Mr. Music

DURING APRIL-MAY, 1972, while the Bangladesh Brigade was rebuilding villages, a parallel and interweaving drama unfolded. Shomar Dass, a central figure in the drama, was the director of music for Bangladesh government radio and television. Although I had never met him, I knew him by reputation as "Mr. Music" of Bangladesh. He had written the music to many of the patriotic songs which lifted the spirits and voices of millions of Bengalis during those dark days of massacre and oppression. Shomar Dass and his songs were a living legend in Bangladesh. To him was given the responsibility of writing the full orchestration of the country's national anthem, "My Golden Bengal." Not only did he write music, but as a skilled performer, he also sang beautifully and played an instrument called the harmonium. He was, perhaps, the most highly placed nominal Christian in Bangladesh.

On April 13, 1972, the door blew open to the private chamber of the prime minister of Bangladesh. He and several cabinet members looked up in astonishment to see an agitated man burst into the room. The sudden intrusion shocked the handful of ministers, the elite of Bangladesh leadership. The prime minister himself had ordered that no one should be admitted until the urgent special meeting concluded; and Sheikh Mujibur Rahman was accustomed to obedience.

The trespasser, Shomar Dass, stood uncertainly inside the door. In his forties, with greying sideburns, he was a stately figure, taller than most Bengalis. But now his handsome, tear-marked face was contorted with grief.

"What is the matter with you, Shomar?" Sheikh Mujib called out. "Why do you look so sad?"

At his prime minister's words, all of the famous performer's carefully prepared phrases deserted him. Afflicted with his first case of stage fright, he stood there— speechless, miserable, pitiful.

"Shomar Dass," said the prime minister patiently, "come here and tell me what is making you unhappy, so I can try to help you."

As Shomar Dass approached and embraced his leader, the very act seemed to loosen his tongue. "I come asking not for myself," he blurted out, "but for my son who is dying. He must go to another hospital and the road is too bad. If we take him by road he will die."

Then summoning up "all his strengths and all his hopes," as he later put it, the distraught father made his plea to the prime minister: "I have come to request the use of your private helicopter."

Shomar Dass buried his head in his hands, recalling to himself the hectic events that had finally brought me into the picture. Even before our first meeting, a mutual friend (Dacca missionary Calvin Olson) had brought me to examine Shomar's critically ill son. Lying unconscious in a long dark ward of a Dacca hospital, eleven year old Albert Dass had remained in a deep coma for thirteen days. When I arrived, I noted instantly the dripping intravenous fluids and the feeding tube issuing from a nostril. In the dim light the wasted child looked waxen, ghastly. He lay very still. I could see no movement except the rhythmic, shallow motion of his respiratory muscles. Women of the family, weeping soundlessly, kept their vigil near the dying boy. I saw no sign of the father.

Taking the medical history in detail before his father arrived, I talked at length with Albert's mother. She spoke rapidly but clearly in Bengali. I felt thankful for my years in the country, which made it possible for me to comprehend the strangely beautiful cadences of her speech. Her motherly recital, full of meaning to medical ears, suggested several possible diagnoses.

An equally methodical and detailed physical examination of the child supplied more missing pieces to the diagnostic puzzle. Albert was not only unconscious, but his left arm, left leg, and a portion of his face were completely paralyzed. I felt sure he had an "intracranial space-occupying lesion," a medical euphemism for a mass or lump inside the skull involving or pressing on his brain. The most common cause of such a lump is a brain tumor. At this point, Shomar Dass arrived at the bedside and introduced himself.

"You're here!" he said with deep feeling. "I'm not a very religious man, Dr. Olsen, but we have been praying for two days that we might find some way to contact you. We heard you had returned to Bangladesh. Now, suddenly, here you are at my son's bedside!"

Shomar then explained his brief absence from the hospital. "I knew no way to contact you, Dr. Olsen, and I was becoming desperate. Thirteen days, and my son shows no improvement; rather, he is getting worse day by day. In my despair I said, 'anywhere— anything; I will do anything, no matter what, or what the cost, to get help for my son!' So I went to ask our foreign minister to help make arrangements for travel to some foreign country— any country—so my son would get help and not die. When I returned to the hospital just now to find you—the experienced surgeon I had heard about—bending over my son, I knew it was a miracle from God!"

Strange talk for a "not very religious" man, I thought.

The father immediately wanted to know what could be done for his son. Medical ethics forbade a response before discussion with the professor of medicine who was attending Albert. An old friend, the professor cooperated fully. The test I suggested to the family involved drilling holes through the patient's skull and injecting air into his brain. The procedure was dangerous, but Albert had nothing to lose; his little life would soon be gone. The test is usually followed, often within hours, by a full scale brain operation to attempt to remove the mass. The professor promised to investigate whether or not a neurosurgeon and the necessary instruments were available in Dacca.

Later, far into the night, I answered all the questions that anguished parents naturally ask. I learned further that four years earlier a lovely daughter had died in a tragic fall. Some of the questions had a spiritual flavor, indicating that Shomar Dass and his wife were thinking deeply. I learned that they were unacquainted with the Bible's teaching about salvation and eternal life. I shared my faith with them, and we prayed together that God would heal their dying boy—and draw them to Himself.

The next day the professor reported that the test and operation could not be done in postwar Dacca. I advised the family that the most sophisticated treatment could be obtained at the hands of a neurosurgeon in a foreign country. Failing this, I could undertake the case at Memorial Christian Hospital for, although we are general surgeons, we tackle neurosurgical cases when necessary. Shomar responded decisively. "My wife and I believe God sent you here in answer to our prayers. Take Albert to your hospital."More strange talk for a "not very religious man."

But how would we get this critically sick child to our hospital so far from Dacca? Obviously, we must travel by air, as Albert could not tolerate the trip over 250 miles of rutted, damaged roads. Since the regular commercial flight landed over seventy miles from the hospital, a special flight would be needed.

At the airport I asked to see the commander-in-chief of the Bangladesh air force. An officer took me to a carefully camouflaged emplacement, past guards, to his office deep within the massive concrete structure. The air chief, who knew all the available aircraft at Dacca airport, was not reassuring. One small UN plane might possibly land at an abandoned World War II airfield six miles from the hospital—if the strip's surface was intact. I did not feel happy about the risk involved. "The only other possibility," said the commander-in-chief, "would be the prime minister's personal helicopter—but I'm afraid it wouldn't be available. You see, an important minister recently requested use of the helicopter and even he was denied."

I sent Calvin Olson to tell Shomar Dass he must somehow make contact with his prime minister (this alone a tall order!) and ask for the needed helicopter. In the meantime, I would finish the urgent business which originally brought me from the hospital to Dacca—obtaining trucks and vital approvals for our three-million-dollar MAP-ABWE project.

They went immediately, Shomar and Calvin, to the office of the chief executive. Despite Shomar's ac- quaintance with Sheikh Mujib's private secretary, he was told the prime minister could not be disturbed by anyone, no matter how urgent his business. Thirty minutes sixty minutes ninety minutes—a father's heart breaking! Suddenly, unable any longer to tolerate the grief and suspense, Shomar leaped from his seat, brushed past the guard, thrust open the forbidden door, and burst into the prime minister's presence, only to find himself speechless.

Finally able to blurt out his story, Shomar Dass submitted his last-hope request for the use of Sheikh Mujibur Rahman's personal helicopter. Eying the distraught man and listening to his plea, Sheikh Mujib stopped the special cabinet meeting, swung around, and picked up the telephone. Calling the air chief, he issued the directive to prepare his helicopter for a flight to Memorial Christian Hospital.

"Before I left that day," Shomar Dass later recalled, "Prime Minister 'Mujib' said, 'I promise I will pray for your son. Your son is like my son."

That afternoon, as frequently happens in the premonsoon season, all aircraft were grounded by the threat of a tropical storm. The following morning we lifted the frail body of the unconscious boy from the ambulance, lashed his stretcher to the floor of the helicopter, and wired his intravenous fluid bag to a ceiling strut. Albert's father, mother, sister, aunt, and surgeon piled in. (The mother was nine months and two days pregnant!) The motor roared, the rotor whined, the cabin vibrated, and we were airborne. Throughout the long journey, as we skimmed over charming villages and sintuous rivers, I checked Albert frequently. He did not stir except for a few involuntary twitches in his unparalyzed leg. But his little heart kept beating. After landing within a mile of the hospital, we completed our journey by ambulance.

I planned to arrange immediately the complicated pneumo-encephalogram test. But something clicked in my mind, an idea I could not shake. I decided to delay the test and give the patient strong doses of antituberculous medicine on the one-in-fifty chance that the brain mass might be a "tuberculoma" caused by the tuberculosis germ.

Dr. Donn Ketcham and I proceeded with this treatment. Thirty-six hours after initiating the medication, we thought we detected possible very slight improvement.

Hospital staff members, by now deeply identified with little Albert in his struggle for life, prayed for him as though he were their own son. The nearby church held special prayer times for the child.

We continued the treatment another thirty-six hours.

Unquestionably, now, we could see improvement, "Thank You, Father!"

The dangerous brain test and operation were never done. Little by little, day by day, in response to the medication Albert emerged from oblivion.

On the day his new baby brother was born, Albert became restless and agitated in his stupor. Donn suggested that the lad sensed his mother's absence and was making a monumental effort to break out of his fog. A few days later Albert said his first words. From that point it was steady progress all the way. Happy parents! Exuberant hospital staff! All were overjoyed!

Shomar Dass told me with deep emotion, "A stone has come out of his mother and me. When you asked us for our permission to make the tests and to perform the dangerous operation, we thought, How can a father and mother give such permission when the doctor can not guarantee he will give us our son back again? But God enabled us to give the permission. And now it is a miracle. Albert does not need surgery! My son was dead and now he is alive."

Albert's father had purchased a painting for that hospital room, the beautiful picture of Jesus knocking at a door. We studied together the words of Christ which had originally inspired the artist, Holman Hunt: "Behold, I stand at the door, and knock: If any man hear my voice, and open the door, I will come in to him." Shomar understood perfectly that this was the answer to his need for eternal life and forgiveness; he needed to open his heart's door and accept Christ into his life. Early in the morning hours of Albert's twelfth day in the hospital, Shomar Dass—unable to sleep, conscious of his need, and thankful to God for his son's improvement—made the great faith decision and opened his heart's door to the great Physician!

"I told you, doctor, that you would be the first to know," my new brother told me later, his eyes brimming over with tears of joy and relief.

One day Albert struggled to the sitting position. Soon movement returned to the paralyzed left leg. His left arm responded last, but physiotherapy kept it supple until it, too, began to move. His first steps were awkward and labored. But soon Albert could be seen lurching about the hospital, cheering the other patients with his broad, infectious smile. I remember a day Donn and I walked into our little patient's room. Hobbling to the dresser drawer, where he kept his cache of treasures, Albert produced candy bars and insisted on sharing them with us. And Albert loved chocolate!

Thrilled by his son's recovery and his newfound faith, Shomar wanted to serve God with his music. We arranged at Malumghat the first concert he gave as a true follower of Christ. His performance was spellbinding and stirred our hearts deeply.

When Albert's walking improved sufficiently, we wrote the discharge order. On that joyous day, the hospital staff waved goodbye to the Dass family as they departed for their home in Dacca.

Shortly after his return to Dacca, Shomar Dass arranged an appointment with the prime minister. More orderly than the previous one, the meeting was nevertheless equally emotional. This time the tears were tears of happiness, however, and Shomar Dass suffered no stage fright. He related rapid-fire details about the lifesaving helicopter trip, the difficult decision to delay surgery, initiation of the medical treatment, the breathless wait for signs of improvement, and finally, the in- describable joy of Albert's first word, first step, first chocolate bar.

"Sir," Shomar said to Sheikh Mujib, "at that hospital everything is mixed with prayers. The church people helped us in every way—and they prayed. The nurses worked long hours lovingly caring for Albert—then they prayed. Dr. Olsen and Dr. Ketcham treated Albert skillfully—and they prayed, as well. God answered and guided the doctors to delay the operation and give the correct medicine. God heard all our prayers and made the treatment work. And now, how can I give you enough thanks for your personal helicopter which made it all possible?"

His Excellency Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, architect of Bangladesh, father of the nation, leader of 75 million people, beamed his delight at the recovery of the little boy.

"Shomar," he said, "that's good, very good. I'm happy I could give you the helicopter to take Albert to the hospital."

Then, softly the prime minister said, "Remember my promise, Shomar? I, too, prayed for your son."

When Shomar related to me Mujib's words, I was very moved. Daily the prime minister worked to bring order out of the incredible chaos of his war-shattered country, the world's eighth most populous nation. Yet amid all the complicated affairs of state, I reflected, his heart is open to the needs of individuals. That's the kind of man he is.

Source: The article is collected from Viggo Olsen's autobiographical book 'DAKTAR Diplomat in Bangladesh '.

Viggo Olsen, a native of the USA, initially worked as a surgeon before coming to East Pakistan in 1962 as a missionary doctor. He played a pivotal role in establishing the Christian Memorial Hospital, which commenced operations in 1966 in Malumghat, Cox's Bazar, under his initiative. Notably, the hospital provided medical care to Albert, the son of musician Samar Das. During the early months of the Liberation War, Olsen remained in Bangladesh. However, he was compelled to leave the country on May 30. Following Bangladesh's independence, he returned with the 'Bangladesh Brigade' to engage in relief operations for the war-torn nation. In recognition of his significant contributions during the liberation war, Olsen was granted the first visa of Bangladesh on June 13, 1972, bearing the prestigious number 001.

Translated by Kamrul Ahsan