Perspectives
My celebration of victory in 1971
I listened to it spellbound. It was a brief, mesmerising news bulletin announcing the fall of Dhaka. The broadcast was loud and clear: Dhaka had fallen and there was a ceasefire in the eastern front under local arrangements.
In other words, Bangladesh was liberated -- marking its victory. It could not be disbelieved because Radio Pakistan itself was broadcasting the bulletin. The news kept reverberating, first in the bunker I was listening to the news from, and then in my heart for the rest of the right.
Till about 10 at night we sat glum in the dug-in field mess. On previous rights there would be discussions for hours about the battle situations in different sectors punctuated by roars of laughter, discussions to show one's 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 the 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 its denouement. Pakistani defences seemed to the crumbling on the western front also, particularly in the battle for the control of the air.
Indian bombers flew low over our battle location near Luliani on the Lahore road almost unhindered and there proceeded towards Lahore in majestic formation. Minutes later we could hear the thud of the exploding bombs on the elegant city that was the pride of the Pakistanis. In spite of such setbacks, none, however, thought that the war would come to such a decisive end so quickly.
Apparently, the Pakistanis had broken since the afternoon, when for the first time Pakistan admitted that the allied forces had entered the city of Dhaka. Fed with false hopes of an imminent victory and inspiring news of big Pakistani gains on different fronts, the Pakistanis now appeared crestfallen. 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.
We left the men a little before our usual time. It was a great relief because the mood inside the mess was about to suffocate us all. For the first time, the commanding officer did not turn up for dinner. Others were morose and they preferred to remain quiet.
Only Captain Parvaiz, the talkative adjutant of the regiment tried to dilute the gloom with his rather poor attempt at humour but that did not click. "Finally the victory will be ours. So what that they have taken Dhaka?" He mimicked the speech of President General Yahya Khan delivered at the outset of war, and continued to assert that the first goal did not mean victory. He referred to some Olympic hockey match where the first goal was scored by India, but Pakistan ultimately won the match.
Sceptical of such a prospect in inter-state conflict, no one wanted to share his optimism. They were the same people who had been claiming to be the descendants of Delhi's sultans and emperors and were always hopeful of storming the historical Red Fort. Surprisingly, on a melancholy December right of 1971, that bravado vanished, leaving no trace of it on anyone's face. As Parvaiz 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 the 10 p.m. news. For the entire duration of the war, the bunker was the world of my own. It was now that I could get access to the forbidden news of Bangladesh -- defying, of course, the military's writ that no soldier would listen to the news from other than one broadcast by Radio Pakistan.
Anything forbidden has its irresistible attraction, and I had to resort to this indulgence at the gravest of risks. It was in this bunker that I could lie down under several layers of blankets and tune in to the frequencies desired -- audio stations like BBC, VoA, or Akash Bani. I had been doing all throughout without 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 the war only for that moment.
I was listening to the news from Radio Pakistan immersed in ecstasy and pain. I listened to the news, which might not come in one's lifetime or in a generation, except only once in the whole span of thousands of years of the history of a people. The great moment that 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 afflicted me with an agonising convulsion. And the news kept reverberating in the either 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 command post or in the communication exchange while others were resting in their camouflaged vehicles in dug-in position. With all quiet on the border and no guns booming, tonight could be ideal for rest. But alas! A shroud of insult seemed to have descended on them not to allow them that.
However, a few sentries were wide awake. They were trying to drive away sleep by pacing up and down. I was their only companion at the dead to night, with, of course, Bangladesh covering the whole space of my bosom.
Big(retd)Hafiz is Former DG of BIISS
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