In May of this year, the skies over West Bengal were heavy with clouds. By ten in the morning, I had wrapped up my tasks for the day, and a sudden memory of my friend Jasim from 1971 surfaced. He was my age back then, and even during the struggles of refugee life, I had the good fortune of finding a friend like him. Jasim, ever resourceful, would cut palm leaves from our garden to shield us from the rain when we had no umbrella, leading us safely to shelter.

With the morning free, I was supposed to meet a young researcher-journalist who specialized in Middle Eastern politics and another researcher later in the day. But the weather shifted my plans. I rescheduled our meeting for the next day and set off in my car to revisit some of the places where refugee camps had once stood in 1971, curious to see how they had transformed over the decades.

Whenever I visit Kolkata now, I make it a point to stop by Salt Lake to meet journalists like Manas Ghosh and Partha Chattopadhyay. These two stalwarts had covered the news of Bangladesh’s war of independence in 1971. Manas Ghosh had been reporting from the very first day of the war, while Partha Chattopadhyay joined after December 16. Both have since penned books capturing their experiences, with Ghosh’s book originally published in English before being translated into Bengali.

Driving through Salt Lake often brings back memories of 1971. I recall how John F. Kennedy had once visited this area. On December 3 of that year, I traveled through the muddy terrain of Salt Lake with my father to Kolkata to hear Indira Gandhi speak.

That day, Indira Gandhi stood before us in a red-bordered white sari, radiating the aura of a powerful mother. To me, she embodied calm and composure, reminiscent of “Ma Sarada” (Sarada Devi), the revered wife of Ramakrishna Paramahamsa.

Listening to her speech, my father, a former member of the Forward Bloc under Subhas Chandra Bose, leaned over to share his thoughts. “An India-Pakistan war is imminent,” he said. His belief in resolving conflicts through war was unwavering, shaped by his revolutionary past.

“But she didn’t explicitly mention attacking Pakistan,” I countered.

“The entire speech was about preparing the people for war,” he replied. “Her words were a reminder of the suffering that comes with it.”

From April to July 1971, I witnessed not just the unfolding of real events but also a deluge of propaganda. Images like that of Roushanara, a student tying explosives to her chest and leaping in front of a tank, or freedom fighters holding what was claimed to be Tikka Khan’s severed head, were seared into my memory.

Now, as someone in the media, I understand the role of propaganda in war preparation. It is a universal strategy, a form of soft power that precedes the hard power of battle. Media narratives shape public sentiment and readiness, paving the way for the inevitable clash.

Salt Lake is no longer the salt marsh it once was. The refugee camps of 1971 have disappeared, replaced by modern infrastructure. Similarly, places like Barasat, Baruipur, Sarber, Bashirhat, and Taki bear little resemblance to their past selves. Yet, during my visit, I encountered familiar faces—friends from those challenging times, now elderly and living their retired lives.

In Sarber, I reunited with a friend who had just stepped out of the mosque. His shock at seeing me was evident, as though I were a ghost from the past. He hugged me tightly and said, “I wouldn’t have recognized you if you hadn’t told me your name.”

Back then, his land hosted a small refugee camp, with a makeshift market and a school. Now, a permanent mosque stood where there had been only a thatched hut. His daughter and son-in-law welcomed me with sweets from the market—now bustling with buildings but once just a few tin sheds amidst thatched huts.

As I tasted the sweets, I was transported back to 1971, when refugee children, frail and emaciated, would gaze longingly at such treats. The haunting thought struck me: how many of those children’s tiny bodies might still lie submerged in the rivers and waters of those lands?

The memories of 1971 remain etched in my heart, a bittersweet reminder of resilience, loss, and the passage of time.

As I quickly left my friend’s place and headed towards Taki, vivid memories of December 7, 1971, filled my mind. That day, a group of us had come to the border. Indian Sikh soldiers were passing by when a young officer suddenly stopped his jeep, stepped out with a smile, and greeted us in English, asking, “When will you go back to your country?”

I replied that many from Jessore would leave the next day since the region had been liberated, and India had formally recognized Bangladesh. The young officer embraced a few of us, then removed the steel bangle from his wrist and placed it on mine, laughing. Sikh warriors traditionally wear iron bangles, a symbol of their faith and strength, which they never remove. In that moment, I realized he was symbolically forging a bond between the Indian soldiers and the Bengali people of Bangladesh.

The bangle, however, slipped off my slender hand. Kushal, a robust boy in our group, took it instead. When I last saw Kushal in 1973, he still wore that bangle. That simple gesture of camaraderie between us and the Indian soldiers remains etched in my memory, a small but profound symbol of solidarity during a time of war.

As the car approached Taki, I recalled the night of December 7, 1971. We had gathered in a circle, listening intently to All India Radio. The program described how, under the leadership of the Indian allied forces, the joint army was advancing toward Khulna and Dhaka after liberating Jessore. The sound of tank wheels and live commentary painted vivid pictures of the battlefield.

By then, one after another, the border districts were being liberated. I tracked the progress through updates from BBC and All India Radio. Years later, during my journalism career, I met Hirummoy Karlekar, a former editor of Indian Express, who had been on one of those tanks. He showed me photographs and recounted how the India-Bangladesh Friendship Forces advanced through fierce battles. I still remember visiting the battle-scarred areas in 1972 and later in 1976-77, where bullet marks remained on trees, silent witnesses to the war.

As I traveled late into the night, it felt as though I were transported back to Agartala in 1971. At that time, the number of Bangladeshi refugees exceeded the local population. Agartala was a hub of support, with people like journalist Anil Bhattacharya giving up their own homes for refugees.

Anil Da became deeply connected to Bangladesh, almost as if its cause had become his own. He and his wife often visited Dhaka, staying with friends like Dr. Zafrullah or Miti in Uttara. The last time I saw him was in 2001, shortly after I fractured my hand in a car accident. Upon hearing about it, both Rimy and Dr. Zafrullah visited me immediately. For Anil Da, Bangladesh and its people were a deeply personal matter.

Later that night, we stopped at Baruipur, where a refugee camp once stood. The camp no longer existed, but as I stood there, memories of the camps in Meghalaya and Assam resurfaced. I remembered the trees in the hills, often filled with vultures in 1971, drawn to the bodies of refugees who had perished.

In the car, staring into the darkness, I was reminded of a night in Silchar about ten years ago. A researcher, my younger sister, and I had wandered through its small market late into the night. My sister had kept asking me about the days of 1971, while I searched in the dim light for traces of the people who had selflessly brought rice, lentils, and vegetables from their homes to feed refugees—those who had survived hyena attacks and starvation.

Over the years, many friends and colleagues, both local and foreign, have expressed interest in creating documentaries about the events of 1971 with me. Yet, the depth of pain and joy that one experiences is often difficult to articulate. Some emotions, like the joy of December 6, 1971, when India’s Parliament formally recognized Bangladesh, remain deeply personal. Hearing that news on the radio brought an overwhelming sense of happiness that I couldn’t fully comprehend or share with others.

Now, 54 years later, as India quietly celebrates the recognition of Bangladesh, some moments feel beyond words. But one undeniable truth persists: history, like the sun, cannot be buried. The milestones of 1971, marked by both triumph and sacrifice, shine brightly even today.

Author: State Award-winning journalist, Editor at Sārākhan and The Present World.