REVISITING 1971

Mahbubul Karim (Sohel)

1.

As the golden sun was diving into the red and blue horizon, the humming sound of the one-engine boat was piercing through the silence of the passionate Padma. It was a day of rejoicing, celebrating the reunion of cousin brothers and sisters, friends and the open-armed nature. The roaring laughter mingled with slashing waves, and the forgotten memories of childhood of our lives that we shared together so closely, were stroking us with delighted charms.

Our mutual memories have not deceived us. As we embraced the hours of celebration on that day of reunion on niche of gorgeous Padma, all of our troublesome lives, painful pasts, or the impending certainty of oncoming futures, were buried under that jovial moment. We recited poetry, played the games of songs, shared jokes and a romantic story, and that story of fictional romance suddenly reminded us about Morshed and Kanij. Moment of ecstasy evaporated at once.

It was the year of 1971. Morshed was a brilliant student of economics at Dhaka University, with his confident steps and superbly articulated outgoing nature, he was the center of his circle of friends and family.

On that night of last week of March, Morshed was murdered in his dormitory room along with three of his friends, on that night when there was mourning in the deepest waves of Padma and the musty air was overshadowed by blood aroma. They were not given any chance, devilish soldiers from West Pakistan, killed and mutilated them, stomped their dying bodies with heavy boots, reciting the language of hawkish beasts.

Kanij was engaged with Morshed the month before, as the morning after that night of devastation arose, she, along with her father rushed toward the dormitory. As they were treading along the path, the cries of crows and grief-stricken mothers beside the countless innocent boys and men were making their short journey filled with horror. On that sultry morning in Dhaka, there was only death visible everywhere one could see, only the tears, and fears in the eyes for the living were seen, and the moaning and screaming of passersby who couldn't close their eyes from that horrific daylight of March.

By the time Kanij and her father reached the dormitory, Iqbal Hall, Kanij already knew the dreadful truth. The shambling hall building with dead-bodies scattered here and there, they could hear the splitting screaming of Morshed's mother from a distance. And Kanij fainted on that broken stairs covered with splattered blood and bone fragments.

On that day of screaming March, Kanij didn't know, she would also follow Morshed's fate in the hands of Pakistani soldiers eight months later. Kanij and her entire family were executed while their hands were tied on their backs, standing on their over-grown grass of a small garden in front of their house. Few drops of their blood were dripped on the petal of a blooming flower.

2.

Thirty One years later in the year 2002 on the river Padma on a single-engine boat, as the rumbling of oil-starving motor rattling it's over-worked components, we remembered our departed ones, Morshed, Kanij, and so many other friends, relatives and hundreds of thousands of Bangladeshi who lost their lives. On that day of March 1971, the intruders tried to impose terror on our souls, they tried to crush our desire for freedom with their swift vengeance. They didn't succeed.

We succeeded our struggle, our brothers and sisters on that year 1971, fought back with rigid resolve. The collective supreme efforts by the patriotic Bangladeshi from all fragments of society defied all the odds against the superbly trained enemies. Our neighbor India did help us in the end, but the war was won by Bangladeshi Muktijoddha and general people on the battlefields, without their selfless sacrifices and strategic resistance over the 9 months period of war, our independence, our freedom would not be ours today.

On the eve of Shadhinota Dibosh, our respectful silent prayers are for the martyrs of 1971.