The symphony of our times

PART III

THIS unique tripartite conflict enmeshed our childhood. Naturally we didn’t have any sense and grasp of its character and consequences. Heart-rending communal riots tarnished the independence struggle against the British colonialists. Along with other regions, cities and towns of the subcontinent, Kolkata was also affected by the poisonous and violent clashes. We could not fully comprehend how shattering to our environment was the burning fire of hate and violence. Tragic and painful events are etched in memory like scattered portrait. The ‘Direct Action Day’ of August 16, 1946 triggered deadly and extensive communal classes and killings. This was given the title ‘The Great Calcutta Killing’. Father did not return home on one of those terrifying nights. Mother was anxious, worried and afraid and broke into tears. However, he returned home next morning, hale and hearty. Ma was relieved but anxiously complained, ‘Where were you last night? There is this great trouble in town and with our small children I was so much anxious and afraid...?’ Father unwaveringly replied, ‘I spent the night with a friend at Bag Bag.’ Ma was shaken and said, ‘But that is a predominantly Hindu area. We hear of so many troubles and clashes there! How dare you spend the night there?’

Father answered, ‘There are as many evil persons in our Park Circus as in Bag Bag. But both places are also inhabited by civilised and good human beings, they are neither Hindus nor Muslims, they are human beings, pure and simple. I was with them without fear and perfectly safe.’

Muslims were then dominant in Park Circus, the Kolkata neighbourhood where we lived. We came to know later that this was the reason we were more secured and safe there. That there were inhuman beings here also was borne out by the murder of Dr PK Sen, Ma’s dental surgeon, whose chamber was nearby. The chamber was looted and destroyed in violent communal attacks. I remember, accompanying mother to the chamber, Dr Sen was generous in his affection to me and would seat me on one of the pneumatic chairs meant for the patients. The experience was extremely delightful. I could not hold my tears, when I learnt that Dr Sen was no more and his chamber and miracle chair had been destroyed.

After 1947, I visited Kolkata in 1957 as a college student, on a study tour of India. Another 30 years elapsed before I went to Kolkata again in 1984. On that occasion I wrote a poem called ‘Kolkata’. Excerpts read: 
I have returned to the city of childhood
it is not easy to come back 
it takes three decades . . . . ,
the recollections are faded 
how lively was ma’s smile
which made the mornings and afternoons
come alive.
How muscular was the 
loving arms of father,
How was the sound of moving trams?
How was the candy shop of uncle 
fragrant with the 
Scent of chocolate and cookies?
How is the cosy place
Where memory dawn
Where has Dr Sen’s 
White dental chair,
sitting on which ma received
medicines for her ailing teeth,
where shall I find that
magic chamber
reduced to dust 
by an evil communal storm?

We left behind Kolkata, the city of our childhood, immersed in pure innocence. That was just a few months before the partition of India in August 1947. Our parents came with us to Dhaka, hitherto a small district town. It was then preparing to serve as the capital of East Bengal, one of the five provinces of the new born state of Pakistan. Another phase of childhood began with the inception of life in Dhaka. Kolkata was relegated to the receding past and got transformed into colourful dreams of a child.
***
AS IN the case of the South Asian subcontinent so also in our life, the year 1947 marked an indelible divide. It was a time of great transition, a milepost between two ages. A new chapter of history began with the end of nearly two century-long British colonial rule, the political division of the subcontinent and the emergence of two separate and sovereign independent states, India and Pakistan. 

As we came to Dhaka from Kolkata with our parents, we found our familiar world turned into a different one. Dhaka, a district town, was named the capital of the new province of East Bengal. But it was in name only and Dhaka continued to be a historically rich but neglected mufassil town. On account of our occasional visit to grandparent’s place, the fledgling town was not strange to us. Coming to live permanently however, is different from casual visits. To us, Dhaka emerged in a new light. Her face was pale and clothing old. The heart ofthe town at that time was the old part, only the Ramna area was new and streamlined. 

Stretching from the bank of the river Buriganga, Dhaka extended from Gandaria, Sadarghat, Islampur, Badamtoli to Armanitola, Khaje Dewan, Chawkbazar, Lalbagh on one side and Gopibagh, Shamibag, Wari on the other. The main features of Dhaka in those times were less generous, worn-out roads and numerous narrow lanes and alleys. The principal transports were horse drawn carriages and cycle-rickshaws. We were used to the sight of rickshaws pulled by humans in Kolkata, the spectacle of cycle-rickshaws was, therefore, something novel. It has already been mentioned that grandparents Abdul Mannan Warsi and Rokeya Mannan lived with my maternal uncles and aunts at the big two storied rented house at 10 Mahuttuli, Armanitola for many years.

There were, in that house, four large and small rooms facing the street. Uncle Bari’s, enterprise and grandpa Mannan’s financial help from his pension and provident fund setup Dhaka’s first reputed book store the ‘Warsi Book Centre’ downstairs. It vastly enriched our lives. Books meant for children were within easy reach. As a result our childhood was generously endowed with short stories, fairy tales, information and knowledge.

The rooms that were inside and faced the courtyard were mainly used as spacious kitchen, dining hall and store. Adjacent to the kitchen and in one corner of the yard was a big makeshift bathroom which had a large reservoir of water called by everyone, for some strange reason, ‘house’ probably because of sudden increase of Dhaka’s population after the partition, water supply became scares. The municipal taps were active for two-three hours only in the morning and afternoon. It was a must for the domestic help to fill up the reservoirs twice a day. There was uproar and tumult throughout the house when the taps started supplying water. The help not only filled up ‘the houses’, upstairs and downstairs but also the numerous bucket and pots. Conserving water was not the only task of the domestic workers. They also remained busy morning, noon and evening in preparing and serving meals for 25-30 inmates of different ages.

The mornings were agog with activities; the elder ones took their meals before leaving for work or colleges. Grandma also took care of the needs of the children and served them tasty breakfast. After breakfast was over, she got busy directing and supervising the kitchen staff, under the chief cook Ramzan in preparing midday meals.

The last few months of the year 1947 and practically the entire 1948 were vacation time, restless and playful for me, my younger brothers Prince (Khokon) and Rousseau and younger sister Nazma (Nargis). Only eldest sister Apa Rezina went to school. She was admitted into class VII (seven) in the Kamrunnessa Girl’s School after moving to Dhaka. Youngest aunt Shawkat Ara used to study in a higher class in the same School.

Early attempts to get me admitted to school failed. The reputed Armanitola Govt. High School was round the corner. Well known teacher, not the famous poet, Jasim Uddin was the Head Master and close friend of father. In spite of this, he could not admit me to school as I was very weak in Bangla, because, my earliest education in Kolkata was in English. Hence, I had no other way but to strengthen my knowledge of Bangla at home and go to school from next year. So, I learnt Bangla at home. 

The rooms, the spacious veranda, the terrace in the upper floor and the courtyard down stairs constituted, for me, a private and separate World. My hours were mainly spent in listening to fairy tales from grandma (Lalbuji), playing and fighting with brothers and sisters and having lessons in Bangla from youngest aunty ‘Soto Khalamma’ (Shawkat Ara). She was then about to pass her school final examination. Later in life, she successfully worked as a teacher in Bangla language and literature in Government Colleges. Even as student, she had great skill in teaching. It was on account of her affectionate but discipline and systematic teaching that I could master Bangla in remarkably short time. The Warsi Book Centre stock gave me great hey in this venture.
 

To be continued