When green was made red
Time is the unmistakable knock in the middle of the night that must be answered. Abul Hossain is no exception to the rule. In his twilight years he came forth with his memoirs, Dushswapner Kaal (The Times of Nightmare) reminiscing on the liberation war in Bangladesh, the former East Pakistan.
Abul Hossain, our doyen of poets, never flagged in his poetic impulses even in his late years, and threw off sparks in his poem: 'Surely there is no escape from aging.' In such moments of his life, the obviousness of such thought is inarguable by any measure. What is amazing is that even after decades, the minutes that enrich the memoirs so worthily are drawn from his memory alone and are surprisingly flawless. It is intriguing that the author, who is so well-organised in his personal life, should ever do without keeping a diary and instead rely on his memory for past information. His memory never failed him in his long writing career that blossomed as far back as in the 1940s with his debut publication of a book of poems, Naba Basanta, which he dedicated to Rabindranath Tagore. Hossain came by much admiration for his work from such literary stalwarts of the time as Binoy Kumar Sarkar, Nihar Ranjan Roy and Subodh Sengupta. The reputed artist Ramkinker Beij did the cover of the book. The author was privileged to become secretary of the Rabindra Parishad of Calcutta's Presidency College.
Hossain is a strong influence, albeit in a quiet way, on Bangla letters. His prose has that unmistakable edge which age confers. His unrequited passion for literature must be the most fortunate affair when he writes Dushswapner Kaal, his magnum opus, in liberation saga. It is a fine piece of memoirs on the War of Liberation --- connecting historical, economic and political issues with everyday life, and even literature. What is more, it sings. He writes with such verve and bracing rigour that it is impossible not to be charmed and bowled over by his perceptions. He conveys his privileged understanding with vivacious brevity without ever losing his narrative focus. It is free of any stain of over-blown prose or over-signification of the delicately woven fabric of the book. He is a cool stylist whose breezily structured memoirs reach the climactic point, freedom, without any rancour. In his unobtrusive narration, the author is mindful enough not to make the book a heavy reading with a roll-call of facts, for all these blunt the edge of reading.
In the nation's history, the nine months of the War of Liberation is a short stretch. But it is an eternity for the beleaguered Bengalis who had to languish in captivity in their very homeland, the author remarks in anguish. He tells his story in compressed vignettes that shine a brilliant unfamiliar light on the twilight of the Pakistan occupation period in Bangladesh.
Inter-wing rift between the two parts of Pakistan had graduated slowly but inexorably to such a confrontational point that no amount of verbal camouflage could hide it anymore. The leitmotif of political hatred, ethnic distrust and economic disparity was present right from the beginning. On March 25, when the Constituent Assembly was scheduled to meet, the Pakistan army unleashed genocide in Dhaka at midnight on the unarmed civilian population. It had the resonance of a thunderclap. It was the most sordid campaign of military terror, a bloody suppression of the freedom-loving Bengalis in a convulsive terrain. With each passing day, life was going downhill; it was not just living but being in a state of denial, confronting indignity. The author was deeply concerned about the safety of his wife and four children
As the Pakistani soldiers went on a rampage all over this territory, their campaign was further confused with the distasteful idea that what they needed was land only. But how could that happen when the country lived in the hearts of the Bengalis? The question comes from the author, in poetic flourish. The Pakistani rulers failed to perceive that the people had transformed themselves into a new identity of Bengali nationalism in terms of their historical and cultural traditions --- a tectonic shift in the basic tenet of statehood --- and that the place had already become a nation with Bangladesh flags flying atop public and private buildings. Again, that annus mirabilis was largely propelled because of the political absurdity of the two wings of the country being held together across some twelve hundred miles on the basis of religion only. The emergence of Bangladesh had only righted the incorrectness of Pakistan's birth that had been long overdue. Anything less would be a dereliction.
The Pakistan army's crackdown was premeditated. The talks between President Yahya Khan and Sheikh Mujibur Rahman that drew blank was a sham, a time-killing ploy to bolster Pakistani military might. Our leadership had, however, failed to apprehend the sinister design of the Pakistani rulers and allowed itself to be duped so easily into the deception of negotiations. Had our people been cautioned earlier, the author contends, the loss of life and property we suffered initially in the crackdown could have been minimised.
The author infuses a personal dimension that makes the book valuable to readers seeking insights into how the separation of one part of the country from the rest came to a head. It pains him much to learn that his old father, a retiree whom he has not seen for years, has been killed by enemy gunshots. So also were two of his kin serving in the civil bureaucracy.
Dushswapner Kaal is a study of a lingering pain in wartime that preceded the birth of a new country, Bangladesh. And the horrors of war are here in all their cumulative rebuke to nations who boast of humanity and civilization. The book is a welcome arrival, however belatedly, for its value both as a historical document and a personal testimony to one of the most crucial and defining moments for our nation.
The writer recalls a spine-chilling episode that had happened sometime between June and July 1971 when hundreds of Bengalee lives came under imminent threat. A big crowd of Biharis raising anti-Bengali slogans and carrying knives, hockey sticks and firearms were moving menacingly toward Azimpur government quarters where hundreds of Bengali employees lived with their family members. Apprehending immediate danger, the writer telephoned the inspector general of police, who hailed from West Pakistan, rushed to the spot and saved the Bengalis.
The War of Liberation ended almost suddenly on 16 December with a bang, thanks to the Mukti Force and the Indian Army. Bangladesh won her long-awaited trophy, freedom, and enlarged on the world map as a proud nation. It was a new dawn, a new script.
In the high noon of freedom, the author clasped the hands of his dear wife, emoted exquisitely, 'What a relief!' He surely echoed the feelings of an entire nation he loved so dearly.
Syed Badrul Haque is a former senior government official
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