When Independence came, it came with an orgy of blood and tears. We welcomed it with mixed feelings of joy and sorrow. Our long cherished dream of liberty had bloomed into reality— a thousand years of foreign rule had come to an end— the destiny of crores of human skeletons would be guided to the fulness of their lives by their own trusted leaders— the very idea knocked open the floodgates of imagination. At the same time it was a great wrench to have to leave behind our hearth and home, the scenes and surroundings of our childhood and our near and dear ones. My field of work was at Karimganj but the ancestral home and property fell to that part of Sylhet which went to the share of Pakistan. I knew the trees and bushes of my village. They were bound up with a tie of intimacy to me. The rivulet murmuring through the village, the paddy fields undulating with changing colours every month, the cremation ground shadowed by a banian tree along the river bank where my father and forefathers lie in eternal rest, the rail
line running through the village and attracting the boys with every passing train— and above all the simple affectionate yet un-affected people of the village— all cast a romantic spell on me. I shall possibly have no chance to see them again or to be in the midst of the wonted haunts of my childhood and youth. They have possibly now changed beyond recognition. The village Kalibari with its quiet surroundings, the mystic jungles to its east where I once dreamt of organising the young friends of the village on the pattern of the ‘Santan’ group of Bankim’s ‘Anandamath’— they are all out of my sight though I am living just sixteen miles away. No one could foresee the extent of separation which partition would bring in its train.
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But we are cut off from all kinds of communication with the other side of this river which is fordable in many places during the winter. Some of my best friends during my school days were Muslims. This friendship recognised no barrier of religion even during the crucial period of political feud. It stood the test of time even after partition, but the Governments are making re-union with friends and relatives impossible. As the position is today, no new friendship or relationship is possible to be picked up with people on the other side of the border. It appears that deliberate attempts are being made to tear off the cultural and linguistic ties between the two wings of Bengal.
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We are hoping for a bumper crop. The chaos created by hunger, unemployment and under-employment may soon be a thing of the past. Undoubtedly, the cloud has a silver lining. Will not a leader of all-India stature arise again to guide the destiny of India? May we take the symptoms as the travail of a new birth?
~~From the Corridoors of Memory -by- Rabindra Nath Aditya (written in 1969)
line running through the village and attracting the boys with every passing train— and above all the simple affectionate yet un-affected people of the village— all cast a romantic spell on me. I shall possibly have no chance to see them again or to be in the midst of the wonted haunts of my childhood and youth. They have possibly now changed beyond recognition. The village Kalibari with its quiet surroundings, the mystic jungles to its east where I once dreamt of organising the young friends of the village on the pattern of the ‘Santan’ group of Bankim’s ‘Anandamath’— they are all out of my sight though I am living just sixteen miles away. No one could foresee the extent of separation which partition would bring in its train.
...
But we are cut off from all kinds of communication with the other side of this river which is fordable in many places during the winter. Some of my best friends during my school days were Muslims. This friendship recognised no barrier of religion even during the crucial period of political feud. It stood the test of time even after partition, but the Governments are making re-union with friends and relatives impossible. As the position is today, no new friendship or relationship is possible to be picked up with people on the other side of the border. It appears that deliberate attempts are being made to tear off the cultural and linguistic ties between the two wings of Bengal.
...
We are hoping for a bumper crop. The chaos created by hunger, unemployment and under-employment may soon be a thing of the past. Undoubtedly, the cloud has a silver lining. Will not a leader of all-India stature arise again to guide the destiny of India? May we take the symptoms as the travail of a new birth?
~~From the Corridoors of Memory -by- Rabindra Nath Aditya (written in 1969)
Poignant. In the midst of the rich visual description, I am struck by your grandfather's sense of dignity and reserve. A modern reader might have expected a passionate outpouring or overflowing tragedy, but this economy of emotion is oddly far more compelling.
ReplyDeleteAppreciate your analysis. Yes- he was not with his times. Or with any other. That I am afraid, is the the tragedy of some. Please continue to read this blog. Thank you for your support.
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