fatman17
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VIEW: The victor and the vanquished Mehboob Qadir
Opposing troops in forward trenches develop an instant comrade in arms mutuality when the battle is over. Our guards were from a frontline battalion. They shared the same rations with us and tried in a military manner to lessen our sense of pain and privation.
After a miserably cold night in the Jessore prisoners of war cage, we were bundled into military transports to be driven from Jessore to Bangaon and the journey was strangely uneventful. It appeared that the razor sharp Bengali political instincts had quickly grasped the ugly spectacle of the Indian clean-sweep of their homeland and the shoddy shape of things to come, shocking them into introspection and nagging apprehension. There were no cheering mobs and no buntings but only a loaded disquiet. The queerly still and lifeless atmosphere that seemed to envelop us had a foreboding quality that tended to add to our state of sudden disconnect and temporary aimlessness. It was the last week of December 1971, just a few days after the surrender.
Bangaon was a major Indian railhead and road junction .We were shifted into military trains with barred windows for onwards journey to Agra. It created an illusion of an early repatriation that was regrettably not to be. This false hope kept many from attempting to escape during the days of the train journey. There was neither fanfare nor any celebrations of the historic victory in West Bengal either. Abject poverty, harrowing want and incessant propaganda had seemingly exhausted the West Bengalis to the edge of indifference. Perhaps they knew the consequences of the victory as the bitter brunt of this latest turn of events in their region would once again have to be borne by them. They had endured the crushing oppression of history thrust upon them many times before too, right from slave dynasties, the Mughals and on to the British times, including the traumatic partition.
West Bengal was a pathetic sight compared to East Pakistan. It was dirt poor, underdeveloped and overpopulated. Heaps of *****, decomposing vegetation, all sizes of stinking water puddles and stagnant mossy ponds were everywhere. Narrow, poorly kept roads with the Second World War vintage iron military bridges, half-clad men and dingy little living huts with rusty roofs were an endless panorama of wretched life in one of Indias politically most advanced states. Hamlet after hamlet framed in squalor and appalling misery.
Soon the train was passing through the fabled city of Calcutta. It was an utter comedown from the colonial era stories of its imperial grandeur. Slowly and painfully my anticipation turned into disappointment and then to a distressing feeling of sadness over what I saw. It was a long trek through the city; both sides of the tracks bursting with endless rows of shanty huts. Irregular and unlined sewage drains overflowed with raw city sewage and spread around where blocked. Naked, skinny children were prancing about, gleefully jumping from one island to the other in that despicable sea of fluid sewage, splashing thick muddy ***** on every miss. Occasionally the train passed by a large mound of horribly stinking garbage, domestic waste, stale food and ******* vegetables. Pigs, dogs, cats and human beings were rummaging through the foul heap with perfect composure and understanding kinship. Our defeat at the hands of such an undistinguished enemy was a comprehensive proof of the extent to which we had degenerated morally as a nation, before being humbled militarily.
The second night our train stopped at a rather deserted platform at Benaras Railway Station. Dim yellow bulbs stuck into typically ancient British lampposts were struggling to light up the long stony platform, albeit unsuccessfully. Their feeble light mixed gloom to a prevailing semi-darkness. It was nearly midnight. I was not sure what time it was as the platform clock was so blackened by years of steam engine soot and neglect that the dial and the hands had long become indistinct. Only a shard of the original glass was still stuck precariously in the clock frame. There were a few men who looked like Muslims standing motionless against the station wall. They were very quiet, and I must be imagining, very gloomy too. After a little while, they moved away rather dejectedly. Maybe I had a guilty conscience, or maybe I guessed right. Then also there was a tea vendor who was hawking his steamy brew as Hindu tea, Muslim tea. As he came closer my inquisitiveness overcame discretion and I asked him what was it about Hindu tea and Muslim tea? He was amazed but explained: Hindus do not take tea from a teacup used by somebody else so we serve them in earthen cups and then cast them away. The Muslims do not mind, therefore we serve them in glass cups and reuse after washing.
I understood then why Pakistan had to be created even after a thousand years of futile attempts to live amicably with others. Islam in the Indian subcontinent seemed to have committed the original sin of defying Hinduisms great power of absorption of competing ideologies and therefore was unforgiven. An equally powerful religion like Buddhism had to seek exile after hundreds of years of efforts to coexist. Sikhism is a relatively younger religion and is still struggling against a merger. Other religions are no match to the inherent strength and ancientness of Hinduism.
Opposing troops in forward trenches develop an instant comrade in arms mutuality when the battle is over. Our guards were from a frontline battalion. They shared the same rations with us and tried in a military manner to lessen our sense of pain and privation. As we reached Agra, all hell broke loose on us. We were taken over by second line troops, mostly a potbellied khaki-clad force, probably their Central Reserve Police (CRP), with a few shabbily dressed Indian Army soldiers who were either left out of battle or from units responsible for logistic support to frontline troops. Such troops normally do not see an enemy bullet fired in anger, and thus were eager to wear the glory of a victorious war, of an ultimate victory. Their enthusiasm was uncontrollable as was their extremely rough and undignified handling of the prisoners of war. Kicks, shouts, abuses and sticks were delivered with perfect liberty and all over.
We were interned in Agra jail, which had been refitted as a prisoners of war (PoWs) camp. There were two camps here, 88 and 44. I saw a life-size bronze statue of Mahatma Gandhi in the central square of the jail. He had also been a distinguished internee here, I found out. Not too bad.
By the evening, the first roll call was ordered in our barrack. It was a CRP Havaldar who was yelling around. Major Jaffar Khan (retired as Brigadier, is in Rawalpindi and an ardent polo player) was standing aloof not seeming to hear. The Havaldar howled again. Jaffar Khan refused, telling him firmly and properly, I am an officer and will not fall in under your orders. This was incendiary. The Havaldar took a step back, cocked his weapon, pointed at him and barked, Move or I shoot you. Jaffar Khan was completely unmoved. We shuffled to rush the Havaldar but Major Jaffar Khan stopped us and demanded of him to call an officer. He became the first Pakistani officer to be put in a solitary confinement cell for the next three months. I had the privilege of the company of this very remarkable officer for the next three years in captivity. Unfortunately, soon a bogey of war crimes trials of at least 1,500 (unnamed) officers was floated and never lifted till the repatriation. What the Indians gained from this bluff is not clear but it was so counterproductive as to have embedded hostility in the minds of most Pakistani officers in the camps and for a long time to come. Of these PoWs, some rose to three star rank in the army and Air Force later.
The writer is a retired brigadier of the Pakistan Army. He can be reached at clay.potter@hotmail.com
Opposing troops in forward trenches develop an instant comrade in arms mutuality when the battle is over. Our guards were from a frontline battalion. They shared the same rations with us and tried in a military manner to lessen our sense of pain and privation.
After a miserably cold night in the Jessore prisoners of war cage, we were bundled into military transports to be driven from Jessore to Bangaon and the journey was strangely uneventful. It appeared that the razor sharp Bengali political instincts had quickly grasped the ugly spectacle of the Indian clean-sweep of their homeland and the shoddy shape of things to come, shocking them into introspection and nagging apprehension. There were no cheering mobs and no buntings but only a loaded disquiet. The queerly still and lifeless atmosphere that seemed to envelop us had a foreboding quality that tended to add to our state of sudden disconnect and temporary aimlessness. It was the last week of December 1971, just a few days after the surrender.
Bangaon was a major Indian railhead and road junction .We were shifted into military trains with barred windows for onwards journey to Agra. It created an illusion of an early repatriation that was regrettably not to be. This false hope kept many from attempting to escape during the days of the train journey. There was neither fanfare nor any celebrations of the historic victory in West Bengal either. Abject poverty, harrowing want and incessant propaganda had seemingly exhausted the West Bengalis to the edge of indifference. Perhaps they knew the consequences of the victory as the bitter brunt of this latest turn of events in their region would once again have to be borne by them. They had endured the crushing oppression of history thrust upon them many times before too, right from slave dynasties, the Mughals and on to the British times, including the traumatic partition.
West Bengal was a pathetic sight compared to East Pakistan. It was dirt poor, underdeveloped and overpopulated. Heaps of *****, decomposing vegetation, all sizes of stinking water puddles and stagnant mossy ponds were everywhere. Narrow, poorly kept roads with the Second World War vintage iron military bridges, half-clad men and dingy little living huts with rusty roofs were an endless panorama of wretched life in one of Indias politically most advanced states. Hamlet after hamlet framed in squalor and appalling misery.
Soon the train was passing through the fabled city of Calcutta. It was an utter comedown from the colonial era stories of its imperial grandeur. Slowly and painfully my anticipation turned into disappointment and then to a distressing feeling of sadness over what I saw. It was a long trek through the city; both sides of the tracks bursting with endless rows of shanty huts. Irregular and unlined sewage drains overflowed with raw city sewage and spread around where blocked. Naked, skinny children were prancing about, gleefully jumping from one island to the other in that despicable sea of fluid sewage, splashing thick muddy ***** on every miss. Occasionally the train passed by a large mound of horribly stinking garbage, domestic waste, stale food and ******* vegetables. Pigs, dogs, cats and human beings were rummaging through the foul heap with perfect composure and understanding kinship. Our defeat at the hands of such an undistinguished enemy was a comprehensive proof of the extent to which we had degenerated morally as a nation, before being humbled militarily.
The second night our train stopped at a rather deserted platform at Benaras Railway Station. Dim yellow bulbs stuck into typically ancient British lampposts were struggling to light up the long stony platform, albeit unsuccessfully. Their feeble light mixed gloom to a prevailing semi-darkness. It was nearly midnight. I was not sure what time it was as the platform clock was so blackened by years of steam engine soot and neglect that the dial and the hands had long become indistinct. Only a shard of the original glass was still stuck precariously in the clock frame. There were a few men who looked like Muslims standing motionless against the station wall. They were very quiet, and I must be imagining, very gloomy too. After a little while, they moved away rather dejectedly. Maybe I had a guilty conscience, or maybe I guessed right. Then also there was a tea vendor who was hawking his steamy brew as Hindu tea, Muslim tea. As he came closer my inquisitiveness overcame discretion and I asked him what was it about Hindu tea and Muslim tea? He was amazed but explained: Hindus do not take tea from a teacup used by somebody else so we serve them in earthen cups and then cast them away. The Muslims do not mind, therefore we serve them in glass cups and reuse after washing.
I understood then why Pakistan had to be created even after a thousand years of futile attempts to live amicably with others. Islam in the Indian subcontinent seemed to have committed the original sin of defying Hinduisms great power of absorption of competing ideologies and therefore was unforgiven. An equally powerful religion like Buddhism had to seek exile after hundreds of years of efforts to coexist. Sikhism is a relatively younger religion and is still struggling against a merger. Other religions are no match to the inherent strength and ancientness of Hinduism.
Opposing troops in forward trenches develop an instant comrade in arms mutuality when the battle is over. Our guards were from a frontline battalion. They shared the same rations with us and tried in a military manner to lessen our sense of pain and privation. As we reached Agra, all hell broke loose on us. We were taken over by second line troops, mostly a potbellied khaki-clad force, probably their Central Reserve Police (CRP), with a few shabbily dressed Indian Army soldiers who were either left out of battle or from units responsible for logistic support to frontline troops. Such troops normally do not see an enemy bullet fired in anger, and thus were eager to wear the glory of a victorious war, of an ultimate victory. Their enthusiasm was uncontrollable as was their extremely rough and undignified handling of the prisoners of war. Kicks, shouts, abuses and sticks were delivered with perfect liberty and all over.
We were interned in Agra jail, which had been refitted as a prisoners of war (PoWs) camp. There were two camps here, 88 and 44. I saw a life-size bronze statue of Mahatma Gandhi in the central square of the jail. He had also been a distinguished internee here, I found out. Not too bad.
By the evening, the first roll call was ordered in our barrack. It was a CRP Havaldar who was yelling around. Major Jaffar Khan (retired as Brigadier, is in Rawalpindi and an ardent polo player) was standing aloof not seeming to hear. The Havaldar howled again. Jaffar Khan refused, telling him firmly and properly, I am an officer and will not fall in under your orders. This was incendiary. The Havaldar took a step back, cocked his weapon, pointed at him and barked, Move or I shoot you. Jaffar Khan was completely unmoved. We shuffled to rush the Havaldar but Major Jaffar Khan stopped us and demanded of him to call an officer. He became the first Pakistani officer to be put in a solitary confinement cell for the next three months. I had the privilege of the company of this very remarkable officer for the next three years in captivity. Unfortunately, soon a bogey of war crimes trials of at least 1,500 (unnamed) officers was floated and never lifted till the repatriation. What the Indians gained from this bluff is not clear but it was so counterproductive as to have embedded hostility in the minds of most Pakistani officers in the camps and for a long time to come. Of these PoWs, some rose to three star rank in the army and Air Force later.
The writer is a retired brigadier of the Pakistan Army. He can be reached at clay.potter@hotmail.com
Please see this video by an English TV channel for how things were when the 92,000 POWs were packed back to where they came from. 
