MR ZIAUDDIN, Alias Bhola Mia, school-teacher brother of the ambitious Dr Rahim, was standing on his front doorstep,
about to hail a passing rickshaw, when he noticed what he took to be a man, standing on the opposite side of the road,
urgently beckoning. The man was dressed in a threadbare vest, and a soiled lungee* tied round the waist, ankle-length.
He seemed just over five feet in height, a small black beard sprouted on his chin, and he appeared to be of indeterminate
age. His head was crowned by a dirty cloth cap, which had once been white. It was obviously too large for him, covering
his forehead, and almost his eyes. He beckoned to Bhola Mia again, who walked over to this strange creature, and asked:
"Yes, what do you want?"
"You are a much-respected teacher, and I have come to you on a very dangerous mission. My life is in your hands!"
"What is the matter?" Bhola Mia was somewhat alarmed.
"Sssssh! Not here. We are being watched. By them. I am being followed. They are everywhere. Come into your house, quick!"
He's raving, Bhola Mia thought. He's raving mad! But he allowed the creature to pull him through the doorway of his house,
to the amazement of his boy-servant, who ran, terrified, into the kitchen. His master took the man into his study, a
small room, with a revolving bookcase, a writing table, and chairs.
"Sit down there. Now tell me what all this is about. Who are they, and why are they following you?"
The stranger's manner underwent a startling change. He tugged savagely at his beard, and it came off! He uttered an oath,
and began rubbing his chin. Then he took off his cap, revealing a youth's mop of black hair. Then he went into the
kitchen, washed his face at a basin several times, and returned to the study.
Bhola mia was too astonished to say anything when he recognized the seventeen-year old Seraj, a dangerous miscreant,
who was widely known as "The Terror". The martial law authorities had offered a large reward for his capture. He was
a ruthless killer, and as elusive as the Scarlet Pimpernel! And now here he was in Mr Ziauddin's house, who sat gaping,
his bowels beginning to move with fear.
"Do not be afraid," Seraj said with a smile. "We are only going to have a little talk. By them, I meant of
course the army! But they are not really following me, because I am in disguise. Now listen. We keep ourselves
well-informed about many things, especially concerning our safety, and our great cause. We know that you have been
meeting certain army officers. This is good for us, because..."
* * * * *
Major Sadiq, of military Intelligence, was a taciturn man, small and lithe, with a sharp tanned face, and thin lips,
beneath a small moustache. He had chosen Intelligence because he felt that physically he was not exactly built for the
field of battle. The human mind was his real battlefield, where he aimed at gaining steady victories. Diligent, patient,
and untiring, he was relly good at his job, namely to snoop, spy, and act!
His office was in a secluded house, partly hidden from the road by mango trees. He lived "upstairs", and occasionally
received the Brigadier there, for a cup of coffee.
Major Sadiq looked across his desk at Mr Ziauddin.
"Your proposal has been okayed by the commander, and I have been detailed to sort out all necessary arrangements.
No need to go to him anymore. And always use the route you came by this morning. Our future meetings will be held
after dark. Find a conveniently situated friend or relative living nearby, to add innocence to your visits here, and
your general movements in this direction."
Bhola Mia felt a little embarrassed to raise the school question so soon. But he had instructions from another quarter
to follow.
"I think perhaps it would be best to clear up the question of the laboratory now. Did the Commander agree to my
proposition?"
"Yes, he agreed. We shall start by making a sum available for constructing the small building you have in mind and
so on. Now to business. How many others do you think will cooperate?"
"For the time being I shall work alone. As I said yesterday, a few of my own absconding students have sent messages
beseeching me to cross the border and join them. Naturally I destroyed these dangerous missives as soon as I read them.
The usual approach. Bangladesh needs men like you. Cross the border immediately. Come to us in Calcutta."
"Are you suggesting that you directly establish contact with them? Hmmm... perhaps we could arrange for you to cross
the border, should the need arise. Now here are some instructions..."
* * * * *
Dr Rahim, 55, pushed his microscope aside, and looked at his younger brother, 52, and sighed. He said:
"What exactly do you mean by cooperating with the army? I took Colonel Yaqoob to the T.B. Clinic over a week ago,
and he too said something about cooperating with the army. What do they want of us? To spy for them? What can we spy
on? Is all this some kind of a plot? Yaqoob also mentioned the possibility of my being sent to Karachi to finish my
thesis. This is all rather alarming. Why should we cooperate with them? As far as I can see, their days here are
numbered!"
"Fazlu Bhai, you understand nothing. I have been made a clear offer. Supply them with information about Freedom Fighter
movements and whereabouts, and the school benefits. A science laboratory at last! Can you believe it?"
"And why are you, a literary man, so emotional about a science laboratory? All this is nonsense. Get out of any
commitment you may have made, and wait for this war business to end. The Pakistanis cannot win in the long run, and
they know it. And when they finally have to go, they will leave behind thousands of collaborators to face the music.
You will be one of them."
Bhola Mia's face was now expressionless. He was suddenly very much afraid. But it was too late to draw back. He was
trapped between two forces, and he feared being destroyed in a possible crossfire. He left his brother abruptly, and
went home, thoughtful and depressed.
And now a number of events took place rapidly.
A company, under Major Mumtaz, was ambushed as it approached a village said to be harbouring (according to
Intelligence reports) over a hundred Freedom Fighters, who were using it as a base.
A truck carrying a platoon, under Lieutenant Niaz, was blown up by a mine near an important railway station.
Major Sadiq had received a stunning invitation from The Terror, through Bhola Mia, to meet together in a remote
village and discuss a "cease fire". He was to take certain members of the Peace Committee, four in number, with him,
so that a "delegation" atmosphere could be created. All five were blasted by LMGs, as they approached the village
across a field in an open jeep, driven by Major Sadiq himself.
That Bhola Mia had passed on The Terror's invitation had not been known to anyone but Major Sadiq. This was his
modus operandi. Sadiq's passion for secrecy, and his wide reading of books on the British Secret Service, had
not quite paid off as he had wished. He would have been an asset to the CIA!
But Bhola Mia was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, his brother prescribing tranquilisers and seclusion.
* * * * *
Seraj removed his beard and said:
"I'm going to spend the night here. At dawn we plan a grenade attack near Brigade Headquarters. That should amuse
them! Our real target: wagons full of arms, in the station yard. Then our major offensive next month. You have done
well, Sir! After Liberation, you shall not be forgotten!"
For all his terror, Seraj was only seventeen full of self-confidence, boastful, and prone to be both talkative and
confiding. To himself he was that idol of adolescence: a hero!
Bhola Mia dropped four crushed sleeping pills into The Terror's cup of weak tea, which he usually demanded. This would
take care of him.
Then by a circuitous route, he reached Brigade Headquarters.
* * * * *
The news that Seraj had been taken captive galvanized the town. A dangerous element had been removed from the scene.
Attacks by Freedom Fighters would be less frequent now. Remove a "leader", and dislocation occurs. The line of command
is broken. And this, however temporary, is an advantage to the other side.
Although Brigadier Maqbool himself supervised the removal of the unconscious Seraj from Mr Ziauddin's house, when the
whole area was deserted and asleep, the possibility that accomplices must have known where he planned to spend the
night was obvious.
Bhola Mia pleaded with the Commander that he be escorted to Dacca, where he hoped to be safe. This was arranged. But
early in the morning of his departure date, two days after the capture of Seraj, fate stepped in.
Bhola Mia had barely finished dressing, and was going to call his servant to prepare a quick breakfast, when he heard
a motor vehicle stop in the road near his door, and blow a short beep.
So early? Bhola mia thought. I'd better ask them in for a cup of tea. But the jeep was empty, save for the driver,
who was clad in a simple shirt and lungi. These Intelligence chaps think of everything! Had Bhola Mia bothered to
inspect the front or rear, he would have seen from the number plate that it was a civilian jeep, But Bhola Mia was
too anxious about getting out of town quickly to think of these trifles, on which, alas, had he but known it, his
life depended!
"why are you alone?" he asked the driver. "Captain Asaf Khan was to pick me up."
"He is waiting at the railway station. I am to take you there immediately."
"But I must have breakfast first."
"You can do that at the station. I was told to wait five minutes, and no more. You understand what army instructions
are."
"Let me fetch my bag."
* * * * *
The General was at Headquarters again. Brigadier Maqbool stirred his coffee and said:
"Yaqoob is not a bad player. Never gets excited, or shouts at his partner. These medical chaps manage to keep so
cool!"
"Yes", said the General, "that is so. Before I leave tomorrow morning I would like another report on the Sadiq affair.
I think from now on the Intelligence chaps must let us know what they are up to. Especially important jobs like
this one. I think all intelligence and secret service agencies behave as though they are acting in a motion picture!
They must have drama. They live in their own world of cyphers, and fronts, and contacts, and cloaks, and daggers. Yes,
I used to read a lot of thrillers when I was young And I've taken the regular full course of James Bond! But look what
happens when their world of fantasy is suddenly invaded by reality! Imagine going off alone to meet this Terror chappie,
as though old friends were gathering for a picnic!
"Sadiq goes off impetuously to meet this Seraj, for once devoid of all intelligence! It was almost his duty to ask us
for protective cover, or at least disclose the location of the village before he set out.
̉Then this poor Ziauddin is involved, not because he wanted money for himself, but a laboratory for his school. Then
he becomes some kind of double agent - feeding false information to us, picking up information from Sadiq in casual
conversation, and passing on stuff to the chaps across the border. Oh, the whole thing was so absurd!
"Finally, he switches completely to our side, and hands us Seraj on a platter. Why? Because of loyalty to us meaning
Pakistan? No. He wants to save his skin and clear out before either we get him, or the other side do. Tied to a railway
line. Ugh!
"And then, neatly to end this melodrama, his poor brother, a really good man as you once said, is made a victim of
reprisal. Body found in a ditch, with severed head - a typical Seraj-style killing. A subtle gesture.
"As I told you at the conference this morning, we must tighten security in the town and evolve a master plan to
contain their promised offensive next month. Unless of course the whole thing is a bluff."
The General called his ADC, and they each drank a small glass of brandy.
The threatened offensive did turn out to be a bluff. General Mubarak Hussain lived through the last stages of the
full-fledged war with India, and, after the ignominious surrender of the Pakistan army, became a prisoner-of-war. The
camp was not too far from his native home in northern India. So near, he used to feel, and yet so far!
*Bengalee version of a sarong.
Back to Contents
|