A black flag, a burst from the machine gun and a clear spring sky

Illustration: TBS

"Wake up! Wake up! The war has begun." I slowly opened my eyes to the urgent voice of my brother. It was March 26, 1971.

It took an instant for me to think clearly about the message. War? Yes, there was a lot of tension in the past few days. There were talks of forming an independent Bangladesh. Bangabandhu's March 7 speech had instilled the hope for independence in every Bangali heart.

I remember my eldest brother who had later died in the war at the hands of the Pakistani army had walked all the way from Ghorasal, following the rail tracks, with a bamboo pole on his shoulder and a black flag dangling from it. No trains left on that day, as the Pakistani government wanted to stop people from gathering in Dhaka. He had arrived around 11 in the morning of March 7 and looked tired. He quickly had his lunch and went to sleep.

In the afternoon, he woke up and went to the Race Course (now Suhrawardy Uddyan) where Bangabandhu was to deliver his historic March 7 speech.

Brother came back after dusk, looking all excited.

"Bangabandhu has announced independence," his eyes sparkled as he interpreted Bangabandhu's epic declaration "Ebarer Sangram amader muktir sangram, ebarer sangram swadhinatar sangram" (our current struggle is for our freedom, it is a struggle for our independence).   

From then on, we knew things were coming to a head. From the first floor of our Indira Road home, we would watch waves of processions passing by our house until late into the night, with thousand voices booming the slogan "Joy Bangla, Joy Bangabandhu". We did not know where these people were going, but we knew they were marching with some intent.

Schools were closed. So most of our time, we loitered around Farmgate where all the action was going on. Picketing and slogans. And when curfew was imposed, the EPR (East Pakistan Rifles) soldiers would patrol the roads. We would come out of the alleys and chant slogans, "Joy Bangla". Sometimes the EPR guys would point their rifles at us and we would immediately vanish into the alleys. Sometimes, we could hear their heavy footsteps running behind us.

So the war has begun? I thought and sprung up. It was about 7 o'clock or so. The late March morning sun was playing gloriously on the big roof outside our room. Some more rooms were supposed to be built there, but instead we had a roof to play and spend the afternoon.

A chopper was flying and its rotors were incessantly chopping the air. I could hear staccato gunshots ringing out loud somewhere. Father had tuned the Green Phillips radio and some announcements were coming over the waves.

Other than that, it was eerily silent. Mornings were always full of life's songs. Vendors hawking vegetables. Rickshaws jingling bells. A few "Baby Taxis' would sputter along the road. But today all these sounds of life and normalcy had ceased. Not even the crows were cawing. And the robins had stopped singing.

"When did the war begin?" I fumbled. A strange feeling in my gut. Fear and excitement mixed together.

"Last night," my brother said. "There was heavy fighting all around. The Pakistanis have gone on a killing frenzy."

Ah, that means I have blissfully slept through the first wave of genocide. But now where are my parents and other siblings?

"Where is Ma?" I asked.

"In the next room. They are all sitting on the floor in case some bullets wheeze through the windows."

I crawled out of bed and went looking for Ma. The curtains were drawn close and the room was half dark. Everybody was sitting there, looking scared.

"The Pakistan army has cracked down," my father said in his somber voice. "They are killing us. They have killed all the policemen at Rajarbagh."

Some Urdu songs were coming from the radio, set at a low volume. Suddenly, it stopped, and a voice came through. It announced something in Urdu that I did not understand.

The announcement ended and everybody sat silent for a few minutes.

My father broke the silence. "The flag. We must do something about the flag. We have half an hour time. We have to get it down."

Bangabandhu had called for a non-cooperation movement from March 2 after the Pakistani junta announced the suspension of the session of the National Assembly on March 1. The suspension was a shocker for all, a clear sign that the Pakistanis did not want to transfer power to the Awami League, the party that had a landslide in the 1970 general election.

In protest, Bangabandhu had asked the Bangalis to hoist black flags atop every building.

I remember my brother brought black cloth from the shop and my mother propped her sewing machine on the table. Her machine whirred and a four-foot by three-foot flag was ready. Then my brother drew a map of Bangladesh in the middle and mother slowly ran her machine over the outline. A Bangladesh emerged in white stitches, burning bright in the blackness of the cloth. A symbol of non-cooperation.   

My brother and I collected a bamboo pole, tied the flag to it and went up to the second-storey roof.

We placed the pole right in the front, so that it could be seen from the road. Soon, all buildings in the city had their own flags, fluttering in the spring breeze.

Our house was right opposite the Farmgate park on the border between Islamia Eye Hospital and the park itself. The road running from Farmgate to Manik Mia Avenue ran not more than 30 feet from our boundary.

Now the Pakistanis have ordered the Bangalis over the radio to bring down the flags or face dire consequences.  

There was no ladder to the roof. We had to climb like rock climbing, using the bricks jutting out of the wall.

We all gathered on the first floor roof but nobody dared to climb to the second-storey roof because there were heavy gunshots around. Some of the bullets literally whistled by very close.  

We could hear army lorries slowly rumbling down the road. Army jeeps carrying recoilless rifles patrolled leisurely, looking for any Bengali traitors. The big cannon-like weapons were placed in the middle of the jeeps with the barrel stretching out over the bonnet through the split windshields. 

We had peeked through the curtains and saw the murderous soldiers sitting on the jeeps, glancing sideways for any Bangali in sight. Last night, they had been happily taking potshots at the Bangalis, like some game birds.

So now the question was, who would climb up and take the risk of being shot at?

Suddenly somebody (I can't recall whose idea it was) pointed at me and suggested: "Why don't we send him up. He is just a child. Nobody would shoot him. He can just slip up and quickly grab the flag."

My heart danced with excitement. Wow. That was a great chance. If I stood on the roof, I could see all the way from Farmgate to Manik Mia Avenue.

It took me a few seconds to go up on the rooftop. The city looked very different to me. From Fargate to Manik Mia, not a thing moved. No cars. No rickshaws, no bicycles. An empty city silently trembling in fear. Gunshots were ringing out loud. A machine gun would occasionally open up in a long drawn burst. Who are they shooting at?

I got lost in time and did not know how long I was standing there. The black flag of non-cooperation flapping in the wind beside me. I forgot my task.

Suddenly I saw this army half-truck taking a turn at Farmgate and slowly lumbering up the road towards me. It was now right opposite me and slowing down to dead speed. In the back of the half-truck, there was a heavy machine gun with the gunner behind it.

I was transfixed by the sight. I could see the soldiers all looking at me. One of them angrily yelled at me. And then I saw the machine gun barrel slowly moving in my direction.   

My brain was not working. It went blank. I was not scared. I was not alarmed. I was not panicked. I was just nothing, staring back at the soldiers for a few seconds.

An ear-piercing sound shattered the moment. I literally saw flames coming out the barrel of the machine gun. I knew I was shot at. My legs gave away involuntarily and I dropped to the rooftop. By some magical impulsive behaviour, I grabbed the edge of the flag as I dropped down, taking it with me.

There I lay for how many minutes I cannot recall. I was dazed. My ears were tingling from the sound of the burst of fire. I was looking at the blue spring sky, thinking nothing. The black flag wrapped around my wrist.

Am I hit? Slowly thoughts returned. Why don't I have any pain? Or is it like in the movies where you don't feel the pain when you are hit? I felt lonely. As if nobody existed in this lonely city.

I heard somebody screaming out my name. I looked around and saw nobody. Then I realised I was on the second story roof and everybody else was on the first floor roof.

"Mithul! Mithul!"

I did not answer, just heard the waning engine sound of the half-truck.

Then I started crawling on all fours. I knew I should not stand on my feet. I crawled with the black flag in hand. I slowly climbed down the roof to the crying arms of my mother.

Inam Ahmed, Editor of The Business Standard

Inam Ahmed is the Editor of TBS.