
A few black cats and all the owls of night
Sitting into the dense compact darkness
Started mewing with cry. O Bengal, my
Pretty land, holy mother, my birth-place!
Who loves to live in the blind iron-cage?
Who does not want a free life? All the birds
Living in the forests spread sweet notes of
Peace in the air hiding the treasure of
Freedom within souls. How freely all the
Fishes of seas move from one water-home
To another water-home! The little
Ants, very insignificant on earth,
Lead what a free life keeping their
Backbones erect! Living with the tigers
In forests, the calm deer, too, run with a
Great joy as free as sun-rays. Only the
Peaceful people of Bengal draw the yoke
Of slavery like bulls in the fields of
Life for the irony of fate. Within
Their eyes, nevertheless, there played the dim
Red light of the setting sun of the lost
Independence and within their bosom
There played the pain of losing liberty
Like the pain of Orpheus after losing
His beloved Eurydice. That pain of
Love became solid, took the shape of clouds
And surrounded the whole country. When those
Clouds collapsed down upon earth with the sound
Of Israfil’s trumpet, there roared a storm
Terrible and destructive. In that fierce
Storm, the throne of British empire was flown
Like the dry leaves of trees. It seemed Bengal
Became free; the branches and green leaves of
The lives of people with delight started
Oscillating in the wind of freedom.
But, alas! Who knew, those who were beside
Us as brothers were sore enemies, our
Killers! They filled the bosom of Bengal
With murder, death, plundering, oppression
And brutality. The irritated
Mob came out on the high ways to protest.
What a dragon came on this land— First, he
devoured her economy, wealth and might;
Then he devoured the blood of Bengalis
and the dignity of women; still his
Hunger remained unsatisfied! At last,
He desired to pierce the heart of men and
Then to eat up their dreams, ambition, hope,
Emotion and fancy. Eating up their
Mother tongue, he planned to kill this nation
Physically and spiritually.
With the poisonous nails of that dragon,
The language-eater, the high ways of
Dhaka became besmeared with the blood of
Innocent young men of Bengal who loved
Their mothers, mother-tongue and motherland.
In such a cloudy day, the whole nation
Waited with eager eyes, which way in an
Agitated ocean the passengers
Stared helplessly towards the face of their
Boatman and screamed aloud uttering the
Name of God; as if it were a roaring
River, on whose growling waves stumbled down
A tempest, falling into its trap a
Helpless boat is swinging to and fro and
Its passengers are crying loudly saying:
`Help! Help! ‘ because the helmsman of their boat
Is an enemy. At last, he who was
The savior of the perplexed nation
Came in front and roared like a lion; by that
Roar, the whole country trembled, as if in a
Earthquake; hearing it, the corrupted
Souls of the enemies trembled in fear
Which way the leaves of a banyan tree
Tremble. He came which way the Sun piercing
The night comes in the east sky; he came which
Way after an intolerable long
Load-shedding, electricity comes back
In the hot nights of Summer; he came which
Way a brief shower comes like cool peace on
The torn heart of burnt soil in the month of
Choitra. All the Bengalis, from Teknaf
To Tetulia, from the shore of the
Kapatakkha river to that of the
Surma, the Punarbhaba, the Meghna
And the Jamuna, welcomed him with a
Great joy filling the air with applause and
Fire-shedding slogans, bowing down their heads
Before him. Then they dressed his neck with a
Garland and wrote `Bangabandhu’, the gold-
Name, on his broad forehead with immense love.
