Mohendro Adhikary
Cinematographer: Naeem Mohaiemen
Duration: 00:33:58; Aspect Ratio: 1.364:1; Hue: 38.622; Saturation: 0.015; Lightness: 0.318; Volume: 0.144; Cuts per Minute: 0.147; Words per Minute: 88.156
Summary: Interview starts with breakdown of talks between Mujib and Yahya in March 1971, and cancelling of national assembly. Clouds of war.
Come out of your homes... come on to the streets... like Sheikh Mujib said, "How dare Bhutto says this! He haa done this on Yahya Khan's advice."
It was a terrible situation! I can't describe it!
I somehow walked down to the college. There was no rickshaw. They were too aftaid to come out.
They thought Section 144 would be imposed, curfew would be clamped, or there'd be firing, and the Punjabi army would come out the cantonment.
When I reached my college, my colleagues, "DInn't you hear the news?"
"What news?" I asked.
"Forming the National Assembly has been postponed for a year."
"People are pouring into the street to protest."
"They are very much agitated."
Then I came back.
The first two weeks in March were terrible. then the 25th March massacre took place in Dhaka.
Even then we couldn't grasp the situation.
My landlord was a bachelor.
He was above 70 then.
He still used to work
There was a renowned advocate called Girindra Nath Sarkar or 'Biren' Sarkar who used to visit him.
I used to be around sometimes.
I listened to their conversation.
They were much senior to me.
They used to discuss politics.
Curfew was clamped on Rajsahi after the 25th March incidents.
Hindus were not yet targeted then.
It was later realised that the army was torturing everyone in general, but particularly one community.
But at that time they were killing their political opponents -- Awami Leagure or NAP -- whether they were Hindus or Muslims.
Maybe later they changed their policy and addred a communal colour.
Through the window, I saw bloody bodies being carted down the street.
Advocated Shital Chakraborty was originally from the Karam village.
He lived in a rented house and carried out his legal practice.
He did not feel it safe to stay in Natore town any more.
He had two-three grown-up daughters and two sons. His friend, a trader named Jyotish Saha had ten daughters and two sons.
Both these families went back to the village and put up at Shitalbabu's house.
He was a neighbour of one of my colleagues. They lived beside a river.
In the town, the army and the Biharis were preparing to launch their assault. They thought they would be safe in the village.
We used to sleep on the floor.
The looting, I think, was to create terror.
The looters won't get anything much from us. We had barely taken our valuable documents, a few clothes and 60 takas with us.
But they could beat us.
Fearing this, my wife and I took shelter in the house of a local fisherman named Subal Haldar.
I must acknowledge that some gentlemen in the village supported and encouraged us very much.
After a month, seeing it was becoming a burden for the man, we along with some other families shifted to a srudents' mess.
But how to survive? My wife was then in an advanced stage of pregnancy.
She wasn't getting proper medical attention.
Her feet were swelling.
I became puzzled.
Seeing my condition, a local primary school teacher called Nuru Bhai, a tailor called Ahmed Sa'b and his nephew Safi used to provide me with food.
Ahmed Sa'd even stitched a blowse for my wife.
He also gave me a shirt.
You can't imagine how people came forward to hlep in other people's distress.
One cannot forget it.
Some eight-ten days passed like this.
But meanwhile, someone had stolen the clothes we'd hung up to dry.
We had only one set of clothes left.
If we had told the people who gave us food they would have got us clothes, but we couldn't tell them.
One day, I heard shouts from Shital Chakraborty's house.
There were also cries for help.
I realised that the rumours that we'd heard during the day had come true.
The house was looted.
The businessman, Jyotish Saha, who was also staying there, had stuffed a pillow with money.
The looters took away the pillow.
They became paupers in a moment.
The looters came from the neighbouring village.
They didn't have any political agenda. They just made use of the lawless situation.
They didn't kill anybody though.
But the gravest incident occurred on 7 May.
By that time, the liberation fighters had arrived at the village.
The army had set up camp at Uttara Bhavan.
Pro-liberation people rounded up from various places were brought there and butchered.
A man, supposedly a Muslim League member, informed them that many liberation fighters at Kalam village.
And that many Hindu families from Natore town had also taken refuge there.
So, the soldiers landed in two or three jeeps.
It was eight or nine in the morning. My wife was cooking rice in an earthen pot on a fire made with dry coconut leaves.
The rice was almost done.
At that moment, there was a sound of gunfire.
The army!
We, all the families, began to flee, directionless.
Someone came running and told us they had killed some people in a brushfire.
The army was at the marketplace.
We were busy fleeing, leaving behind our rice.
My wife was in an advanced stage of pregnancy and not in a position to run.
There was a lawyer, Bhulu Siddhanta. He was a renowned lawyer of Natore. He is no longer alive.
A very senior person. His wife and son were there at that time, but he could not be traced.
I used to call his wife "auntie".
I held them and ran desperately.
Machinegun bullets were flying above us.
Had one of the bullets flew a little lower and penetrated the bamboo groves, it could have pierced my heart. But fortunately, it didn't.
We ran for four miles like that.
Sometimes we had to stop and take rest. It wasn't possible to run at a stretch.
After four miles, we came to a river.
I didn't know how to swim. My wife knew, but her health wouldn't permit her.
The river was swelling up with fresh water.
Many people were crossing on boats.
They wanted to escape the firing.
We requested a boatman to take up across.
My wife was wearing a spot of vermillion on her forehead and conch-shell bangles [as a Hindu married woman].
It made the boatman furious. He used a filthy word about her.
I knew they couldn't be blamed for that. They were brainwashed.
But later I thought, it wouldn't have been safe.
We hired another boat and crossed the river.
It was a narrow river, but there was strong current.
It had freshly got the monsoon water and was swelling up.
After crossing the river we had to wade through the mud for about a mile.
My wife almost fainted.
But I couldn't notice which boat the old woman had taken.
We were separated.
After trekking for a mile, we took shelter on a high land amid a bamboo grove.
And I was surprised to see that Shitalbabu and Bhulubabu were both there with their families.
Shitalbabu belonged to the area. He said he had an influential client in that village.
He suggested that we all put up in his client's house for the time being.
Someone was sent to inform him and he came there.
Looked like he was working in his field.
We told him everything. We also told him that we were very hungry.
He took all of us to his home. After reaching there, we freshened ourselves up.
Then we had puffed rice together in a big bowl.
He arranged for cooking our meals.
We stayed at his house, but after a week, we felt it was too much of a burden for him.
15-20 people were having lunch and dinner together. Though he was well-off, it was not easy to provide food for so many people.
Then Shitalbabu suggested that we stay there and he and his family would move to the house of another client a little further away.
So, he left, but Jyotish Saha stayed.
After a couple of days, his businessman friend also came to stay with us.
One day, one of his brother-in-laws came and offered to take my wife and me to his home.
So, we shifted to the house of Feroz-ul-Islam.
I used to call him uncle though we were abot the same age.
He was a professor at Kalam College then, Now, he's at the last stage of his life with bone cance at a Dhaka hospital with bone cancer.
I went to see him the day before.
A few days after we went to stay with him, I heard that Hindus were pouring in at the nearby Hindu-majority Dahiya village and crossing the Hili border to reach Balurghat after trekking for five to eight days.
On the way, they had to cross Natore.
There was a heavy monsoon that year.
It was 1971, in the first week of June.
Hearing that, my wife became restless.
She believed her parents as well as mine had meanwhile crossed over to India and were living safely with their relatives.
So we must go too.
Partly because of her pressure, I told my host to take us to that village so that we could joing the other Hindus and relieve him of his burden. And it was also not safe for him to keep us.
But after we started, we heard that some Hindus had been massacred as the Panjabi soldiers suspected they might come back as militants after receiving training in India.
At that time we heard they were 15-20 in number. I don't know the actual figure, but an incident took place indeed.
After hearing this, none of the 150-200 who had started for the border had the nerves to carry on and we came back to the village.
A person called Binay Ghosh from Dahiya village went to buy milk to Mahishmari village where we were staying earlier.
From him, my earlier host learned that we had come back.
He came to Dahiya immediately and saw our plight.
He told us, "I won't let you go anywhere again. I have come to take you back. We'll die together if we have to."
He felt my wife would give birth in seven to 10 days.
Then he brought us back in a boat.
He gave us a set of clothes and got examined by a doctor.
He told me, "If it's a boy, name him Biplab (revolution). If it's a girl, name her Mukti (liberty)."
I agreed. After two days, I didn't get liberty, but there was revolution. It was 20 June, Sunday.
He treated us to sweets.
The month of June passed.
And so did July.
August, too.
In September, the Razakar force was formed in that area.
Before that, we were in peace.
Suddenly, a few Razakars came. They were form my village. I still remember their names.
They told my host, "Uncle, you have sheltered a Hindu gentleman."
"We know he's a government employee."
"He was supposed to report to his office on 16 June, which he didn't."
"We'll take him and hand him over to the Pakistani army camp at Digapatiya."
I could hear my death knell ringing.
It was night.
I heard everything from my room. My host told them, "I won't let this happen."
"I've given him shelter and I'll die for that if I have to."
"If you want him dead, you must walk over my dead body."
He told them, "You're my village boys. Today you've got a chance. But where will you be when the country is liberated?"
Hearing this, they didn't take the matter further.
"The whole country wants freedom. You can't oppose it for the lure of money, fatigue and rifle," he stressed.
They were village boys after all. When he scolded them like that, they left withou taking me.
But later, when various stories about me began to circulate, I noticed even my host had become a little afraid.
Then it was decided that my wife and child would stay there, while he would take me to his in-laws' house and tell people that I had gone back to join office.
On the way, we halted at a gentleman's house. He was a police officer.
He was the OC of Panchagarh police station when I used to teach at Panchagarh College.
I used to know him at that time.
We halted there for the night. The next morning, we'd continue our journey by boat.
He recognised me.
And I recognised him too.
He told my host, "Feroz, you're making a mistake. Don't take the professor to Shahdabpur. Do you know what's happening there?"
"There are so many Pakistani soldiers there!"
"He'll be in danger."
"I've heard that a few Hindu employees have joined at Rajshahi town."
"You better go to Rajshahi College and ask the principal whether he'd be safe if he goes there."
Risking his life, Feroz-ul-Islam went to Rajshahi.
The principal was surprised to learn that I was alive.
He told him that the situation there had improved and I could come and join.
But I was under suspension since I didb't join on 16 June.
The principal handed him the suspision letter and anoher one written by my father-in-llaw.
He advised me to come and join.
Feroz-ul-Islam came back and after three-four days, he took me there.
We started by boat in the midnight. After crossing the river we took a horse-carriage and came to Natore town and had breakfast there.
There were several other Bengalis around.
Then some Punjabis in plaincholthes entered the stall to have breakfast.
At that moment, a bi-cycle tyre burst outside the restaurant.
Hearing the sound, a man inside the stall fainted.
He had firing phobia.
We left the place as soon as possible.
Everybody was in panic.
Anyway, we went on. Midway, our bus was stopped and we were searched.
On reaching the college I gave a letter to the principal praying for the withdrawal of the suspension order.
I had to do it though I didn't like it.
A colleague said, "You'll stay with me."
He was a professor of history named Wahiduddin. His wife was headmistress of the local girls' school. Both Feroz-ul-Islam and I put up with them.
On the third or fourth day, I was coming to college. The principal had told me to visit his house on the way so that I may be forewarned if there's any bad news.
On that day, the principal's wife told me to wait.
The principal told Feroz-ul-Islam to take me back to the village. There was very bad news.
They had come to know that the Hindu gentleman they had been looking for was here.
So, I went back.
But after seeing the letter, my wife became restless. She realised that her parents were still in Bangladesh.
She wanted to go to Rangpur to her parents.
S0, I wrote to my father-in-law.
As it was risky to address a letter to a Hindu's name, I addressed it to my brother-in-law's classmate, Mansoor Saheb.
After getting the letter, my father-in-law replied, telling us not to come, as on the way we might face danger.
Better let things as they are.
Don't leave that place till normalcy returns.
But we didn't listen. We started off in a boat, along with Feroz-ul-Islam and his two elder brothers.
After halting for the night in a gentleman's house, we took a bus to Bagura town, then to Rangpur and then went to my in-laws' village.
We reached there on November 7.
And the war started on December 3.
I joined my college again on January 20.
Meanwhile, Sheikh Mujib returned on January 10.
He ordered that everyone must go back to their previous posts and they'd be treated as officers on special duty.
I joined on January 20, 1972.
Within a month, I took a transfer.
By that time, my house had been robbed thoroughly.
It was near Rangpur town.
On 28 December, I went to India.
To search for my father, brother and elder sister.
They had gone earlier.
And I found them.
Then I had to put my house in order before they returned.
It wasn't possible to take leave anymore, so it was better to take a transfer.
My house was only one-and-a-half miles away from Carmichael College.
So I could pay attention to my house again.
I was transferred to Carmichael College on 16 February 1972.
I had stayed in India for only two-three days. I just located the camp where people from Rangpur were staying.
And luckily I got them there.
I had an experience there.
When my father and others left in April, someone had told him he'd seen the bodies of my wife and me lying in front of Kalpana Cinema.
For so long, my father believed one of his sons was finished along with his daughter-in-law.
When I stood before him, he was speechless for a few minutes.
It was a strange feeling for him, who had mourned the death of his son for all this time.
Now, that very son was in front of him.
I can't forget the expression on his face.
The man who told him I was dead didn't have any enmity towards me. Maybe he'd heard that everyone in that town had died and so I must have also...
The refugee camp where they stayed was called Dangi Camp.
It was in Jalpaiguri district, Alupurduar subdivision.
There was a row of small rooms.
Numerous rooms. It's said to have housed 135,000 people!
It was really difficult to manage such a huge number of people.
The Indian government, with foreign aid, provided food, fuel and warm clothes to the refugees as far as it could.
Yet, my two cousin brothers died there of cholera on the previous day, within a few hours of one another.
We had to sacrifice them for freedom.
Hadn't the political situation been so in 1971, they hadn't have to become refugees or die in this manner.
Although they didn't die from bullets, they died for the same cause. So I count them among martyrs.
They lost their lives amidst a strange situation.
Hadn't the situation been so, they hadn't have to lose their lives.
This was the greatest tragedy in my family.
Seeing his two married nephews die before his eyes brought a change in my father's life.
He didn't speak like before and was always gloomy.
He forgot in the afternoon what he'd had for breakfast. He seemed to be always thinking something.
That was the change I noticed in my father since 1971.
He didn't live long after that. He died in 1976.
And in the refugee camp I saw how people suffered.
Ill-fed... Ill-treated...
That was what I noticed in the couple of hours for which I stayed there.
I went there on 28 December.
I had to return by the first of January so that I could collect the harvest from my sharecroppers.
Because I had to feed my father and others when they would return from the refugee camp.
When I left, I'd seen the crop repening.
So I came back in a hurry to collect the paddy.
If I hadn't done that, they won't have had anything to eat for six months or so.
I was able to arrange for that.
But I found that someone had taken away my thrasher.
Some of our utensils, too.
We didn't ask them back. They were poor people.
They thought it was a deserted house.
That was my experience of 1971.
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