The day was March 7

Every person has one or multiple names. A person’s identity is tied to their name. For some, a single name is enough to last a lifetime, while for others, more than one is needed. When life changes course, titles or fragrant adjectives may be added to a name, which gradually becomes an inseparable part of the original name. At that point, it becomes nearly impossible to distinguish the original name from its branches. Still, people are always attached to their names; they live and die with their names. Everyone resides in their name.

Can one's name ever become unbearable to others, or perhaps to oneself? And if, for some special reason, it does become so, what can one do about it? Sometimes, even a person’s name given by their father might be completely uprooted and publicly advertised in newspapers as an affidavit, but most of these are cases of name changes due to religious conversions. However, nothing like that ever happened to Mujibur Rahman of Surjokhola village. His father, Sheikh Md. Azizur Rahman, had written his name in the same way when he enrolled him in a madrasa as a child, and it remained unchanged. Partial changes were never necessary. Poets and such might do it, breaking their names to add a bit of poetic charm, but a village religious teacher of school like Mujibur Rahman had no such poetic talent.

The problem arose with Mujibur Rahman’s only son, Hafizur Rahman. After three daughters, Hafizur was the only son, and perhaps was given a bit too much attention. A child, under the comfort of a mother’s shawl, always feels the bliss of heaven, and Hafizur was no exception. But as a father, how much control did Mujibur Rahman really have over his son? When the size of the mango is bigger than the hand, it can slip away easily. This happens quite often, after all. Should one regret such a loss?

Hafizur doesn’t want to use the prefix ‘Sheikh Md.’ before his name. He thinks it’s outdated. How strange! Is it really just a matter of preference? Mujibur Rahman had heard from his father many times as a child: Not all Sheikhs in this country are real and original Sheikhs. Many are borrowed Sheikhs, or fake Sheikhs. Does just saying "Sheikh" make one a Sheikh? The original Sheikh lineage came from the Arab world. Maulana Sheikh Md. Azizur Rahman from Deoband would lay his hand on his son’s back and give advice: “Remember, you carry within you the strong Arab bloodline.” Then he would describe his ancestors: fair-skinned, with sharp noses like swords, and towering over six feet tall. Hafizur wanted to completely discard this proud lineage and claim that "we are a tanned people" by showing his skin.

Hafizur’s stubbornness is not new. As a child, he ran away from the madrasa to join a general school. He didn’t like the religious line and chose the general line instead. After school and college, he went straight to university. Hafizur became the first student from Surjokhola and the surrounding 8-10 villages to attend Dhaka University. People said, "The religious teacher’s son has a sharp mind, he will surely become something great."

In the village, people address the religious teacher as Maulana Sahib or sometimes Huzur Sir. When they heard that Hafizur might become something great, Mujibur Rahman felt relief and comfort. But he also worried: with all the political turmoil in the country, would his son get lost in this turbulent storm? He doesn’t like to add "Sheikh Md." to his name, yet he has no objection to joining marches in support of Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, even risking his life. Why? If they are ready to remove "Sheikh" from the name of their leader, why not do the same for their own? Yet, when it comes to the leader, the "Sheikh" in Sheikh Mujib becomes sacred. His father, Mujibur Rahman, could not contain his anger. “Sheikh Mujib, the great leader? He is the Father of the Nation! Have the people given their mandate to that name?”

What can a father do? His son was his only child, and he had not heard from him for two months. Despite writing letters to the university address, there was no reply. His wife couldn’t sleep, and the daughters, crying, asked their father to go to Dhaka to check on their brother. In such a chaotic political turmoil, Mujibur Rahman couldn’t see any hope in leaving the house. With curfew, strikes, and unrest everywhere, he couldn’t figure out how to get to Dhaka. But his wife could no longer bear the anxiety and cried, urging him to go. So, early the next morning, after offering his prayers, Mujibur Rahman set off on a perilous journey to find his son.

After two days of travel, full of hardships, he finally arrived in Dhaka. There were reports of violence in Chattogram and Khulna; army troops were shooting indiscriminately, but the marches and meetings were continuing. People were undeterred by the risk of gunfire. As Mujibur Rahman reached Dhaka, he worried whether he would ever find his son in such a huge crowd. Would he even recognize him?

The roads were crowded with people, all marching together, chanting slogans. There were thousands, no millions of people—faces blending together. How could he possibly recognize his son in such a crowd?

After a long and tiring search, he finally found Hafizur’s room in the university dormitory, but no one was there. The room was locked, and it dawned on him that the real address was the Race Course Maidan. He returned to the streets, rejoining the marchers. As he walked through the crowd, the atmosphere shifted. His mind started to race. Should he be at the Race Course Maidan? His son must be among all these people.

Finally, Mujibur Rahman heard a familiar voice, loud and determined: “My brothers!” It was the voice of Sheikh Mujib. A flood of emotions overtook him as he listened to the speech—a declaration for independence, a call for the liberation struggle. His son, Hafizur, was just a step away from being part of this historic moment.

Mujibur Rahman’s feelings of isolation disappeared. With the crowd’s fervor, he was no longer just a father looking for his son. He was part of something much greater.

March 7 was the turning point, the day of the speech. It marked the beginning of the struggle, the declaration of freedom. With a heart full of pride, Mujibur Rahman finally felt the true meaning of his name and the legacy of the man who carried it forward, Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, the Father of the Nation.

This is a translation of the original text, capturing the essence of the narrative about names, identity, generational conflicts, and political struggles leading up to the historical March 7 speech in Bangladesh.