Description of Genocide and Torture: Bangladesh
Interviews from different area
|| Dhaka District ||
| Title | Source | Date |
| Description of Genocide and Torture | Documents of Bangla Academy | 1972-74 |
Srimati Basanti Rani Guhathakurta
Husband, Dr. Jyotirmoy Guhathakurta
Headmaster, Manija Rahman Girls’ High School,
Gandaria, Dhaka-4
On 25th March of the year 1971, that frightful night, we all had dinner, and at nine, we turned on the radio and sat there. We did not hear of any predictions from Dhaka Radio, about possible disasters we may face that night. After hearing the news broadcast from Voice of America, my husband, Dr. Jyotirmoy Guhathakurta, entered my daughter Meghna’s room, and sat down to check the M. A. Preliminary and Honours examinee papers of Dhaka University. Suddenly, hearing the hussle and bussle of the people, my husband and I walked outside the wall to see them creating defences with big trees, water tanks and brick-bats from road to road. Sensing danger, my husband sealed the entrance to our flat, and after observing the road, he said with a burdened mind, “danger has begun”. He returned to his daughter’s room once again to go through the papers. I, on the other hand, fell asleep with unwanted thoughts in my mind. At midnight, I jot up to the sound of bombs and got up to hear their distant commotion coming from the direction of Iqbal Hall and Rokeya Hall. Gradually, the countless flash bombs illuminated the sky. In the sparkle of the light, I could see the distant scene of gunfire and bombing. Not being able to stand the deafening sound of the bombs, we laid our bedcovers below the bed and laid. We were safe, but could still hear the sound of the massacre being done by the barbaric Pakistani soldiers. We called for domestic help in the next room, but couldn’t hear a response– we were all helpless and frightened to the core. Our flat was trembling and around us we could catch the sight of the flashing light from the explosives. Hearing the hissing sounds gave me goosebumps all over my body– I went up and peeked through the window to see heavily armed Pakistani military personnel, armed military trucks and more waiting for us at the door of our apartment. Just seconds later, a Punjabi Major entered, breaking up the chains at the entrance. Pulling apart the mosquito net and bay net on my daughter Meghna’s window, he put his head through it to see me and immediately ran across to the door to the kitchen. He broke the door and barged into our apartment. I told my husband that we’re surrounded by Pakistani soldiers, that we’re in danger, imperilled. My husband said to my daughter, lying in another room, that Punjabi troops were kicking and bashing our door with their boots. I ran to my husband and said to him that the Pakistanis are here, and they might arrest him, so he should be prepared, giving him one of his panjabis and taking my daughter. Returning outside the room I saw them enter through the veranda of my kitchen. They pushed down my domestic help and stood in front of me. One of them asked me, “Is the professor home?” I answered helplessly, “Yes”. The Punjabi Major spoke again and said they are taking my husband away. I inquired, “Where are you taking him?” Without giving me an at least decent answer, he replied in a tone void of respect, “We’re taking him.”
While we were walking, he interrogated, “Are there any young boys in the apartment?” I said, “No, but I have a daughter.” Hearing this, the Major said “Alright, a girl won’t be a problem”. Entering the room my husband and I stayed in, they tightly gripped my husband, Dr. Jyotirmoy Guhathakurta, by his left arm and asked, “Are you the professor?” My husband answered in English, “Yes”. The Punjabi Major said “We’re taking you”. My husband with a heavy voice and a perplexed tone asked in English again, “Why?” Ignoring his question, the major dragged him outside. I walked on with them just some steps behind. After not being able to see them anymore, I returned to my room and picked up the telephone receiver to hear just static. During that time, I understood everything– we were doomed. Going back, I saw Punjabi soldiers rushing Mrs. Maniruzzaman out, saying “Go, go, move!”. Prior to this, the Pakistani soldiers had been forcing and pushing Dr. Maniruzzaman, his son, his nephew and a young man who was his neighbour, downstairs to take them away as well. When she reached the very end of the stairs, she told me that the Pakistani soldiers were taking all of them away. I told her that there is no point in protesting, they do not understand our language. If we try too much they may kill us off. In the midst of me saying this I heard two gunshots outside. I grabbed a pillow and ran to hold my daughter who was not too far away, but as I did so, I heard eight consecutive gunshots outside. Alarmed– I went to look and saw the shot bodies of four people laying at the end of the staircase. Right after the gunfire, they announced curfew and immediately departed with their trucks. Mrs. Maniruzzaman brought water from the second floor and gave it to the wounded to drink. She came running and said “Didi, your husband was shot, he spoke to me, he is going to live.” Hearing this, my daughter Meghna and I rushed towards his body to see it wounded and laying there. He was saying, “They shot me, I feel paralysed. Pick me up and take me home” I lost the strength to cry so I could just exclaim, dear me!, dear me! Professor Abdur Razzak and Professor Anis lived on the first floor. The Pakistani soldiers didn’t enter their apartment since they had an automatic lock installed there. Even after the soldiers left and after hearing our desperate cries, they did not come out to our aid. Somehow together, we held his bloody and wounded body and laid him on the bed on the balcony, in our apartment. He hadn’t lost consciousness yet. Hearing the helpless woes of Mr. Maniruzzaman’s nephew who was asking for water, my daughter took me with her to give him some. Just seconds after that, the young boy fell into the arms of death.
Somewhere distant or near, whichever it is, we could hear the rain-like gunfire being carried out by the Pakistani soldiers. Just a while later we could see the Pakistani soldiers heading east of Jagannath Hall and setting fire to the students’ canteen. From time to time we could see the military trucks of the Pakistani army patrolling the area. The wailing sounds of the fire and the burning people could be heard everywhere. Until the next day 26th March, and the morning of 27th March, 1971; my husband was heavily bleeding from his wounds. Due to the curfew, I could not manage to take him to the hospital for surgery or give him proper care
With some help from the people, on the morning of 27th March of 1971, we transferred my husband to Dhaka Medical College and Hospital. There were no doctors, nor were there any staff there. The nurses responsible for my husband took care of him the best ways they could. On 30th March of 1971, my husband passed away due to the lack of medical care. After he passed, I did not have the permission to take his body from the hospital, thus, we could not arrange a proper funeral for his sacred corpse. Right after my husband’s death, the Pakistanis surrounded and captured Dhaka Medical College and Hospital. With no options to come out with my husband’s corpse, on doctors’ orders we turned away. We got refuge at House #20 in Dhanmondi, which was the house of the secretary of our school, Dr. M. A. Wahid. On the car ride there, we rode with the sister in law of the then-governor of East Pakistan, Dr. Malek. My husband’s body lay in the hospital for four days and my driver stayed there. He watched over the body of my husband, Dr. Jyotirmoy Guhathakurta, in the balcony of the hospital ward until the 3rd of April.
Signed,
Basanti Guhathakurta
20-5-94
Bangladesher Swadhinota Zuddho Dolilpotro: Volume-8 (Page – 12-14)