Afsan Chowdhury writes for DOT
December 1971 memories are blurred but I realize all too well that they are part of many of us, whether in or out. On the day of liberation, many families feasted but by January some were facing difficulties fetching a full table. Perhaps it was also a bit more resentful because some people were already dinning on feasts while others ate less and less.
For me, the night Sk. Mujib returned to Dhaka was very memorable because his arrival restored order. The days running up to his return were joyous because we were free but scared of the lack of security. Law and order had become very fragile.
To a small number of people liberation had meant the “freedom” to impose, take over, loot and settle old scores. But these people had weapons, cars and groups. Amidst such conflicting feelings of happiness and anxiety were hope for a new state of ancient lineage.
We were one in 1971 and forgot our differences. But it was all too brief because the powerful and the powerless perhaps can’t be one. One may receive mercy but rights are a different matter. That was a challenge we birthed then and never managed to resolve even till today. But on 16th December nothing mattered, only victory did. .
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Another December at Suhrawardy
A few years later, I was at the Suhrawardy Hospital on night duty for a relative whose heart was ready to give up the battle. A man older than his retirement age, he had to keep at it because he had no money and his family was still not on its feet. I ended up spending unslept nights there and half slept days at home but I had a feeling that it would soon come to an end.
I would sit on the varendah of the hospital with other midnight watchers and in the darkened space exchange half finished conversations. A man was on his third night, his sister’s husband was inside, an artist in an ad firm. And he told me, a bit hesitantly how they belonged to family whose father was missing as he had property which others wanted. “ Kidnapped ? “ I asked.
“ Missing , he replied.
“ What will you do if something happens ? “
“ I have no idea.”
My relative passed away the next night and I have not heard what happened to the man and his ailing relative ever again. Perhaps that’s what is called time, even in December.
How’s life for Bangladesh this December
It’s at night time when truth can be told, fierce questions can be asked. Bipin babu was also an artist who drew posters for a living and would not run away to the villages with his family for safety even in 1971. He loved Dhaka, his surrounds and I suspect his deshi liquor the most.
He lived a fairly normal life along with many Hindu people in our neighbourhood and without any sense of danger. He was caught by the army twice when he had ventured to the main road who found him too decrepit to pay any attention. He was once kicked in the butt and let go but that’s all. He limped around for a few days and described the Pak army in very colourful language.
Yet, after December 1971, his family never felt at ease here. They went for a visit to Kolkata for the first time and didn’t like what they saw especially Bipin babu. But as the days rolled on, as Dhaka became less secure, Kolkata with its stability and sense of safety drew his family away. He felt wretched for weeks but one day could take it no more and left without telling anyone.
I was walking home to our Dilu Road home many Decembers later when I saw him with his back resting on the boundary wall, drinking his bangla from his shishi. I called out but he waited for a few seconds before looking up.
“ So young man, how is your Bangladesh doing ? “ I said nothing.
It was another December. I never saw him again.
Afsan Chowdhury is a journalist, a media professional, a researcher, a social activist.