The date was May 7, 1971.
The day was heavy with clouds. A soft, steady drizzle blurred the roads as he returned to Narayanganj from Tangail. The roads were nearly deserted. Accompanied by his beloved son, he endured the long, uneven journey before finally reaching home.
That night, after a simple yet comforting meal -- his favourite chicken curry prepared by Fazal -- he lay down to rest. The fatigue of travel weighed heavily on him. Outside, the world sank into a dense, watchful silence. Then, from afar, came the sound of a dog’s mournful cry.
Had Fazal forgotten to feed it?
The thought drifted through his mind, mingling with others -- of Mirzapur, of Joya and Bijoya. Were they safe? Were they afraid? Between memory and worry, sleep slowly claimed him.
A voice broke through the stillness.
“Babu, are you awake?”
He rose, wrapped a shawl around himself, and stepped outside. His staff stood in a line, where masked strangers remained. Their presence was as unsettling as the silence they carried. They asked for his son.
A father’s heart trembled.
Bhobani Prasad Saha emerged, eyes heavy with sleep, and stood beside him. The men ordered them to come along.
The night deepened.
Leaves in the familiar garden trembled without wind. A lone bird cried out abruptly, then fell silent -- as if even nature recoiled. The small group moved forward, along a known path that led into the unknown.
On that night, R P Saha -- industrialist, businessman, and one of Bengal’s most remarkable philanthropists -- and his son were abducted from their home in Khanpur, Narayanganj. They never returned.
Their disappearance remains one of the many dark, unhealed wounds of the Bangladesh Liberation War -- a war not only of resistance, but of calculated brutality. With them, a luminous presence of compassion and service was extinguished.
The land itself seemed to convulse under the violence of that time. The land trembled to the tempestuous dance of kalboishakhi. Fear gripped villages and towns alike.
Yet beneath that fear, a man rose -- resilient, defiant. Rivers like the Padma, Meghna, and Jamuna bore witness, their waters stained with blood flowing toward the Bay of Bengal. The Sundarbans stood hushed, as if in mourning. Even the sky seemed to weep.
With the support of local collaborators, killing squads swept across Bengal, abducting scholars, physicians, teachers -- those who carried the conscience of a nation. Many, like Ranada, vanished without a trace.
Yet disappearance could not erase legacy.
R P Saha belonged to that rare breed of individuals who transformed wealth into welfare. Institutions such as Kumudini Hospital, Bharateswari Homes, and Kumudini College were not mere establishments; they were living embodiments of his ideals.
He dreamed of a society where no one would be deprived of education due to poverty, where women would live with dignity, and where the vulnerable would find care and protection. That vision, perhaps, was precisely why he was targeted. His life stood in quiet defiance of injustice.
His abduction was no isolated crime. It formed part of a broader design -- to silence voices of humanity, to dismantle the moral fabric of a nation. Justice, when it came decades later, felt less like closure and more like a solemn acknowledgement of history’s debt.
Ranada was, in many ways, a silent revolutionary. He did not wield arms, yet he built institutions that outlived violence.
His struggle was not fought on battlefields, but in classrooms, hospitals, and in service to society. Through quiet determination and unwavering compassion, he transformed personal wealth into enduring public welfare, leaving behind structures that continue to serve generations beyond his time.
And so, his story did not end in 1971
It lives on -- each time a poor patient receives treatment at Kumudini Hospital, each time a young girl at Bharateswari Homes discovers the power of education. In these quiet, everyday affirmations of dignity, R P Saha lives on.
In a world increasingly shadowed by division, crisis, and self-interest, remembering figures like him is not mere ritual -- it is necessity.
His life reminds us that true nation-building is not forged in power, but in compassion.
As long as a child walks to school with hope, as long as healing reaches the helpless, as long as humanity finds expression in action -- the name of R P Saha will endure.
Not only in memory.
But in the living soul of Bangladesh.
Kazi Latifur Reza is Head, Department of Law, Bangladesh University.
