MUJIB WE KNEW
A gentle giant
By Mandira Nayar
Story Dated: Friday, November 25, 2011 16:22 hrs IST
Two close associates remember Sheikh Mujibur Rahman
Fearless and charismatic: Even today, Bangladeshis flock to Mujib's house in Dhaka, which is a museum, to understand the father of the nation better
His trademark thick black frames dominate the landscape in Dhaka even now. In Bangladesh, Sheikh Mujibur Rahman will be forever young. The strapping, tall leader was a giant in more ways than one—he was over six feet, a rarity in this part of the world.
“There has never been a Bengali like him, nor shall there ever be,'' says Anwar Hossain Manju, a politician and the publisher of Daily Itefaq. “This region had never been independent before. It was chaotic, undisciplined and ungovernable. I don't know what made him think that he could make this a country. But he did. He said, ‘I know you intellectuals will criticise me. But one thing you can't denounce, I created a nation and gave you a passport.'”
Hossain remembers an incident after he had just won a seat in a students' hall. He was busy preparing his speech when he was taken to Mujib's house. “He came out in a vest and a lungi. There had been some violence earlier and he caught hold of one of the young student leaders and said, ‘Aren't you ashamed for being beaten up?' Then he gave him 500 takas.”
He then turned to Hossain and gave him an iron rod. The second storey of his house was being built. Bangabandhu told him: “Carry this with you always.” Says Hossain: “I was a changed man. He was mesmerising.''
Mujib's house in Dhanmandi, where he was arrested and later assassinated, ironically on August 15, 1975, is now a museum. His daughter, Prime Minister Sheikh Hasina, is very emotional about the house, which is busy even at closing time. Students, non-resident Bangladeshis and villagers flock here just to get closer to him.
It is a Thursday, the last working day before the Bakr-Eid holiday. Most people have left town and the streets are full of well-fed cows with confetti garlands round their necks. 21 Dhanmandi, Dhaka's most famous address, is still crowded.
“I remember he was asked by David Frost, ‘What are your qualifications, Mr Prime Minister?' He said, ‘I love my people.' Frost then asked, ‘What are your disqualifications?' Bangabandhu said, ‘I love them too much,''' recalls Tofail Ahmed, Mujib's political secretary, who was a student leader and an integral part of Mujib Bahini (resistance movement).
A simple man, Mujib travelled across the world. According to Hossain, he famously won over the Saudi sheikhs, by saying, “I'm a sheikh, too. The only difference is that you're rich. I'm poor.” One of his requests to his staff when he went abroad was to ensure that they get food from Bangladeshi homes.
Arrested and kept in Pakistan after the March 25, 1971 crackdown, Mujib narrowly escaped death several times. Ahmed remembers an incident when Mujib went back to Pakistan, this time as the leader of Bangladesh. “We were in the guest house when this short man came to meet us. He stayed for half an hour. Before he left he told me that he had been his jailer. He told me that they had even dug a grave for him.”
Mujib was unfazed by his certain death. He told his jailer that he knew he was going to be killed. He had only one request that he be buried in Bangladesh. “‘After they kill me could you please send my body home?' he had asked his jailer,'' remembers an emotional Ahmed.
He never thought he had anything to fear from his own people. Ahmed was to meet him at his house in the morning he was gunned down by his own soldiers—he apparently believed he had nothing to fear and walked out to meet them. It was only through radio that Ahmed learnt that Mujib had been killed. Says Ahmed: “He was a dreamer. He once took me to see a tree in the garden. He told me that this tree had grown to its fullest. It wouldn't grow anymore. It would only shrivel up and die. He said like the tree he knew he couldn't go up any further, but before he died, he wanted to contribute to his people.”
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HERO
Officer and gentleman
Story Dated: Friday, November 25, 2011 16:33 hrs IST
Every war needs a hero, a swashbuckling kind. In the 1971 war, India found hers in Field Marshal Sam ‘Bahadur' Manekshaw. If Indira Gandhi was the one who wore the pants in the Union cabinet, Sam was her military equivalent. He was everything that you could want in a real hero—the kind that would make the reel ones look like teenagers.
He had a fine sense of humour. Once, brought in almost dead from a battlefield in Burma, riddled with bullets in his liver, kidney and lungs, he told the doctor that he had been “kicked by a donkey”. He was irreverent, eccentric and, as one old-timer put it, “genuine”. He was also the architect of India's most perfect war—it is difficult to beat the score of a 13-day decisive battle and 93,000 surrendered troops.
There have been many stories about Sam. He famously told Indira, “I am always ready, sweetie,” on the eve of the war when she asked whether he was ready to go in. But two incidents bring out the lesser known side of the man. Brigadier V. Mahalingam, a major in 1971, 
remembers sitting on the ground listening to Sam before the war began. “In his typical style, he told senior officers, ‘I want to talk to them [juniors]. You get lost.' Then he went on to say that war will come, and that people may tell us otherwise. ‘When you cross the border,' he said, ‘people would have left, there will be empty houses, old people and women. I will not have anyone touch anything there. You will treat people with respect.'”
It was his ability to rally troops and win their loyalty that made him Sam Bahadur. He was army commander in Calcutta on the eve of the 1965 war, when he saw Subedar Shivramanujan, an instructor he had promoted when he was commandant of the infantry school. “Shivraman was conducting some training there in the parade ground,” recalls Mahalingam. “Sam saw him, called out to him and hugged him. Shivraman said ‘Sahib, where are you? Bahut din se dikhe nahi. Chalo rum peethe hain [Haven't seen you for long. Let's drink rum].' Sam told him that he could not at the moment, but promised to meet him at 7 p.m. He was at the mess at 7 sharp. No officer was there, except maybe the CO. Sam was that kind of man. In the Army, this was just unheard of.”
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THE SURRENDER
Over in 30 minutes
By Lt Gen. (retd) J.F.R. Jacob
Story Dated: Friday, November 25, 2011 16:39 hrs IST
How General Niazi crumbled and the Pakistan army surrendered
Moment of glory: Jacob (extreme right) looks on as Niazi signs the surrender agreement on December 16
On December 13, a resolution introduced by the Americans at the UN was vetoed by the Soviets. The US fleet was on the Strait of Malacca. There was consternation in Delhi. Matters were made worse when Field Marshal Sam Manekshaw sent us an order to go back and capture all towns we had bypassed. It was an impossible task. We were outside Dacca and there was no mention of Dacca! The order was copied to the core commanders. I told them to ignore it. When someone accused me of disobeying orders, I said, “Yes.”
On December 16, Manekshaw telephoned me and said, “Jake, go and get a surrender.” I said, “I have sent you a draft. Should I negotiate on that?” He said, “You know what to do. Just go.” I told him that I had been talking to General Amir Abdullah Khan Niazi, commander of the Pakistani forces in Bangladesh, for three days on the wireless, and that he had invited me over for lunch....
At Dacca, I was met by UN representatives, who said they were coming with me to take over the government. I said, no, thank you. Niazi had sent an army car and a brigadier. The Mukti Bahini had not observed the ceasefire. Five hundred yards down the road, a string of Mukti Bahini fighters fired at me. I jumped out with my hands up, and they stopped firing. They had recognised me. They knew I was coming—it was on the radio. I asked them to let us go. I told them that their own government will take over the next day.
When I met Niazi and read out the Instrument of Surrender, he said, “Who said I am surrendering? You have only come here for a ceasefire.” He accused me of blackmail and our talks turned hostile. “Who said this is joint command?” Niazi asked. “We don't recognise the Mukti Bahini. We don't accept [surrender].”
I did not know what to do. I called Niazi aside and told him I cannot give him a better deal. I said we would treat the surrendering troops like gentlemen. I knew my position was weak. They had 26,400 troops in Dacca. We had 3,000 some 30 miles out.
I told Niazi that if he did not surrender, I would not be able to protect their families and ethnic minorities. And that I would order resumption of hostilities and the bombing of Dacca. I said, “I give you 30 minutes. If you don't surrender within that time, I will order resumption of hostilities and bombing of Dhaka cantonment.” Then I walked out.
I thought, “My God, what have I done? Suppose he says no. I have nothing in my hand. The ceasefire expires in the evening. We will all be captured. Niazi can fight for at least two weeks more.”
I went back after 30 minutes. The paper was lying on the table. I said, “General, do you accept that paper?” He didn't answer. I asked him three times. Then I picked it up and said, “I take it that you have accepted.”
There was no answer. I told him that he will surrender in public at the Ramna Race Course in Dacca. He said, “I won't.” I said, “You will. I have already given instructions and you will provide a guard of honour.” He said, “I have no one to command.” I said, “Your ADC [aide-de-camp] is there. He will command.”
Then I went for lunch. All the silver was out. But I didn't eat anything. I felt dejected, and I did not want to eat with them. There was no vehicle for me to go back. I had to travel in Niazi's car to the airport.
I quote from the report of the Hamidur Rahman commission, formed by Pakistan to look into the 1971 war: “Gen. Niazi, when you had 26,400 troops in Dacca...you could have fought on for two more weeks.... Why then, did you accept a shameful, unconditional public surrender?” Niazi said he was blackmailed.
It is rubbish. I did not blackmail him. Getting that surrender was a matter of touch and go. I, to this day, don't understand why he crumbled.
As told to Mandira Nayar
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HERO
The man who bombed Karachi
By Mandira Nayar
Story Dated: Friday, November 25, 2011 16:42 hrs IST
Vijay Jerath remembers the historic night of December 8
The warrior at peace: Jerath at his home in Delhi / Photo: Sanjay Ahlawat
December 8, 1971, 8.45 p.m., off the coast of Karachi.
It was pitch dark. Close to 30 Indians aboard INS Vinash, a tiny craft loaded with four missiles, were on a daring mission: to attack Karachi, Pakistan's busiest harbour. Vijay Jerath, the commanding officer of Vinash, was on quarterdeck watching the sea when the controls went on autopilot, thanks to an electrical failure.
“I was thinking that over the past six days, Vinash had experienced breakdown of the autopilot, and earlier in the evening, we had lost two AK-230 shells,'' he says. “Things happen in threes, we believe.”
Jerath, who had trained for over a year in Vladivostok in Russia, knew he could fire the missiles using battery power. “Essential services like autopilot and communication sets run on batteries,” he says in his raspy smoker's voice, a legacy of his days in Russia, where he spent most of his stipend on cigarettes. “Vinash had a lot of battery power. The only thing that would not work would be the radar Rangout—I was blinded. I could still fire my missiles using bearing and range data from one of the escorting ships.”
Not to alarm his seniors, Jerath sent out a message: “My radar non-operational. In case it does not come on in time, request one ship take station directly one mile astern and pass me bearings and ranges to fire my missiles.” There was a simple ‘roger out' in reply, he says.
The plan was to hide near the coastline and attack in groups. Whether they came back or not was not important. The mission, christened Operation Python, was meant to serve as an answer to the Pakistani attack on Dwarka in Gujarat during the 1965 war.
“I did not have to imagine the approaches to Karachi and the coastline. The naval chart in the enclosed bridge below had all the details, which I had acquainted myself with thoroughly before sailing from Bombay. The Python force was charging blindfolded into Karachi,” says Jerath.
However, as luck would have it, by 11 p.m. Vinash had her electrical power restored. “I charged down to have a look at the radar picture. The night was black, except for starlight,” he says. When the radar came back on, Jerath noticed that the ship had sailed off course. Later, like all sailors, he believed that his boat had a mind of her own. “As I plotted the ship's position and drew the course, the parallel ruler passed directly through the Keamari oil farm,” he says. “As soon as the first missile's checks were completed, I commenced the firing procedure. I put the range to ‘manual' and set it to maximum. I put the homing radar range to maximum and fired.”
Three more missiles were fired. By the fourth, Jerath remembers wondering where the Pakistani navy was. He would know only later that PNS Dacca, a Pakistan navy tanker, had narrowly escaped the bombardment. “The fourth missile was no less powerful than the others. Having read the accounts from across the border, I salute, in true naval style, the commanding officer of Dacca, who, with his acumen and presence of mind, saved his ship and her crew. Wars will come and go, and warriors shall continue to fight for their respective countries. But respect for each other must remain,” says Jerath.
After finishing Operation Python, he signalled: ‘Four Pigeons happy in their nests. Rejoining.' “In hindsight, a totally crazy signal,” says Jerath. He received a reply: ‘From F-15 to Vinash: this is the best Diwali that we have ever seen.'
It was 11:30 p.m. “Karachi burnt for seven days and seven nights,” he says with a broad smile.
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FORGOTTEN HERO
Fearless falcon
By Lt-Col (retd) Quazi Sajjad Ali Zahir, Bir Proti
Story Dated: Friday, November 25, 2011 16:47 hrs IST
Remembering the supreme sacrifice of Lance Naik Albert Ekka
Gallantry personified: Albert Ekka
All he wanted to do was make a living; instead, he made history. This was the single thought that kept running through my mind as I entered the small, humble home of Lance Naik Albert Ekka, who was posthumously awarded the Param Vir Chakra for his gallantry in the Bangladesh Liberation War. I wanted to know about Ekka—who was this man who fearlessly laid down his life in the battlefield for the liberation of my country?
Like millions of his countrymen, Ekka was a man of humble beginnings. He was born in the village of Jari in the district of Gumla in Jharkhand. A member of the Oraon (Falcon) tribe, Ekka joined the Bihar Regiment on December 27, 1962 and was later transferred to the Guard Regiment. He was a man whose sense of duty and courage was only rivalled by his kind heart and his sense of pride in being Oraon and a soldier—it was something he talked about all the time whenever he visited his family on leave. That Ekka took pride in coming from a tribe long known for its valour should come as little surprise. The Oraon have a glorious tradition of bravery in battles in Rohtasgarh against the Aryans, in Chotanagpur against the oppressive zamindars and against the British Army. It was a legacy that Ekka lived up to when his time came to serve.
Curious villagers walked by my side as I approached his home. His elderly widow, Balamdine, hurriedly came out to greet me, leaning on her walking stick. By her side was her only son, Vincent, who was one year old when his father joined the war.
As we talked, Balamdine told me she had heard about Bangladesh and about Gangasagar, the place where Ekka was martyred. I showed her photographs of Gangasagar, the Pakistan defence positions and the spot where he was killed. She touched the photographs gently, with deep affection and held them close to her bosom. She cried softly, the tears sliding off her wrinkled cheeks, her face marked by sorrow, as she tried in vain to dry her face with the edge of her sari. In a quavering voice, she recalled that four or five days after Ekka's death, a group of soldiers came to her house with the bad news. She remembered crying out aloud, feeling that the world had come to a standstill. She also recollected the soldiers trying to console her, saying he was martyred for the cause of the nation and that his act of heroism had saved the lives of his unit soldiers.
Balamdine touched my hand gently. It was the first time she had ever seen a Bangladeshi. She held on to my hand, and Vincent held the other, as if we were connected at that moment by a lifetime of bloodlines and memories. Finally, she broke the silence, curious to hear about Ekka's last battle and about Gangasagar. I quietly recounted the role of 14 Guards in the battles of Dholoi and Gangasagar and how bravely Ekka charged towards the enemy lines, destroying them from bunker to bunker. Despite being wounded, he continued to advance, until he was fatally wounded by machine-gun fire. I narrated everything that I had studied about the battles, and Balamdine and Vincent listened, engrossed. They could not get enough. Finally Balamdine asked: “Did he put up a good show? Did he die well?”
Balamdine said she wanted to visit the place, but her own poverty never made that possible. Living on the five acres given to her family by the government after litigation, she makes ends meet with the monthly pension of 05,000. Vincent's auto-rickshaw is out-of-order. I could only assure the “Veer Ramani” that if she desired, it would be my honour to arrange for her visit to Gangasagar.
But ultimately, this soldier who fought and died for a cause greater than his own was a father and a husband, and while the memory of his sacrifice has dimmed with the passage of time, his absence is felt every day and grieved by the ones who loved him the most. I can still see Balamdine weeping bitterly as she said, “I did not want him to die so young and make Vincent an orphan.”
It was time for me to leave. It was dark as the mother and son walked me to the car, but I could make out the deep sadness etched in their faces. I, too, felt a deep sorrow, as if I was leaving a part of my family behind, a tie forged by the blood and sacrifice of a man for a country that was to become my own. As we made our way back, I felt an urgency to stop near the statue of Ekka in the small town square of Chinpur. I stood there for a long time. It was as if Ekka was telling me, “Wait with me for a while, when many others have stopped waiting for me.”
Forty years have passed since Ekka's death, yet so few of us know of him and others like him. In their untimely deaths, each soldier and civilian has asked for very little. Perhaps, they did not expect to be forgotten, their lives, hopes and their sacrifices, erased not just by the passage of time, but our own inability to remember and record that they lived and that their contributions mattered. For the living, this is the ultimate responsibility—the task of documenting the struggles and sacrifices of the ordinary woman, man and child—and that task is far from complete. It is a task we should embrace with humility, urgency and a profound sense of honour and gratitude.
It was my fortune to be able to visit the home of Ekka and pay my respects to his family. Their sacrifice and Ekka's unflinching sense of ultimate duty are forever enmeshed in the history of my country's independence. I am proud to have taken part in the same war with Ekka, and having fought for the same cause. A cause we would all do well to remember and honour.
Sajjad works with the Bangladesh 
government to document friends of Bangladesh in India.
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REVISITING HIST
Corrected vision
By Mark Tully
Story Dated: Friday, November 25, 2011 17:1 hrs IST
One needs to look beyond the over-simple version of the birth of Bangladesh
Looking back on the bloodstained birth of Bangladesh after 40 years, I realise that an over-simple version of those nine long months of labour has been accepted as history. The simple story of gallant Bengalis, oppressed by bullying Punjabis, rising in revolt and battling for their freedom does not stand up any longer. But given the ferocity of the Pakistan army's original crackdown and our habit of painting the past and the present in black and white, of putting people in categories of absolute good or absolute bad, this uncomplicated version is still widely believed. It would be better for the three most populous largest countries of South Asia—Pakistan, Bangladesh and India—if a version of history with more nuances came to be accepted.
I was in the first party of journalists to be allowed to travel freely in the then East Pakistan after the tanks rolled out of Dhaka cantonment and the Pakistan army crackdown started. That was on the night of March 25/ 26. It was now May. By this time the Pakistan army had regained control over all the major towns, but the ravage they had caused had not been repaired. Driving down the road from the airport, I saw buildings which had been reduced to rubble by tank fire. Normally one of South Asia's most crowded cities, Dhaka seemed remarkably empty. The army and the police brought in from Punjab were very much in evidence. The Bengalis I did meet were, not surprisingly, sullen. They were particularly resentful of the Punjabi police—5,000 of whom had been brought from West Pakistan to enforce martial law. Among Bengalis, the crackdown was seen as a Punjabi and not a West Pakistani invasion.
I experienced the bitterness between Bengalis and Punjabis when I was arrested by a Punjabi policeman. I was taking photographs of a shop which had been destroyed by the army in the Hindu area of Dhaka, known as Shankaripara, when the policeman got hold of my arm and marched me to the nearest police station. He wouldn't listen when I protested that I had been told I could go anywhere and take what photographs I liked. At the police station he produced me before the Bengali station house officer. When I explained what had happened, the Bengali officer exploded. Berating the Punjabi policeman he said, “You people come to our country. You can't speak our language, you don't know our customs, you don't even understand the orders of your own government. He's quite right. He is allowed to go anywhere.” And off I went much to the embarrassment of the deflated Punjabi policeman.
Driving west from Dhaka towards Rahshahi, I could see how the army had established control over the countryside and restored communications. Village after village by the roadside had been set on fire and destroyed. Mukti Bahini sources had told me that they had blown up a bridge on the way. I did find there had been an explosion under the bridge, but the slight damage it had caused had been repaired. This did increase my confidence in the few reports we got of Mukti Bahini activity.
The reports were always firmly denied by Major Siddiq Salik, the army public relations officer, who had been told to “look after” us foreign correspondents. Tall and formidable in appearance, with a head of hair that fitted like a helmet and covered much of his forehead and a neatly trimmed military moustache, Salik seemed to be everywhere. He managed to keep tabs on our every move. We had regular briefings from the suave Major General Rao Farman Ali who was in charge of the civil administration. He appeared to believe that a military solution was the only way to deal with the uprising in East Pakistan. The general maintained there was no question of a political solution and in particular of talks with Sheikh Mujib, then in prison in West Pakistan.
Although the army had restored control and as yet Mukti Bahini and other resistance was limited, military operations were continuing in the form of “sweep operations” and “clearing operations”. The former consisted of house searches while the latter comprised full-scale military operations against areas where there were reports that Mukti Bahini had gathered. Field guns and mortars were used as well as recoilless rifles.
The press was censored and radio came under the control of Major Salik. His attempts to broadcast positive propaganda backfired. He ordered the authorities to broadcast hymns in praise of God and his Prophet in the hope that this would remind listeners of the original Islamic bond between East and West Pakistan. Salik was not amused when he heard a broadcast of the devotional song “Row my boat to the safety of the shores, O Ali, my Lord”. The boat is a symbol of the Awami League, Sheikh Mujib's party. When Salik ordered plays glorifying the Pakistan movement to be broadcast, the authorities put on a play in praise of freedom fighters who listeners would clearly identify as the Mukti Bahini.
Salik was among the prisoners of war rounded up when the Pakistan army surrendered. When he eventually got back to Pakistan he wrote a remarkable book, Witness to Surrender. When I read it I realised that, although General Rao Farman Ali had tried to convince us that a military solution was the only answer, he had, in fact, been pressing for an amnesty, but was told “the time for politics is over”. Salik believes that an opportunity to attempt to make peace with East Pakistan was lost in the months between the army restoring control and Indian training and support making the Mukti Bahini an effective resistance force. Apparently, after the crackdown, the president of Pakistan, General Yahya Khan, did not take any decisions about the east wing of his country until he eventually ordered an amnesty in September. By then, according to Salik, it was too late.
I returned to my job in London as one of the BBC World Service commentators on South Asia. On my way back I visited West Pakistan, where angry officials in Islamabad showed me a list of names they said were being given to the BBC by Pakistani listeners. They included the British Bagwas (nonsense) Corporation and the Bharat Broadcasting Corporation. I had expected hostility because we were broadcasting bad news from the point of loyal Pakistanis, but the extent of anger which I met did worry me. On the other hand, among Bengalis I had found an enthusiasm for the BBC which led them to believe we were on their side. Of course, we were not. I have often wondered since whether we got the balance right. As I have no access to my reports now I can only say that we tried.
That question has been revived in my mind by a recent book written by an Indian Bengali scholar, Sarmila Bose, and called Dead Reckoning, Memories of the 1971 Bangladesh War. She convincingly challenges some of the figures commonly quoted by journalists. For instance, she points out that the 93,000 people taken into custody by the Indian Army after the surrender of Dhaka couldn't all have been in the military. There were nowhere near that number of soldiers in East Pakistan. Sarmila Bose also challenges the claims that three million Bengalis were killed in 1971, and that the Pakistan army committed genocide on a massive scale. She reminds her readers that the killing wasn't only on the Pakistani side, that Biharis and Hindus were massacred by Bengalis.
Sarmila Bose says, “The claim of three million dead, or variations thereof, was repeated in South Asian and western academia and media for decades.” Does it really matter whether academics and journalists accepted figures too readily or not? Isn't it all past history? After all, Bangladesh is firmly established as an independent nation and Pakistan accepts that. I would suggest that getting history right does matter. If it's recognised that the size of the defeated army was much smaller than usually believed, if the extent of the Indian Army's involvement in the Mukti Bahini and during the last stages before the war in the actually fighting is acknowledged, then the defeat the Pakistan army suffered is less humiliating. If that army is no longer charged with genocide on a mass scale, its record is still tarnished, but much less so. The adjusted numbers may help Pakistan confront what happened in 1971, something Sarmila Bose says neither Pakistan nor Bangladesh has done. If Bangladesh admits that the Bengali record during the liberation struggle is not unblemished it will realise the depth of communal hatred which was part of the explosive mixture of Bangladeshi nationalism and is still there among some of those whose politics are viscerally anti-Indian. Peter Hazelhurst, reporting for The Times, London, on Sheikh Mujib's return to his country, wrote of the resentment against Indians which he found, and of “xenophobia so deep that only those who speak East Bengali with a pure dialect are considered sons of the soil”. When India fully acknowledges its role in the break-up of Pakistan it will have to accept that there is a debt which must be repaid generously if there is to be the much-desired, and far too long delayed, mature relationship with its neighbour.
Mark Tully is a veteran journalist 
and writer.
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MEMORIES 1971
Star support
By Waheeda Rehman
Story Dated: Friday, November 25, 2011 17:2 hrs IST
The situation was pathetic. The Bangladeshi refugees were facing a lot of problems. A committee was formed with Maharashtra Governor Ali Yavar Jung as the patron to find solutions. There were many industrialists like Arvind Mafatlal and Harish Mahindra who were part of the effort. The film industry got involved, too. I was made the chairperson of the fund-raising committee.
We organised many premieres, including those of a few Hollywood films. Sarod maestro Ustad Vilayat Ali Khan performed. We had a huge show in Brabourne Stadium. Kalyanji Anandji composed the music of the show. Everyone from the industry came out in full force—the likes of Lata Mangeshkar, Sunil and Nargis Dutt and Sharmila Tagore. The show was titled Stars and Strings. I remember we collected lots of money. We had gone from house to house and star to star. People were so curious about the show that they were willing to pay anything to just see it. It took time to get things organised and the show happened just a week before the war was declared. I used to get nightmares about what would happen if the bombings began when the show was on. There was a lot of tension. But everything finally went off well. As it was winter, we bought lots of medicines and warm clothes. I remember people donating ambulances for Dacca and Chittagong.
There weren't many refugees in Bombay. There were many in Calcutta. But it wasn't about Bangladesh. Or that it was a neighbouring country. It was about human beings and their suffering. People were indeed suffering. It was about what we could do. And how we could do. A terrible time it used to be then. Nights were greeted with sirens. We had blackouts.
After the war, Sunil Dutt used to entertain the jawans. He once asked me to join him as part of the troupe. There we saw the ambulances that we had donated and we felt very happy.
As told to Mandira Nayar