It was a warm morning on the first week of July 1971.
The blockades by the Pakistan army and their supporting militias continued. It was not safe for us to stay in Dhaka anymore. We packed very light and started our journey from Dhaka. I was escorting my mother Shajeda Khan and two younger sisters in their late teens, Rupa and Mala. Our destination: Agortola, India.
Nazrul kaka, an uncle of ours, accompanied us all the way and helped us immensely. There was another family travelling with us -- the wife of one Shaijuddin, who was an MP at the time, and her two very small children aged around 2 and 4.
Everyone carried maybe one or two sets of clothing. I had Tk2,000 on me.
We drove to the Kachpur Bridge in two separate cars and reached at around 11am. There were very few people on the road.
As I stood on the ferry, a Pakistani military inquired where we were going. “To our home in the village,” we clarified. He showed me his machine gun and threatened, “you know the Muktis? I can kill over 30 Muktis with this gun in seconds” he spoke in Urdu. I kept quiet. I don’t know how or why but he left us alone.
We reached Norshindi and got on a hooded boat. We were on the boat for hours and travelled through the canal. We crossed a boat which had a machine gun fitted on a stand, patrolling to find Mukti Bahinis.
Late in the evening, we reached the chairman’s house at Nobinagar -- a gentleman who had helped many Bangladeshis before and after us. Refugees stopped at his house for the night and set out in the morning taking the same route through which we would be journeying.
The chairman had four separate small houses all made of tin shed, located by the bank. He welcomed us warmly and accommodated us in one of his houses. He prepared a grand feast for all of us. We hadn’t eaten anything all day. We were so hungry and ate a hearty meal. It was unforgettable.
I didn’t get any sleep that night. Everything felt uncertain. We not only feared the Pakistani military but there was also a constant danger of robbery or theft. To alert everyone that this house was being guarded, the chairman and his people shouted loud warnings with strong voices throughout the night:“Hooshiyar!” “Hooshiyar!” (Be careful).
I thought about my father and my siblings.
We travelled separately for various reasons. My father travelled first with my two brothers, Muzaffar Hayat Khan, Jahangir Hayat Khan.
My father, the late Abdul Jabbar Khan, was the pioneer of the first Bengali Movie Mukh O Mukhosh. He was also a Lion Governor and Founder of Leo Club in Bangladesh. He was a wanted man by the Pakistan Army and our house was raided several times.
My uncle Anis Ahmed also accompanied my father, who was the Assistant Editor of Janomot -- the first Bengali news weekly founded in London in 1969.
Then, in May, my youngest brother Zahir Hayat Khan left home. A month later our plight began.
I recalled our lives briefly before all of this. I worked at the United Bank Limited. My salary was 1,200 Pakistani Rupees at that time. I was granted a month’s leave from the bank and told my boss that I had to accompany my family to our village. I wondered what would become of us.
In the morning we went to the train station and journeyed to Chargacha. It was a very busy train. People from all walks of life sharing the same status and travelling to same destination.
We were all refugees.
When we arrived, Nazrul Uncle and I made arrangements with a man who helped people across. He assured us that he would get us a boat. It took a long time to finalize the preparations. When I returned, I saw my mother’s worried face. She was so frightened. She thought she had lost me to the Pakistan Army.
Suddenly I came across Zahir’s (my youngest brother) friends from Siddhweshari School. They had all joined the Mukti Bahini. They needed a commander and asked if I would join them. As much as my heart yearned to take up on the offer, I explained to them that I couldn’t leave my mother and my sisters until they were safe.
The man who arranged our boat took us to his house. His name was Tenu Mia. Everyone was starving. He offered us dinner. We had a simple meal and spent the night there. Time seemed to stand still. The next day progressed but there was no sign of our boat. Around evening time, Tenu Miah returned. He had been helping many families across making journeys to and fro throughout the day on the boat.
As the sun was about to set, the reddish tinge of the sky began to turn.
I remember hearing a loud noise of a rifle being shot from far away. The man who was helping us, rushed in and said: “Hurry! We have to go right away!” In a haste we collected our belongings and rushed to the boat by foot. It was a small boat with no hood. The boatman started rowing. I felt worried for my mother and two younger sisters.
The rain-filled month of monsoon caused the nearby rivers to overflow their banks. We drifted through the submerged paddy fields on our boat very quietly under the dismal sky. Suddenly we heard shouting. We looked up from the boat and recognized the Dhaka-Chittagong road, known then as the CNB road. Standing on top of the culvert, the men spotted our boat and ordered “Stop! Stop the the boat!” They were the supporting militias (Razakars) of the Pakistan Army.
We decided there was going to be no stopping.
In a matter of seconds, the militias carrying rifles ran down from the culvert into the shallow waters and grabbed our boat. I reacted instantly putting up a strong resistance and engaged in a scuffle. Nazrul kaka was on the boat with us and assisted as well. I got hold of an oar and started rowing along with the boatman with all my strength. Miraculously the boat slipped away from the hands of the Razakars.
We managed to escape the militias but as we moved away we noticed the headlights of an army convoy belonging to the Pakistani military not far from the culvert. We stopped rowing in an attempt to not draw any attention. It was dark. Suddenly the Pakistan military soldiers started firing with their machine guns. They couldn’t see us from above, but fired randomly.
We all laid down on the boat holding our breaths and felt the bullets going over our heads, barely missing us. It was a most terrifying experience. Nobody uttered a word. After what felt like ages, the firing stopped. The army convoy drove away. We resumed rowing.
We reached the bank and got off the boat. We came across a tiny barn, hay scattered all around. Our relative Nazrul kaka, left for Agortala to arrange transport while I stayed with my mother and sisters. We sat inside the barn. I was tired, and so I rested my head on the ground and fell asleep.
After a few hours a jeep arrived. We drove to Agortala and rented a room on top of an empty garage. The ceiling was made of tin. There was a common bathroom downstairs. We ate our meals from a nearby hotel. We stayed here for two to three days and from there we arranged our plane tickets and flew to Calcutta.
We reached Palm Avenue, an area where my father had rented a house. We were finally reunited! What joy I felt seeing my father and the rest of my brothers. It seemed nothing less than a miracle that, despite all the obstacles we faced in this perilous journey, we all made it safe and sound.
Nabila Khan is a freelance contributor.
