Train to India: Memories of Another Bengal

We had a lively railway station, Bhairab, connecting Kolkata, Dhaka, and Mymensingh with the southernmost tips of Eastern Bengal. There was the wonderful Anderson Bridge over river Meghna, the only bridge to span the turbulent river. The station unravelled magic, day in and day out, bringing in new faces and carrying away known faces to destinations beyond the horizon. The station was our telescope to the outer world.

I dreamt of riding a train and steaming through the countries shown on the global map. The Bradshaw travel guide that I surreptitiously accessed urged me incessantly to board a train and get lost in the unknown world of India.

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They talked at length and finally settled on blowing up two vital spans of the bridge. That was more important than killing a few soldiers. The bridge was the only link between Dacca-Calcutta and rest of the estuarine Bengal, especially the vital district of Sylhet, which acted as the steady supply artery to the Burmese front.

Excitement made me oblivious to fast-approaching footsteps. Uncle Satish stood up with a rifle in his hand and looked out through a hole in the wall. I looked back too. No, it wasn’t an enemy contingent. Lutfa came running like a desperate sprinter.

“Run, you all run. They’re coming.”

“Who?” Asked aunt Mudra.

“Dukhia, Kalimuddin and many policemen. They’re armed.”

Uncle Satish gave a terse command to his group to take position and fire on his command. Aunt Mudra intervened. She advised the group to retreat, conceal the arms and ammunition, and wait for a better opportunity. Dukhia, she said, was a despicable viper and his grandpa wouldn’t hesitate to sacrifice anything and protect his dearest grandson and his British title.

The group picked up their weapons and melted into the dark night. Three volunteers stayed put. Lutfa was asked to assist them to load the heavier weapons on a boat berthed at a nearby canal.

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One of the soldiers dragged out Lutfa by her hair and forced her to lie prostrate on the ground. A police sepoy handcuffed her and my cousin Dukhia kicked her repeatedly. Kalimuddin lifted Lutfa by hair and made her sit on a wooden bench.

“Who are these dead people?” he boomed out.

“No idea,” Lutfa replied in a composed voice.

“Who’re the other gang members?”

“What gang are you talking of?”

“Were Satish and Altaf there with the gang?”

“Who is Satish and who is Altaf? I don’t know them.”

Kalimuddin banged her back with a mighty slap. Lutfa stumbled to the ground. It was followed by another kick from Dukhia.

“Are you a member of the terrorist and swadeshi gang?”

“Yes.”

“Where are the looted weapons?”

“Won’t tell you,” Lutfa tightened her lips.

“Why have you done this? Why have you fired on the police force?” Dukhia kicked her again.

“Bande Mataram,” her feeble but determined voice shouted back at the agents of the Crown, “We’re fighting for independence.”

“Hang your bloody independence.” Dukhia hurled a kick at her groin.

“Allah is great. He will give us freedom. Bande Mataram.”

No one dared to echo her mantra of self-determination and independence. I repeated the seditious slogan and nudged closer, but was whisked away by Mother. I twisted her arms and rushed towards Rahman. He was seated on the ground, his arms extended and palms cupped towards the sky. He was praying to Allah for his only daughter Lutf-un-Nissa.

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“Karta,” Subhan Ali spoke in a mild voice, “The British have abandoned us. They have now left India to the mercies of Congress and League leaders. Partition is inevitable. I’d request you to tread cautiously.”

“I agree, said Matanga Roy, “Let’s convene a committee and maintain local peace. The madness of the leaders should not affect us. We’ve to live together, be it in Hindustan or Pakistan.”

“I’m a respected mahashay. The Lieutenant Governor will listen me,” Grandpa tried to assert his aristocratic superiority.

“No, karta,” said Rashid Sarkar, a schoolteacher, “We can’t hold peace for a long time. Bihari and upcountry Muslims have started migrating. They speak Urdu. They don’t understand our Bengali culture and unity. Let’s form a peace committee with important Muslim and Hindu leaders like Madhu Mian, Chhoban Khondakar, the sub-registrar, government doctor, the headmaster of the high school and a few leading businessmen. You head this committee.”

“We namahsudras would support the League. Big landlords have not done anything for us.” Panchanan Mandal said in a forceful voice.

“Pachu,” grandpa roared, “where you get the courage to speak like this? I’m still the zamindar and you till my land.”

“Karta, forget these old things. We’re getting independence. We won’t be your serfs anymore.”

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After dinner, father called my elder brother and me to sit by his side. This was a rare moment of togetherness. We had never seen him sitting idle. He roamed all over the province on political errands and revolutionary assignments. To the larger family, he was a good-for-nothing Bedouin, to mother he was a trusted husband, and to us he never gave an impression that he was a caring father.

Growing up in a mammoth joint family did not require strict parental supervision and guidance. We had a few dozen mothers and aunts to learn from and dozens of uncles and other elders to spank our buttocks at the slightest pretext. I was overwhelmed by father’s gesture.

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“Look boys, I have not been a good father. I never earned for you. I think I lived for my ideas. But changes are taking place. The family has broken up. We’re on our own. Our predominant position has virtually gone. Take care of your mother and yourselves.”

“Are we going to Hindustan?” I asked.

“No. But we’re on our own. I don’t know if the bargadars (sharecroppers) would give us our share of grain. I’ll try to earn some money for you two and your mother.”

“We don’t want much Baba,” Benoy said, “I would require a private tutor for Maths and some money to pay examination fees.”

“Don’t worry. I want you to know that I love you boys. Do take care of your mother and properties if something happens to me again.”

Father did not display any emotion. Perhaps he wanted to hide his tears. I saw a defeated General limping on his wounded soul.

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Qazi Sharif Mullah said from now, all believers must attend Friday prayers at the designated mosque, observe roja (the Ramadan fast) scrupulously and boycott all Hindu celebrations. Worshipping a pir and glorifying a dargah was against the shariat and hadis. People like Rahman were taken to task for taking part in Hindu celebrations and warned that the Qazi was empowered by the shariat to impose penalty on the deviants. He appointed Dhala Mian the daroga of the mosque and invested him with the power to ensure full attendance at the mosque by the faithful.

This was new to us. How could we observe Durga Puja, and worship of goddesses like Mansa (snake goddess), Mangal Chandi (dispeller of evil spirits), Shitla (goddess of small pox) and Olai Chandi (goddess of cholera) without the participation of our Muslim neighbours and friends? These were community deities worshipped by all, irrespective of religion and caste.

We returned home a disheartened lot. Rahman was lost in thought.

“What’s happening kaka?”  I asked in anguish, “Won’t you take part in our puja? Next month is the Shitla puja festival. Who will arrange things?”

“Don’t know, khoka. I never knew Allah had said so many things against the Hindus. Let me ask your mother.”

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Rahman’s resistance was blunted by the marauding mob. Wild fists and blows rained on him while Dhala Mian pulled down the tricolour and unfurled a blue-white crescent flag.

Someone from the mob started singing Allama Iqbal’s composition…Sare jahan se accha Hindustan hamara…

“Silence, silence…you fools,” Shouted Dhala Mian, “Hang Hindustan. Sing in the glory of Pakistan and the father of the nation, Jinnah…recite after me…La Illaha Illa Lah Mohammadur Rasulullah….”

The crowd prayed in an intoxicated and uncertain voice. Most of them were not sure if they were doing the correct thing by invading the respected habitat. But the brand new Pakistan flag fluttering over the enemy fortress had emboldened their otherwise timid guts. One of them raised a machete to hit Rahman’s head.

Manorama darted out like a tigress. She kneeled over Rahman’s body and tried to drag him in.

“Escape Mano, escape…these are hungry jackals.” Rahman shouted feebly.

Manorama partially lifted his nimble body and started heaving him in towards the inner courtyard. I could see the silhouettes of the bloodthirsty gnomes dancing around Mano didi and crying out obscenities.

Manorama placed Rahman’s body on the grassy lawn, stood erect, her hands firmly placed on hips, and shouted back.

“Are you animals? For the sake of Jesus, leave this man alone. He’s half dead.”

“Memsahib,” shouted Dhala Mian, “this is Pakistan. You Christians have no place here.”

He slapped Manorama and ripped open her top blouse. She stood half-naked, hands drawn to her bosom.

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I slid down from my bed and crawled to Mother’s side. She was awake too.

“Sleep. Let your baba come. We will decide in a day or two.”

“What would happen to Tomtom and Chandana? Can we take them?”

“I’ll try. If I cannot, I will free Chandana and gift Tomtom to Jasim. He also likes Tomtom.”

“What would happen to our home?”

“Rahman would take care. We will be back soon after the disturbances are over. This is our home and country. We can’t be in India permanently.”

“Why does baba not care for our safety? People are getting killed every day. Why is he indifferent?”

“Don’t be angry with him. He loves us like the air and waters around love us. You don’t hear them talking, but they talk. Calm your mind and listen intently. You’d hear them singing to you.” Mother spoke for the first time to me about the man with whom she had spent nearly thirty-five years. I do not know if she had ever had any occasion to express her appreciation of a man who mostly lived for others.

“Now sleep. He’s a dreamer. He dreamt of independence, fought for it. He dreamt of music and poetry and he dreamt of better future of all the people mortgaged to his ancestors and the humanity at large.”

“Had he no dreams for us?”

“He had. He wants you to be a big poet and artist. He dreams of your elder brother being a collector. But son, most dreams burst like coloured balloons. Only a few dreams materialize, and only when you work hard. Don’t stop dreaming even if most of your father’s dreams have not materialized. He is limited by the time and situation. Now sleep. You have school tomorrow.”

Mother covered me under the light kantha and hummed the song she always sang in my childhood.

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The train had just entered the Anderson Bridge, when three Bihari-looking men stood up and walked towards uncle Birendra. One of them removed his gold-rimmed spectacles, the other his gold Parker pen and the third one his woollen shawl. Uncle looked at them, stunned, and started touching their feet.

“Don’t kill me. Take all the money you want.”

One of the Biharis slapped him and hurled abuses in a language I did not understand. What should I do? I was perplexed for a moment. Then, I took out the Sheffield knife, flicked open the blade and tried to charge at the Biharis.

Mother prevented me. “You can’t fight them. They are big and too many. Come, let’s jump out of the train.”

I looked out. We could not jump on the bridge girders. I saw several human bodies raining down to the river below, all drenched with blood and severe wounds. I counted twenty.

My fearful eyes caught the slow-motion glimpse of a young woman clutching her suckling baby and falling head down to the river below. I felt dizzy, but did not lose my bearing. I dragged mother to the compartment door. It was locked. I forced open a window cover and peered out. My hopes shored up as I saw the platform of Ashuganj station rolling under the foot rails of the compartment. My other eye was directed at my uncle. The goons were in the act of throwing his body out of the compartment.

As I tried to push Mother out on the platform, a young Bengali Hindu deserted his child and jumped to the safety of the platform. She stood by the window and cried out for her father.

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The train moved very slowly. I squeezed past the crowed and whispered into my father’s ears. His secret walking stick was still with him, the last weapon he carried.

I had never seen him fighting. His innocent face, pacifist looks and poetic absentmindedness often created an impression of his incapability to lead and fight. Perhaps his looks were his best camouflage. I never expected him to do what he did on that final train journey to India.

He climbed up on a seat and shouted, “Friends, some Ansaras are trying to board our train. They want to rob and kill us. Shut all the doors. Pull down the window shutters. Use any weapon that you may have.”

“How can we fight a large group of Muslims?” someone asked.
“God blesses those who die fighting and God does not open his door to anyone who refuses to fight in self defence. Let’s save our women and children.” Father shouted back.

Fellow passengers, already mortally afraid, clamoured like a pack of lambs being led to the butcher’s abattoir. However, a few young men pulled out their knives and stood guard near the doors.

A fat-bellied Marwari with a fatter canvas bag forced his way past a guard and jumped out to the safety of the land below. He was immediately surrounded by a section of the sprinting mob. His bag was snatched away and his fat body reduced to a couple of bloody pieces.

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One evening, my eldest brother Bijoy (nicknamed Rakhal) asked us to board a taxi and took us to Park Circus. He forced us into a big charred, burnt house. The empty living room was filled with broken glasses and black-sooted debris. The house had six spacious rooms, a few toilets and a big kitchen and storerooms.

Father examined the rubble and fished out a light blue scarf used by non-Bengali women over their kurta-pajama. Below the pile of female clothes, there were dark and thick spots of coagulated blood. They could not have been more than a month old.

Father found a woman’s foot neatly cut from the ankle, still adorned with a silver ornament. He also fished out a half burnt book in Urdu. He said it was a copy of the Holy Quran.

He carried the blue scarf and the half burnt book and moved around other rooms. A piece of rotten forehand was lying in one corner of the kitchen. The skeletal fingers still wore a ring and clutched a rosary.

“Rakhal, I think lots of human blood has been shed in this house,” Father said, “lots of women have been disgraced.”

“So what?” Rakhal retorted, “they killed Hindus in Pakistan and Hindus killed the Muslims here in Hindustan.”

“The blood spots are still fresh. Have you seen that severed leg and hand holding the rosary?”

“So what? We have decided to occupy this house.”

“Whose house are you occupying? Don’t you require government permission?”

“The land is yours if you wield the stick. Who would evict us once we get in?”

Father called Mother aside and said he would under no circumstances occupy a house where women were tortured, dishonoured and killed. He would not allow her to live in a home where religious books were burnt.

“No Rakhal, I can’t agree to live here.”

“Where would you go? Go and live in a slum.”

“I would prefer that. If the worst happens, I would go back to the village. Don’t force me to live in this house of sin.”

We were stunned. Our father, known for his soft and indulgent attitude, stood like a rock. Mother was silent. My eldest brother heaped abuses on our father, who stood quietly with the burnt Quran and the blue scarf in his hand.

Read what the author has to say about this incident

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My later visits to Bangladesh, interactions with several freedom fighters and my professional insight into the seeping back of Islamicized values promoted by Pakistan and embraced by some remnants of the Muslim League and Pan-Islamists, provided ingredients to reassess the spirit of freedom in the Bengali peoples of Bangladesh. A strong current of secularism still flows through  the veins of the people who are not afraid of equally strong religious fanatics, part of the past divisive and destructive chemicals, and who have been fortified with the resolve of jihad in post-Afghanistan mujahedin days. This contradictory strain still troubles my part of Bengal.

Hopefully, the freedom-loving people of Bangladesh would be successful in preserving their freedom, the lofty socio-political ideal that came to people like me a good six years after many Indians earned independence. I hope that in India too, we shuld be able to preserve the bliss of freedom, equality and fraternity despite thundering clouds of seaparatism continuously haunting us.