Ghost stories

The voice of Pakistani soldiers during the war of liberation in 1971

The voice of Pakistani soldiers during the war of liberation in 1971

Historical background:

A dirt road next to our village was directly connected to the Shariatpur police station. The road was along the middle of the agricultural land of the farmers of 3 villages. At one point in the war of liberation in 1971, a small force of Pakistani soldiers. He tried to enter the village through that road.

But they failed to enter the village as a part of the road connecting the road with our village was cut off. They proceeded towards the police station along the road and continued their killing even in a short time. No one can say the exact number of dead.

Because after the killing, the Pakistani soldiers dumped the bodies in a deep well on the side of the road. Kuyota was next to a palm tree. Only 2/3 miles around that palm tree is agricultural land.

There is no house. Although no trace of that well has been found today, the palm tree is a witness to that brutal massacre. There are many stories about this palm tree and well in the village. Many people have heard people shouting “water, water” while passing by this tree at night.

Even today, when people come to the side of the palm tree, they get lost. The distance from the palm tree to the village is about half a mile.

Many people were heard in the village who heard Ashari’s voice while returning home at night from Shariatpur. There are many people in the village who could not even cross the half-mile road all night to return to the village at night.

Our chat: –

Everyone in our batch gathered at the home of a senior brother. The next day for the purpose of distributing the responsibility of a ceremony. A little work, a lot of people. So very quickly everyone’s work was fixed.

Then the chat started. What happens in the night chat. The story begins with the story of ghosts, demons, or ghosts. At one point Sohail Bhai (the brother whose house I was all in) shared his own experience. I am writing the way I heard it from his mouth.

Main Story: –

I then worked for an NGO. It is better to say that I don’t work because I don’t work. Because the amount of trouble he had to do was not even close to his salary. But I was struggling because I couldn’t find a job anywhere else.

I would go out in the morning to collect the loan and return at night. The material was my bicycle. I went to the police station that day.

After explaining all the calculations, it was night. I returned the night before. So I left without thinking. I think cycling. No direction. As soon as I crossed Deovog (the last village before entering the agricultural land) I saw no human response. It’s late. No one in the village is supposed to stay awake.

The speed of the bicycle was very low as I had to keep the torch burning in one hand. Hijal came close to the tree and suddenly something happened. I lost control of my bike after colliding with something.

The torch also fell from his hand. I got off the bicycle and picked up the torch. All right. Not wasted. I got on the bike again and pedaled quickly. Surprise shoots. No matter how many times I paddle, I don’t want to ride a bicycle. I’m scared. I am paddling with all my strength. But the bicycle is moving at the speed of an ant.

The voice of Pakistani soldiers during the war of liberation in 1971

I’m tired and lonely. I know why it looks like someone is pulling a bicycle from behind. But I do not have the courage to look back. I desperately want to move forward. I also forgot that I have a torch in my hand. Seeing the road in the dim light, I am walking along the road.

At one time I thought I would lose my knowledge. I am riding a bicycle. I can’t say how long it has been. At one point I felt like I was just riding an empty bicycle. There is no profit. I’m still where I was because no matter how slow the road is, it shouldn’t take so long to cross.

I immediately remembered the stories I heard about the palm trees and the well. I couldn’t get it out of my mind even if I added it. The belief that someone was pulling the bicycle was ingrained in my mind at that time.

The voice of Pakistani soldiers during the war of liberation in 1971

This time it is a question of survival. Will I give my life in the hands of ghosts? I looked back with courage. No – no one. No one pulled my bicycle. I lit the torch and checked the rear wheel. No, nothing happened.

I got on the bike again. I paddled saying ‘Bismillah’. There was no gain. The bicycle is as heavy as before. Nothing wants to move forward. I can’t say how long I fought with the bicycle like this. However, I am trying my best to move towards the village.

I am moving forward little by little. Seeing the first house on the village boundary only increased the courage. Applying all the remaining energy of the body, I quickly came to the backyard and stopped. Then without saying a word, I got down from the bicycle and kicked the rear wheel of the bicycle with all my strength. Hearing the sound, the owner of the house came out.

I introduced myself and said I was scared. Then I drank a glass of water and left for home. This time I was surprised because my bike was fine. It doesn’t feel heavy anymore. The storm is moving fast.

Sohail Bhai said so far and threw a question at me, “Now explain yourself. Why did that happen that day? ”

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The voice of Pakistani soldiers during the war of liberation in 1971

Noyon Kumar

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