Our family hails from a village called Damodardi in the district of Faridpur in East Bengal, now Bangladesh. This village was lost to us, particularly our parents, for ever with the Partition in 1947, which affected millions of lives in Bengal and Punjab.
I was too young then to feel the pangs of partition. Barely three years old, my life moved within the confines of the family and did not extend much beyond the house. No relationship grew with the place we lived in to leave any permanent imprint in my mind, though vague memories persist. Memories of trees and ponds, and of monkeys jumping from one branch to another, sometimes even intruding into the verandah to the consternation of us, children. Also memories of a stream and a makeshift bridge made of two coconut palm tree trunks which I crossed on occassions on an uncle’s shoulder.
May be these memories have been reinforced a bit by stories I heard later from the elders.
The land we lived in was free from the communal violence that gripped many parts of Bengal in the pre and post partition days leaving a trail of unprecedented bloodshed . Thousands died and many more had to flee their homes clutching whatever little they could of their belongings. They fled under cover of darkness, avoiding gangs of marauders and rapists and crossed the border to an unknown future. We were lucky we did not have to face this trauma. Even if any insecurity was felt by the adults, it did not percolate down to the chidren.
We had to leave eventually but were fortunate on another count : our father was a Doctor in Govt. medical service and could opt for a transfer to Basirhat, not far from Kolkata in what came to be known as West Bengal in Independent India.We came to Basirhat and then, after a year or two, to the city of Kolkata. We did not have to live on the streets, or railway platforms or in jabar-dakhal ( forcibly occupied) colonies, fighting poverty, hooligans and the police for sheer survival. We were refugees but luckier than most and didnot have to face the insecurites that many had to live with.
And how lucky for us to be thrown into a culture that was our own ! Yes, there were those initial years when we were branded as ‘Bangals’ (from East Bengal ) with our distinct dialects which varied from district to district. There were rhymes to depict us which were not really complimentary, but these did not last long. The Bangal and ‘Ghoti ‘ ( the originals of Kolkata) rivalry was mostly played out for years in the football leagues where the teams East Bengal and Mohun Bagan ( Kolkata’s own) were the major contestants.
We got integrated into Kolkata life easily enough. But having grown up listening to the stories of our land, its rivers, paddy fields and monsoon rains along with the stories of its abundance, some of which might be a little exaggerated, all of us, people of my vintage, carry our ‘desh’ in our hearts, deep in our souls.
I love rivers, in fact any water bodies and today I like to think that this love connects me to the ‘desh’ that we lost.
Thank you Rangajethu for this post. I have heard some stories of 'desh' from Amma.
ReplyDeleteHere one of my closest friend is a German boy who originally hails from Bosnia. It was during Bosnian war that he along with his parents and sister had to leave their country. He was ten year old that time. When many children of his age were playing around, he had to spend two years of his life in refugee camps, see his grandmother getting shot by bullet. For a brief period of time even he was even separated from his father, who was saved only because he was a doctor.
He tells me that to-day his father despite being one of the most recognized surgeons in Germany still did not opt for a German citizenship (though German Government was eager to give him one). His father still holds the Bosnian passport hoping to return to his land someday.
He too considers himself privileged at the end of the day.