A reporter’s  diary: the scoop that fell through in Dhaka

Reading BBC’s touching tale of Noor Hossain, killed in 1987 while protesting against military ruler General Ershad in Dhaka, revived memories of my own tryst with the General who abdicated three years later.

The Noor Hossain story can be read here:

Since I was India Today’s correspondent at Calcutta at the time, I was asked to travel to Dhaka and, well, interview Ershad. I was on a tour in Assam and my passport needed to be renewed. In fact, it was in Assam that I learnt Ershad had stepped down on December 4.

To cut a long story short, I landed in Dhaka on December 8 afternoon. I had two days to file the interview as December 11 was the printing day. The first shock came at the airport itself where a friendly lady working for the Indian Airlines informed that Ershad was underground and nobody knew where he was in hiding.

Devastated, I nevertheless decided to try my luck. Military dictators, I reasoned, would possibly hide in the cantonment. At least some officer in the cantonment might feel sorry and point me to the right quarters. I asked the cabbie to take me to the cantonment. Which gate, he asked. The nearest, I replied. So, a few minutes later we were talking to a tall soldier with a menacing machinegun pointing at us.

That is when I received the second shock. The soldier did not understand a word I said in Bengali. And I didn’t think he was speaking Bengali at all till he let out an exasperated and universal Bengali abuse. I had the good sense to retreat.

At the hotel, the receptionist grimly asked me not to venture out of the hotel after dusk. I demanded a hotel cab to visit newspaper offices but was informed that drivers had called it a day at 5 pm and were not available.

It was still daylight and I rushed out and hailed a cycle rickshaw, asking him to take me to the office of Ittefaq, the Bengali daily. The newspaper would come home to my father by post in Ranchi and I was familiar with the paper. Journalists there were friendly but were more keen to grill me on India.

“Any clue how I can get in touch with Ershad ?” I asked foolishly. They gave me a pitying look. ‘Nobody knows’, said the Assistant Editor. ‘Who can possibly tell’, exclaimed the Chief reporter. Come back after three months if you want to talk to him, I was told. Perhaps he would surface by then. I panicked. I had been in the city for four hours and had no idea where Ershad was.

In despair I jumped into a bus going to Dhanmondi and was disconcerted at the sight of most passengers wearing lungis. They did not look very friendly either. After spending a fruitless hour in the Awami League office, I decided to call it a day.

After a lonely and tasteless dinner, I retreated to my room to weigh my options. There was nothing to read and I thumbed through the hefty telephone directory---heftier than the ones we had in Calcutta. I soon realised why. Unlike in India, the telephone directory of Dhaka listed all security personnel from the army, navy and the air force. In a bout of sheer madness, I began calling numbers of mid-level officers, Colonels and Majors—and was met with silence or icy monosyllabic answers which suspiciously sounded like ‘get lost, you idiot’.

The morning newspaper on December 9 carried the news that DU students would be celebrating their victory in the campus. This time I had a cab from the hotel which I could keep till 5 pm. The three hours spent in the campus was unforgettable. The songs, dances, paintings and posters, impromptu recitals of poetry and a riot of colours like it was Holi. But I tore myself away and asked the cabbie to take me to the cantonment again.

This time I told the sentry at a gate that I was looking for Colonel …(a random name I had picked up from the directory). Without a word, he waved us in. As we reached a T point, I instinctively asked the driver to turn left. I gaped at rows of battle tanks, gleaming and each tank with crew lounging around, suggested an imminent deployment. A kilometre down the road were rows of bungalows and I spotted an army officer getting down from a vehicle and walking –possibly home for lunch. I instinctively jumped out and ran after him. Panting, I introduced myself and sought his help.

He was curt. I was in prohibited area and could be arrested. “Your High Commission will get to know after 48 hours or even later if you are arrested. Get out immediately,” he said. Then his voice softened and he said, “see Mamood”. And he was gone. I rushed back to the cab and asked the driver to get out as fast as he could.

But who was Mamood? In desperation I asked the driver. Would you know someone by this name, I asked, not expecting to get anywhere. But to my surprise he nodded. ‘Yes, he was the Vice President”. Dumbfounded, I asked if he knew where the VP lived. He did and drove me to a large bungalow teeming with troops outside. It was the VP’s house but he was under house arrest. Was it possible to meet him? Send him a request, we were told. I sent in a visiting card and a handwritten note and waited.

Some 45 minutes later when I was about to leave, someone came out flashing my visiting card. Yes, I could meet the VP. Mamood turned out to be a very successful barrister, suave and sophisticated and clearly very wealthy. His booklined study had photographs with world leaders, the pride of place occupied by one of him with US President Ronald Reagan. His wife turned out to be the daughter of a well known Bengali poet. “Sir calls me when needed but even I don’t know where he is at the moment,” he said with a wry smile. Had he called that day, I enquired and was relieved to learn he had not. I sought permission to wait and try my luck.

Around 4 pm the VP came out and said the General was on the line and had agreed to say Hello! I rushed to his study to speak. The situation was too volatile and he couldn’t meet me, he said. But if I had a few questions, he would answer over the phone. We spoke for about 15 minutes.

A visitor was sitting with the VP when I came out. He was the Chief Reporter of an English newspaper, I was told and introduced to him. He obviously knew I was speaking to Ershad and asked what the deposed President had said. I was damned if I would give away my scoop! So, I said the deposed President had agreed to speak a few months later and had refused to meet me or talk at any length.

I rushed back to the hotel, filed the interview and called Delhi to confirm. I was told it would be risky to linger on in Dhaka and a military coup was expected. I should fly out the very next morning. The next few hours went in arranging a seat in the flight and exhausted, I went to sleep.

Very early in the morning, around 7 am, the house phone rang. It was the chief reporter. “I have brought you the morning newspaper”, he said and came up to the room. On the front page was a news item with the headline, “Indian journalist speaks to Ershad” and informed readers that the conversation over phone took place at “Mamood’s home”.

The day after I flew back, all Calcutta papers carried a report on what Ershad had said to Reuters, BBC and Associated Press! They had all converged at Mamood’s home to speak to him.

India Today hit the stands two days later.