Dhaka Streets on August 15- An Eyewitness Account

Ziauddin Choudhury

I had an exceptionally long day the day before the fateful August 15 working till 9 P.M. in Shilpa Bhavan.
The Minister of Industries A.H.M. Kamaruzzaman had a second office in the second floor of the building,
the principal office was in the Secretariat. As his Private Secretary I had two offices also, the second one
being in the same Shilpa Bhavan. The Minister had long working hours split between two offices. The
first half from 10 A.M. to 2 P.M. he sat in the Secretariat, and the second half he spent in Shilpa Bhavan
from 4 P.M. onwards sometimes ending at 9 P.M. I could not leave office until the Minister left for the
evening.

August 14 was a remarkably long evening. The Minister had visitors who kept him occupied much of the
time, and consequently I could not get some important papers signed by him. I was getting anxious as
that evening I was invited by a friend to a movie (in a movie club) and dinner later in a Hotel. That friend
had invited a diplomatic couple also. When the last visitor left around 9 P.M. I entered the Minister’s
chamber with files in my hand. The Minister got up from his chair signaling to me that I should go away
and saying that he would attend the papers tomorrow. Little did I know that time that tomorrow would
not see us both in the same office again!

My evening or night rather with my friends was joyful and was spent in great merriment. It was well
after midnight when we parted. The streets were pretty deserted that time like they always were in
Dhaka that time of night. I passed through Road Number 32 where Bangabandhu lived with his family in
his private residence since he had declined to move to his official residence in Gana Bhavan in Sher-e-
Bangla Nagar. It may sound strange to many in this generation, but Bangabandhu would spend his whole
day and a good part of the evening in Gana Bhavan attending his official work and then retire to his
Dhanmandi house for night. When I passed by his residence (my parents lived only a few houses away
from Bangabandhu’s house) I saw the usual guards outside the house and police on duty in the shed
constructed near the lake. There was nothing out of the ordinary.

I did not stop at my parent’s house that night as I had earlier told my parents that I would be very late
that evening and they should not wait for me. I would sleep in a friend’s house nearby a few roads away.
I asked my friend who was driving to drop at that address. I slipped into my friend’s house quietly and
went straight to bed, literally quite exhausted.

It was probably five in the morning when I woke up hearing sounds of thunder. I first thought it was
really a thunderstorm that broke suddenly. But it was not. I went out of the room and heard booming
sound of guns and rattling of machine guns from the verandah of the house. Meantime other occupants
of the house, my friend’s family and servants had rushed to the verandah wondering what was
happening. We soon figured out that the awesome sounds were coming from the other side of the lake,
likely Road No. 32. We were wondering if the sounds were created by bombs that could have been
planted by some terrorists (there were indeed many incidents of bomb blasts in Dhaka that time).

The gun fire and booming sounds of explosives soon abated. But our concerns and worries did not
abate. The nagging question of what and who caused this explosion and where it was happening would
soon be answered when a relative called over the phone and asked us to tune to Radio. We tuned to
radio only to hear that catastrophic voice of Major Dalim announcing assassination of Bangabbandhu
and declaring a coup under the leadership of Khondkar Mushtaqe Ahmed. He also announced a dawn to
dusk curfew, imposition of martial law indefinitely, and severe punishment of those who would defy this
coup.

The day had hardly dawned and therefore there would be no traffic at that hour even in a normal day.
But somehow, I felt that the entire neighborhood had turned eerily quiet. The announcement of curfew
and martial law over the radio by the self-proclaimed announcer of coup shook me considerably. Is this
true? Has Sheikh Mujib been really killed. Has the government been really toppled by the army? What
about his Ministers and above all my own Minister Kamaruzzaman?

As I was asking myself these troubling questions not knowing what I should do, things had settled down
quiet a bit as there were no more sounds of gun. Dhanmandi in those days was not a heavily trafficked
place and therefore absence of cars was not a subject of notice. But nevertheless, I could hear sounds of
rickshaws across the lake. Probably these rickshaw pullers had not heard of the curfew announcement.
My concern was if I would be able to drive over to the Minister’s house who lived also in Dhanmandi, a
few streets away. Besides the curfew order my other obstacle was the car itself. I had let the driver of
my government car to take the car to the Secretariat garage last night since I was being driven by the
friend. Nevertheless, I called the Minister’s residence an hour later, probably about seven o’clock to
enquire about his welfare. He received the call and in a shaky voice he asked if I could come over with
my car. I told him that the car was in the garage a few miles away, but I could arrange a ride from my
relative. He said he would wait.

It took another hour or so for my relative to get ready and take out the car. As his driver did not live in
the same house, he would have to drive himself. Ignoring protests from his wife, we ventured out
nonetheless despite the so-called curfew order.

We passed several cars on Mirpur road and rickshaws as well. There were no police not to speak of any
soldiers on the road that we took to reach Road No. 2 where the Minister lived. This was an abandoned
property that belonged to Nabisco Company but taken over by the government and used as a residence
for Minister for Industries.

A big surprise awaited us when we reached the Minister’s residence. The police guard on duty told me
that the Minister had left with his family in a private car. I wanted to know whose car it was and if the
person taking the Minister and family was from the Army. The Police Security Officer said he was certain
it was not a police or army vehicle. He did not know the person’s identity.

I was really perplexed. If the Minister was not taken away by the army or police who took his family
away. Where would he go?

I returned to my relative’s house again the same route. The number of cars had increased in the streets,
but still there was no police or army in sight.

Around ten o’clock I received a phone call from a person who I had come to know through Mr.
Kamaruzzaman, a son-in-law of a prominent Awami League MP. He told me that Mr. Kamaruzzaman and
family were in his house, and he wanted to see me. His house was also in Dhanmandi, and I knew its
location. I immediately set off to see him.
Minister Kamaruzzaman was in a state of utter dejection and despair. He was not only crying at the loss
of dearly beloved leader but was mortally afraid for his own life. He repeatedly said “Mushtaq will kill us
all.” I could understand his despair and lament for the death of his leader, but I could not quite fathom
why Mushtaq would kill him and his associates. I would understand this only much later when he and his
three other colleagues would be brutally killed a couple of months afterwards in jail custody. But that is
another story.

Meanwhile what the Minister asked me to find out from whatever source I had if it would be safe for
him to return to his official home. Now this was a tall order given the circumstances. If I were to take the
radio announcements that came on every ten minutes on dawn to dusk curfew and martial law, who
could I reach and how I could get this assurance? I had no clue, but nonetheless I set out on the mission
impossible.

My first attempt was to reach out for the Superintendent of Police of Dhaka, and Deputy Commissioner
of Dhaka, both friends of mine, who lived in Minto Road. I took this fool hardy decision knowingly since I
had seen already there were no attempts at implementing the so-called curfew in the streets. Who
would implement the curfew? The roads had no police, not even traffic constables. And no sign of any
army. The only instance of army presence was in the Radio Station where I saw a few army jeeps with
soldiers inside. (For some time, a tank had occupied the road leading to Road No 32.)

I passed through Minto Road with nary a police constable in sight. Unfortunately, my attempts at
locating both SP and DC were futile as they both were not in their residences. My only other thought
was to go to the Secretariat and try to see the Home Secretary. But the Secretariat was completely
deserted. In my whole journey from Dhanmandi to Minto Road, through Topkhana, Ramna, and Kakarail
areas I did not see any police or soldier. There was some traffic, but everything moved as though in a
trance. There were no processions of mourning, nor celebrations of any kind, yet there was an eerie
silence as people moved in the streets.

I spent my entire day in futile efforts to get an assurance of any kind for my Minister, but I got none. All I
learnt that a country can be brought to its knees, its leaders felled in one swipe by a handful of rogue
Army officers, and everyone would cower. It was to difficult to imagine that the streets that were filled
with thousands of people only a day before marching toward Gana Bhavan carrying banner to cheer
Bangabandhu and Baksal would be so empty.

I still do not have an answer how a people who could rise against military power and army rule can be
petrified simply by use guns and brutal killing of its leader to passivity. There was not a single procession
against this brutal act but an eerie silence that day. I still do not know if that silence was out of fear, or
stoicism. We will never get Bangabandhu back. But can we ensure people that this kind of tragedy will
be never repeated?