On May 19, 1961, along with the rest of Cachar, the young men and women of Silchar too rose in protest against the Assam government. It had, after all, passed a law making Assamese the sole state language. The youth gathered at Silchar station for a non-violent protest when all hell broke loose. That day, 11 people died.
Sunil Roy, 78
I was 14 at the time. My friends and I spent our free time volunteering for the Cachar Jela Gana Sangram Parishad, an organisation of bhasha satyagrahis. On a regular day, I would wake up and go straight to their office. I would wipe the chairs, sweep the room. After school, I would go to the office again. I was also a satyagrahi.
Many of our leaders had been arrested, leading up to the protest on May 19. Now, the plan was to picket in front of all government offices and block the rail routes
I went to Silchar station at 7am. There were 20-25 people on the platform. As soon as some of them sat down on the train tracks, the police arrested them. More people arrived on the scene, they too were arrested.
Next thing we knew, the police started lathi charging, kicked us and tear gassed the whole area. At this point, local people came forward. An MLA joined us; she was a Gandhibadi and her husband had been a freedom fighter. She was able to calm the police down.
It was a hot day. We sat on the platform and sang Nazrulgeeti and Rabindrasangeet. We sang “Ami bhoy korbo na bhoy korbo na”.
We were thirsty. Some of the volunteers brought a few gallons of water and we even offered it to the police. It feels like it happened just yesterday.
Around 2.30pm, I stepped off the platform. Suddenly, I heard shouts “Bangla bhasha zindabad”, “matri bhasha zindabad”.
Then I saw a truck full of people, their hands were cuffed. The satyagrahis tried to stop it. A policeman lit a cigarette and tossed the burning match into the truck, while we picked up fistfuls of kochuripana from a nearby pond and threw them at the vehicle to douse the fire.
Our leaders asked us, the volunteers, to clear the street and get back to the station. But more police cars had arrived and they were blocking the platform from all sides. The leaders called out from the platform, “Don’t be scared, all empty threats, the police won’t shoot.” I was in a lane close to the station when the first bullet hit a water tank. My friend who was standing right next to me fell, face first.
Hiranmay Mitra, 84
Back then everyone was talking about the bhasha andolan. I was a student of Class IX at Silchar Public High School. I was also a satyagrahi. That day, I was going to picket in front of Silchar court. That done, I headed for the railway station. The firing started around 2pm. The police had surrounded us from all sides. I ran away from the spot. Later, I noticed my ear was bleeding. The next day, my left eye was swollen. It started burning. The doctor said the eye was infected from gunpowder. Silchar turned lifeless the next two days. A few days later, the Governor of Assam sent those of us who had been injured an apology letter. I burnt mine.
Chhaya Rani Deb, 74
It all started when a car was set on fire. Then there were many gunshots. A bullet pierced me in the hips. I lost consciousness. There was blood everywhere. In 1961, I was a student of Class IV. My sister Basanti Deb was a student of Class XI. She had taken me along with her to Silchar station. Many of her friends had come along too. After the bullet hit me, I went numb. I remember the face of the boy who carried me to the hospital. There was blood everywhere — buckets and buckets of it. I am not sure if it was all mine. I stayed in the hospital for one whole month. Even after I came home, I could not walk for the next eight to nine months. The gunshot wound continues to trouble me. The scar remains.
Barnali Bhattacharya
On that day, 10 to 15 friends of my aunt Kamala Bhattacharya came by. She was my father Bokul Bhattacharya’s elder sister. These friends asked Kamala to join them at the station. My father and another aunt Pratibha tagged along. My father was in Class VII and Kamala had appeared for her Class X exams.
My grandmother tried to stop them but Kamala had made up her mind. She even went to the station and tried to get Kamala to return home, but the girl wouldn’t budge. It was a non-violent movement. None of them was armed. But the police didn’t care. They arrived on the scene and started beating them up. Pratibha sustained a baton injury. Around 2pm, the protestors were rounded up. The police wouldn’t let them move.
They shouted, “Jaan debo tobu jaban debo na”. Jaban, meaning tongue. They were talking about the Bengali language. When Kamala made a slight movement, the police shot her in the eye, point-blank. My father was on the other side of the station. He had been arrested. He saw his sister collapse but he did not realise that Kamala was dead.
My father never forgot that day. He collected and preserved newspaper clippings and articles on Kamala’s sacrifice. Even in his last days, when his memories became fuzzy and he forgot almost everything else, he would speak of Kamala and weep.