White Night [1972–75: The twilight chapter of Bangladesh]

Preface: In My Defense…

The year was 1972 — a nation newly born from the agony of war. The air was still thick with the scent of gunpowder and sacrifice; the land trembled with the first cries of freedom. Bangladesh had just emerged from the womb of history, its infant body still stained with blood.

What followed has, over time, faded into silence. Between the triumph of liberation and the darkness of 1975 — the year Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, the Father of the Nation, was assassinated along with his family — stretches a void. Three and a half years of turbulence seem to have vanished, as though those days were never lived at all.

Now and then, words like Rakkhi Bahini or BAKSAL drift through political conversation — invoked more as weapons than as history. Yet few pause to ask why they were created, or what purpose they once served. The Famine of 1974 lingers as a half-remembered wound. My mother would tell me that salt had become so costly that even rice mixed with salt was a rare luxury. From faraway villages, skeletal figures would arrive in swarms — beggars of hunger — pleading for the discarded froth from boiling rice.

History bears witness to much, but conceals even more. Beneath the pages of recorded events lies another history — quieter, deeper, and often forgotten. What truly happened in those in-between years? That question, restless and unrelenting, became the seed of this book.

When I turned to the chronicles of our past, I found them divided — one half written in flattery, the other in fury. To distill truth from such extremes is a difficult labor. Yet I could not look away. Out of my responsibility to history, and my calling as a writer, I began this work. For every writer, in the end, owes a debt — to his people, to his country, and to truth itself. This book is my attempt to repay a small part of that debt.

I have not sought to create heroes or villains. I have only tried to let each figure, each event, reveal its own fragment of truth — as much as the limits of imagination and memory allow.

I have long been drawn to history, though not as a scholar. My path has been one of scattered reading, slow reflection, and persistent curiosity. From those fragments grew the idea for this collection of stories. Years passed in preparation — gathering books, poring over the yellowed pages of old newspapers, searching archives and digital traces. Wherever I found a glimmer of truth, I held on to it. Slowly, the characters and their world began to take shape.

Through these stories, I have sought answers to the questions that have long haunted me:

Why and how did Khandaker Moshtaque, a senior Awami League leader, seize power after the nation’s founding?
What role did Siraj Sikder and his Sarbahara Party play in those turbulent times?
Why was the Rakkhi Bahini formed, and why does it still stir debate?
What brought about the famine of 1974?
Why did Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman move toward a one-party system known as BAKSAL?
What fractured his once-intimate friendship with Tajuddin Ahmad, compelling Tajuddin’s resignation from the cabinet?
And within the supposed safety of a prison cell, why — and how — were four senior leaders of the Awami League brutally murdered?
How did Brigadier Khaled Mosharraf’s coup on November 3rd unfold, and how, within three days, did the counter-coup rise, drowning the nation once more in blood?
What role did Colonel Taher and his JASAD Gono Bahini play in that chaotic tide of power and betrayal?

I have tried to approach this chapter of history with an impartial gaze. Yet as this is a work of fiction, certain names and institutions have been altered or abbreviated for artistic clarity. Even so, readers will easily recognize the shadows behind these characters. For truth, however veiled, has a way of revealing itself.

Perhaps this book may be called an imaginative extension of history — a bridge between fact and feeling, where memory and invention coexist. A storyteller does not merely record the world; he reshapes it, seeking meaning in its fragments. That is what I have tried to do here.

To revisit history without prejudice is never easy. Still, I have tried — with sincerity and humility. And if, in this laborious journey, any flaw or inconsistency meets your eye, I invite your honesty. For the sake of truth — always for truth — I shall welcome correction, and embrace it in the editions to come.

Part One

The Kisti Cap of Agamasi Lane

15 August 1975. Friday. From 6 a.m., a voice repeatedly floats over the radio: “This is Major Apple speaking. From this morning, under the strong leadership of Khandakar, the military has seized power. Sheikh Mujib and his murderous corrupt government have been overthrown. From now on, martial law has been imposed throughout the country. You all cooperate with us. Rest assured, you will face no inconvenience. Long live Bangladesh.”

A little later, the announcement comes again from the same voice. This time the tone is no longer gentle, but aggressive, like a command being issued. With a veiled threat, Major Apple announces: “Throughout Bangladesh, a 24-hour curfew has been imposed from morning until evening. This curfew will remain in effect until further orders. Bangladesh BDR, Police, Rakkhi Bahini, fellow soldiers, you all join and cooperate with the military. Those who refuse cooperation will face severe punishment in the greater interest of the country. Long live Bangladesh.”

Armored tanks are gradually assembled in front of Bangabhaban. Telexes buzz back and forth hour after hour. From the moment of the announcement, the entire country freezes as if struck by lightning. Iraj Ahmed cannot believe his own ears. He repeatedly turns the radio knob to make sure he is hearing correctly. Bangladesh Betar’s name is instantly changed to Radio Bangladesh. “Joy Bangla” is replaced with “Long live Bangladesh.” Could the fear he had harbored for several days actually be coming true? The transistor he had bought during the Pakistan era seems to be grinning at him.

This two-story house in Mohammadpur was built with great effort by Iraj’s father, Ahmed Sahib. The son of a journalist has become a journalist. Though the family pockets are empty at month-end, they enjoy considerable respect in the neighborhood. In times of trouble, the local community first seeks shelter in this Rabeya Villa. Hundreds of people have gathered on the veranda for dispute resolution; countless cases have been settled there. When Iraj was five, Ahmed Sahib moved here from Narinda in old Dhaka. Today, forty years later, Iraj is intimately familiar with this soil, water, air, and even the sparrows; he understands their language, and they understand his gestures.

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Yet today, everything seems somehow upside-down. Across the street stands a white house. From the second-floor bedroom, Iraj peers through the slightly open wooden window. A few people walk hesitantly along the street. Even the neighborhood dogs, Lalu and Kalu, are unusually quiet today. The surroundings seem tense, like the sky before an approaching cyclone. Suddenly, a suffocating silence descends in his mind, like layers of grave soil. Sitting inside feels unbearable.

He puts on a blue-striped full-sleeve shirt over his white undershirt. As he folds the sleeves with practiced hands, he considers wearing a lungi before stepping out. But then, for some reason, he puts on brown trousers. His mind feels completely chaotic. He opens the wallet on the table, takes some loose change from the drawer, and puts it in his back pocket. Wearing his sandals, he walks down the stairs and meets his father.

Ahmed Sahib’s voice sounds ghostly:
— “The leader has been killed. Have you heard?”

Iraj shakes his head and makes a “hmm” sound through his nose.
— “Agamasi Lane’s Khandakar has seized power.”
— “I’ve heard.”

— “Where are you going?” Ahmed Sahib’s voice full of concern.
— “Just stepping out a little.”
— “A curfew has been imposed across the country, haven’t you heard?”
— “I know, but it has been relaxed for an hour and a half for Jumma prayers.”

Iraj’s mother, Rabeya Begum, stands beside him. She looks at his face.
— “Is it wise not to go out today? Can’t you see the situation?”
— “I will return soon. I am going out to observe the situation a little.”

Iraj steps out. Crossing the veranda, he walks a few steps across the walkway. He opens the iron gate, latches the upper latch, and steps onto the street. The silence is broken by the clamor of the neighborhood. As he moves toward the Town Hall, the scene changes. A procession of jubilation unfolds in the Bihari camp. Slogans of “Long live Pakistan” rise. Firecrackers go off one after another. Sweets are exchanged, handshakes and embraces take place. Quran recitations are played on the microphone. A small procession passes by. Despite the curfew, people — from children to the elderly — move freely in the streets. Military vehicles patrol the roads.

Walking toward Asad Gate, Iraj feels as if he has returned to the days of the old Ayub Gate. Walking toward Lalmatia, he meets Rafik Kaiser, a reporter from Dainik Insaf, puffing a cigarette at the corner of his mouth. Seeing Iraj, he asks:
— “Have you heard anything?”
— “Hmm. But the radio doesn’t say everything.”

Rafik holds out a pack of blue Star cigarettes to Iraj. Iraj doesn’t like this brand without filters; his brand is Triple Five. Still, to pass time, and for friendship’s sake, he takes a cigarette. Rafik strikes a matchstick, lighting Iraj’s cigarette. Iraj takes the matchbox in his hand. On the box is a red horse, with the words moisture-resistant beside it.

— “I heard the leader’s entire family has been killed.”
Iraj asks:
— “Is anyone alive?”
— “Too many things are just floating in the air, my friend. I hear India may attack. Our Tauhidi Jamaat and the military are supposedly ready for it.”
— “I heard on the radio that Khandakar has become President. The bulletin said Khandakar performed Jumma prayers at Baitul Mokarram today.”

He spits on the ground. The curse leaves his lips without him even knowing whom it was for.

In a worried voice, Rafik asks:
— “Tell me, Iraj, what is happening? Back to Pakistan? Is this why we fought the Liberation War?”

— “Let’s go toward Paltan.”
Hearing this, Rafik says:
— “Time is over, my friend. The curfew will be imposed soon. Go back home.”

At home again, Iraj semi-reclines on the bed with the radio next to his ear. He notes everything that has happened throughout the day. A dusk-to-dawn law has been imposed indefinitely across the country. Everyone is requested to stay in their homes until further notice. The Chief of Army K.M. Kafiullah, Navy Chief Commodore Mozaffar Hossain Khan, and Air Force Chief Air Vice Marshal A.K. Talukdar express support through radio announcements. Even the National Security Force, formed by the leader, does not refrain from sending messages of support.

Santosh Maulana, an elderly leader from Tangail, sends a telegram to Khandakar:
“This is a historic step. You must remove corruption and nepotism from the country. May Allah shower mercy on the new government and upon you.”

All day, the one called “President” — Khandakar — is addressed as such. His oath ceremony takes place in the evening. He is sworn in by temporary Supreme Court Judge Syed A.B. Mahbub. Everyone except a few of the leader’s ministers signs under Khandakar’s authority. Bangabhaban is festive. There is no coercion; rather, positions and titles are claimed with minor disputes. The Apple-Rashed-Fakhrul faction mocks the scene.

Immediately after taking the oath, Khandakar delivers a long speech to the nation. A small man, frail in health, with a thin, carefully trimmed moustache under his nose, thick black-framed glasses, and a familiar kisti cap on his balding head. Wearing a buttoned coat, he smiles faintly, speaking like a Pakistani-era minister:
— “Assalamu Alaikum. Dear brothers and sisters of the nation. By a historic necessity, and relying on the prayers of the seven-and-a-half crore people of Bangladesh and the Most Merciful Allah, the sacred responsibility to fulfill the true aspirations of our nation has been entrusted to me as President.”

Recognition comes one by one from Pakistan, Saudi Arabia, Sudan, Iran, Qatar. Even associations from rice traders, rickshaw owners, fishery cooperatives, small businesses, to the Dhaka Chamber and Bangladesh Chamber of Commerce start issuing large statements of support in newspapers.

Retired General Gani becomes the coordinator between the cantonment and Bangabhaban. Accompanied by his shadow companions, farmer and Thakur Sahib.

Khandakar frames this success as a victory for Islam. Junior officers involved in the leader’s killing are honored as “Sons of the Nation.” He even declares his black kisti cap as the “National Cap.” Ministers’ clothing is styled like Prince coats with full trousers, in different colors for different occasions. Thankfully, he does not wear his achkan or sherwani as national attire; otherwise, chaos would ensue.

Iraj’s migraine intensifies at the constant events. He grows restless. The curfew sirens blare. The sharp sound pierces Dhaka’s night sky. Earlier that afternoon, returning home, his sandal had broken on a nail in front of the Bihari camp. Now, the same spot throbs painfully. He takes a painkiller and lies down on the bed, exhausted. Sleep comes, but the pain will not allow him to rest. The siren blares, and his torment seems to whisper: Stay awake…