Daily Times

It was a dark, gloomy evening when I was introduced to the air of present day Bangladesh. As the engines of the plane came to a halt, I glimpsed out from the window of the plane; the dark grey clouds in the sky seemed depressed to me and the fast growing darkness filled my senses with a strange fear of the approaching night.

The face of Dadi had been my solace through the journey; her smile enlightened my mood as I closed my eyes and tried to cherish my last days at home. Back in Lahore Baba had often told me about uncle Nafees-ud-Din and his son Mortaza who was the same age as me and I had often imagined how the boy would be in reality. I had seen a picture of him as a baby, which uncle Nafees-ud-Din had sent Baba when he was born, but you cannot make out the face of a man from that of a baby’s!

I met Mortaza for the first time when I was nine. Baba got posted from Lahore to Chittagong on November 1969. I was finding it very difficult to adjust to the new setting and I am sure if Mortaza had not come along I would not have survived my days in Chittagong. My father, now a Major in the army from Punjab regiment posted in EPCF, had lived here earlier before he got married and had many Bengali friends, but most important of them all was uncle Nafees-ud-Din, who was a lecturer at Fojdar Hot Cadet College, Chittagong. It was his first visit to Chittagong after his marriage and it was almost after a decade. As for me I missed home and felt I would not be able to adopt the new environment as my new abode of solace. But Mortaza changed it all!

To my surprise, Mortaza turned out to be a skinny little boy with thick black oily hair, an inch taller than me. His limbs were thin and frail and complexion darker than mine. But there was something in his deep dark brown eyes that assured me of the comfort and trust I needed to survive away from home. The day we arrived at Chittagong uncle Nafees-ud-Din met us at the airport and took us straight to his house. Mortaza was also a single child as me and we shared a magical bond the day we met. He was sensitive, kind and the politest human being on earth. He talked slowly and tried to comfort me by sharing his special remote control car that my father had brought him as a gift. We stayed a few days at uncle Nafees-ud-Din’s house till we finally moved into our own allotted place. In two weeks me and Mortaza were best friends. He had told me everything about the school; the books, the teachers, the play areas and where to get the best candy ice cream from. It was no surprise that after moving into our own home we visited Mortaza’s place once a week atleast. Often I stayed for a sleep over. Like Mortaza his parents were also very hospitable and kind. Like fathers and sons our mothers also became good friends and started going shopping to places. Soon Ami started to mix Punjabi with Bengali to make sense of our new home.

On January 2, 1971 I turned eleven. I was very happy to know that Mortaza was still 10. “Haha! Don’t forget I grew older earlier!!” his birthday was in April and that made me three months older to him. Somehow, we Pakistanis have a very unique sense of an elder. Elders get special respect in our households. You are not supposed to defy them in any way; one is not even to raise the tone of voice in front of an elder even if they don’t agree to what we say. No wonder I always got what I wanted from Dadi even when Baba would say no! So, to be elder to Mortaza was quite satisfying, almost as if I were the big brother who could keep him safe, who could guide him and suggest things.

As life proceeded with quick succession of days over nights, me and Mortaza were almost like brothers, and our families came closer too for the sake of the joy we shared when in each other’s company. In their hearts our mothers found the solace that their children had met company and would no more suffer from the loneliness, for we were in an age where imaginary friends were no good any more. But it was not just our love that grew, our influences on each other also formed very quickly. I started learning Bengali very quickly and Mortaza really got inspired by my father and decided to join the army when he grew up. He also told me that uncle Nafees-ud-Din’s first cousin Tajassur was also in the army and was posted in West Pakistan. One day while he insisted that we should both join the army, I told him, “I will be a doctor. I like the army but I want to save human lives. I don’t like killing others. And also because Ami wants me to be a doctor.” With naïve ambitions we swayed into the days of summer slowly.

No matter how indifferent children seem, they can always sense the stress and anxiety on a parent’s face. The parents’ anxiety somehow makes the air their children breathe heavier for them.

Even though we had no idea of the adult political situation of the globe, still the ever growing low toned murmurs of our parents spread in the air around us like influenza germs. With no clue to the severity of the disease that was spreading fast like a hushed, silent cancer, we kept on eavesdropping at Baba’s study or the kitchen where our mothers would share serious adult talk and their feministic, hopeful swing of ideas. It was the growing anxious faces of our parents that led us to our pseudo political talks.

“Baba is very busy these days and when he comes home he seems tired and worried.”

“Yes, father also seems depressed, I heard him saying yesterday that the youth needs excitement and thrill of rebellion but they don’t know the facts. Some of his students came over last night and they had a long discussion.”

I continued with what I had picked up at night from Baba and Ami’s conversation. I heard Baba and Ami talk. “The perpetuators are spreading mischief and they are turning the flow of events towards violence so that East Pakistan can be separated”

“Why doesn’t Yahya accept the six-point agenda of Mujib? Won’t it avert all looming dangers?” Ami asked Baba while serving him evening tea.

“I don’t know Rahila but our high command suspects the intentions of Sheikh Sab, they believe he is in quest of separation since long which is his real agenda”, taking me in his lap he continued, “But Sheikh Sab enjoys a vast support here and all we need is a political settlement which can bring long lasting peace.”

Since we could not understand the cause of the growing unrest, we decided to secretly listen to our parents’ conversations. It was the end of the same month. And from what we had gathered so far we could tell others that the separatist movement had started influencing the local youth particularly the students.

Nonetheless, both Baba and uncle Nafees-ud-Din rejected the separatist propaganda.

Uncle even indulged in arguments with his students who got highly inspired to get rid of the cosmic government. The student groups believed that they should have their government and that India would be a trustworthy ally.

Baba and uncle Nafees-ud-Din felt dismayed at the situation and believed that confrontation would be a disaster which would only demean the dream of the country’s forefathers.

They discussed how the Government should take a bold decision immediately and reach to political compromise.

Uncle was disappointed to see how quickly the students fell a prey to the foreign propaganda. Through various sources he came to know of the foreign agendas working underground to instigate the locals and colour the usual social issues into a political deprivations and racism.

Through all this conversation we could pick up phrases like, “MuktiBahini”, “the brainwashing of the youth by foreign intruders”, “slogans like Jay Bangla”, “hope for the best” and “be safe”. Later at school we came to know about the ideas of a separate home for Bengalis and the ultimate question of “Who should rule the patch of earth given to humans by God and why?”

Now I often think how quick it was that the foreign propaganda turned to political agenda and agenda to separatist movement just like a seed sprouting out of the ground, growing overnight into a tall, dark tree, spreading its black twining boughs all around like the web of a spider.

“Ahmed, I tell you these devils would not rest unless they bleed this country”, uncle Nafeesud Din banged his fist on the table and continued, “Don’t you remember Agartala Case of 1966 where some traitors tried to take control of Comila Cantonment?”

To my surprise, Mortaza turned out to be a skinny little boy with thick black oily hair, an inch taller than me. His limbs were thin and frail and complexion darker than mine. But there was something in his deep dark brown eyes that assured me of the comfort and trust I needed to survive away from home

Baba replied in dismay, “We have to be careful Nafees-ud-Din, I fear the day when one Muslim brother would point gun on other for the reason not known to them”, “They won’t allow peace brother, they won’t allow peace — no way — They won’t—–“,Uncle Nafees-ud-Din almost cried.

I always saw him a happy smiling man but today I saw his wet eyes, I felt my heart sinking “I see how our enemies are exploiting geographical contiguity, they are playing with us, how they can forget creation of this Pak Watan against all odds, they won’t allow peace Ahmed, They won’t.”

“Calm down Nafees-ud-Din we will get away with this yar, I never thought you would lose heart, be brave, difficult times come to great nations.”

Baba rose from his chair, tapped uncle’s shoulder, “Come on let me play a new song of Noor Jahan for you, I bet it would bring smile on your face.”

During all these conversations the best me and Mortaza could do was exchange questioning glances with our parents, which were always ignored. In our own time we tried to make sense but mostly we wanted to play cricket and fly kites since politics was neither our interest nor our concern at the time.

It was early February. I was doing homework sitting with Ami. Baba was in his study apparently on phone with Dadi back in Lahore. Suddenly in a rush uncle Nafees-ud-Din showed up at the door without Mortaza! Since he seemed upset I thought something had happened to Mortaza for he always accompanied uncle when he visited our house. “Was he sick? Did he have an accident? Everything was ok at school, then where is he?” before I could ask about Mortaza, uncle Nafees-ud-Din rushed straight into my father’s study and closed the door. As Ami went to the kitchen I went up to the study and sat at the door with my left ear glued to it, uncle Nafees-ud-Din was in a rage and Baba was trying to calm him down. Apparently a person named Mohit had visited himat college and tried to influence him that East and West Pakistan had no future together and soon the country will break into two pieces and that he must help him to direct youth’s energies into separatist movement. But uncle in his rage swore that he would do everything to undo the heinous plot, though in his heart he knew that reluctance of political elite and foreign conspiracies had made the situation worse. The visitor cautioned uncle to act wisely and threatened, in the politest way, of serious consequences for his behaviour.

“These devils tell me soon Pakistan would divide, I swear I would spill my last drop of blood to undo their monstrous designs” uncle Nafees-ud-Din’s voice was getting louder and louder.

“Nafeesdidn’t you inform your administration?” Baba asked in a low tone.

“They won’t listen to me Ahmed, they won’t; things are changing rapidly since Mujib’s visit to London, few say he with his pseudo allies have marked a final road map to wage a war of liberation.”

It was the eve of 1st March when Baba came home with a worried face.

When Ami inquired he told that President

had postponed the meeting of general assembly which was scheduled on 3rd March and it could give rise to serious protests and riots. Baba told me to stay at home and quit school for a few days. Ami was also instructed not to leave the house without Baba.

Baba was right. Mobs were taking control of the city, attacks first on police stations and small government offices like post offices and telephone communication centres and the movement spread rapidly like a wild fire in educational institutions too. Ami and I would listen to horrifying reports on the radio. But we would feel the real agony when our neighbours’ servants and Baba’s colleagues would narrate the tales of sheer barbarism which was engulfing the peace of the city.

Uncle Nafees-ud-Din told us that Dacca University was taken over by Awami League’s workers and arms and ammunition were stocked up there.

Late at night Ami’s panicked voice gained my attention. Whenever I found Ami disturbed I failed to concentrate on any other thing. Like always I wanted to help and hence went into Baba’s study where I found her talking to Dadi on phone, telling her of the situation getting worse with every passing day. She told her that raged mobs had been attacking West Pakistanis and Beharis and that she should pray for us. Suddenly she started crying and told her how the mob broke into an officer’s house and killed the family at night. “Ami-Jan you won’t believe what they did to their 11 months old baby….” She started crying heavily and looking at me pointed me to leave the room. As I moved out, jammed again to the door from the outside, I heard her cry out “set the house on fire…”

Since our school was shut down because of political unrest, me and Mortaza had no choice but to talk on phone once a day. What an agony it was to stay away from your best friend, not to be able to leave the house, no kite flying, no sport, just all day sitting by the radio or TV and listen to terrible news.

It was 7th March when I heard Baba telling uncle Nafees-ud-Din that Sheikh Mujib had announced his own parallel government and demanded public offices, banks, and business centres to cut off communication with West Pakistan. I didn’t understand what difference would it make but I could guess from their faces that things were deteriorating.

“They burned our national flag Rahila! How can they do that?” They have made their own flag and have hoisted on every rooftop.” Baba told Ami with immense grief in his eyes. Suddenly I recalled me and Mortaza flying kites on our rooftop when Mortaza’s kite got caught and torn by one of the new flags on a rooftop not far from ours. “Don’t they see we gained this country at the expense of millions of lives?”, “Don’t they realise we have weathered so many storms in this short span of time after independence? They say March 23 will be celebrated as Resistance day-Can’t they see it was the day when the foundation of this greatest Muslim state was laid?” I saw anger accompanying grief in his eyes and I could sense he was so disturbed by today’s event.

The writers are academicians based in Islamabad