Crossing Over
Even the oldest resident, Nibaran Sadhu, could not reveal the origin behind the name of Hasnapur village. People speculate a flower-loving zamindar may have named it after the hasnahena flower. This village sits close to the border between Bangladesh and India, with the Sheetala River separating the two.
The river’s name, Sheetala, is tied to a local legend: long ago, the mighty zamindar Pratap Narayan had a daughter named Sheetala Rani, who fell in love with Mehboob, the Muslim son of the zamindar’s clerk. Their secret rendezvous happened on this river, gently rocking in a royal boat. When the zamindar discovered their affair, he ordered Mehboob and his father to be drowned with stones tied around their necks. The story was covered up with lies about theft. On a full moon night, Sheetala Rani learned the truth. Grief-stricken, she drowned herself in the same river. That night, Pratap Narayan understood the weight of his mistakes and named the river after his daughter.
Legends like these are entwined in the names of many Bangladeshi villages and rivers.
To the south of Hasnapur lived Haripad Sahu with his small family: wife Madhabi and six-year-old son Sanjay. But Haripad counted someone else as family too—Lali, a dog he’d found the night Sanjay was born and raised alongside him. Haripad would say, “How can you not count her as family when I raised her all these years?”
When war reached the nearby village of Sadullapur in 1971, everyone in Hasnapur decided to flee under cover of night toward Agartala, India. Haripad knew he couldn’t leave Lali behind. But once at the border, Indian guards refused to let animals through. Haripad tried pleading. “Her name is Lali,” he said, choking on emotion. “I’ve raised her like a child.” But rules were rules.
Lali looked at Haripad, hopeful. After all the years, her trust had never broken. Haripad turned away, tightening his grip around Sanjay. Behind him, Lali cried out—and as he glanced back, the guard struck her with his rifle. Haripad’s voice cracked as he begged, “Sir, please don’t hit her…” His words, almost lost in his tears, echoed like Lali’s whimper.
The refugee convoy reached the banks of the Sheetala River just before dawn. Two boats were waiting at the shore. Most of the people climbed onto the first boat. Haripad, unsure, stood with his wife and child. He took Sanjay from Madhabi’s arms, then helped her climb aboard. Just as Haripad stepped forward to board, Lali tugged at the back of his dhoti with her teeth.
He paused, handed Sanjay back to Madhabi, and scooped Lali into his arms. The boat sliced through the shadowed waters of the Sheetala River. It should have reached the border earlier, but the upstream current slowed it down. By 7 a.m., the boat reached the Indian border.
Indian border guards stood watch, not questioning anyone. Indira Gandhi had ordered refugee assistance, and the borders were open. Haripad carried Sanjay, Madhabi held one bundle, and Lali followed quietly. As they approached, a stern shout stopped them: “Halt! Not this way!”
One guard blocked Lali’s path with the butt of his rifle. Haripad rushed forward. “Sir, that’s Lali. She’s with me.”
“No dogs allowed,” the guard replied sharply.
Haripad looked at Lali. She was tired and had sat down. Still, her eyes followed him faithfully. Madhabi signaled him silently—he had to keep going. Haripad’s heart twisted. He stepped closer to the guard.
“Sir, please. I’ve raised her like a child for years.”
“I said no dogs. Only humans are allowed across.”
“Her name is Lali…”
“What difference does that make? Love your dog all you want, but she’s not crossing.”
Haripad didn’t fully understand the broken Hindi, but the guard’s anger was clear. He met Madhabi’s eyes again—hers held both frustration and pleading.
“I have just one request…”
“Speak quickly.”
Haripad held Sanjay close to his chest. He bent slightly and placed a hand on Lali’s head. Lali whimpered softly and licked his hand—hungry, tired, but loyal. Madhabi’s voice called out in the distance, urging him to hurry.
Tears welled up in Haripad’s eyes. He turned away from Lali and walked toward the border, face tight with grief. Behind him, he heard Lali’s whimper, followed by a pained bark.
Instinctively, he turned around—just in time to see the guard strike her with the rifle’s butt, raising it to hit again. Lali looked at Haripad, desperate, trusting that he would protect her. That trust hadn’t broken in all these years.
“Sir… please… don’t hit her.”
Haripad’s voice cracked under the weight of his emotions. His words trembled, half-lost in tears—sounding no different than Lali’s cries.
Short Story: Crossing Over
Author : Sahadat Russell
Writer and Filmmaker
Date: 08 July, 2025
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