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For a friend, a martyr Syed Saad Andaleeb What they sought was freedom from oppression, from tyranny, from conspiracy, from brutality, from unfairness, from hunger, and from being loathed and treated as second or third class. In their single-minded pursuit, knowing in their hearts what they were doing was the right thing to do -- the only thing to do -- they fought with a vengeance to give the people of a new nation the gift of voice, a new lease on life, and opportunity and hope. They won big, they won freedom! One true hero of that glorious period was my friend Rumi, thinking of whom brings back many memories of the days we were carefree. Rumi epitomized the vibrancy of youth, practicing karate and arm-wrestling, lifting weights, climbing ropes, and playing cricket with a passion. He also played the tablas, tying his “nara” (tutelage bond) to Aslam Khan, a maestro who in subsequent years performed with the great Ustad Vilayet Khan. At the same time, he was marching with the UOTC cadets and joining the barefoot marches on 21st February, all the while readying himself for an uncalled call to arms. I particularly savored my friendship with Rumi because in it I found many fundamental values: of compassion, camaraderie, courtesy and respect for our elders, discipline, a determination to succeed, a softer side that appreciated music and the arts, a sporting spirit where we competed to our utmost, as well as a spirit of generosity. We were also mischievous at times, but at a harmless level. On occasion we pursued the fairer genre, but all in good spirit and with no serious intention. We joked and poked fun at each other, and laughed about each other's (lack of) courage with them (of whom we knew but they knew us not). All of this kept us together, kept us healthy, and built a kindred spirit. Another thing I remember vividly is our days at Dhaka College. We generally attended all the classes, savoring the idioms and idiosyncrasies of many of our teachers. But we also occasionally bunked classes. The spare time was spent mostly in adda (as any youth would do) at the cafeteria over shingara and strong tea brewed from the same tea leaves of days past. And what did we not discuss? From Tagore and Nazrul, to Einstein and relativity, to Gary Sobers and Richie Benaud, to Bobby Moore and Ayub Dar (of EPIDC), to the Rolling Stones or the Windy Side of Care (a local band), to Ravi Shankar, Ali Akbar Khan and Allah Rakha, and to Yoga, Numerology, Che Guevara, latest movies and novels, and much more. We loved to be contemporary, dreamt of going abroad, planned for the next cricket match or cultural event, or discussed the whims and fancies of the popular young ladies in town. Sometimes we bunked classes closer to lunchtime and made the jaunt to Balaka cinema hall. In fact, we usually bunked classes on the day we received our scholarship money that was enough to make us feel like Arab Sheikhs. There was the usual Chinese lunch, followed by a movie (balcony tickets with student id cards were really cheap in those days). Our days continued to be full, flowing from one day to the next. But somewhere in the tumult, the politics of the day began to be strident. Frequent country-wide demonstrations began to disrupt normal patterns of life, indicative of seismic changes to come. We began going to meetings at Dhaka University where things were brewing rapidly. Chayyanaut and Bulbul Academy were choreographing a cultural revolution. We also joined the “mashal micheels” at the time to protest the oppressive stance of the military and the general sense of injustice that prevailed. Then came the fateful days of 1971 when Yahya Khan stepped in forcefully: The General generated generous generalizations! He lied to the Bengalis. All the while he conspired to carry out vile acts of subjugation. On March 7th Bangabandhu rallied the nation with a mesmerizing speech that urged every Bengali to engage in the struggle for emancipation, the struggle for freedom. And while the Bengali nation was getting more vociferous, in the darkness of night planeloads of vicious military killers were being transported into the city for the cataclysm they were about to unleash. Our days of fun had suddenly changed dramatically and a dark cloud enveloped our hopes, aspirations, and dreams. Little did I know then that our friendship would soon be ravaged and rent asunder by heinous people in faraway lands who cared little for things other than their petty interests, their impure pleasures, and their disgusting greed. The night of March 25th came upon the nation on the heels of hartals and calls for a separate Bengali nation. Living in the Dhaka University staff quarters, I felt the viciousness, venom and brutality of the army crackdown. It was a long night to endure as the entire area shook from the firepower of the tanks and artillery, while the chatter of machine guns intermittently silenced wailing voices in the distance. Horrific crimes were committed on a scale unprecedented over a period of about thirty-six hours that is beyond human imagination. On the morning of the 27th, curfew was lifted and I went out hesitantly in my area to see the aftermath of two nights of horror. British Council, S.M.Hall, Iqbal hall and adjoining areas were littered with the dead and mutilated for the nation to see, almost as a warning not to anger or resist the establishment. I still remember wondering how Muslims could do this to their “purported” brethren. Another edifice of my belief-structure crumbled. As I retraced my steps back home that day, my first thoughts were about my relatives and friends. Telephone lines were dead and contact was not possible. I could see my parents desperately trying to figure out what to do next. There was panic in their faces. Much happened in the next few days and I was packed into a car with my cousins and sent off to a temporary safe haven. As the car sped along the countryside, I wondered where Rumi and other friends were and when I would see them next. When I returned to Dhaka there was a sense of abnormality everywhere and I met with Rumi as time and circumstances permitted. When we met, our deliberations focused on the liberation effort and its successes and glories, and how we could play a role in it. Eventually a window opened up and a day was selected for us to go across the border. On the designated day, unfortunately, a situation arose and last moment changes in plans meant that I had to forego my place in the party: several other individuals had to be transported out of the city on a priority basis. Rumi went on with the party; I was to join up later. I remember pondering why fate had intervened in this manner and stood in my way. The next time I met Rumi was after an interlude of time. This time, when I met him, I noticed definite changes in his appearance and demeanor. He was leaner and darker, given his exposure to the elements and demanding circumstances. But his eyes had a sharp glint that reflected a new resolve, a new determination. We met only a few times after that at my place or his. I was aware of his mission and the responsibilities on his shoulders. But there was also in him a sense of imperviousness. I respected his decision not to go into any details with me, because I understood the price of indiscretion. When we were together, and it was usually brief on these occasions, I felt a sense of pride sweeping over me to think that this stalwart was my close friend. My respect for him also grew deeper as I came to approximate the big things that were in the offing. Those who fought with Rumi in close proximity have written about the heroic operations they carried out in Dhanmandi and other areas of Dhaka when the activities of the Muktis had escalated significantly and Dhaka residents began to exude a new confidence that the days of the occupying army were numbered. Stories began to spread quickly about the deeds of the valiant freedom fighters in and around the city and I could picture Rumi in their midst, a towering figure of strength and determination. Then, suddenly out of the blue, towards the end of August, came the devastating news that Rumi was taken away for interrogation. Days went by and Victory Day came along. But Rumi did not come back. We lost him to the barbaric and inhuman Pakistani military establishment and their equally despicable and heinous collaborators. Rumi, however, left behind a legacy for generations to contemplate. He epitomized the eternal struggle between good and evil and the ultimate victory of good over evil that can only result from a sustained and hard-fought battle. If Rumi and his equally brave compatriots did not engage in the epic struggle, the story of Bangladesh today might have been very different under the boots of a cruel and greedy hydra-headed monster. For the readers who do not know, Rumi was the son of another set of hero and heroine Sharif Imam and Shahid Janani Jahanara Imam whose courage, decisiveness, and inspirational qualities will remain as another legacy in the history of the war of liberation. The younger generation of today, especially those born after 1971, should visit the Shahid Janani Smriti Jadughor at 355 Konika, Elephant Road (Old), Dhaka, to grasp the immensity of the contribution of these heroes. For Rumi and his compatriots, our debt of gratitude can never be enough. For their ultimate sacrifice, every Bengali should erect a monument in their hearts to remember them and their gift to the nation: of self-identity, self-rule, and as victors over evil (although that part still remains unfinished). *Adapted from the author's chapter in “Shaheed Shafi Imam Rumi Sharokgrontho.” |