August Blues: In Remembrance

In August here in the East Coast we still have a lot of sunshine left. Though officially the summer is ending soon, we are still enjoying longer days and warm weather. To me this last month of summer is feeling like a drag. It is also the month when Bangladesh had lost one of its valiant freedom fighters. A gallant Army Colonel, Bir Bikram Shafaat Jamil passed away on August 11, 2012. I am two days behind in writing this tribute to him. I can blame it on the August blues as during this time of the year a lot of people feel anxiety and lethargy sets in. I am particularly feeling a little sad because of my cousin’s anniversary of death falls this time of the year. He was my first cousin from my mother’s side; to us all the younger cousins he was our Dodul dada. Colonel Jamil was 72 years old at the time of his death. He was awarded the Bir Bikram honor for heroism in the Liberation War in 1971.

He had a massive heart attack in his house in Banani at the wee hours of the morning. He was alone with his wife, my Nanku bhabi; their three children were away. Two of their sons were living abroad, while the youngest, in the army, was posted somewhere else in Bangladesh. Naturally, bhabi panicked and called Jamil’s younger brother, Rubol who lived in his flat nearby. He came hurriedly. On their way to the hospital, Jamil put his head on Rubol’s shoulder and quietly passed away. The family was in severe shock about his sudden passing. He had no prior history of heart ailment as far as I knew.

After his passing in 2012, I have seen a couple of tributes written by eminent journalists in Bangladesh. These were fitting to a valiant freedom fighter, and a highly revered and decorated army officer in the Pakistan Army. He got commission in the Pakistan Military Academy in KaKul. Those who have followed his military career know what type of an officer he was. I have nothing more to add to that, except I have never seen a Bengali officer look so dashing in a uniform. As his cousin, it is natural to be a little biased, but there is no denying that he carried the uniform really well. He was a proud soldier who lived his life with extreme discipline.

Shafaat Jamil hails from Kuliarchar upazila in Kishoreganj district. He was the eldest son of my maternal uncle, A.H.M Karimullah, a judicial officer. Jamil grew up in Manikganj, a Muffasil town where my mama was posted at the time. I suppose he had a typical middle class upbringing. After finishing SSC, he went to attend Dacca College. By that time, his parents moved back to Dhaka and had built a house on Elephant Road (near the Aeroplane mosque). I do not remember seeing him there much because he was away after being recruited by the army. Jamil’s youngest sister, Khela, was a good friend to me and my younger sister. We were frequent visitors in mamabari, and often had fun girl time together. During those visits, every now and then, there was huge excitement in the Elephant Road house when Dodul dada would come home for short visits from West Pakistan. Sweet natured, reserved, and handsome Jamil was loved by everyone in his family and respected by the extended family for his service to his country.

After finishing his army training, he came back to East Pakistan. Jamil and his fiancée Nanku married. At the time, only a handful of the family members knew about him being in love with this  girl from old Dhaka. I think they met during his short stay at Dhaka University before joining the army. She was a student in the History department and a singer of Tagore songs. I suppose her songs did it for him, not to mention her beautiful personality and infectious smile. Together they had three sons.

I once had an impromptu visit at Jamil’s home where he was living with his wife at the Jaidevpur Cantonment. I went with my mama’s family and cousins. It was just a day trip. We took the train from Dhaka. On that day, I first saw Shafaat Jamil in full Army uniform looking proud and handsome. On that day, Jamil was doing some kind of training exercise in the Rajbari where the officers gathered and trained. I think he was a junior officer, a Captain, or a Lieutenant in the army. After hearing his parents and siblings, along with a cousin were visiting, he rushed home to have a quick midday meal with us. The entire meal was prepared and cooked by bhabi including grinding spices like a pro. All that she did with a smile on her face. It was a day off for the jawan who used to be on duty for six days. They were very particular about not abusing their authority by making the house help work extra hours. That is why this couple clicked and remained best friends.

Then the War of Liberation started, Shafaat Jamil joined the Mukti Bahini. During those tumultuous nine months, Jamil’s parents and siblings came to my ancestral home at Ghorashal on the outskirts of Dhaka. It was war time, but I was not old enough to understand the full significance of the fight that was happening between the people of the same country. We were strictly instructed not to leave the compound because there was genuine fear of the Pakistan Army raiding the villages. At night all of us cousins would huddle together to catch any news from Shadhin Bangla Betar Kendra broadcast from Agartola. We could only do it when my dad was not using his transistor. He was obsessed with listening to BBC news. While everyone was busy at night playing cards or reading by a hurricane lamp (it was before electricity came to our village), we would often see Jamil’s mother going into the courtyard. On moonlit nights, we could see her sitting in my baba’s easy chair and waiting for her son to come and give her an unexpected visit. She passionately believed that one of these days he would show up. But alas! He never left his training camp in Meghalaya to visit as he knew his family was safe away in a village. Nanku bhabi was by that time across the border somewhere in India.

One morning, we all woke up as there was some commotion near the main gate of our house. Some thick ropes were left outside the gate. Jamil’s mother was convinced that he came deep in the night but could not come inside by climbing the wall. Then my dad intervened and reminded her that her son had trained in Kakul and climbing a wall of a home will not be a challenging task for him. He was a voice of reason, and she relented. Perhaps it was just a miscreant who had tried to topple the wall and failed. To this day, I remember my mami’s teary eyed face and the love and longing for her son that I had seen in her eyes. Such are the stories that remain even after one’s loved ones are gone. Dodul dada, you have left us too early. But we remember you with love and fondness. Thank you for your service to Bangladesh. You made us proud. May you rest in peace.

Zeenat Khan writes from Maryland, USA