A little help from friends

It was the end of November, 1971. The atmosphere in West Bengal was electric. There was a frisson of excitement and suspense. The fight for the creation of Bangladesh — once Pakistan-controlled East Bengal — was nearing its end.

I was 23 years old then, and had just joined the Central government. Bengalis all over were desperately seeking closure over the trauma of the 1947 Partition that cleaved a people who shared the same language, land, river and culture. Help for the Muktijoddhas — Bangladesh’s freedom fighters — poured in from the Indian side.

Members of our local club in Garia, South Calcutta, decided to send medicines and dry foods for the Muktijoddhas. A collection drive was organised among the local people and many who were otherwise tight-fisted responded overwhelmingly. A question remained: How were we to hand over the aid material in a war zone?

I came to know that one of my brothers-in-law, Abhijit Dasgupta, a freelance journalist at that time, was trying to interview a Pakistani army captain who had defected with his soldiers and was leading the fight for freedom. The club members proposed that I accompany my brother-in-law and hand over the aid. Enthusiastic about the Bangla war for liberation, I agreed. If only I knew what lay ahead!

Together with Dasgupta and his two friends, I started early one morning from what was Calcutta for Baharampur, Murshidabad, by car. From there we were to cross the Padma River to reach Natore, in then East Pakistan, and onward to Rajshahi, on the north bank of the Padma River. Agents on the other side had been alerted to arrange for our transport. I was thrilled at the prospect of not only witnessing a freedom fight first-hand but also at the thought of seeing and crossing the mighty Padma, immortalised in Bengali literature but out-of-bounds for those living in West Bengal.

A view of the procession taken out to celebrate the liberation of Bangladesh

The sight of the forceful river, however, filled me with foreboding. As we crossed all 300 metres of it, we saw a sandbank stretching ahead of us with seemingly no end. The guide said the sandbank, which was about 2 km wide, was flooded during the monsoon. We walked on the sand for about 40 minutes and reached the stream on the East Pakistan side. This segment of the stream was about 1 km wide and more forceful.

A tempo-type vehicle waited for us on the riverbank in Natore, to take us to the secret camp in Rajshahi where the captain’s interview was to take place, as also the handover of the aid. On the road to Rajshahi we were stopped time and again by Muktijoddhas, who checked our identity and greeted us cheerfully with their war cry, “ Joy Bangla ”, after they came to know we were from India. We noticed many trenches along the length of the road, where Indian paramilitary forces were positioned in camouflage. We reached the camp outside Rajshahi town, now a commercial and education hub, in under an hour.

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After the interview and the handover of the aid, the captain offered us tea. Referring to the Rajshahi cantonment located nearby, he said the vigilant Pakistan army was firing at anything suspicious but had no clue of the camp’s existence.

Dasgupta asked if he could take pictures of the cantonment and the captain helpfully suggested that the nearest strategic place would be an abandoned cinema hall, but warned us of the risks involved. He, however, sent a soldier in civvies to guide us. From the cinema hall’s terrace we got a close view of the cantonment half a kilometre away. Our cameras were ready but there was no movement inside the cantonment.

Suddenly the soldier accompanying us shouted, “Lie down, lie down”. Within seconds bullets were flying over the roof. We ducked to the floor and waited for half an hour until our guide gave us the clearance. We left for Natore in the same open tempo-type vehicle, those tense moments etched forever in our memories. But we couldn’t imagine what lay ahead.

A boat was ready to ferry us to the opposite shore. We boarded from the riverbank in front of the abandoned Ayub Khan Military College Academy (now known as the Bangladesh Police Academy), and the manjhi — the boatman — started rowing. It would take 40 minutes to reach the sands on the opposite end.

Just as we relaxed a bit after our near-death brush with the Pakistan army, we sensed that something was wrong with our boat. The manjhi informed us that the boat had developed leaks and we had to quickly empty out the seeping water, else the vessel would capsize within moments.

He gave us two buckets and continued to navigate the boat. The rest of us — four urban beings, used to comfortable lifestyles — desperately embarked on our own rescue operation, taking turns to do it. After about half an hour we reached the opposite sandbank. Our guide was already waiting there.

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It was about 5 pm and we had a long journey ahead of us on the sands to reach the Indian side of the stream. Barely had we walked five minutes when our guide suddenly yelled, “Start running, sirs!” He began running without an explanation, so we quickly chased him and pulled him back by his shirt to ask what kind of joke this was.

In reply, he pointed to a small black cloud in the distant sky and warned that a strong and turbulent wind would set in soon, the darkness and sandstorm would hamper our vision, there would be torrential rain and we could end up losing our way and drifting around like headless chicken.

Without waiting any further, all of us broke into a sprint.

Within five minutes or so, the sky was filled with dark and angry clouds, and a cyclone-like wind had started blowing.

Unable to run any more against the wind, we stood around helplessly. After about half an hour the wind gradually weakened and it started to rain, first in a drizzle and then in a torrent. It was still dark. We decided to walk again.

After trudging on for about 15 minutes we heard the roar of the Padma. We had no way of knowing which side of the stream we were on and decided to surrender ourselves to fate and wait for the rain to stop, and gain visibility. But the torrential rain appeared in no mood to let up and this unnerved us completely, because we could make out from the furious roaring that the river was expanding rapidly.

The four of us huddled together, attempting to move further away from the roar.

Another half an hour later, nature finally relented and showed mercy to our group of frightened and despairing souls.

It was another 10-15 minutes before we could gain visibility. Magically, the sky suddenly cleared and the roaring of the river stopped. In clear moonlight, we saw the Ayub Khan College on the opposite bank. We had drifted back to East Pakistan!

We started walking again, now in the opposite direction. Finally, around ten at night, we four exhausted men reached the Indian side of the stream. We shouted out for the manjhi till we managed to wake him up. The kind-hearted soul sailed us to our beloved land and dear life.

Within a week, the war had officially started. Indian soldiers marched into East Pakistan and the rest is history — and new geography. Bangladesh marks its Liberation Day on December 16 and, on this day every year, I am reminded of my tiny indirect participation in that struggle and how I cheated death thrice to witness the birth of a new nation.

Soumyajit Bhowmick is a former deputy commissioner of Kolkata Customs

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