There is a strand of hair stuck on Mahbub’s forehead. His wife, who is cleaning him, tries to carefully remove it. After a few attempts, she sighs. It would not move.
The natural instinct of anyone would be to jump in and suggest she picks it with tweezers or a nail-clipper. But that is out of the question here because Mahbub’s forehead, including the rest of his face, arms and back, have been burnt in the recent political violence that have erupted across the country.
His wife Shahanaz has been cleaning him for more than twenty minutes in this nine-room ward at Dhaka Medical College Hospital. His face, a haunting combination of burnt brown, his own skin colour, and the yellow ointment, cringes every other moment as Shahanaz continues her process of cleaning.
Mahbub, 27, was the driver of the bus that came under arson attack in Shahbagh just a week back during the opposition’s ongoing blockade programme. He suffered 30% burn.
“I only remember I was driving, and there were two men standing on the divider. They threw two bottles that hit the windshield and the next thing I knew, I had fallen to the ground. The bus was in flames. I was in flames,” he says, writhing in pain, his words barely audible.
“He cannot open his mouth, it is too painful for him,” says Shahanaz, who is a garments worker in the city.
Despite the pain, he keeps mumbling things – inaudible things – as Shahanaz continues to clean him.
In a broken voice, he says the pain that has subsided in the last few days, has been increasing again since Tuesday night.
When asked if he understands the political game that has landed him on this hospital bed, Mahbub groans: “All I know is, one side kicks the other side, and we get trapped in the middle.”
“We work as per our need. We do not do politics; our children do not do politics. We do not understand politics. So why do we fall into it?” says Momota, Mahbub’s mother, who has come from Gaibandha to see her son. She watches her daughter-in-law clean her son, and breaks down from time to time.
“We used to depend on his earnings. How will we live?” she asks bitterly.
Mahbub and Shahanaz’s son, eight-year old Shahin, had come to visit his father soon after he had been hospitalised, but fell sick upon seeing his scalded face.
As Shahanaz tries to sit him up, Mahbub screams in pain. Shahanaz, who has been calm throughout, merely frowns. She seems tired. The nurses cannot manage to clean one patient 2-3 times a day, as is needed; therefore Shahanaz has to do the job.
She takes a look behind his ear, and tells Momota: “This will be difficult to clean, it is in bad shape.”
Momota hands her two packets of ear buds and cotton balls. DMCH has been providing them with the medicines so far, but this is just the beginning of a whole new life that sparked off with a mere throw of “two bottles” from presumably blockade supporters.
But who knows, they could have been anyone. They could have been any of his fellow countrymen.
“I used to be careful while driving during hartals and blockades; yes I used to be,” Mahbub wails. “But I had no idea our people could be so cruel, I had no idea humans could be so inhuman.”