Non-fiction
Memories of a War
Sixteen December 1971 lay in wait, for them to embrace a catastrophic and a most ignominious defeat that they could never dream of. It dealt a double below to them as all of Bangladesh was completely liberated by a two-pronged attack coming from two distinct forces, against one and the same enemy.
We lived in Mymensingh, in the East Pakistan Agricultural University area in a quiet, lush green environment beside which flows the old Brahmaputra. Like every nook and cranny of Bangladesh that came under savage attack by the occupation army, this campus too witnessed atrocities in terms of plunder, destruction, murder and rape for days and nights, for months together. The occupation soldiers made it one of their headquarters, to carry out their evil operations. As Bengalis often are, teachers got themselves divided into two camps immediately after they had settled on the campus. The army operations were of diverse kinds, which I still remember vividly after forty long years. One such horrifying and heart-reading incident took place when, early one afternoon, I heard the screams and cries of men and women from our balcony at the back and could not make out what it all was. I was told by a vendor a little later that the Pakistani soldiers had pounced upon the women at the menials quarters lined by the bank of the river at that site. He also added that it was one of their regular forays for fulfilling their beastly motives. Total helplessness enveloped every moment of the lives of the Bengalis. No mercy was shown. And they were 'pucca' Muslims whereas we were not!
I remember another day when all government officials were ordered to attend a meeting at the Mymensingh Town Hall that was to be addressed by a brigadier and some others. As part of the Teachers Training College for women, we were there as required. From the brigadier's speech, one warning still reverberates in my ears: if any Bengali was found to have any connection with the 'Muktis' (they never uttered Bahini with it), he would be chopped into pieces and thrown into the river that flowed by. I felt pity for the DC of Mymensingh as he sat on the dais like a lamb in the company of hungry wolves. And what wolves they were, constantly on the lookout for prey, unlike real wolves which have a sense of proportion, time and place behind their acts. In the soldiers' estimation, Bengalis were inferior to them, but they hardly knew that in our estimation they were much inferior to some of the wildest of animals. Even comparing them with animals will be demeaning for the creatures in the animal kingdom, I suppose.
At the campus we found the army officers as well as the jawans afflicted with an all-pervasive Mukti Bahini phobia. Why else would they panic seeing one or two drops of blood from a freshly slaughtered chicken, collected from the university poultry farm after a long hunt for food, on our staircase or look under the beds in search of any Mukti hiding there or lift the mosquito net from the cradle of my ten-month old baby son to see if there was a real baby lying there or a pack of bombs kept hidden under? They would not leave our flat till they were satisfied in their own way. They looked strong, behaved with a strong demeanour but in fact always were shaky inside.
In their wantonness and depravity that guided their lives in everything, they would enter any house of the university teachers, feeling absolutely no qualms about it. In the guise of searching for Muktis, they would do it. It so happened that on one of their regular forays, they entered the house of one teacher (it was their second visit). They asked the family about an older girl whom they had seen on the first day. "Woh barha larhki kahan hai?" They wanted to know. On the other extreme were the tales that brought us some relief, however transient, with dashes of humour added to them, of course, by the Bengalis. One such story thought up by some educated housewives discouraged the use of words such as 'Kaka' (uncle) and also suggested that one not call one's pet bird a Kakatua (someone had it). Rather 'Chachatua' was to be the term when confronted by the enemy.
With the passage of time, spectacles of jawans, officers, their movements and vehicles became part of our regular days. One morning, from the front balcony of our flat, I noticed a soldier or two or a few together walking away from the places and bunkers where they had lived. They were not in their usual gait, but rather listless, with their heads down perhaps in despondency. This morning was in stark contrast with all those that had passed before. We could not make out the situation for sometime as they went on walking past, but in the distance we heard the faint yet approaching sound of Joy Bangla. One could believe neither one's eyes nor one's ears. We remained confounded. Although mind-boggling, the sensation soon dissipated as we found meaning in it. And what a joy we felt at this sudden turn of events! To us, it was sudden. To them who had fought day and night, in rain or shine, risking their lives, it had been a long-drawn war that ultimately ended, albeit at a very high price. As the Pakistani soldiers retreated, they blew up the Shombhuganj bridge in broad daylight, rocking and shattering the adjoining areas, including part of the university campus. The constant hovering of Indian planes over our heads, the incessant noise of shelling caused by the retreating army as it passed through the jungles of Modhupur right before entering the volatile battlefields of Tangail, where young men inspired and energized by the valour and indomitable spirit of Kader Siddiqui remained vigilant, it appeared to us to be a replica of the total war. Later we saw the car of the Pakistani brigadier, twisted beyond recognition, lying at the bottom of the canal. People of that locality would proudly point it out to anyone passing through that road to and from Dhaka.
Calm prevailed on the following few days. We soon ventured into town. One day, as a few of us teachers went around some deserted houses, we found in one a mutilated male body lying in a dried-up well. On one side of the main road connecting the town to the university campus, we noticed part of a leg chopped off from the knee lying along with garbage heaped there. We were speechless. We knew in our heart of hearts that it was only the tip of the iceberg. Although the Pakistan army was not physically there any longer, nevertheless we felt as much fear in our hearts as memories of their atrocities were still alive.
And, of course, retributive justice has been meted out to them through their humiliating defeat; and by the crumbling of their country where peace has become elusive.
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