The Day
Closest
to
My Heart
Aly
Zaker
I
am writing this piece on our Victory day. I know that by the
time it will be printed the day will have come and gone. But
does it really matter? This day still holds the same place in
our hearts as it used to thirty-two years ago. Of all days of
our national significance, this is the one that I remember and
revere most. When the occupation army of Pakistan came down
upon the Bangalis in Dhaka on the night of the 25th and the
morning of the 26th of March 1971, and when the independence
of Bangladesh was proclaimed, we were too shaken; indeed devastated
to have taken notice of what was going on. The "operation
search light", was a wanton act of brutality unleashed
by the enemy to maim and overcome an entire nation. We were
busy saving our lives. Verily, all of us were solidly behind
our leaders but little did we know about the kind of reprisal
it would warrant. I remember fleeing my beloved city of Dhaka,
tears welling up in my eyes. Not out of fear but from the pain
of having to leave behind all those memories that are associated
with this city. My school days, the days in the college or the
University, and the friends that I made in the journey to my
youth. I was crying because I saw, as if in an apparition, the
Bangla signs of the shops in the New Elephant road and the New
Market being lowered down and Urdu signs hoisted in their place.
I could not possibly have even dreamt of living in a city subjugated
and captivated by a foreign force.
Today
was another day. It was almost the end of an ordeal. I was in
a place near Navaron in Jessore with a tape recorder in hand.
This was an assignment from the Swadhin Bangla Betar. I was
recording reactions of the local people as they were progressively
becoming free. In the process I was also falling in the footsteps
of the advancing Mukti Bahini and the Indian army. It was a
rather cold December day. The sun was already going down in
the western horizon. I was aware of the fact that Dhaka was
already surrounded by the Bangladesh and Indian forces and would
fall any time. A call for prayer by the muazzin heralded the
evening. The day of the 16th of December was coming to an end.
Suddenly, I saw an army jeep coming from the opposite direction.
I was a bit surprised to see it. Because it was the time to
go forward, not to turn back. When the jeep came close by some
one stuck his head out and said, "Rejoice! The Pakistanis
have surrendered", and then it sped away.
For
about a minute I was dumb founded. I did not expect it to happen
so soon. I was apprehending the worst thing to follow if the
Pakistanis did not surrender. An artillery barrage created by
the joint liberation forces could have completely decimated
the city of Dhaka. Many of my friends and relatives were still
there in the city. And I was naturally very concerned. But right
then the foremost thought that pervaded me is the fact that
we were FREE. I remember placing the tape recorder on the ground.
Looking up to the sky, now infested with stars, and cry in silence
for a minute. Then, on that road to Jessore, now bereft of traffic,
quiet and peace ful I cried out with all the strength I could
muster, WE ARE FREE! I kissed the soil of Bangladesh and rolled
on its bosom like a man possessed. I rolled and rolled until
fatigue took me over. This was the fatigue of nine months of
uncertainty, of desperation, of hope and anguish. I started
walking back towards the border, stray thoughts crowding my
mind. I saw in my mind’s eye Rustom running towards a Pakistani
bunker with a live grenade in hand and jumping in to it giving
the last battle cry of ‘Joy Bangla’. He killed himself and all
those that were occupying the bunker. I saw the face of my dear
Kamol da who sacrificed one of his eyes so that we could be
free. I remembered Hafiz and Mahboob, Ashfaque and Rumi and
millions of others whose valour and blood mingled with this
soil to give our posterity and us a nation of our own.
It
is impossible to give vent to my feelings of that day and to
give an account of how people rejoiced this victory that day
or afterwards within the confines of this column. The day we
were returning by road back to Dhaka I was a witness of how
people from villages spontaneously and exuberantly engaged themselves
in rebuilding roads, repairing bridges or offering food and
water to the people. This was a spirit of camaraderie of selflessness
that we could not hold on to for long. Yet this is the only
spirit that could have removed all our miseries of toady. Could
we go back to those days, re-live the spirits of the Victory
day of '71 and start it all over again? May be we would find
a sense of direction from there. Otherwise, we'd fail to build
a viable nation for our posterity. And that is devastating,
even to think of.