Parting of the Way

It is not easy to uproot oneself from one’s environment of a lifetime and step forward to an unknown future, carrying forward all of one’s liabilities and none of one’s immobile assets.   In 1947, we had just lived through a series of mini civil wars laced with genocides starting from the infamous ‘Direct Action Day’ of the Muslim League on 16 August 1946 and its consequences in Noakhali in October 46 and in interior Bihar early in 1947.   I was in my very aware adolescent thirteenth year.   I was in the final year of secondary schooling, preparing for my Matriculation under theUniversityofCalcutta, and through my eyes the environment looked surreal.  

A Very Small World – 2: Mr Mukherjee’s Nephew

For a Bong any where, Durga Puja is a big occasion; at least that is how it used to be when I was young.    In 1958 I used to consider myself to be young.   I was just about 24 years old and I felt very young.   When Durga Puja came about that year, I participated enthusiastically at the ceremonies held at Tambaram within the Air Force Station.   I was then an instructor at the Flying Instructors’ School there.    The Puja was held at the Domestic camp at Madambakkam which we could reach on a bicycle in five minutes from the officers’ mess.   During Durga Puja, it is also customary to visit all such functions within striking distance, and we followed that social norm .

The Tapovan Experiment

Baba went back to Jessore from our temporary village home in mid 1944 to ‘work’; I stayed behind with Ma at Himaitpur to become a part of the Tapovan Experiment of Sri Sri Thakur Anukul Chandra.  

Baba Quits His Job

Baba tried to visit us at Himaitpur from Jessore as often as he could.   He normally came by an over-night train reaching the village early in the morning.   Some times he stayed just for one day or two.   At other times he stretched his visit to three or four days.   We got used to these sudden arrivals and departures of Baba.  However, we always knew in advance when he would arrive.    There used to be a sweet anticipation; getting up early and waiting for his arrival. 

Skirting A Famine

We had just moved into our new and half finished house at Himaitpur. It was early 1943.   The riversides of Himaitpur were full of Jute growing to its full height.    The flood plains along the river were a very fertile tract.   The land was of course sandy and loamy; not quite fit for the cultivation of fine varieties of rice.  

A Trip To Dhaka

A month or so after we moved to Himaitpur, my Dadu (Nanaji – maternal grandfather) got transferred to Dhaka from Barisal.   Since the living conditions in Himaitpur were troublesome and none of us kids were in any school or college, it was easy for Ma to volunteer to go down and help Dida (Naani – maternal Grand Ma) set up the new house there. 

Toilets In Our Village Home

Ma insisted that in our new house to be built there should be at least two toilets provided for.   Baba had always been against manually cleaned dry latrines.  He insisted that we install waterborne sanitary toilets.   The problem was that the village had no municipal sewerage.  

On the Banks of Padma

Once we moved out of our home and moved into a temporary shelter, things moved rather fast.   Baba went to Pabna for a short visit.   He came back with a firm decision to move all of us out of Jessore.  

A Trip To Pabna

My story today is from the memories of a six year old.   Fragmented, somewhat disjointed, but gathered assembled arranged and decorated with fanciful imagination and then cemented with love.     To understand the story, however, the reader would need a few background notes that the six-year old is not in a position to provide.   For a few minutes therefore I would have to hip-hop between my ‘me’ of to day to the ‘me’ of 1940 as I lay down the back ground, often from hearsay information from an era a decade before I was born.