The part of Calcutta where we used to live earlier, is predominantly inhabited by people who during the independence were known as refugees. People who left their homes in erstwhile East Bengal , now Bangladesh. People for whom the mirth of independence was marred by the agony of partition.
Our family was one such. My grandma used to recount , how she, as a young lady along with my grandfather , had left behind her land of birth and set for an unfamiliar city with a lot of fear, pain , hope and anticipation. Initially they had taken shelter in a building at Park Street, which today stands tall a premier hotel.
Slowly , by laws of adaptation, their uprooted life began to find grip in the new soil. Land was bought , house was built. Moving out there, my grandma realized she was far better off than her neighbours. The neighbours were seven members , only five came to the city. The parents were witness to their daughter and son in law’s death. On the common note of anguish , they started to bond soon. So if
Ilish was cooked for lunch at one home, the whole neighbourhood got a taste of it. They were complimentary to each other’s ordeal.
Along with stories of
tuntuni, Ramayan, Mahabharat, alibaba, sindbad, tales of
Dhaka and
Borishal used to occupy the central place of my imagination. Maybe more than that. The places seemed like magical. The stories of unbound lands, ponds, playgrounds, Durga Pujo in courtyard, school journey admidst fields- perfect recipe to see a 7 year old’s eyes gleam.
“You know I got a double promotion in school”. I used to laugh.
During lunch, in the bed, I heard stories of a land I have never seen and formed images myself.
“ You know, there was this turbulent period of the late 70s , when curfew was imposed. Your Uncle’s marriage was a low key affair. People were not allowed to have illumination lest planes surveying understands that there is a city.”
Its tales like these, that my grandma used to tell me almost everyday, more so on the 15th of August...
