Sapta Purush Jethaye Manush - Where seven generation of ancestors have grown up

Anthropologists say that the history of humans  is one of movement and migration. About 70,000 years back , our ancestors migrated out of Africa into Diverse places across Europe and Asia. It has been one unceasing migration for our kind ever since. Doesn't a popular theory say that a group of  cold steppe highland dwellers moved  into the abundant lands of  Iran and India to give rise to Aryan civilization? As late as the last century, fortune seekers, gold diggers and free men followed  Columbus into the Wild Wild West and turned it into the "United States of America". Migration has been a central theme of human kind, migration has made us what we are today, it has bestowed us our nationalities  and the accompanying good , bad and ugly.  The Great partition of the last century brought in its wake a huge exodus of a large section of humanity. An estimated 25 million people were uprooted and displaced , many would never cross the man-made borders to reach the new countries of which they were to become citizens. Well, this would probably tire out my readers, I know none likes to relive those nightmares. So lets spare the bitter memories. The gist is that two new nations were formed out of this partition in 1947, India and Pakistan. The newly formed nation of Pakistan would be further partitioned in 1971 to form the nation of Bangladesh. The Bengali majority of East Pakistan would rise against the imposition of an alien language and culture on them by the Urdu speaking West Pakistani rulers. The years leading upto the independence of Bangladesh witnessed one of the largest genocide in human history. In response to President Yahya Khan's exuberant declaration, "Kill three million of them , and the rest will eat out of our hands", the Pakistani army unleashed its version of "Mission kill three million" which would eventually lead to the butchering of around 200,000–3,000,000 people by official estimates alone; countless would be rendered homeless as refugees in refugee camps across India. Many would never see their home again, they would migrate to the safe haven of Neighboring India never to return. 


As a small boy growing up in the port city of Chittagong, my father had never imagined that  he would be caught in the vortex of this impending calamity. Even after the partition of 1947, my grandparents had refused to move out of the place  they called home. Chittagong, one of the oldest natural harbors of the world has  a 1400 year old history.  Ibn Batuta has recorded his travels through Sudakwan(Chittagong). This beautiful mountainous district and the District headquarter city of Chittagong has been blessed with nature's bounty. Mountains, Forests, Rivers and the Ocean, it is all there.One Chinese poem has described Chittagong as rising from "Mist and Water".  Few places of the world can boast of such abundance. The rolling hills  play with the Ocean in this playground of Nature. The ancestral home was situated on the banks of the Karnaphuli river, near the Delta. This mountanious stream, flowing out from the Lushai Hills of Mizoram, India,  flows 270 km through the Chittagong Hill tracts and merges with the Ocean at Chittagong city. My father thus grew up admist  the vastness of nature;  the hilly roads of Chittagong , the song of  the river about to meet its fullfillment ,  the roar of the ocean  - such sights and sound were his constant companion. The large ancestral house was filled with fruit laden trees . There were open playgrounds all around. Loving parents ,  Grandparents  and a little sister made up the ingredients of a happy childhood. My grandfather, a singer, writer and musician was a respected and honoured Chittagongian. The house was filled with cultural discussions and debates . The residents took to poetry and music as a fish takes to water. 


Since its creation in 1947, the repressive nation of Pakistan had started a state policy of exterminating Bengali culture and Bengalis  in general  and Bengali Hindus in particular. Sensing difficult days ahead , my father was sent off to Calcutta to continue his studies. He started living with his relatives. It was during school vacations that he would return to Chittagong. The 60s , were turbulent times.  My Grandfather, a  left leaning intellectual and musician, was arrested  by the Government on charges of fanning unrest. There were plans to persecute him. The Bengali police officials helped him escape from prison and eventually from East Pakistan. A section of the family comprising of his brother and his family  would stay back  to witness the horrific  events  leading to the creation of Bangladesh.
Throughout our childhood, our Grandparents , father and aunt would regale us with tales of the city they so loved. The hills, the river, the school named after my Father's grandmother, the court where my great-grandfather had practiced as a highly successful barrister, the sea-faring ship , the call of  port, the rocky Beach, the indigenous people of the Hill tracts, these became an inseparable part of our lives, much like the Fairytales we have all grown up with. I would always dream of returning to this land someday. Little did I imagine that the opportunity would come to me in the form of a transfer on official assignment to Dhaka in 2011. Within a few months after my arrival in Dhaka, my parents arrived on a short trip to Bangladesh and we travelled to Chittagong. It was a momentous journey for all of us, specially my father, who was returning  "Home" after nearly fifty years. He was excited as a boy. All throughout the train-ride  he kept on telling anecdotes about the place and the people. As the train chugged into Chittagong City, he could barely control his urge to get down from the running train and feel the "ground" beneath his feet.  Finally   the train came to a halt.  Our hotel had sent a car to recieve us at the station.  My Father started talking to the cabbie  in local Chittagongeese  language. The man was pleasantly surprised to find an  Indian conversing with him in a Language which Bangladeshis outside Chittagong hardly understand, leave alone converse.


The daylong journey and the  accompanying excitement of  what it meant to be here made for a hearty meal  and a good night's sleep. The next day we  were out,  trying to locate the places associated my father's boyhood and our relatives who had continued to stay here . Our first destination was the Family home located beside the river. With  great difficulty, we located the remnants of the sprawling villa . It was being razed to ground and in its place  a ugly skyrise was shaping up.  There was more dejection and disappointment in store. The virgin river had been encroached upon by greedy landsharks and  polluted by the numerous factories along its bank. The sleepy little idyllic hilly town had been turned into a raging industrialized metropolis. However the people around were extremely cordial. Bangladeshis are famed for their hospitality, there have been instances of totally unknown visitors like us being welcomed into a modest house for lunch or dinner. We were  welcomed like long lost kith and kin. We caught up with an old man, who  could recognize our ancestry. He reminiscenced how as a small boy , he would play near our house and take a dip at the pool adjoining it.  With the help of people like these , we were able to locate our relatives. It was an emotional reunion, since most of us were meeting each other  for the first time in our lives. They accorded us a warm welcome and fed us with the choicest Chittagong delicacies. It was a strange feeling, here were my own people, yet they were of  a different nationality. The notion of my own as people of my Country seemed to blurr for me. Borders lost their significance;  the concept of nationhood seemed to be irrelevant. Probably such feelings are common to Astronauts , at least when they look at the blue Planet  from Space. How else did Neil Armstrong say "A small step for a man, a giant leap for mankind" instead of "A small step for an American, A Giant leap for America". God knows, when such a day will come, when we will learn to recognize one another as a Big Earthy Family.

Chittagong - Rising out of Mist and Water 

A momentous Journey for my parents

                                       Reminiscences of an old man - The gentleman on the right recognized our ancestry

Remnants of our ancestral house

The Beautiful River Karnaphuli has been encroached by Landsharks.

Patenga Beach- Patenga, Chittagong

Family from across the border.

My Father goes Nostalgic!!

Where the river meets the ocean!!

The day was drawing to an end, we wanted to witness the sunset from Chittagong sea shore. Riding through the port city,  we arrived at a place called Patenga. Patenga has a rocky beach which was inundated by travellers and merry makers. It is at this Patenga beach that the Karnaphuli river merges into the Bay of Bengal. Seated at the delta point, with the sun making its descent into its nocturnal home somewhere beneath the  Ocean, I happened to video my Father's experience of this trip. It was a Priceless moment.He was sad to see his lovely little town being sacrificed at the Alter of "Progress", he thanked God for giving him the unexpected opportunity to be back "Home"  through his son, he yearned to return here again and again. After all, this was his land, the land of his forefathers, what did it matter if a man-made fence had somewhere been erected to  remind him that this was a Foreign Land. In the words of Tagore, "Sapta Purush Jethaye Manush, shey Mati SOnar Bara"..Where Ancestors till seven generations past have been born and brought up, that land is your very own, it is even dearer than Gold!!!