by Azizul Jalil

‘Guli legeche, khub thanda laghche’-these were the last words of Abul Barkat to me on February 21, 1952. Student volunteers were carrying him to the emergency room of the Dhaka Medical College Hospital. It was about 3 pm on a winter afternoon that the police fired rifle shots at the students near the gate of the Medical College hostel. Minutes earlier, I walked through the inner alley from the hostel compound to the Medical College building and stood in front of the emergency room. Barkat was bleeding profusely and in severe pain. He was obviously conscious as he recognized me and addressed me by my name. I shall never forget that scene on a day that has become the most memorable day in Bangladesh’s history. Indeed, through the declaration of the International Mother Language Day, February 21 has also become an internationally significant day.
   Barkat and I had walked together at about 9 am from the Purana Palton corner to the old Arts Building. Because of the strike, there were no buses on the road. I was carrying with me a bunch of leaflets for distribution on behalf of the Sanskriti Samsad, urging students to defy government orders, come out in the street and march to the East Pakistan Assembly building. The evening before, under Section 144 CrPC, the government had banned assembly of four or more persons and demonstrations in public places.
   We became friends from 1950, both living in the Purana Palton area. Barkat was a year senior to me in class, studying MA part one in International Relations. We used to meet almost every evening near a big pond between Paltan and Segunbagicha. Fakhruddin Ahmad and another person senior to us by a few years, whom we called Monu da, used to join us for free-wheeling adda sessions. I was the youngest in the group but enjoyed the company the most. Barkat was soft spoken and shy. He was quite intense and appeared to bear a lot of responsibility on his shoulders. Hailing from Murshidabad, his widowed mother had sent him from West Bengal to Dhaka to live with an uncle, study at the Dhaka University and make a career in East Pakistan. Unfortunately, that was not in his destiny. His mother’s dream would remain unfulfilled.
   Barkat was lean, thin and tall. He had a husky voice, which often trembled. He had deep feelings about the issues the country faced at that time. He spoke very little but when he expressed himself, it was modest, heartfelt and emotional. I clearly recollect what he told me at about 1 pm at the end of the Aamtala meeting within the Arts Building area on 21 February. I had just spoken on behalf of the Sanskriti Samsad, urging students to advance to the assembly in defiance of government orders. Earlier in the morning, we had distributed the Sanskriti Samsad leaflet. Barkat was shaking with anger. He demanded to know what we were going to do next and stated that he could not tolerate the government’s attitude. He did not.
   Despite the All-Party Committee of Action’s inconclusive meeting the day before in Dhaka Court Bar Library, we decided to go out into the street in groups of ten. Police constables had barricaded the gate just outside the Proctor’s office with their lathis. We pushed them away and made our way out. They appeared to be lenient. Our group was probably the fourth, composed of five men and five women. The preceding groups were taken away in police trucks to a distant place. For whatever reason, maybe shortage of trucks, we were able to proceed close to the Medical Building gate. At that point, police threw tear gas canisters at us, enveloping us with smoke with an obnoxious odour. We had irritating and teary eyes and could see with some difficulty. Undaunted, we marched forward, shouting slogans for Bengali language and denouncing the government action. We were lathi charged by the police who blocked our path with a truck when we were just past the Medical College hostel gate. We were getting too close to our destination, the Jagannath Hall, where the provincial assembly was in session. Slightly injured and dazed, some of us then took shelter inside the hostel, where the medical students attended to our problems. Others dispersed in different directions.
   Meanwhile, students inside the arts building broke open a part of the thin brick wall dividing the Arts and the medical buildings, a few feet away from Madhu’s teashop. They went to the medical hostel area from where some of them threw brickbats at the police on the street, protesting police actions against those of us who had gone out. Barkat was one of them. Brick throwing went on for some time, with the police throwing these back at the students. After a few bricks actually hit some policemen, the police opened fire with rifles. The students tried to take cover behind the bamboo walled, tin shed hostel structures. The police chased them coming inside the gate and targeted the students as they were running away. One bullet struck Barkat in the thigh and he fell down. I was standing in front of the emergency room, as the injured students were brought in. That is when I saw Barkat and talked to him the very last time.
   Barkat underwent surgery but the bleeding could not be stopped. In the evening, he sent Anwar, a friend of mine, to our house to get him a sweater. At about 9 30 pm, Anwar called me from the Medical College to inform that Barkat had expired. Dhaka city, by then, was under curfew. I telephoned senior government officials from Murshidabad who knew his family. They secured government permission and buried him in the middle of the night in the Azimpur graveyard. Barkat’s mother arrived from West Bengal a few days later and visited the grave.
   Thus ended the life and ambitions of a simple and innocent man, who could not understand why the legitimate demands for the Bengali language’s rightful place in Pakistan would be denied. Barkat’s forceful protest on February 21, 1952 was no accident. He believed in the righteousness of his cause, gave his life and became a real hero and a martyr.
   This article was earlier published in Holiday