A Football Match

Dave (not his real name) could be in sixties.  He might be in seventies. A lean, tall well built structure, with unshaven chin and casual dresses, as I found him whenever we met during my four month’s stay at his housing complex. He was my landlord. My room was very small, probably converted from a garage, as it still contained the main pipeline of the gas supply for the housing at one of its corner. But it had a kitchen and a toilet, enough space for a single person to manage under a roof.  During that period I was visiting the University of Southern California (USC), Los Angeles.  

The first month I had occasional interaction with him. I needed some help regarding fixing the network connectivity at my apartment. I needed it as one of our students, who was doing PhD there, gave his old laptop for my use during my stay.  Dave was quick to respond to my request and arranged a network port for me within an hour.  It was his nature. For any such matter where he was involved, his readiness to address them was astounding.  A month later when he made the network wireless, we faced a few teething problems for getting the connectivity. But he constantly supervised and monitored till its successful installation. However, in first two months, our interaction was brief and brisk, maintaining a healthy landlord-tenant relationship, until in one late September afternoon he caught hold of me and suggested whether I would be interested to go to the LA Coliseum for watching a football match.

“On coming Saturday USC will play with Stanford! The result is predictable! USC is ahead of them by sixty points. It should be a cakewalk for them. Anyway, it’s a fun to watch football in the stadium. Let’s go. It would be my treat”, he winked at me with a mischievous smile, a very typical of his outward expressions. I had no real reason to decline it. Other than writing computer programs and papers on my work, I had no serious engagement.

My knowledge in the American football was no better than my ignorance in subjects like Mongolian dance and music. However, a few weeks ago, I was fortunate to meet Prof. Adleman (RSA cryptography famed Turing awardee) over a lunch and he asked me, “Do you know why USC is famous?”  I guessed, “It must be for you and some of your colleagues of your stature.” He laughed. “It’s USC’s football team. They are very good and ranked at the top. If you do not know anything about American football and USC stars, your mission would remain incomplete.” I had the idea of American football as a game similar to Rugby, played with power and violent physical contacts. Prof. Adleman informed me, “On the contrary, it is a game of great strategy, planning and team-work. It is said, most of the moves are created off the field. It’s like a game of chess between two coaches."  After hearing from him, I was interested to know about it. USC had a large football practice field. On my way from the University to my apartment, I used to walk by the side of its fences. Every afternoon practice sessions were held in the presence of a number of followers. There were also regular performances from cheer leaders. Live videos were used to be recorded from towering camera stands. However, almost all the activities were hidden by an enclosure, and in the gates prohibitory notices for entry of non-members were hung. So on my way, I used to hear cheers, sounds of music and bands and used to have quick glimpses of players through the narrow opening of the gate. But I had no idea what was going on inside. Dave’s proposal rekindled my interest in watching the game in its entirety.

As it was a Saturday, I had no work at the University. So I rested and waited impatiently for the time to go for the match. I was expecting Dave’s knock at my door at any time and was ready by myself for leaving the moment he wanted to.  He did call me after a while. But he told me, “We will start after half an hour. I am taking my motorcycle. There will be a lot of problems in parking a car. Have a comforter and jacket around you. It may be chilly.”

 I asked, “Hasn’t the match started?”

 “Oh! Of course! Are you not watching? It is in channel four.”

 I was surprised, “Are we not going to the field?”

“Sure! But it’s boring to see the full game. It’s only the last two quarters, when you have all the excitement. We will move then.”

It was after all Dave’s call for the entertainment.  So, I had no other option than to keep waiting for it. I tried to concentrate on the telecast of the game, but could not get much headway of it. Then I started surfing channels, and was following the progress of the game in between.

Finally Dave appeared before my door, “Yes Sir! We are ready to go!”  He brought his motorcycle. It was a Harley-Davidson. He warned me, “Hold me tight! I drive very fast.” He did indeed. As it roared down the streets with hundred plus km per hour, my thin hairline was getting swashed by the whizzing air and my heart was pumping at the same acceleration. Within a few minutes we reached the stadium, which was not very far from the University. The coliseum was the home ground of USC.  It was a gigantic oval-shaped stadium, enclosed by high walls and equipped with a number of entry/exit gates. Two Olympics were held there. One was in 1932 during the time of great depression and the other in 1984, in the heightened cold war period. I was standing in front of its main entrance.  A large cauldron was fitted above it. It must be the one, where Olympic flames were lit. There were passages through railings of iron rods in front of the gate, which were guarded by ticket checkers blocking the entry of unwanted intruders.  A few such unfortunate football fans were standing in front of them. They were trying to read the score on a giant screen, which was placed across the field on top of a gallery and was partially visible through the opening of the gate.  At times one would hear the burst of excitement from the whistling and roaring crowd inside. At those times, those unfortunates would run near the gate and try to peep through the front opening. They were also making attempts to entice the gate-keepers for leaking the inside happenings. One of them also came with a radio and others around him were following the game intensely. I was waiting for Dave, who went for parking his motorbike. I was enjoying the excitement of the atmosphere. The glimpse of the wavy colors of the gallery was inviting me for a grand spectacle.

 Dave came back after a while. It was difficult for him to get a place for his bike. As we were ready to enter, I asked him for the tickets. Then there came the most shocking announcement from him.

“I’ve never been to this stadium with a ticket,” he declared and assured me, “We will sneak through the gate”.

 I was stunned and confused on my role in this candid act of immorality. I had to confide to him, “I never did that in my life”.

Dave remained unperturbed.  “It’s easy. I will teach you. After the break of this quarter a few spectators would come out. We would make an easy entry then, as if you are returning back to the gallery after a drink. The gate keepers won’t check you. But you need a bit of acting. It may be even possible now. Who knows? Let’s try.”

So another exciting game started. Dave made a few advances here and there, but could not succeed in making any opening of guarded fences. I was behind him, but trying to keep a distance, so that my complicity in this affair looked blurred.  Dave noticed it. So he came to me and whispered, “Why are you lagging behind? Just be after me. As soon as I pass through, you need to throw yourself.”  The pleasing afternoon turned sore to me. I was bearing all the discomfort of following him. We walked across the high wall of the stadium from east to west. At every gate, Dave stopped a while, bent forward, and drew attention of suspicious gatekeepers.  A bit of frustration covered his face. He said to me in a low voice, “It’s strange that no one is coming out. The game must have become very exciting. But don’t worry. At the break after the third quarter, you would find a lot of people returning back. We would surely make it by then.”  Neither I was very keen on that prospect. So I tried to console him, “How does it matter? Even if we do not make it, we can at least enjoy the charged atmosphere around and listen to the commentary.”

He fired up, “Never. I have not failed in any of my attempts so far. We will surely make it. Let’s wait for the recess. In the mean time, let us rest a while. I am feeling tired after walking so much. I am getting old, Sir.”

We sat on a concrete slab, a little away from the main entrance.  There were two impressive black bronze sculptures of nude and headless male and female athletes. To turn away his attention from his present obsession, I asked him, “When these statues were built? Was it during 1932 Olympics or in 1984?”  

“1984. In 1932, America was not so uncivilized. I know you Hindus are very conservative and you follow your culture. But we had no history, no heritage; nothing to preserve. A lost soul!”   

 I told him, “But, you are carrying the great heritage from Europe, from ancient Greece and Rome.”

Dave lost his temper, “Those were the rotten eggs! From them western civilization got all the poison.”

I was taken aback by such a strong conviction, and did not know how to respond. So I changed the topic. “What was your subject in the school?”

“Business administration.  Then I lost interest in my studies, and went for a world tour.  I toured different countries. Though I was never been to India, I traveled Afghanistan, Pakistan, North Africa; hot spots of Islamic civilization. Now I am studying religion.”

 “Which religion?”

“All types! Islam, Buddhism, Judaism,  Hinduism, what not?.”  I was not sure whether his reference to my religion was to impress me or not. Dave continued, “I studied Islam very well and respect that religion. I go to Mosque every Friday to attend their prayers. I came with a strong liking of this religion, when I spent my days in Afghanistan for about six months.”

 “When did you go there?”

“In the late seventies. Iran was ruled by Shah that time.”

“Then it must be before 1979,”  I tried to recollect history from my memory of news headlines in my school days. 

“May be,” Dave did not contradict.

“What were you doing there?” I wanted to keep the discussion alive.

“I smuggled.” he said distinctly.

“What?” I stumbled and thought he was joking.

But he was serious and cool. He clarified, “I was smuggling hashish and opium.  But it was for six months only,” and continued further, “Then I came back here and started real estate business.  That time this area was ruled by criminals and thugs. There was no law. All poor people, Black or Hispanic, lived here. So I could make property in throw away prices. Just think! All the road side houses in your block I bought with a few thousand dollars then. Later I sold them with millions. It’s a huge profit.” Dave gave a half smile and paused for a moment.  He continued, “Even I had no money in the beginning. I acted like an agent between the tenants and landlords. Slowly, I could make property with my earnings.  I also started building new houses. Many of the houses in your locality were built and sold by me. Even now I have three such complexes. The one you are living was built with my own design. I used the same space for building three apartments instead of two. So almost for the same investment, I could earn 2100 dollars per month, instead of 1400. A very good thinking! Isn’t it?” He continued without waiting for my approval, “Of course, the authorities here were after me! They were showing rules here and there and asked my tenants not to pay.  But, I had not trouble in getting rents.  Why should it be? My tenants are happy for paying less rent than the market price and I am also happy to maximize my return. It’s a give and take situation. So who cares? I could convince before a bench of nine juries that I did not do anything wrong.” Dave drew a deep breath of satisfaction.

Then he looked at me intently and asked, “Do you know my dream?”

“Tell me,” I showed interest.

“I dream of building a great hotel. In the complex you are living now, I will demolish everything and build it there. I need ten million dollars. I have a few and make the rest by selling my property. I will name the hotel as ‘World Peace Hotel’, where people of all races, black and white, of all religion, Christians, Jews, Muslims, Hindus, would live together. You are also invited.” Dave was quite excited to tell about his project. Then he asked me again, “Do you think a Jew and a Moslem can live together?”

“Why not?” I responded.

 He shook his head with disapproval, “Not at all Sir!  The Moslem won’t. Islam is the most conservative religion. They cannot tolerate any other faith. They consider people of other religion are ‘Kefirs’. I spent my time in Afghanistan. I went also to Pakistan. I read Quran and am quite well versed with Islam. If you want to see the face of conservative Islam, go to Pakistan. It is much liberal in Saudi. But see how Pakistan is suffering from the Islamic jingoism. Poor Musharraf! He came to power riding on it. Now look at him. Unable to tame the pony! After the destruction of World Trade Center, I accompanied CIA to Pakistan, and then to Afghanistan. There we had a talk with the top leaders of Talibans. I was the only person there, who understood the demands of Osama. After my return, I also apprised Bush of Osama’s views. But he did not pay heed to me. He started this bloody war and bombed that country. Talibans never wanted the war. When I was in Afghanistan in my early days, Afghan people were very much receptive and warm-hearted. They were not at all like Pakistanis. But Russia destroyed the fabric of their society. There was no Taliban in my time.”

“But, Talibans are also Afghan,” I interrupted.

 “Certainly!  If you are not an Afghan, you cannot become a Taliban. Afghans chose them because they brought discipline in their chaos. But they would not have lasted long. The Afghan society did not like them. They would have definitely rejected them. But, in the mean time, bombing started. Osama, himself, was not in favor of war.”

“Tell me about his demands,” I wanted to know.

“He wanted everyone to follow Islam in an Islamic country. Islamic society should maintain its own character without any influence from the West.  There should be only Shariat law for every Moslem. Of course, there are various interpretations of Shariat laws. Poorer the countries, more conservative are those laws.”

“But in every form of Shariat, there are considerable differences in the rights of Men and Women,” I observed.

“That is there in every religion. Only in West, you will find this disease exists in the name of Women’s lib. If you want discipline without freedom, it becomes dictatorship. But, if freedom is without discipline, it’s a chaos. The West is suffering from this disease.”

Suddenly Dave noticed that a few spectators were coming out from the gates. He jumped immediately and dragged my hand, “Let’s go! It’s a break now. We have a good chance of sneaking in.”  Though I had no intention of making any haste in his proposed adventure, I had to join him with my timid steps. Once again, we carried on a repeat exercise for trying to push ourselves across the fence. Unfortunately, that day the guards were very much alert. They might have been extra cautious on the movement of two of us. Dave also realized that it was not wise to make any attempt further. He came to the main gate and tried to read the scoreboard. He became excited as he found USC was winning by 20-14.

“That is why so many people are still there in the stadium? Let’s watch the game in a TV.”

His words brought me an instant relief. I never heard anything sweeter than this in my life. We went to a near by building and entered into a big hall. At its different corners, televisions were fitted, and fans and supporters were glued to those sets. There was also a restaurant. We watched the game with a bottle of beer. Dave was explaining the moves and cheering the advances of his team. However, Stanford proved to be a tough opponent. It was not Dave’s day at all. Proving all the prediction wrong Stanford won the game with a score line of 21-20. He was vividly upset. He told me, “It’s bad for our economy.”

 I was surprised. “Why should it be?”

He explained, “People come to USC for football only. Now USC is loosing. So there would be less number of students coming to this University. This means less demand of housing.”

But soon he regained his cheerful mood and commented with optimism, “Still a number of games is left. Let’s see how it goes.” Then he suggested, “Let’s go to the field now. There will not be any problem of entry.”

So finally we made it. There were still a large number of spectators sitting in the galleries. They were greeting their football heroes.  In the middle of the field, the policemen made barricades. In one side the supporters and players of Stanford University were celebrating their victory. Their cheer leaders were dancing with the music of a band. We walked through the field and went to the other side. In that side, the cheer leaders of USC were showing their performance with dance, music and gymnastics. The crowd around them were applauding and encouraging them. The show went on and on. Towering floodlights covered the spectators and performers with bright golden hue all around. By looking at this crowd, who would think, that their home team had just lost the game so narrowly? They knew how to enjoy a match even after a loss. After all, this is what a sport is. It is for celebration. It is for enjoyment.

14/9/11

In a foreign land

My father was boiling with excitement. As our vehicle was approaching Vinodpur, a small town and a marketplace, he was fumbling with his past memories.  “This must be my school!”, he exclaimed pointing to a structure at the turn of the road, but soon got disappointed when he got the disapproval from Partha, the young engineer, who was accompanying us in the last leg of our tour in this foreign land.

 I came here with the invitation of Motttalib-da (Prof. M. A. Mottalib) to deliver a few lectures on video streaming and medical informatics. Mottalib-da is the Head of the Department of Computer Science and Information Technology, in the Islamic University of Technology, Dhaka. He did his PhD in nineties from the department, where I am attached presently.  In his research scholar days, his working desk was beside mine. During that time, I was working in a project as a research staff. With such a nice and simple person, my friendship grew naturally and years after when we met, he invited me to visit his place. I was also looking for an opportunity for visiting my ancestral place with my parents. Finally, we could manage to arrange everything required for the travel, including new passports stamped with VISA for my parents and came to Bangladesh. My father spent his childhood in a village of this land, till he was a boy of twelve years old. My mother left this country, when she was just five and has very little memory of her place of birth.

Mottalib-da took every care of making our visit as comfortable as possible.  He and his family were gracious hosts at their residence in Dhaka.  Initially I was hesitant to accept his warm invitation to his house, for bothering his family all on a sudden with my aged parents. But it was difficult to say ‘no’ to this emotional person, who fought the liberation war in his early youth.  Within a day, my parents became almost a member there. Mottalib-da’s mother-in-law was originally from Burdwan district and his wife, Daisy’s ancestral place was in the district of Hooghly.  My parents were having nice time by sharing memories of their past.  Mottalib-da has a gifted kid, Neel, who spends most of his time with computers and mathematical puzzles.  He also started talking to my mother through his mom and dad after a day or two. Mottalib-da took us to some major attractions in the city including the memorial site of martyrs of 21^st February. It was a pilgrimage for all of us. It coincided with the Memorial Day and we witnessed how thousands of people, young and old, paid homage to their heroes with flowers and celebration.  In these days it is rare to observe such an emotional attachment of a multitude to a secular cause.  

From Dhaka, we came to Khulna on a night train and stayed in the guest house of Khulna University of Engineering and Technology (KUET).  In Khulna, we made a brief visit to my mother’s ancestral place called Senhati, a prosperous and educated village at that time. However, we had the misfortune of not being able to identify the places of memories of my mother. Although presently she carries a very little of it, she was looking for a temple, a tank, her school and a garden, where she played. Only thing she could find a school named the same, she knew from her mother. But, she could not locate any other place with its reference.  Finally, we were led by locals to a place, very near to her description, having a temple and a large pond. There was also an empty land guarded by fences, made of bamboo sticks and thorny bushes.  Assuming the place as the one, my mother bowed and touched the soil.  She also collected a few samples for carrying back home. However, she became doubtful immediately after her return from the village and by then was more or less convinced that we had failed to get to the place.  As such, she prefers to remain silent among strangers, but in this morning, she was more reclusive and rarely responding to my father’s exclamations! Most likely her doubts were still haunting her and made her sombre.

From Khulna, we arrived at Magura this morning and after taking a rest of about an hour and a half, we were on our way to the village, where my forefathers lived. For our trips to this part of the country, Mottalib-da made all the arrangement of our accommodation and transportation. He also gave the charge to his trusted lieutenant Shahidur, a gentle and pious man, to accompany us throughout this journey.  Though present day winters are not as refreshing as they were used to be in the past, this morning while travelling through the smooth metal road and crossing bridges over narrow water channels, we had a pleasant freshness and sweet smell in the air.  This part of Bangaldesh seems to be very fertile and well cultivated. Even at this time, all the fields by both sides of the road were green with variety of crops and vegetables.  In the greenery, at places there were random stretches of white and yellow flowers of coriander and mustard plants.  Almost parallel to the road a river was accompanying us from a distance. It had a moderate flow and on its both sides greyish-white banks were gradually blended with shaded greens.  My father whispered, “This must be Nabaganga, where the ‘Doa’ meets.”  The word ‘Doa’ is probably derived from more commonly used Bengali term  ‘Daha’ or ‘a water body’.  However, in his village the Doa was like a small river with rushing waters in the rainy season. Large boats carrying crops and goods were used to ply through it. In rainy season, all the village boys would come to their school by a boat across Doa and that was one reason why they used to start their schooling at relatively higher ages.  In those days,  a boy should have known swimming and boating before joining a school. Probably, girls of his village had no opportunity of going to a school. Whenever my father starts talking about his village, he always fondly mentions about two things. One is the ‘Doa’. The other one is a grand baniyan tree. It is a tree which welcomes every visitor of the village at its entry.  Under the baniyan tree, the villagers used to organize Kali Puja, Kirtans (devotional songs) and fairs in every year.  Before coming here, my father contacted his old acquaintances who have still connections with their roots. From them, he knew that the banyan tree still exists. He was impatiently waiting for his reunion with this tree, his childhood’s world of dream and fantasy.

As a few houses and shops started appearing, it made my father alert and apprehensive on the task of rediscovering his past. He was getting more and more excited and could not resist himself in making guesses of some of the places, he knew before. “This is the school”, Partha said to my father. The vehicle slowed down a bit. Father got overwhelmed, “It has changed so much! It has become so big!”  Partha also studied in the same  school of my father and later graduated from Bangladesh Uinversity of Engineering and Technology (BUET), Dhaka. He is young and handsome. His family has business in this place. In particular, his grand father was known for hunting for a long time in this region. Presently, Partha is  working as an Engineer in the irrigation department. Mottalib-da’s friend’s friend (such a wonderful friendly world!) requested him to accompany us.  He knows one of my father’s  village relations,  Santu Mukherjee, whom we never met before.  Santu uncle (as I called him through our relation) has a medicine shop in Vinodpur and is quite well off. He also teaches science in a local Madrasa and as I understand, he runs a dispensary in his shop prescribing medicine to patients. His father was a doctor and was a guardian in the village. My father refers him with reverence as ‘Doctor Uncle’. When all our family members left after partition, grand father was still determined to stay here. He and my father, merely a boy, were struggling in those days. My grandfather was very sick at that time. He had asthma and also he was coughing blood, for which no villager was willing to make a visit to him. When situation became unbearable, the twelve year old boy wrote a letter to his elder brother, who was working in Krishnanagar,  asking him to come and to take them with him. He also requested his doctor uncle for persuading his father to leave.  So the doctor uncle came and advised my grand father, “Katta (Sir)! There is no point staying back here. How would you manage this boy alone? Go and join the rest of your family.”  My grand father asked, “Will you leave?” “Certainly!” was the response from the doctor. So my grandfather left with my father in one fine morning. Father still remembered his last journey from his home.  It was also a day of a winter. His uncle, who was working in the police force in West Bengal, came to take them. They took a steamer and at Chuadanga they boarded a train. Grandfather could not recover from the shock and pain of leaving his home. He lived for another two years after coming to India. Father’s doctor uncle stayed back, though he had the intention of leaving as well.  He was persuaded by the local populace.  He lived a full life, though he had to endure the torture of Razakars during the liberation war of Bangladesh.

Vinodpur is a thriving market place.  Quite a good number of shops ranging from clothes to electronic goods are doing their business.  In the centre of this market, there is a bifurcated junction where a relatively narrow road meets the main road.  This is the road which leads to the village. Santu uncle’s medicine shop is at that junction. However, he was not in his shop at that time. So we went to his house, which was also very near to the place by the side of the same narrow road.  But he was also not home. We met her young daughter and told her that we would be visiting him while returning from the village. So we moved on and my father was becoming more and more radiant as he was approaching to his destination. By the side of the road, there was a narrow water stream (Khal in Bengali). This was the remnant of the Doa, as explained by my father to me. Through this channel, they used to come to their school by a boat. The boat was kept roped at the junction near the road. When the school was over, again they took their return journey by the same boat. In rainy season, there was no other option of communication from their village to this place. However, now there is a motorable road till the end of the village and it made our journey less adventurous but comfortable.

Our vehicle stopped at a notable spot, where the banyan tree maintained its sombre presence with its shades and overwhelming canopy, spreaded not only over the road, but also over a portion of a ground, which appeared to be a place for village fair and meeting.  Close to the tree, there is a Madrasa, the one where Santu uncle is a teacher. We were greeted by a person, of the same age of my father. He welcomed father and said, “You must be Dulo! Can’t you recognize me?” Father was at a fix and the tall senior person introduced himself, “I am Asit. We were in the same class.” Father greeted him. He knew his elder brother Asim Mukherjee, who lives in Kolkata and made all the arrangement of our reception at this village. However, father expressed his doubt whether two of them really went to the school together.  Asit uncle (as I would call him subsequently) smiled and said, “I am the only connection between you and the past in this village.”

Finally the penultimate moment arrived. We got down from the vehicle, as the road leading to the doorstep of my ancestral place was not wide enough to drive. We were received by a group from the village. All were younger to my father. Even some of them were in their twenties. They were second and third generations of his known village relations. Asit uncle introduced them to us and led us to the neighbourhood of our old home. One by one he was showing pieces of fenced land and was attributing them to families, whom my father knew. All the time father was looking at him with disbelief. “Were they so close? Were those lands so small?” At every instance, he expressed his hesitation in accepting those facts. Finally, when he was shown the land of his old house, he shouted in utter disappointment, “How could it be? Such a small place! Where are those huts? There should be at least three remaining. Where is that big tamarind tree?” Asit uncle said,   “ Dulo! Do you think they would exist?”  Father told, “Where are children  of Majid-da?” Majid uncle had studied with my uncle  (my father’s elder brother) and was his friend. When all the family members of our ancestral home were settled in India, Majid uncle wrote to my uncle for his permission of using the property.  He died a few years ago. Now his descendants are living there. A man of around fifty years old came forward. He was accompanied by a few kids and also a woman. He looked little alert. The land now belonged to him. He was Majid uncle’s son and it was vivid from his expression that he was not at all comfortable with our presence, considering us claimant of our past rights. Father assured him saying that he just came for visiting his ancestral place and wanted to take a piece of earth from this land. He also handed over a packet of sweets to the present owner, who was hugely relieved with his gesture.  

According to father, they had four mud houses, with frames of Shal wood and slanted roofs made of tins.  One of them was quite big and spacious. When most of the family members left after partition, the rooms were lying vacant. My grandfather stayed back with his mother (my great-grand mother), the youngest son (my father) and the youngest daughter (my aunty).  So a decision was taken to sell the big house to meet the expenditure of building a new one in Krishnanagar, where my uncle was working.  Initially none was coming forward to buy the house. Finally, one of grandfather’s friends, Sadu Mian, agreed to help and bought it with Rs. 632/=, as my father still has the memory of overhearing the negotiated amount from an adjacent room.  On the day of dismantling, grandfather left for Krishnanagar with the money. He wanted to escape from the torment of observing the destruction of a thing, he had cared so much. But the day turned out to be more dramatic. Around 30 men from surrounding places, with sticks and ballams  (sharp-nails) came to oppose the dismantling.  Three of the residents, young and old inside a chamber, were trembling with the fear of the impending attack. Sadu Mian also came prepared. He had a few musclemen in his contingent and himself, was equipped with a gun. He gave a cry of a dacoit and shouted, “Shono Mian-ra (Listen Folks)! Did Thakurs (father’s family as addressed by him) take any loan from you while building the house? If so, come forward, I will repay. Otherwise, disperse right now. My gun would chop your head, if you do any mischief.”  Against this stern warning, the crowd left without much discussion. After coming here father expected to see some of the remaining structures still being used. However, there stood a different hut, also made of mud and bamboo sticks. While collecting a piece of earth from the place, where his house was supposed to be standing, father could not control himself. His eyes got moist and voices became choked. A soft gurgling of sob was mixed with his request to my mother for holding his hand.  Everyone present there, were moved, but none could speak. In that momentary silence, father recovered quickly and wanted to leave the place immediately. 

Asit uncle took us to the place from where they used to board a boat for going to school. It was supposed be a ghat (a special platform for bathing and washing in ponds and rivers) of the Doa. However, what was remaining there was a small pond. It was difficult to imagine it as anything closer to a water channel. Naturally, father could not believe and was hoping that somebody would acknowledge the error of judgment. But, all were unanimous in defending the uncle. So father shook his head and commented, “How did such a living flow of water get dried up? People used to carry their goods by boats through this Doa. Even the boats were used to ply through cultivated land, which remained under deep water in the rainy season.  In those lands, different varieties of paddy plants were used to grow. They would have long stems and kept their flowery seeds just above the water level. When a boat went on top of them, they would simply make a bow for their passage.  During bhashan (immersion of idols on the last day of Durga Puja) two boats were used to carry the idol in between and in the middle of the river they would separate themselves out to drop the idol in water. At that time,  Gandha kaka (uncle) used to sing a song in Bhatiali tune, which would make every eyes moist!”

Father carried on his stories of the past.  There was a bit of gatherings around him, all absorbed listening to his words. Then each of them wanted to take him to their houses and introduce him to their families We visited different houses in the village and were introduced to members of present generation.  The mood was of a happy reunion among the friends and relatives.  Father could identify some of the structures of old days and was narrating some of the incidents and practices of those days, which he could remember.  Finally we went to Asit uncle’s house. Some of his brothers and nephews also live in the same compound. They still have considerable farming and landed property with fruit orchards and ponds. There we met the oldest person of this village, an aunt of my father, who must be above nineties by now. It was not clear, whether she could recognize my father.  Father told me, “In this complex there was a two-storied building where all the women of the village spent a few nights together during the days of communal clashes fearing an attack.”  Asit uncle acknowledged the fact, but informed that the building got burnt and a new house was made in its place.  On the 14^th August, 1947, like every year in his village a boating competition (baich race as known locally) was being held in Doa. The atmosphere was tense on the eve of the declaration of partition. Grandfather was collecting regular updates from all corners and in particular from the gatherings watching the race. By noon, the rumour was strong enough to ring the cautionary bell in every house of the village. The news came that people from the other side of the Doa would attack the villagers at night. So, all the young women and children of the village were advised to take shelter in a well protected building. The youths of the village were also prepared with their house-hold weapons such as sticks, knifes, rods, etc. There were a few licensed guns in some houses. Besides, they filled  pitchkaris (water guns used by kids in the festival of holi) with chilli powders and acids for using them as weapons in their needs.  My father did not move though. He stayed with his father and grand mother in the house. Other members did take shelter in the two-storied building. It continued for three more nights. Then a few senior persons from the other side of the Doa came to the village. They advised, “How long will you live like this? You have to leave this place. We will not be able to give any protection. For the time being nothing will happen. But you must cross the border.”  So migration started. Asit uncle said, “It happened so that on a single day   twenty three families left this place.” Father and grandfather were the last two persons of our family who came to India in the beginning of 1949.

On our return we stopped by the banyan tree, as father wanted to spend some more time there. He took us near the tree and was delighted to find an empty pocket on its trunk, a distinctive mark he could remember from his past. Beneath the tree, still there were a few fragments of earthen pots, relics of pujas  held previously. However, we found the place dirty, uncared for a long time and spotted with scraps and wastes here and there.  My father was keenly observing different corners of the tree and making his own survey of the place. My mother was a bit tired and resting in the car herself.  Partha, Shahidur and myself, were having a leisurely walk in the field, a few meters away from the road and the tree.  The afternoon sun, behind us, was reflecting on the leaves of the banyan tree and increased the darkness reigned under its canopy. It was the last afternoon of our trip. Next morning we would be going back home, which would take around one hour to cross the border by road and another four hours to reach home. It was time to leave. We had a few more engagements on our way back to the guest house, where we made our arrangements of night halt. I was looking for my father.  He was standing facing us in front of the tree enjoying his reunion with the roots of his childhood in this foreign land.  He was smiling.

31/08/2011