| Prelude to Bangladesh » Omar Chowdhury |
Mr Khan's Dilemma |
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A friend is a person with whom I may be sincere. Before him I may think aloud. Conduct of Life Emerson
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MR KHAN laid aside his pen. He had just signed an order sentencing three men to death for armed conspiracy against the martial law government of East Pakistan. As District Officer, Mr Khan had signed similar orders in the recent past, but on this particular occasion he felt depressed and unhappy. Things seemed to have gone too far. Strictly speaking, he was merely doing his duty. But that duty was now questionable. Mr Khan had never given much thought to politics, which he considered should be outside the preoccupation's of a public servant. A middle class university product, he had put his father's money, and his own talents, to good use, and had been able to enter the civil service, with an arranged marriage to follow. A nice, conventional upbringing, against a nice, conventional background. He was urban through and through, a not great sympathizer with rural problems, and his first stint in the provincial secretariat had led him erroneously to suppose that he might never be sent to the districts, away from the amenities of city life. But two district postings had widened his perceptions, narrowed his sympathies, and confirmed his prejudices. He utterly failed to see how the agrarian problems of East Pakistan could ever be solved, and had come to the conclusion that he must let his chosen professional life slowly grind its way to eventual retirement. He was over thirty, and a father of two daughters. His wife, also urban, was quietly sophisticated, and was more of an intellectual companion than the average Bengalee wife usually is. She was attractive, educated, and comfortably in love with her husband, without ever letting that love verge on devotion, or degenerate into servitude. She did not live entirely for the kitchen, and aspired higher than the bed. Their life in the district had trundled along familiar lines, and they had no reason to feel much discontented about anything, until over night, their lives, and that of millions of others, had been thrown into the chaos and confusion of the civil war. The Pakistan army had taken over the town without a struggle. The leaders of the independence movement had fled to India, and the Freedom Fighters were only just beginning to creep over the border, on sporadic sabotage missions. The army was fully prepared for this kind of sneaky warfare, but its main concern was to win the people over, otherwise the hope of containing the attacks of the guerrillas was poor. It was therefore imperative that those inspired with a determination to assist the rebels be hunted, caught, and exterminated. This was a ruthless policy, tailored to suit a ruthless situation. And Mr Khan had to carry it out, side by side with his military colleagues. But now it seemed more than an unpleasant duty - it was going against the grain. The telephone rang. "Khan, District Officer, speaking." "This is Iqbal here. What about those three chaps who were caught last night?" "I found them to be active supporters of the rebels. And one of them was carrying a gun - of Indian make. The Regulations provide no options. They have been sentenced to death." "We're having a lot of trouble with our patrols. Jeep blown up an hour ago. The Commander doesn't like it at all. Come to my room this evening. I know how you're feeling about those three chaps. A little whisky is as good a dressing for such wounds as any I know of." He rang off. Mr Khan's wife liked to provide her husband with a substantial tea, as he ate little for lunch. Since the civil war started, tennis at the club had become dangerous. A sniper had fired across the court one evening as a warning to brother Bengalees that sports and games were definitely not the order of the day! Banu poured out a second cup, and said: "You sentenced three men to death today. Ranu was one of them?" "Yes. He was carrying a gun." "You carry a gun nowadays." "His was Indian." "And yours?" "Nationality in doubt." "Couldn't you spare him?" "I did my duty. You do yours, and shut up." "Are you going to see Iqbal this evening?" "Yes." "Are you going to drink whisky?" "Naturally." "Good. I like you when come back. You pinch my cheek. Would you ever have thought, not so long ago, that you would come back to me after drinking whisky, and pinch my cheek, and ask me to forgive you for being a coward?" "I'm not a coward, and I shan't pinch your cheek anymore. I'm going to take you back to your family in Dhaka. Then I shall resign." "What good will that do?" "It'll stop me hating myself. There is of course an alternative. I could defect, and go to India." "Don't do that. You might get killed." "You're right. Come into the bed-room. I want to lie down." * * * * * * *
Captain Iqbal's room was cluttered with books. He was in Artillery, and wrote poetry. In matters of life, he was a
romantic; in matters of death, a soldier. He too had only recently started drinking whisky. He filled their glasses, and
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