I have always believed that there exists some kind of political, economic, social, and psychological tension between North India, starting at the Iran frontier, and East India touching the China frontier.

North India had always tried to impose its hegemony on East India, whereas the latter always endeavoured to maintain its freedom. The tension would possibly predate the epic Mahabharata, where East Indian leaders like Shishupala, Jarasandha, and Paundraka Vasudeva challenged the North Indian leader, Krishna Vasudeva. Among them, Paundraka Vasudeva would allegedly be from Pundra or Pundravardhana, the ancient name of the Bogura district in Bangladesh.

The Pakistan movement would be an outburst of that tension, in the sense that the Bangla-speaking Muslims of East India dreamt of a separate Pakistan state. The dream, however, was soon transformed into a nightmare because the western wing of Pakistan enslaved the eastern wing for a long 24 years. Bengalis became independent at last, after a bloody war under the successful leadership of Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman.

Today, if we compare political achievements, Bengalis are more successful than any other nation in South Asia, because even though Bengal had to suffer a separation, Bengalis are the only nation to have a state of their own.

No victory, and no change comes without sacrifice. There is a proverb in Bangla that reflects the reality, "Rajay rajay juddho hoy, ulukhagrar pran jay" which would mean "Kings fight among themselves, but innocent grasses and reeds have to die (under their feet)". In the old days, when the kings used to fight for their interests, the innocent public died in numbers for nothing.

Today, when not many kings are left, the scenario has not much changed, however. It is still the grasses and reeds that suffer the most in the conflicts. They see their dear ones die, women raped, property destroyed before their eyes in wars, civil wars, or battles. The list of martyrs, memoirs of great commanders of the war, descriptions of historians are only the tip of the iceberg.

Kanailal Chakraborty (hereinafter KLC) is one of many such reeds who suffered during the Liberation War of 1971. A homeopath by profession, KLC is also a connoisseur of Jatra, the Indianised form of theatre and Indian astrology. A practicing Brahmin, he is still performing Hindu rituals in the village temple at the age of 80 as he did in 1971 until he had to leave his paternal home all of a sudden in the morning of April 16, 1971, about an hour before it was burned down to ashes.

As with most refugees, his physical and mental suffering knew no bounds during the nine months of refugee life in India. He vividly describes how two of his sons died at a few days' interval in a refugee camp in Hojai, Assam, and how he buried them himself with a hoe in his hand. ‍A few days after their death, probably to appease his grief, he decided to put down his experience, in superb handwriting and an excellent shadhu bhasha, a formal register of written Bangla now almost extinct but which nevertheless remains the language of the constitution of Bangladesh.

KLC was neither a freedom fighter nor had he interest in any kind of politics. He described himself as an ever-scared, rather panic-driven, and comfort-loving person. He thought Bengali EPRs and Punjabi soldiers would fight each other in front of his house, as was the case in Ramayana, between the armies of Rama and Ravana – bows and arrows replaced with guns and bullets, and he along with his friends would enjoy the battle scenes peeping from behind the window of their two-storied paternal mud house.

However, when the Kumira battle took place on the eve of the 26th of March, 1971, when he, at last, realised the crude and merciless reality of fighting with machine guns, mortars, and shellfire, he was terrified with the sound and lost his consciousness.

As he describes, "All of a sudden, we heard horrifying sounds (onomatopoeia used by KLC) tra-tra-tra-tra-dum-shon-shon-shon-shon... So many sounds accompanied by lightning, never in my life have I heard or seen with my eyes. I did not know, what one should do in such a situation. I had heard that during the Second World War, a siren, a danger alarm would blow up and people would run to take shelter in a safe place. No siren was heard. I completely forgot the patients who came to see me for their medicine. I locked myself in my room with my children... I was of a panicky type since childhood. Soon, I started trembling in fear and experienced vertigo. People around washed my head with water to cool me down..."

When most Hindus left Kumira for India between the end of March and the beginning of April, KLC decided to stay back, like his father, who also stayed back in the then East Pakistan even though his paternal home was burned down in the 1950 anti-Hindu riots. KLC said even in early April, "As long as there is one single Muslim left in my village, I will not go to India leaving my paternal house here!"

However, when he had to leave, he felt sad among other things for his collection of dramas. When he was running on the Dhaka Trunk Road towards India, some of his Muslim friends accompanied him for a few kilometres. Some even offered him to take refuge in their houses. When the Liberation War was over, some friends sent him money to India so that he could pay his way back. Rajakars made Hindus suffer a lot during 1971, but many Muslims, like good Samaritans, tried their best to help their Hindu brothers. 

Most human beings usually become extremely selfish when they face a difficult situation, such as refugeehood. This may well be for survival, because no one knows how long the peril would last.

During his refugee life, KLC, despite his precarious situation, tried to help his neighbours as best as he could. Refugee authorities in the Hojai camp asked him whether he had any complaints regarding the death of his sons.

"You Indians provided us with food and shelter when we Bengalis needed it most, which is already beyond all my expectations. I will never complain against you, even if my own life is at stake!" was his prompt reply.

The moment his second son died, the following words came to his mind, "A few minutes ago, it rained a little. Now it's a bit windy and the sky is covered with clouds. It's midnight and I have to give a funeral to my son. You are no more a Brahmin when you are tagged as a refugee. Therefore, my son will not be cremated but buried. Scoundrel Yahya Khan!"

Despite all his sufferings, "scoundrel Yahya" was the only curse uttered by this Brahmin during the whole year!

"I am not a writer," KLC reminds us in his diary, repeatedly. However, like Chinese masters who, with a few strokes of the brush depict beautiful scenery, KLC with a few words describes human sufferings, without apparently being afflicted by the grief himself.

At Srinagar, one of his friends dreamt his head being washed with hot water. When he woke up, he saw a goat urinating on his forehead. On his way to India, when a box full of food fell from another refugee's shoulder, a hungry KLC picked one of the cakes scattered on the ground and started devouring it at once. When his few-year-old daughter sitting on his shoulder screamed for a bite, KLC realised that he had already swallowed the cake in full.

Although KLC's description is already half a century old, his sufferings are still of relevance. Every day, here and there, mostly in Asia and Africa, but also in believed-to-be civilised countries like Ukraine, as we are witnessing for the last few weeks, human clans are obliged to take refuge in a neighbouring country to save their lives. How would a person who was well off in Ukraine a few days back, but is now obliged to beg for food in Poland, feel?

KLC describes such feelings, in detail, which are not easy to swallow for those who live rather a happy life. How successful was India in handling 10 million refugees within a few months? It was no doubt an easy task for Indira Gandhi, but as KLC describes, she was quite successful in her endeavour.

KLC's Shoronarthir Dinolipi or "Diary of a refugee" (distributed by Pankowri Prokashon, Dhaka) also describes our resistance against the Pakistani army in March-April 1971 in the Sitakunda-Mirersarai area of Chattogram. This 100-page long diary written in 1971 is, without doubt, an important document of our Liberation War.

Shishir Bhattacharja is a Professor at the Institute of Modern Languages, University of Dhaka.