When things don’t go as planned (Part 3): Marching through a morcha!

Bangladesh, cricket, and fiery protests...my travel lesson was hard-earned!

Do not plan any travel if you have a morcha on the way! I learned this lesson the hard way during one of my visits to Bangladesh. By a morcha, I mean a protest march by a large group of people accompanied by the destruction of public property and speeches inciting violence. I had encountered them occasionally in Mumbai but was told by morcha watchers that I would find the classic ones in Bengal. 

I did! For example, in Burdwan, where I was visiting the local university, my friend Sriranjan Banerjee was accompanying me to Kolkata. He had reserved seats for us in a First Class compartment on the express train to Howrah. When we reached the railway station, we were informed that the train was due in half an hour. “Not bad!” I thought, but Sriranjan was not very happy. 

He watched the crowd gather on the platform. They did not seem like ‘normal’ railway commuters to Kolkata. At least half were carrying flags. “They look like Football supporters,” I commented. I wish they were,” Replied Sriranjan. But before he could clarify his remark, the train rolled in. 

The train was not only full, it was overflowing. Banerjee held my hand as he worked his way to our reserved accommodation. Being a realist, he realized that finding our seats was not on the cards. “Our best chance is to get into the ladies' compartment,” he added. It was easier to locate… but there were hardly any ladies in it. They were all men. They were polite, though, and suggested our climbing into the upper berth for a seat. I followed Sriranjan as we followed that advice. 

The upper berth is not designed for sitting. We sat in a cramped fashion for the two-hour journey to Howrah. The overcrowded compartment generated heat, so much so that by the time we reached the destination, I was bathed in perspiration. We were to go for a meeting in the science departmental area in the city. But I said: “I cannot think until I have a shower!” Fortunately, Howrah station had retiring rooms where I would find a shower. This was the happy ending to a traumatic journey and my introduction to a morcha. 

Morchas are popular in Bengal, East or West, Banerjee explained. As I was due to visit Bangladesh (former East Bengal) next, I was a bit apprehensive as to what was lying in store for me. I was relieved indeed when I saw my Cambridge friend Jamal Nazarul Islam waiting for me at the Chittagong airport. Like me, Jamal had spent several years in the UK and had now returned home to set up a new institute. He was hosting my visit, sponsored by the International Astronomical Museum. Jamal and his wife Suraiya had been very hospitable to me in Cambridge, and here in their hometown, they had insisted on my staying in their palatial house in Chittagong. 

My stay was indeed enjoyable. On the day before my departure, Jamal and Suraiya invited some friends to a sumptuous dinner party. That evening, we expected to see the cricket World Cup match between India and Bangladesh being broadcast live from the West Indies. The diners, therefore, preferred to stay on after dinner, watching the ODI. I, too, did the same, although I felt that since India had never lost to Bangladesh until then, I may have to face a disappointed local crowd at the end of the match.     

I will not go into details but the bottom line was: India lost!  Even the cheering crowd in Jamal’s house could not believe the outcome…but there it was!  As I went to bed in the early morning hours, I tried to look at the bright side of the result. With the whole nation in cheerful mode, there would be no morchas at least for a day or two. That is what Jamal thought.

That day my flight to Kolkata was scheduled at 5 p.m. with a flying time of 45 minutes. For a domestic flight of a short duration,  the check-in time was one hour. Allowing one hour for driving to the Chittagong Airport, it would have sufficed for us to start at 3 p.m. However, I pointed out that the Chittagong- Kolkata flight was not domestic and would require the three-hour check-in time for an international flight. As such, I proposed starting for the airport at 1 p.m. To this proposal Suraiya’s response was: “Going so early? Are you going to sweep the airport?” After some back and forth we settled for 1.45 p.m. as the starting time.

It was all quiet and peaceful when we started. There was hardly any traffic on the airport road. In the front seat, Jamal was dozing when the car pulled to a stop. “The road is blocked by Police, Sir!” exclaimed the driver. A smartly dressed Police Inspector came over to talk to Jamal. “There is a strong Morcha ahead on this road. Please don’t go this way. They might set your car on fire.” The Inspector advised. We could park the car on a side lane and wait for the Morcha to clear.

A typical protest march (“morcha”) in Bangladesh

“Wait” was sound advice, but for me, time was ticking. As a possible try the Inspector suggested going in a couple of cycle rickshaws because he felt that the Marchers may not attack them. We followed the advice and left the driver in the car and managed to persuade two rickshawallas (rickshaw drivers) to take us further. Jamal and Suraiya got into one, and I mounted the other with my suitcase. However, we got close enough to the centre of the Morcha, and our charioteers refused to go any further.

After some persuasion and extra offers, they took us to the gate of an imposing building with a very large compound. It belonged to the Bangladesh Admiralty. The senior rickshawallah proposed an ingenious plan. If we could enter by the gate facing us we could exit by another gate so situated that we would have bypassed the trouble spot. Good! But not good enough! Because the guard at the gate would not allow it. So Jamal asked him to let him talk to the guard’s superior on their internal phone. 

Things would have worked at that level, but for one tactical mistake on Jamal’s part. He mentioned that I was from India. Bringing foreign nationals to defence-related areas was a sensitive issue and the officer must pass the issue to his boss. This process terminated in the top boss (at the level of admiral) himself came down to escort me from one gate to another. He got into my rickshaw and deposited me just beyond the second gate.

In the meantime the Morcha had shifted more towards the city centre. So we had no difficulty reaching the airport. A curious contraption, which was a cross between a tempo and a minibus, operated between the city centre and the airport and brought us to the airport. As I stepped into the waiting area, I looked at the airport clock. The time was 4:55 p.m. Just made it!  The gates to the airport were about to be closed, and the airline steward said: “Sir, you are one of the few who made it before the Morcha became fierce.”            

Better go early, even if it requires sweeping the floors!