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 21st 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 14th 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
