Let me share another experience from that fateful year. I cannot recall the exact months, but tensions in the capital were escalating, and people said it was no longer safe, especially for young girls. My father was working at EPIDC (East Pakistan Industrial Development Corporation) at the time and was assigned to conduct an extensive audit of a jute factory in Ghorasal, which was on the verge of closure. He was given family quarters there, and he decided to take us along, as we had stopped going to school from 1 March.
There are three distinct memories I have from that time.

First, the area had become a stronghold of the Mukti Bahini, the freedom fighters. They would come regularly in the late evenings to our home, often sharing meals with us. We provided them with clothes and whatever supplies we could bring from Dhaka. There was a strong sense of camaraderie. I still remember their boldness, their carefree spirit. It was infectious.

The second memory is a scene by the river. Ghorasal was a beautiful, serene place, and my brother and I would often walk along the Sitalakhya River in the afternoons. One day, we saw a crow floating downstream, perched on a large, round object. As it drifted closer, we realised with horror that it was a bloated, bullet-ridden body, and the crow was pecking at the exposed flesh. Was it a freedom fighter? Or an innocent man caught in the crossfire, reduced to what would be called “collateral damage” of war?