“Once upon
a time in a fairy land…..” No , this is not a fairytale, but it has got shades
and colors of one. This is the story of a man and his passionate wish – a tale
of a bygone era starting from the end-days of the British Raj and ending in the
new century in a rapidly globalized
modern India, it is a unique story of Life coming full-circle; of a man’s desperate quest for his roots and for
his home which had been snatched away
from him.
My
Father-In-Law was born in a small village of Kushtia, now in Bangladesh. Famous
for the 19th Century mystic Lalon Fakir, the mighty river Padma has
blessed this area with an unmatched abundance.It was admist this abundance that
a small boy was growing up, when all of a sudden dark clouds of tragedy visited
his family.The year was 1947, Britain was in Tatters, the British were leaving
India ; they decided to strike one fatal blow to their erstwhile colony. The
country was to be Partitioned on
religious basis into two new countries- India and Pakistan. A sea of humanity
would be uprooted and displaced, families would be wiped out and countless
rendered homeless. This small boy and his family would meet such fate, although
theirs would be far less tragic than that of many. They would resettle at a
small sub-urban town near Calcutta, not far from Kushtia. Peering from across
the barbed fence that had been erected overnight, the boy would be lost in the
reverie of the home he had left behind across the barbed fence.
Fast
forward to the new century , the dawn of this century saw a mighty India arise,
having forgotten the pains of colonization and partition.Indian economy was Registering a phenomenal growth rate of around
8% year after year, Indian companies started opening up overseas offices and transforming
themselves into “Indian Multinational” companies. Its footsoldiers were
traversing the globe in chartered flights and Jet planes , like the retinue of
Indian Merchants and sailors who had done so ages back in Big Ship. As a child of this globalization,
I was no exception. My company opened a Operations Centre at Dhaka, the capital of Bangladesh, and I was
transferred there for an year’s time. My Father-In-Law was one of those few people who actually celebrated this
transfer, drowning the sea of skeptical voices who questioned what I would be
doing in a country which had been in the Indian public opinion for wrong reasons. “ Settle down soon, and I
am on my way” , he said, – On his way to return to his village, back to those
fields where he played and frolicked, back to those days when 60 mins made an
hour, back to those sunlight washed verandah of his house where the Durgapuja
used to be performed every year with great pomp and grandeur.
However
destiny had very different plans for all of us, my father-in-law was a cancer
survivor, the effects of radiation and chemotherapy would gradually wither him
away. A few weeks before his death, he made his last wish; being pleaded by his
eldest daughter to come down and stay with her at Sydney for advanced medical
care, he replied, “Kushtia it is, I wish to recover soon , get back to my
little village and relive those golden days”.But the wish would remain a wish
only, within afew days he was relieved from the unbearable pain and suffering
he had so majestically borne for the last few years.
According
to Hindu death rites, the lifeless Body is consigned to the flames, and the ashes
floated down the River Ganga. The river which gives life to millions , also
gives them solace and emancipation after death.
However my communist Father-In-Law never lived by such faith , after
death when suggestions were floated for doing so, his family felt the comrade’s
soul might object to our doing so , he might infact return to haunt those who
carried it out. Accordingly a compromise was worked out, while a portion of the
relics were to be immersed in a small river that flowed by his house, the
remainder would be carried back to Bangladesh, and immersed in the Majestic Padma
which flowed near his erstwhile village , and which was an offshoot of the
Ganges.
It was
journey time for us, journeying to the interiors of Bangladesh , a lazy morning
saw us arrive at a suburban town called
“Bheramara”. Now it was a total journey into the unknown. Imagine searching for
a village with only the memories of a man in
his eighties – Description of pre-independence era Subdivison Mufassal towns
, kotwalis(Small Police Outposts) and villages; story of a small river flowing through the village didn’t help either. We asked the locals about
the village, “Jhaudia”, it turned out that there were three villages of the same name, all within a 10 sq
mile radius!!However we were lucky, the locals recognized the pre-independence
era Kotwali and subdivision town still existed; the river was also identified,
but sadly, like many other small rivers of this riverine country, it had also dried up. Armed with local info, we
rented a small three wheel drive, and embarked on our “Discovery of your roots”
journey .Dawn was just breaking out and the serene idyllic villages of rural Bengal
were just waking up. Smiling farmers on the way to their fields helped us out
with directions.
After about
an hours sojourn through some of the greenest landscape in the world, we were
at our destination. A small motley rustic crowd surrounded us , curious to know
why we were searching for a Hindu family in their village, where there was
none. We explained to them the purpose of our visit, we told them about my
Father-In-Law’s grandfather being
rich landowner in this village. An elderly man recognized
him.”Oh you are searching for Nagen Babu’s house, where have you come from ?”,
he asked, On telling him that we were
from India,the villagers became suspsicious, had we come to claim these lands
under the infamous “Enemy Property Act”, they wondered. We could sense a
certain degree of resentment in them.One person came forward and said that he
has the lease papers for farming in “Nagen
babu’s” erstwhile estate land. We had to convince them that we had no such intention; that gone were rich landlords, gone was the zamnidari system itself, theirs lands gone as well. It took some time to
convince them, once they were convinced , they welcomed us with open arms. We
were taken around and shown the stretch of land on which stood the Huge Mansion.Time the great leveler had razed it to
dust.The remnants of the house was used as construction material by the villagers
and the land used for cultivation. The villagers regaled us with anecdotes
about the house, we in turn told them the story of a dead man’s “Last wish”. It
touched them so much that one person exclaimed, “What a tremendous attachment
and love it is – This love for one’s
land, you may leave it and travel far and wide, but be it in your
lifetime or after it, you will definitely have to return”. The rustic had summarized
our story like none.
Time was sparse,
the purpose of our visit to this place only partially accomplished. My
Father-In-Law had returned to his village, now it was time to immerse his ashes
in the Padma – the sacred river formed by the confluence of two Great
Sub-continental rivers- the Ganga and Bramhaputra. As the tranquil river carried the urn containing the
mortal remains in her bosom , we offered our prayers , “ Go forth to where
there is no more darkness and death, go there where there is no more separation
and its accompanying tears, your Last Wish has been fulfilled, now Rest in
peace”.
