No mercy for Bangabandhu’s killers

ALL fair-minded people will agree that the death sentences passed on 15 men for the assassination of Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, founding father and liberator of Bangladesh, his sons, daughters-in-law and grandchildren are fully justified. The day the crime was committed was significant: it was an anniversary of India’s Independence, August 15, 1974. Sheikh Mujib or Bangabandhu, as he was affectionately called, had ruled Bangladesh for a little over three years when he was done to death by a gang of young army officers. It is unlikely that the convicted men will be publicly executed by a firing squad as the Sessions Judge who passed the sentence of death has pronounced. But no one will dispute his opinion that they "deserve no mercy". What must non-Bangladeshis find difficult to understand is why some people wanted to kill a man who led their nation to freedom and why it took 23 long years to bring the assassins to justice.

I had the privilege of meeting Bangabandhu twice in Dhaka on an assignment from The New York Times. The first time was soon after the liberation of Dhaka by the Indian Army. For their own safety, Pakistani prisoners were being shifted from Bangladesh to India. I saw one train pull out of Dhaka. The railway station was surrounded by a vast mob of Bangladeshis baying for the blood of their erstwhile tormentors. But for the presence of Indian soldiers, not one Pakistani would have got away alive. Pakistani supporters, all Bihari Muslims, were hemmed in one locality, likewise guarded by Indian troops from marauding armed mobs. Bangladeshis reviled Pakistanis, loved Indians. Most of all they loved their heroic leader who narrowly escaped being hanged by Pakistanis — he had been made to dig his own grave in the jail yard.

My meeting with him vividly stays in my mind. I was shown into his office which was a large carpeted hall. It was full of admirers and cronies squatting on the floor. He rose from his chair, embraced me and introduced me to others in the room as "great friend of Bangladesh". I took out my note book and recorded his answers to my questions. Every answer was like a public speech in Bengali-accented English and duly applauded by men in the room. After an hour I gave up attempts to get into a tete-a-tete. The only scoop, if you could call it one, was that he was against releasing Pakistani prisoners of war till after they had been tried for crimes committed against his people and Pakistan recognised an Independent Bangladesh. He bade me farewell with a bear hug and the reassurance "Come again. You will always be welcome in Bangladesh."

On that first visit, I met quite a few Bangladeshis: the poet Kavi Jasimuddin and his family, including his son-in-law Maudood who later became Prime Minister of Bangladesh in Gamal Ershad’s regime, and Professor Raunaq Jahan, author of a book which had forecast East Pakistan breaking away from West Pakistan.

My second meeting with Sheikh Mujib was a year later. The entire scenario had changed. The Bangabandhu was no longer the loved figure he was a few months earlier. Although there were hardly any Indians in Dhaka beside the Embassy staff, there were anti-Indian slogans on city walls: "Indian dogs go back." I sought out Maulana Bhashani who had at one time been a close ally of Sheikh Mujib and had spent many weeks of exile in India. He used strong language condemning Banga-bandhu as bewakoof — stupid — and an Indian stooge. What had gone wrong in that one year I could not fathom.

In praise of trees

Our ancestors worshipped the elements: the sun, earth, water, wind, thunder and lightning. The ritual abides; the spirit is gone. We still regard the peepal sacred because the Buddha gained enlightenment meditating under its branches — hence the Latin name ficus religiosa. Its cousin banyan or barh is still worshipped in villages across the country. So is the tulsi (Basil) grown and worshipped in millions of Hindu homes.

We worship trees but we do not look after them. We cut down forests every day to cremate our dead. We use wood as fuel to cook and keep ourselves warm.

We deprive birds and animals of food and shelter. We must reverse the process, learn to love and cherish our trees. The people who have the closest relationship with trees without worshipping them are the Germans. They have more land under forest cover than any other people and nourish them like their own kin. We should follow their example.

One man I know who loves trees for their beauty is Professor Ranjit Singh. He retired from the Indian Agricultural Service 15 years ago. He has been taking photographs of trees all his life. Some have won him awards. His American wife, Jacqueline, is a novelist and knows German. She has translated some poems by German poets in praise of trees. The couple has mounted an exhibition of photographs of trees and poems written on them at Max Mueller Bhavan.

Of the many poems translated by Jacqueline Singh, I have chosen one by Berholt Brecht which captures man’s yearning to establish a close relationship with a tree.

Morning Address to a Tree Named Green

Green, I owe you an apology

I couldn’t sleep last night because of the noise of the storm.

When looked out I noticed you swang

Like drunken ape. I remarked on it.

Today the yellow sun is shining in your bare branches

You are shaking off a few tears still, Green.

But now you know your own worth.

You have fought your bitterest fight of your life.

Vultures were taking an interest in you.

And now I know:it’s only by your inexorable

Flexibility that you are still upright this morning.

In view of your success it’s my opinion today:

It was no mean feat to grow up so tall

In between the tenements, so tall, Green, that

The storm can get at you as it did last night.

Ghar jamaai

George: So my daughter has consented to become you wife.

Have you fixed the date of your wedding?

Thomas: I will leave that to my fiancee.

George: Will you have a church or a private wedding?

Thomas: Her mother can decide that.

George: What have you to live on?

Thomas: I’ll leave that entirely to you, sir.

(Contributed by Anand Shetty, Bangalore)

Hurry makes curry

Banta and his wife Banto arrived at the station only to see train pulling out.

"If you had hurried a little bit, we would not have missed the train," said Banta angrily.

"And if you hadn’t made me hurry so much we wouldn’t have to wait so long for the next," replied his wife.

(Contributed by Shivtar Singh Dalla, Ludhiana)