Islets of memory

THERE is no event bigger than the Liberation War in the history of the Bangali nation. A hundred years from now, the Liberation War will still remain alive in discussion. The true import of the birth of a language-based nation among Bangalis will be analysed from different perspectives. It was an event of immense significance. Like our soil, our sky, our rivers, our sea, our mountains, the Liberation War will remain forever alive in our history. It seems to me that even those of us who took part in the Liberation War and experienced it very closely in many different ways -- as observers and as participants -- do not quite grasp clearly its true worth.

Events that leave a long term impact in history do not appear in their full shape all at once. Nor can the people of today imagine how the futurity would assess the event.

It would not be impossible to compose an epic based on the extent to which I saw, knew and experienced the Liberation War. This is not the era of epics though. Nor is there the right milieu and occasion for writing an epic. I only write -- on different occasions -- bits and pieces of memories that flash into my mind now and then in an attempt to relieve myself.

I will express only very personal feelings in the present text. These are entirely my own feelings; one may not be quite able to relate them directly to the larger course of events of the War. Yet it is true that it was the circumstances of the War of Liberation that gave rise to these personal feelings.

Let me recount the first feeling. We -- around 1.5 million Bangladeshis -- took refuge in Agartala, the capital of Tripura. The population of Agartala was around three hundred thousand. With the flood of Bangali refugees, the life of Agartala natives came to a standstill. Prices of goods skyrocketed. Coming from the then East Pakistan, we were totally surprised at the prevailing high prices.

Let me give an example. In 1971, a boiled egg would cost 4 anna,  (25 pice), in Dhaka. In Agartala hotels, I found that a boiled egg would cost 1 Taka 4 anna. In any case, let me come back to my topic.

One day, we, 10-12 youths, spent the whole evening in a discussion meeting. None of us ate anything in the afternoon. When the meeting wrapped up, we went to the kitchen (langarkhana) of MBB College Hostel where we also lodged, and found that the tiffin period was over. We were hungry as bears. So we had to go to Agartala town to find something to eat.

When we reached there, we found all eateries were closed. We became acquainted with a hotel owner. He had not closed his shop. We went in. The food was finished, he told us. He would have food cooked for us if we paid double.

We did not have a second choice. The man went to the back room and called to the cook to wake up. The woman had dozed off. Rattled by the disruption in sleep, she asked: "What's the matter at such a late hour?" The man said: "Joy Bangla customers have come. Need to cook a meal for them." The woman said angrily: "To hell with Joy Bangla or Khoy Bangla! I can't work at this late hour."

Hearing 'Khoy Bangla' from her hurt us more than it angered. Granted, we were refugees. Still, how could one insult the word that stood for our liberty! Needless to say, none of us could make himself eat that night.

Let me now come to the second incident. There is an alley in Calcutta, called Antony Bagan Lane, situated between Shealda and Rajabajar. Walk through Sir P.C. Roy Road, move past the Surya Sen Street northward and there you will find the Antony Bagan Lane. I had to go to there day in and day out.

Muktadhara office of Chitta Babu was at 6, Antony Bagan Lane. He was printing my book 'Jagroto Bangladesh.' I used to go there for checking the proofs. I met Mazharul Islam at 9, Antony Bagan Lane. We became friends.

Mr. Islam owned a leftist publishing house. He was a member of CPM and quite close to Kakababu Comrade Muzaffar Ahmed. We were introduced to Kakababu via Mr. Islam. It was Mr. Islam who would help us if we faced any trouble. His house was something of a sanctuary for us. I and Naren Da (Professor Naren Biswas) would go to his house at any time, with or without a reason.

I set foot in Calcutta in the month of July. Every day, as I walked down the P.C. Roy Road into Antony Bagan, I would see a Bangladeshi flag flying on a bamboo pole beside the banyan tree Shani Puja site. Not the present flag with a red sun on a green ground. It was the flag of the original design created by Shibnarayan Das with the map of Bangladesh in it. No one would lower the flag even in the evening.

One day, I was returning late in the evening and found that someone had lit a big candle at the bottom of the flag. Whoever it might be, there were people in Calcutta who would feel so strongly for our national flag! I felt so moved! Every day, as I walked by, I would stand for a few minutes beside the flag in silence. For me it was like a private prayer.

At the end of July, it began raining heavily. One day, I saw the flag had faded with all the rainwater. No one was lighting a candle anymore. Day after day, the flag rotted in the pouring rain and slowly became tattered. I was deeply struck witnessing the sorry state of our national flag.

At that point, the future of the Liberation War of Bangladesh was on a somewhat shaky ground. Where the War was heading to and what fate it would bear for us was anybody's guess. In my mind, I would liken the tattered flag to our precarious fate.

At the end of August, as I was returning from Antony Bagan, I found the pole standing bare, with no sign of the flag. It hurt me so profoundly that I wept all night.

Now, the third incident. It was December 16. The previous night had passed in deep tension. The result of the war was up for endless speculation. Everybody was saying that surrender of Pakistani army was just round the corner. My body was aching severely. Mainly to freshen myself up, I went to Darbhanda Bhaban of Calcutta University. The head office of the Teachers Assistance Committee for Bangladesh was in that Bhaban. Shri Dilip Chakrabarty (who later became MP during the Janata govt.) was the General Secretary of the Teachers Assistance Committee. Dilip Babu was very warm-hearted and tender to me. He would always give us sundry assignments and pay some money in return. The assignments were pretexts for helping us with some money while taking great care not to hurt our sense of dignity. I remember with sincere gratitude that, for a span of time, the money Dilip Babu gave us was the sole means of subsistence for the motley crew of a family that we made in Udayan Dormitory. I was a special favourite of Dilip Babu and he trusted me. At times he would go beyond his means in trying to help me out.

Let me now come to December 16. It was 10:00 AM or 10:30 AM -- or it could be 11:00AM. Suddenly a loud bang was heard at the Presidency College corner -- as if a thousand firecrackers had exploded at once. Panic spread rapidly in the Darbhanga Bhaban. Some thought that Naxals were bombing in the streets.

Dilip Babu was outside. He rushed in and said: "It's no frippery! Dhaka has fallen; boys are celebrating with firecrackers."

At once, joy swept all over the Darbhanga Bhaban. I was the only Bangladeshi present there. Everyone would come to hug me. I was also responding mechanically. But a different thought was running through my mind. We had been fighting the Pakistanis since 1948. Our fight had turned into a fight between India and Pakistan. The Pakistani army surrendered not to us, but to the Indian military. I joined the celebration with everyone else. Dhaka has fallen, I said to myself -- everything is fine. We have entered a new struggle.

The writer was an eminent litterateur and activist. 

Translated by Tahmidal Zami.  Source: Dainik Ittefaq, December 16, 1995.