Iwas not yet five when I almost drowned in the river Karnaphuli. With a home by the river, childhood in Chittagong was rather lovely — even when looking back without the rose-tinted glasses of memory. The Karnaphuli River was the centre of many of our activities, including evening walks along its banks and boat rides to the other side of the river. During the tidal season, the river water flooded our front lawn often bringing one or two large fish with it which our cook was quick to trap and serve up for dinner. The entire neighbourhood would sometimes be flooded and we would visit our friends in boats.

Thieves, too, came in boats from across the river and escaped the same way. Armed with guile, rather than guns, they were said to oil their bodies to escape capture. Our house was among those cleaned out once, without any of us having an inkling of how they went about it. The local police, of course, had a good excuse not to go after them — they had no boats! I fell in the river around sunset when the tide was receding and I owe my life to anonymous fishermen who pulled me out from the fast receding waters. While the experience was traumatic, it did not affect my love of the river or indeed of water bodies. A small pond close to our house was the venue of a post-school get-together for fishing. We would make our own simple fishing ‘rods’ — a twisted pin attached to a stick by a string and kneaded dough stuck to the pin as bait. That the little pond was rich in fish life was evident as we did manage to catch small varieties with our improvised fishing gear. And then there were the occasional picnics on Patanga Beach, clean and unpolluted at the time, at which food would be served on banana leaves — even though we were unaware of its environment-friendly side at the time.

For most children, the first day at school is truly memorable. Mine turned out to be my first encounter with death. A senior nun at St. Scholastica’s Convent had died the previous day and, as she lay in her coffin draped in black, all the schoolchildren were made to pay their homage, including us Kindergarteners. This early image of death has remained etched in my mind.

Our move to Dhaka in the mid-50s entailed living in a house in a yet to be developed neighbourhood with no electricity or telephone for some time. Every day, just before sunset, the ritual of cleaning lanterns would begin. They had to be readied before dark for us to study and for other household chores to be done. When a telephone was finally installed, it meant going through an operator; however, the service was free!

These were also the days when all kinds of vendors would come to the house. My mother would buy cotton saris for eight or ten rupees, while we would buy storybooks and comics which were later exchanged with friends. Around this time we were also introduced to a roving book lender who would go house to house with a collection of books lent on the basis of a monthly fee.

By 1960, our life in Dhaka had become fairly predictable till the cyclone struck! Earlier in the year, a severe cyclone had hit Chittagong and the coastal islands in the Bay of Bengal leading to extensive damage and deaths. When a second cyclone was shortly forecast for Chittagong, prayers were held in Dhaka to spare the already devastated city. The prayers were answered, with an ironic twist — the cyclone changed direction and hit Dhaka instead! To this day, I remember the sight of a man being lifted off as he tried to walk on the street outside and our doors and windows, in spite of reinforcements, were flung open with the speed of the cyclone. It took some days for our lives to return to normal.

The 60s were also the time that General Ayub Khan was digging in his heels for a long rule. The first indication of opposition to his dictatorial regime came when our Bengali cook came home one day (some time in 1962) wide-eyed and aghast with the news that the President’s car had been stoned by students of Dhaka University. Referring to the students, he said “bol raha Pakistan ko mita dey ga” (they’re saying they’ll wipe out Pakistan). This objective was sadly met less than a decade later. A full-fledged movement against Ayub’s rule and for autonomy was to start some years later.

Among the actions Ayub took to consolidate his rule was the introduction of television to Pakistan. Pakistan Television was launched in 1964, the year that elections were called and Fatima Jinnah campaigned against the might of a military dictator.

Politically conscious Dhaka fully supported Ms Jinnah and, in spite of rigging, she won from that city. With few television sets, the practice of neighbourhood viewing was generously accepted. Before we got our own television set, we would go across the street to our friends’ place for the prime time programmes (then all English language sitcoms or thrillers). News and current affairs programmes were, of course, propaganda platforms for Ayub’s rule.

Cinema was a great entertainment option in those days, as most of the Hollywood films could be seen shortly after release.

One of the most memorable treats was when a dear school friend, whose family owned the most popular cinema halls of the time — Gulistan and Naz — invited friends to an exclusive viewing of Gone With The Wind. The cinema halls in old Dhaka usually showed Pakistani and Indian films — till the outbreak of war in 1965. This war with India was to be a watershed in many ways.

Following the war, as the opposition demonstrated its strength, a desperate Ayub Khan resorted to arresting Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, head of the Awami League, on charges of conspiring with India to break up Pakistan. Large scale protest demonstrations gained momentum and the most awe-inspiring one I remember was towards the end of the Ayub era when about 500,000 people (according to newspaper estimates) defied the curfew and in an extremely well-coordinated action took out a torchlight procession. The soldiers, responsible for imposing curfew, had to slink away. It was during this period that we were introduced to the ‘telegram’, the equivalent of today’s ‘breaking news’ on TV channels. Any major news development would lead to the instant publication of special editions of newspapers which hawkers would sell by shouting out ‘Telegram!’

Even during the political turmoil when all educational institutions were closed, our college, Holy Cross, run by American Roman Catholic nuns continued to hold classes till some student leaders visited the Principal and threatened to burn it down! While in college, I enjoyed spending a lot of time at my sister’s college, College of Arts & Crafts. Modern in architectural style and located on a street lined with gulmohar trees, the College had on its faculty the most prominent Bengali artists: Zainul Abedin (Principal), Aminul Islam, Kibria, to name a few. I was flattered when asked by the final year sculpture class to model for them, though must confess to not being exactly flattered by the results!

Following the handing over of power by Ayub to General Yahya, there was a lull before the storm. It was during this period — in October 1969 — that the Apollo XI astronauts visited Dhaka. We saw their motorcade from our rooftop and in the afternoon I attended (representing my college) a reception hosted by the Governor of East Pakistan, Admiral (R) Ahsan. Of course, we couldn’t believe our luck in being able to shake hands with the first men on the moon!

In looking back, I believe it was the American nuns teaching at Holy Cross who left the deepest influence on my life. Deeply religious themselves, they taught us secular and humane values.

I do visit Dhaka occasionally. A lot has changed and today I can’t even locate the turning to Holy Cross where I went every day for so many years. Yet, it always feels good to be back.