The day on the other side

Freedom fighters rejoice in victory on December 16, 1971.

Till about 10 at night, we sat glum in the dug-in mess. On previous nights there would be discussions for hours about the battle situations in different sectors punctuated by roars of laughter at cheap Punjabi jokes. The grading-conscious officers would enthusiastically participate in the discussions to show their military knowledge, from minor tactics to grand strategy, in the presence of their superiors. But tonight there was no discussion, no laughter, no enthusiasm. Only an eerie silence prevailed, sending a chill of an unknown fear down my spine. For the last few days of the war, the situation certainly took a clear turn and was fast approaching towards some conclusion. Pakistani defenses seemed to be crumbling on the western front also, particularly in the battle for control of the air. Indian bombers flew over our battle locations near Luliani on the Lahore-Kasur road almost unhindered and then proceeded towards Lahore in majestic formation. Minutes later we could hear the thud of the exploding bombs dropped on the city that was the pride of Pakistanis. In spite of such setbacks, noone however thought that the war would come to such a decisive end so quickly.

Apparently, the Pakistanis had broken down since the afternoon, when for the first time Pakistan admitted that allied forces had entered the city of Dhaka. Fed with false assurances, the Pakistanis now appeared crest-fallen. I had never seen them so dispirited in the field where, under any adversity, they always put up a brave face. They could never countenance defeat.

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We left the mess a little before our usual time. It was a great relief because the mood inside the mess was about to suffocate us all. The commanding officer for the first time did not turn up for dinner. Others were morose and preferred to remain quiet.

Only Captain Pervez, a talkative adjutant of the regiment tried to dilute the gloom with this rather poor attempt at humour that did not click, "So what, that they have won it in the East? Victory will be ours in the grand finale. Remember Barcelona?" Pervez was referring to some Olympic game where in a hockey match the first goal was scored by India but Pakistan ultimately won the match.

Skeptical of such a prospect in interstate conflict, noone wanted to share Pervez's optimism. They were the same people who had been claiming to be the descendants of Delhi's sultans and emperors and hoped to storm the old fort any time in a big push. Surprisingly, on a melancholy December night of 1971 that bravado vanished, leaving no trace of it on anybody's face. As Pervez kept chattering, a disgusted second-in-command curtly asked him to simply shut up and abruptly left. In no time, others also dispersed.

I then hastened for the bunker. I wanted to be in time for 10 O'clock news. For the duration of the war, the bunker was a world of my own. It was here that I could get access to the forbidden news of Bangladesh, defying the military's writ that no soldier would listen to news other than that broadcast by Radio Pakistan.

Anything forbidden has its irresistible attraction and I had to resort to this indulgence at the gravest of the risks. It was in this bunker that I could lie down under several layers of blankets and tune in to the frequencies of BBC, VOA or Akashvani.

I had been doing it for the whole duration of war without any remorse or sense of guilt. I thought it to be the rightful quest for seeking truth. Tonight I was at it again. I was listening to the greatest of news as if I had survived the hazards of war only for that moment. I was listening to the news from Radio Pakistan immersed in ecstasy and pain. I listened to news which comes not in one's life time or in a generation, but only once in the whole span of thousands of years of the history of a people. The great moment which eluded us for hundreds of years had come at long last.

One can keep his sorrow to himself. But joy? The joy can turn into pain or even torture unless shared with others or rejoiced in public in its fitting manner. I alone had no capacity to bear its burden. I was squarely facing history's avalanche which I had no power to withstand. During the cold night of December 16, 1971 an utter helplessness tormented me. I was seized with a strange feeling which like a suppressed gust of wind afflicted me with an agonising convulsion. And the news kept reverberating in the ether for the rest of the night.

At this midnight hour of long winter night my Pakistani colleagues were in their bunkers -- either sleeping or tossing on their sides with an inexplicable anguish. A little distance away were the bunkers of the other ranks and their assorted sleeping arrangements. Some slept in the command post or in the communications exchange while others were resting in their camouflaged vehicles in the dug-in position. A shroud of insult seemed to have descended on them. Only a few sentries were awake. They were trying to drive away sleep by pacing up and down. I could hear the sound of their steps. I was their only companion at the dead of the night with, of course, Bangladesh covering the whole space of my bosom.

Brig ( retd) Hafiz is former DG of BIISS.