I Remember, I Remember; How Can I Forget?
BY SULTAN REZA Des Pardes | December 21, 2005 http://www.despardes.com/articles/deco5/121805-i-remember.asp Sheikh Sahib would be seeing his grandson for the first time. We asked Shaikh Hasina about his possible reaction. She said that he had promised to retire from politics after he had a grand child. Don't we all wish that he had? Perhaps he might still be alive with the rest of his family. Perhaps! Some days and dates have such impact in your life that you remember them vividly in spite of a failing memory like mine. I forget the name of a new person within days of meeting him or her but that day 35 years ago and the events that led to it and the days that followed, are still fresh in my memory. I am talking about December 16, 1971 when struggle for Bangladesh came to fruition and Bangladesh became a reality. A sovereign country where the Mukti Bahinis could come home openly and resettle. At the same time, opening the flood gates for millions of Bengalis to return who were forced to seek refuge in the neighboring India. Bangladesh was officially born that day. Like a child's birth, the birth of a nation can also be very painful. Don't I remember those days? As a matter of fact, the whole gestation period between March 7 to December 16, 1971, which we all remember as the nasty nine months, has been photographed in my mind like a video in such a way that I can just sit back and replay it without even clicking a button. So, why not play and record it for the younger generation who were either not yet born or were too young to remember the birth of their nation. Just like I cannot clearly remember the pre-partition days of India and the Independence of India and Pakistan from the British Raj in August 1947. We lived in Calcutta and I was eight years old then. My oldest daughter, Mona was six months old when East Pakistan became Bangladesh. We lived in Dhaka then, moving from one house to another. Watching dog-fights in the sky and witnessing the destruction of bombs on the ground. But most of all, the explosion of human bombs all around us. Where shall I start? After getting married at the end of 1969, I moved from my flat on Road # 8 Dhanmondi Residential Area to a single family home on Road # 14 or 18 opposite Eidgah and very close to the East Pakistan Rifles HQ on Road number 2. On March 7, 1971 we went to attend the historical meeting at the Ramna Race Course, where Sheikh Mujibur Rahman started by explaining his six points and concluded by making his historical declaration: " EI BARER SHoNGRAM, SHADHONITA'S SHONGRAM' Bongo Bondhu was on fire. He had every reason to be. After losing the election hands down, Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto instigated General Yahya Khan to point the gun at the Prime Minister Elect and say " Hands Up" Enough was Enough. East could no longer tow the line of the West. Mujib demanded autonomy. Next I remember is being at the Dhaka Airport waiting to receive Bill Duncan, one of the biggest jute buyers from Dundee. He was coming from Rawalpindi after spending a couple of days with an old friend, who had now become the President of Pakistan. Yes, Bill Duncan and Gen. Yahya Khan while serving the British Army together, were taken prisoners by General Rommel's German Army in Africa during the World War II. They managed to escape and became drinking buddies in Cairo bars. Where the Gora Bill had to sometime fight with the owners to take along the Kala Yahya. So I was waiting for him and his PIA flight from Islamabad. The flight came. But no Bill Duncan. It was full of soldiers and Militias, those Swati tribal in black Shalwar-Kameeze . Then another flight came and then another. Same story that got scary by the hours. The Civil Aviation Center or the Tejgaon Airport started looking like an Army Base. There were a few civilians like me waiting for the return of the Bengali passengers from Pakistan. In my case, the foreign guest. We got worried and one of us called Sheikh Sahib's house in Dhanmondi to report the situation. The person who picked up the phone promised to pass on the message. Bill Duncan arrived the next day but he did not disclose the true intention of the Army Dictator. He said that everything would be alright and Yahya Khan will prevail upon Bhutto to accept Sheikh Mujib as the Prime Minister. He would become the Opposition Leader himself when the Parliament is convened. I still do not know, who was lying then. Yahya Khan to Bill Duncan or Bill Duncan to me. But before that, while playing bridge with us at my cousin's house in Mymensingh Road, Admiral Ahsan who was the Governor of East Pakistan then, had asked my partner, Mr. Qayyum of PRS a very pertinent question. " If the Pakistan army were to take a drastic action and decided to rule East Pakistan by gun, how many Bengalis would be willing to lay down their lives? " "A million, may be more" was Mr. Qayyum's response. I believe that Admiral Ahsan advised President Yahya to refrain from taking army action. But the latter refused and the former resigned. That is when General Tikka Khan replaced Admiral Ahsan as the Governor of East Pakistan. It had become clear to us that their intentions were not good. Qayyum Bhai confirmed it by informing us that ship loads of bullets were on their way from West to East Pakistan. He knew it because his son was an officer in "SS Swat" that was carrying these bullets. Yet the Army Generals and the political leaders of West Pakistan with the exception of Wali Khan of National Awami Party, went through the pretense of negotiations and discussions of Sheikh Sahib's Six Point demand with the Awami League leaders who had secured all 153 seats from East Pakistan and had the support of Wali Khan with another 30 seats that he had won in West Pakistan. In the 300 seats House of Parliament, they had absolute majority as compared to less than a hundred seats that Bhutto had managed to win by his anti Bengali campaign in West Pakistan. The "negotiation" failed. On March 23, my cousin and I went drove in two cars to Dienfa Motors to give one for servicing. The manager refused to accept any cars and advised us to go back home and stay there. Not understanding the implication then, we drove back to the Dhaka Club and had smoked hilsa fish for lunch. After our regular rounds of billiards and snookers, we settled down in the card room to play some bridge. Around 4 p.m. we could hear slogans and see truck loads of NAP workers ( Maulana Bhashani) with red flags passing. Shouting anti- Pakistan and even anti-Mujib slogans. Then we heard the news that Yahya Khan and his co-conspirators of the People's Party that included Z. A. Bhutto and Mustafa Khar had left Dhaka. We did not even wait to finish the rubber and headed home. Bobby for his home in Mymensingh Road and me for mine in Dhanmondi. Around 8 p.m. the phone rang. It was my cousin on the line. " Big wheels are rolling" He said. " What big wheels? " I asked. " Tanks, you idiot. Army is cracking down" He said and then explained that while his cook after serving dinner had gone to get some paan at the shop in Eskaton Road near Pak Motors, he saw some boys blocking the road with tree trunks. An army truck came and blew it with a powerful torch. Then they killed them all in a single brush of fire. "My God " I said and disconnected the telephone line. I wanted to call my brother-in-law in Khulna and apprise him of the situation. He picked up the phone, said "Hello" and the phone went dead. Death came to our Mohalla or Para with a big boom. Pakistan Army had attacked the East Bengal Rifle Head Quarters with tanks and machine guns. We rushed to the roof top of our one story building and could hear the sounds of gun shots that seemed to be coming closer by the minute. Flashes of light and the smell of the gun powder filled the air. They were putting up a fight. But the resistance did not last long. Very soon, it was all quiet. Then we heard the loud speakers blaring in the streets that curfew had been imposed. We tried to tune in the radio and find out what BBC was reporting. Electricity went out. We knew what was going on in our neck of the wood and suspected that the whole city must be burning. As a matter of fact, it was. We found out the next day what a night of massacre that was. Curfew was lifted for a few hours and my father-in-law, who is a renowned singer of Rabindra Sangeet, came in a rickshaw to enquire about our welfare. He informed us that Sheikh Mujib, who was one of his close friends and an ardent fan, had been arrested. He had heard it on his radio, when one army officer was informing another by radio that " We got the big fish" He also told us that Rajarbagh Police Line had met the same fate as the EPR. The constables who sought refuge in his house in Shantinagar, reported the massacre that took place there. He did not know much about our other relatives spread all over Dhaka and left a small packet with us for safe keeping. I was not politically connected with any party. Just as he was leaving, we saw Inayatullah Khan of Holiday Today ( who recently died) passing by in a rickshaw. He saw Mr Kalim Sharafi and shouted " Bhayia, Kamal Hossain has betrayed us" Which as we all know, was not true. He became a suspect because of his good knowledge of the Urdu language. His mother, coming from Calcutta , conversed in Urdu. Just like my grandmother there. Although my grandfather went from Sundeep and settled there after doing his Masters in English and Persian. Those were the court languages then. Educated Muslims families in Calcutta and Murshidabad generally adopted the Urdu language. It was the same with Shaheed Suhrawardhy's family, who was from Midnapur. Coming back to the stark reality of Army killings, Militia raping and the collaboration of the Razakar with the enemy forces, it is a miracle that many of us are alive today to tell the story. What if Niazi had decided not to surrender and go after the Bengalis like the German Nazi went after the Jews in Europe? He too considered himself to be of a superior race and at times encouraged his Punjabi Jawans to go and rape Bengali women. It has been reported by a Pakistani journalist that in the mornings, he would ask them about their score in the night before. Knowing Urdu in those days proved to be very beneficial. A Bengali friend who was taken away from his house blind folded by a Bengali Razakar for killing because of personal enmity, was let go by a Jawan only because he questioned his motive in chaste Urdu. He had been to an Urdu medium school like me. To a certain extent, I would say that my familiarity with the Urdu language saved my life too. Though this same thing could be the reason for our death as well, if I had behaved stupidly like some Biharis and got chummy with the Occupation Army whose leaders had vowed to subjugate the Bengali race for generations to come by killing their men and raping their women - A standard practice by the marauding army invading a country and conquering it. But here, they were doing it to their own people, who had initiated the Pakistan movement and fought gallantly alongside its army during the war with India only six years ago in 1965. Muslims were being killed by Muslims in the name of God. How Islamic! Next day, when I walked over to Eidgah to buy some batteries for our radio because they would turn off the electricity during the BBC news time, an army jeep drove in. A Major, who was driving the jeep , looked at us inquiringly. He asked me where I lived. I pointed my house across the street. Then he asked where Sheikh Rahman lived ? I pointed towards Road 32. Then he asked me to take take him there. I tried to evade by saying that curfew will be imposed in five minutes and I should get home before that. He said that " I will drop you back" and gestured towards the empty seat next to him. Two soldiers with machine guns were sitting at the back. Anxious that curfew time was approaching, my wife and a younger brother were standing at the gate waiting for my return. They saw me driven away in that army jeep and concluded that this was the end of my story. They thought that they will never see me again. After we reached Bongo Bondhu's house, the major looked at it, cursed and said " Now we have him. We will teach him how to rule a country" Then he dropped me back at my house. I wonder if he would do the same if I did not speak in chaste Urdu that I had learnt in school and college. How? That is another story that I will narrate later if the time permits. I mean your time. I do not want to make this so long that it might put one to sleep. I do not and cannot write bed time stories like our good friend Niaz Zaman can. Though I wish that I could read and write Bengali like her. After a few days, life assumed some semblance of normalcy except for those who had lost their near and dear ones by this brutal action of their own army and their co-conspirators. Unfortunately, the Muslims from Bihar who had migrated to East Pakistan after the partition of India in 1947, also started believing like Bhutto and Yahya that Bengalis were half Hindus or half Muslims, who should be converted into full Muslims. Many of the army jawans and militias were led to believe that Bengalis were not Muslims. They expressed surprise and even joined the Namaz-e- Janaza after " killing a kafir" The Sindhi Bhutto himself was such a communal person that once upon hearing my brother Shamim speak in Punjabi ( He was educated in West Pakistan) over the phone, he remarked " Why do you speak the language of dogs?" Not knowing that one day "the dog" will bite him to death. Quaid-e-Azam Muhammad Ali Jinnah was the founder of Pakistan. To an extent, he was also the founder of Bangladesh. By declaring in 1948 that " Urdu and Urdu alone will be the state language of Pakistan" he kindled the fire of Bengali language movement that Bongo Bondhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman ignited and later on engulfed the whole nation. Shaheed Minar bears testimony of it. Before the creation of Bangladesh, I often argued with Urdu speaking friends that since the majority of the people in Pakistan read, write and speak Bengali language, it should at least be one of the state languages. But since they did know Bengali, their argument was that Mohammad Ali Jinnah himself did not know Urdu very well but he did it for the sake of unity of the nation. In my opinion, more than the language itself, it was the attitude of Pakistani rulers and the exploitation of East Pakistan that broke up Pakistan. Not only some leaders but most Non-Bengalis looked down upon the Bengalis, thinking that they were superior to them. Bhutto's refusal to accept the election results and Yahya's arrogance to enforce his will on the Majority Leader is a proof of their superiority complex. Worst than that, the uneducated Mohajirs from Bihar and UP and even some educated ones, started behaving the same way without considering the fact that like the Ansars of Medina, the Bengalis had in the beginning laid a red carpet for them and had been such a good host to them. They responded to their humbleness with arrogance. As a result many of them have become Persona Non Grata in all three countries. Neither welcomed in Pakistan nor accepted in Bangladesh. They cannot even go back to India, the land of their forefathers because Indians do not trust Muslims. However, due to their intelligence, education and talent most of them are doing much better in foreign countries like America, Austrailia and Europe where some of the best doctors are from Bihar and UP. The surrender of 90, 000 plus Muslim troops on December 16, 1971 with General Aurora tearing up the army medals and insignia of General Niazi, is one of the most pathetic scene that I have witnessed in my life. It was the biggest defeat of a Muslim army that had almost won the war against India in 1965. The difference was that this time the Bengalis were not fighting alongside and had been forced to fight against them with the help of India. Because, without ousting the Pakistani army and the militias, Bengali Freedom Fighters could not bring home the millions of civilians, who had left their home and hearth just to save their lives. All the army officers were not bad. Many of them were good Muslims. God fearing and one who hesitated to kill and refused to rape their own people. An army officer is required to kill and enemy but he is forbidden to rape his wife or sister or daughter or mother. I had a Punjabi friend by the name of Javed Akhtar. When I was posted in Mymensingh in 1961, as a young executive of a British Company called Ralli Brothers, he was transferred there as the Assistant Administer of the Martial Law that Ayub Khan had imposed. His boss Col. Malik and my boss Imran Faruqui were good friends and we often met socially. During the holidays, we played cricket and soccer together and soon became good friends. He said that he used to have a Bengali room mate during his training at the Kakul Academy and I reminded him of Zia. While playing soccer, he once broke his leg and had to be taken to CMH in Dhaka for treatment. He was touched when I took leave from my work and went to see him in Dhaka. After he returned, we became close friends. Then his battalion, the 6th. Frontier Force went back to West Pakistan and I started my own jute business after Ralli Brothers closed down in 1963. We remained in touch by correspondence. He used to write long letters, describing how he loved Bengal and the Bengalis who lived there. I too was tickled to have as a friend, a handsome Army Captain, who had earned the President's Pride of Performance award for being the first person to climb Mount K-2, which was the 2nd highest peak after mount Everest. Javed wrote me from Chamb Jurian, near the Kashmir border, where his battalion was positioned against the Indian Army. Then I received a wedding invitation. He wrote that he was getting married to his cousin who he dearly loved. I could not attend the wedding. But after the 1965 war with India, I went to West Pakistan and visited with him near the Sialkot border, where he was posted. He introduced me to his wife Firdaus and also gave me a brass artillery shell that he had taken out from a captured Indian Tank during the battle with them in September. He had my name inscribed on it. I brought it back all the way to Dhaka and had a tough time disposing it off during the next war with India in 1971. But what could I do with Javed? He showed up in my house one fine morning during the fight for independence. We were on opposite sides. Yet, I could not forget his hospitality when I visited him in Rawalpindi with my wife during our honeymoon in 1969. He had put his house and car at my disposal and went away to Gujarat to get his wife who was visiting her parents. We insisted that he need not do it and hurriedly left Rawalpindi for Murree. Now in Dhaka as the Sector Commanding Officer, Javed told me that he was worried about me and therefore tracked me down through some common friends. He said how bad he was feeling in seeing the hatred in the eyes of the very people that he loved so much a few years ago. He did not agree with the Pakistani policy of ruling by hook or crook and often felt like running away from it all. A Full Colonel, he was also heading a Commando Unit that had come to launch counter-attack against the Indian Force. He started visiting me regularly and I started getting nervous that my neighbors would think that I was collaborating with the Occupation Army. Since he was concerned about my welfare, I could not tell him "not to come." So I decided to move to a multi-storied building in Eskaton, where no one could keep track of people coming and going. He too disappeared for a while until one day during the month of November 1971, a group of army officers came and saluted me. They informed me that Col. Javed Akhtar had instructed them to inform me whe he died. He was blown up by an artillery shell during an operation in Shillong, across the Sylhet border, they said. " He had fought gallantly for three days" They said. I still remember those bright eyes and broad smile on his face. Javed Akhtar who had joined the army to serve his country was placed in a situation where he had to fight with his own countrymen. He was so concerned about me, a Bengali friend whose people had been declared an enemy by his Generals. I still have his wedding photograph with his wife. Sometimes I look at it and wonder where she might be and how she must have taken the news of his death. They did not have any children but she had woven a sweater for our daughter Mona and sent it with him when he had gone home on a short leave after she was born in the midst of all the war that was going on then. How Javed had helped us with the Curfew passes that we needed to go to the hospital during the nights of false alarms. It was a very sad experience for me to lose him and I could not help talking about him. During the Army Occupation of East Pakistan/ Bangladesh, although I continued with my struggle in the jute business, besides the breakdown of transportation and communication, I was warned by the underground political leaders not to cooperate with the present government by helping them export jute and earn foreign exchange. My response to them was that by defaulting on our jute contracts, we will push our jute buyers towards synthetics and might lose them for ever. I also had to make a living and survive. On the social scene, I strictly avoided going to parties where I felt that army officers or their supporters might be having fun during the miserable days that the rest of the country was passing. I had heard that during these parties they often bragged about bringing law and order situation under control at gun point and assured the West Pakistani industrialists that henceforth East Pakistan will remain a colony. I was not sure if I could refrain from picking up a fight. So I avoided them. The jute season starts in July-August, when the white crop in the low lying areas are cut and left in the standing water to wert for a couple of weeks. Tossa crop, which is more reddish in color and has more spinning quality starts coming to market from September. Our London Principals were worried about the current crop situation and the future of their jute industry. Same Bill Duncan, who was a friend of Yahya Khan, showed up in Dhaka. He requested me to take him around the country to asses the crop situation. He also wanted to know that how much of the country was under army occupation and what parts did the Mukti Bahini control. It was a big challenge for me to present the true picture to him. I also wanted to know what actually was going on. There was a big discrepancy between what the BBC reported and what the Pakistan Radio denied as not true. So, I decided to go to Khulna by Rocket ( Steamer Service) with my car in it and then drive back via Jessore, Kushtia and Faridpur. What an adventurous fellow! My wife was just finding out about my stupidities but she was too young to understand and too new to complain. She would kill me if I try to do this now. Not realizing that she was doing it only to save my life! >From the Steamer, we could not see much except noticing that at places the jute crop was standing ready to be harvested but the farmer had run away because of army operation. We reached Khulna the next day after enjoying the sights of Sunderbans and watching the fishermen catching Hilsa fish or Illish Maach where the river met the sea. No signs of the Pathan army there. Perhaps they were afraid of the water. I have heard that they take bath only once or at best twice year. I wonder if this is true. Daulatpur is a big jute centre with Pucca Baling facilities to export them from the Chalna Port. We visited the jute godowns of Ispahani and Afiluddin and talked to various brokers and traders. They all confirmed that the crop was not short but transporting them to the centre was a big problem. Also, there was a labor shortage. People were afraid of the army who forced them to work free and of the Mukti Bahinis, who wanted them not to work at all. After spending a night at the People's Jute Mills guest house, we prepared to leave for Dhaka by car. The Bihari driver of the Mill, who took my car for a check up and for filling the tank etc. informed me that the bearded Bengali Engineer of the adjacent Crescent Jute Mill, had shot down many Bihari workers from his Bungalow there and then ran away to his village home in Feni, Noakhali. I gave up the idea of visiting my brother-in-law's house there. He was talking about him. Poor Dulabhai had somehow managed to save his and his children's life by catching a boat just before the army reached there to round up Bengali officers. These lies and rumors often add fuel to the fire of hatred that burns in the heart of racially motivated greedy people, whose mission is to kill and loot innocent people. They wait for their chance and mostly do it in the name of religion. But this time it had to be the language because the victims were Muslims too. What a shame. Driving the 40 miles of metalled road from Khulna to Jessore, we came across five or six army check posts. Having a white man in the car helped. I told them that this was a friend of Yahya Khan, who was on his way to meet Tikka Khan in Dhaka. Except for one, they all saluted us. Soon after passing the Jessore Cantonment, we realized that the army had no control there. In Magura, we were stopped by the Mukhti Bahini. I explained to them that Bill was scouting on behalf of the British Jute Industry and I was assisting him in assessing the correct situation. Polite and courteous, they told me to convey to him that things were not normal and they controlled the country with the exception of few cities that had army cantonments, which was a fact and I thought that Bill Duncan understood it. But I was furious when he went back and reported to the British press that everything was normal in East Pakistan. I sent him a telex protesting against his statement. His reply came by mail. He wrote me a long letter. In his letter, he explained that although he saw and agreed that things were far from normal, he could not make a public statement to that effect. Because then the jute market in Dundee will hit the roof and his group of mills,( Jute Industries International) will have to suffer a huge loss. He apologized to me and to other Bengalis for lying. Later on, after Bangladesh became independent, his letter came very handy. Bill Duncan was leading a three men British delegation, which included Eric Robinson of D.Pirie & Co, and Steve Stevenson of Ralli Brothers and which was coming to the new country with a mission to make new purchase of jute and at the same time renew the old contracts that had become null and void because East Pakistan did not exist anymore. Mustafa Sarwar, an Awami League MNA and a jute exporter, blocked the entry of Bill Duncan because of his previous public statement that the country was normal when it was not. The British delegation refused to come without their leader and they started buying jute from India. I contacted the Prime Minister's office and showed Bill Duncan's old letter to Sheik Sahib's Principal Secretary, Mr Rafiqulla Chowdhury, who was also related to me. We got the permission for Bill Duncan to enter and the Jute Delegation from Dundee renewed the old contracts at a higher price and made fresh purchases. We needed to convert our jute into British Pounds. They also wanted to meet Bongo Bondhu and convince him not to nationalize the jute export at this critical juncture. Dundee Mills were on the verge of replacing their old spinning and weaving machines and they were afraid that by nationalizing the jute export, Bangladesh will force them to replace them by machines for synthetics fabrics. Sheikh Sahib felt committed to nationalize the banks as well as major industries including jute. He therefore refused to meet the British Delegation. We all know what followed next. Synthetics replaced jute and the jute mills in Bangladesh could not sustain the loss of their market share. Even Adamjee Jute Mill is closed today. On December 16, 1971 while Niazi and his soldiers and collaborators were heading towards the Ramna Race Course Maidan to lay down their arms and sign the surrender agreement, I was frantically searching for something else. We were going through the jars of rice and lentils at my in-laws place in Shantinagar, looking for a watch that I had purchased in London months before and given to my wife's grandmother for safe keeping. She had hidden it somewhere in the pantry for fear of the army looters who would enter the house during the curfew hours and take away the valuables. This watch was a birthday present for my wife and today was her birthday. We found the watch inside a jar. I gave it to her and hurried back to my brother-in-law's house in Tipu Sultan Road, where we had shifted after the Indian plane had dropped the bomb in Eskaton near Darul Kabob. This was our third house in three months and it appeared that it was going to be the last one. On December 14, 2001 as we were standing on the roof, we saw some rockets or missiles, heading our way from the Demra side. It was more frightening than the sight of the Russian Mig 21 planes that we had seen from the roof of out six storied apartment building in Eskaton, bombing the Kurmitola and Tejgaon airports. We were not afraid then and in fact my brother Naim and I used to run up to the roof top and watch the sortie of four planes diving one after the other. The bombing stopped after they destroyed the runway and the Pakistani Air Force was grounded for good. Missiles and rockets were signs of renewed aerial attacks. We started apprehending that the Indian Air Force will resort to indiscriminate bombing . Why would they lose their lives fighting with 90, 000 enemy force on the ground when they can take care of them from the sky that they now controlled? In that process, we too would be killed. We thought. It was decided that we should start digging bunkers. My brother-in-law also decided that food will have to be rationed as this war might prolong. We were not happy. Why not live comfortably in our dying days? We suggested. He disagreed and we started digging the bunkers thinking that in might serve as our grave. On December 15, we drove towards Adamjee Jute Mills to purchase Kerosene oil, which was no longer available in Dhaka. We also wanted to survey the activities of the Pakistani army and wanted to know if they were making preparation to fight the Indian army that was expected to come to Dhaka after over running the Comilla Cantonment. We expected to see them sitting in bunkers. But we could only see an army truck that stopped us and asked where we were going? When we told them that we were heading towards Adamjee Jute Mills to pick up some Kerosene oil, they said we could not do that and turned us back. They looked in high spirit and we could not detect any signs of surrender. On December 16, after wishing my wife a happy birthday, when I returning to Tipu Sultan Road, my brother told me that a man living in Narinda had gone berserk. He had climbed the terrace of his house with his four older children and started shooting at the Freedom Fighters, who were returning home after accomplishing their mission of liberating the country. Then we heard that it was Idris, a short thin man, who had an ice cream parlor at Gulistan Cinema. I knew the man and could not believe that he could do such a thing. Eventually, Idris and couple of his children were killed by the people he was shooting at. There were many cases like that. Revenge and counter revenge. While the Pakistani army was given protection by the Indian army, after they laid down their arms, the Razakars ran amok without protection and many of them were killed. Hunted by the people whose near and dear ones they had killed or had helped getting killed during the nine months of nightmare that that was triggered on March 23, 1971. Now slogans of Joy Bangla and Bangladesh Zindabad could be heard everywhere. Local boys and girls welcomed the Mukhti Bahanis marching in with their guns and shooting in the air. In the evening, I went to the Government House whose gates were flung open to the public. Governor Malik was missing. It was reported that he was hiding somewhere in old Dhaka. Then we heard that he came and surrendered himself at the Dhaka Inter-Continental Hotel. Which is now Sheraton Hotel. At the Government House I met some old friends who had heard that I was no longer alive. I looked for my friends, class mates, Samad and Nurul Qader who had gone away to India to work for independence there. They were not there but someone confirmed that they were alive and well. No one was sure who they will see alive and who they will never see. Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, who was still detained in a Pakistani jail with Kamal Hossain, was also a doubtful case. One could not be sure if Bhutto will let them come home or have them killed in frustration. The power hungry Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto had his own game plan. He knew that the people in West Pakistan, who had voted for him will now blame him for the dismemberment of Pakistan. It was he who had refused to abide by the election results and declared that if Sheikh Mujibur Rahman became the Prime Minister of Pakistan, he will burn the country from Khyber to Karachi. It was he who had convinced Yahya Khan to take the army action. It was because of him that Pakistan was now cut into half. But as shrewd as he was, he sent Sheikh Mujibur Rahman to London and convinced him to make a public statement that he was against the creation of Pakistan and therefore a co-conspirator in the Agartala case against Pakistan. Which was not so. But by doing it, SMR restored the credibility of ZAB in Pakistan. It could be that a statement like that was a condition of his release. But we were glad to have him back. I remember the day when Sheikh Mujibur Rahman was scheduled to come home. We had moved back to our Eskaton flat. Some boys came to borrow my station wagon on the pretext that they were going to the airport to receive him. I told them that my wife and I were going to his house in Dhanmondi and wait for him there with his daughter Hasina. I offered to take them along. They backed out. We went there and was warmly welcomed by Hasina and her mother Begum Mujibur Rahman. While Mrs. Rahman was a friend of my older sister, Hasina was a class friend of my wife and would often come to her house in Fuller road during lunch breaks. We took our daughter Mona along. Hasina's son Joy is of the same age. Both of them about six months old. They laid side by side, his nose prominently protruding as opposed to our daughter's somewhat flattish nose. Begum Rahman advised Saba to pull it while massaging with mustard oil. Sheikh Sahib would be seeing his grandson for the first time. We asked Shaikh Hasina about his possible reaction. She said that he had promised to retire from politics after he had a grand child. Don't we all wish that he had? Perhaps he might still be alive with the rest of his family. Perhaps! ------------------------ Yahoo! Groups Sponsor --------------------~--> Know an art & music fan? Make a donation in their honor this holiday season! http://us.click.yahoo.com/.6dcNC/.VHMAA/Zx0JAA/uTGrlB/TM --------------------------------------------------------------------~-> -- This is ZESTGlobal. Post articles on international affairs to [email protected] If you got this mail as a forward, subscribe to ZESTGlobal by sending a blank mail to [EMAIL PROTECTED] OR, if you have a Yahoo! ID, by visiting http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ZESTGlobal/join/ Yahoo! Groups Links <*> To visit your group on the web, go to: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ZESTGlobal/ <*> To unsubscribe from this group, send an email to: [EMAIL PROTECTED] <*> Your use of Yahoo! Groups is subject to: http://docs.yahoo.com/info/terms/
