DHAKA NEWS!!!BANGLADESH IN THE EYES OF HISTORY

My loving mother

(1966)
When I went out in the morning, I noticed that those who had been interned in old cell number 20 were looking at me through an opening in the door. Little by little, I went towards them. I asked them how they were feeling. They had sad stories to tell…
At five o'clock, when I was sitting by myself and was lost in my thoughts, the head constable came and said to me; "you have an interview coming up; your wife has come with the children."… Was there bad news? I immediately headed for the jail gate…
My youngest son cried out to me, "Daddy," "Daddy," just as he would do before. I took him up in my lap and hugged him. My youngest daughter was standing by the door… My eldest daughter and son and Khoka, my cousin brother, as well as my wife, looked at each other. It was as if they were trying to tell me something but were not able to do so. I said, "What is the matter? How come you were given permission to meet me so easily?" My wife said to me slowly "a telegram has come saying your mother is very sick." It wasn't difficult for me to figure out what had really happened; my mother must be really unwell, for otherwise my father wouldn't have sent a telegram to them…
I returned once more to my lonely room. On the way back, the prisoners greeted me again but I was not able to look at them. All I could do was raise my hand by way of greeting them… I will not be able to explain to anyone the extent of the affection my father and mother have for me. They have always called me "Khoka". It is as if I am still a child as far as they are concerned. If they could, they would still go to sleep holding me in their laps. Even at this age I hug my mother tight. But they arrested me from my house and put me in Dhaka jail all of a sudden on the evening of the 8th of May. I kept thinking of what she had said then again and again now: "I won't live much longer. Come and see me." I didn't feel like talking to anyone anymore. It became dark and I stayed in bed. I didn't feel like reading… Yesterday we came to know about the many people who had been killed in Tejgaon and Narayanganj. And this day I have come to know about my mother's condition. On top of that I was being kept in solitary confinement. I tried hard to sleep but just couldn't do so.

I wrote previously that I was being kept all by myself. I wasn't able to talk to anyone. I had no way of discussing things with anyone. There was no one to console me. What could be crueller than to keep someone in jail all by himself? Other political prisoners can go places in groups but I couldn't even be left with anyone for that was the government's directive…
When it was 9 am I sent word for the Deputy Jailer to meet me. He did so as soon as he was informed about this. I told him that I want to send a telegram to the Chief Secretary worded thus: "My mother is in poor health in our village home; if possible, release me."…
When they arrested me soon after Pakistan was created in 1948, and when they arrested me again during the Bengali Language Movement in 1949, only to release me in 1952, my mother had asked me, "Son. Why is it that they put you in jail though you were so vocal about wanting Pakistan and had spent so much of your own money for it, and though the people of this part of the country had learned about Pakistan because of you?"
Tell me- what answer should I have given to my village-born mother? I had said to her then, "Ma. I'll explain everything to you later." What was really there for me to say though?… I could never make my mother understand. From time to time she would tell me, "Take me to those who put you in jail so that I can confront them."…
The newspapers came; I could see from them that the government had stopped the free flow of news. They had almost made them pamphlet-like. There was no news feature on the ongoing movement…
I couldn't concentrate on my reading today. I hadn't even realized when they had locked me in since I had returned to my cell just before the sun had set. The mate, the cook and the other help who used to be with me came near me and said, "Don't worry Sir; if God wills it, your mother will recover soon." And so I think, how can politics make people so heartless? Even prisoners have compassion and can be caring, but selfish people outside can't! I thought it would be difficult for me to pass the night, but it went by. I looked outside through the windows for a long time and tried to see "darkness's beauty." But I'm not Sharat Chandra. I don't have either his capacity to see or think through things!

Source: Prison Diaries by Sheikh Mujibur Rahman published by Bangla Academy.