A new anthology brings together short stories about the Bengal Partition and its aftermath

“Allah Meherban! You tell me which one is my country. How could I live in peace in this land you made for me?” the old man cried aloud at the end of his namaz. He was praying under a tree in scorching heat. Nobody can measure his age. His head is bald and his teeth have fallen. The thin
man was offering namaz on a tattered piece of cloth.

He has lost his address, something he surely had once long back when he was born in Bengal. That address had neither east nor west. Neither was there any border between the two. He was born in a nondescript marketplace. His father had a small business of sesame and jute. He used to amass many seasonal crops and sell the whole lot at wholesale price whenever he got an opportunity.

He was born after so many elder sisters. And the joy of his Dada-Dadi and Nana-Nani knew no bounds. In this air of joy and happiness the wedding ceremonies of all his sisters took place one by one. One day his newly wed bibi came to the house amid pomp and grandeur. He soon became a father.

At this point of time everything went topsy-turvy. One fine morning, their country was no longer their own. It had been divided and a line of demarcation had come into being. Their identities too had altered. They were no more Bengali – rather, Muslim and Pakistani.

The riot started. People engaged in murder and bloodshed. But his father remained nonchalant. Men and women were fleeing from their places. Even then the father stood rigid. It was his land – it belonged to his father, his forefathers. He won’t leave it at any cost. He won’t go by the words of others who claimed that it was not his land. His life of toil and hope always revolved around it. Under no circumstances he would abandon this dear land.

Partition took place. Some people left this land and here came a few from the other side. The riot gradually subsided. The old man’s father, however, did not leave the land. Then that night came in his life – the experience of which he would never be able to forget. That very night, all by itself, messed up the graph of his entire life.

His father was asleep. The couple was also in bed. Just at that moment some distant clamour reached their ears. That noise got enhanced with every passing second. And suddenly they started banging on the main door. An incessant bang coupled with abusive words. A frightful hubbub of a group of
people; but it was different and altogether unfamiliar. The old man shrank in trepidation. His father couldn’t stop coughing, and leaving his bed he came out in the verandah. The old man shouted at his father – “Don’t open the door, Abba.”

But his father didn’t respond to that panic-stricken plea. He moved forward and opened the door. Some rowdy men burst in upon them. While using slang words and foul remarks they dictated, “Get out immediately if you want to save your life.” He stood in front of them. Raising his hands, he shouted, “Just go away. This house is mine, my father’s and my ancestors. I won’t leave this land under any circumstances. I won’t till I’m alive. Go away.”

His father was quivering with rage. But their voices were stronger and they soon overwhelmed his lone voice. Someone shoved my father. He fell down heavily on a pillar of the verandah and uttering the name of Allah, he lost his consciousness. He didn’t recover ever. From his place of birth, he went straight to the abode of his beloved Allah.

The old man’s address got changed. Along with his wife and son he took his shelter in a relative’s house in the village. But he failed to keep up spirits. After losing everything, he started passing his days, dejected. A kind of conflict got accorded with his breath – this is not his country although it’s his place of birth, the place of his father.

His son grew up and insisted on going to Pakistan. One day he even went there along with his friends. He came back with a big dream. This time he would bring his parents to Pakistan – a country of dreams – a country for the Muslims alone. He would walk there with his head held high. He won’t have to depend on others’ mercy.

The old man succumbed to his son’s capricious insistence. He wanted to gain back his lost hope. Overcoming his conflict, he asked, “But my child, where will we stay there and what will we eat?”

His son answered, “You won’t have to worry about that. My friend has agricultural land in plenty.” The old man sighed deeply. Another new address. Another form of dependence. The old man moved on to his new shelter. He met some new faces. But nothing seemed new to him. However, those new acquaintances have the same tongue. They offer namaz five times a day. But not all of them. As everyone is not a Muslim in the holy land of Pakistan either. The uludhwani comes from some dwellings across the village. The bell rings from some Hindu temples and the spire of a church can also be seen at a distance.

Sometimes thoughts of loneliness possess the old man. Temple, church, masjid are also here like that of the land they had left behind. Everyone has not fled from that side and all have not deserted this side either. How the Hindus, who stayed back here, are surviving? Are they in the same state of fear and dejection as he was? If they could hold onto their soil like the ones who stayed back, why can’t he? Why has he left his father’s place?

Religion does not spare one from thoughts of hunger. Even his son feels that. He struggles a job day and night. Meanwhile, his family has increased and so has his pain of living as a dependent. He wants to free himself from this anguish. Following his son, the old man again crosses the border in the hope of freedom and life. Once again, he steps in his ancestral land which is now his son’s as well. While taking a full breath in his birthplace, he becomes a dweller of a hovel in a far-off land – an alien state. Another new address. His offspring grow up with an alienated mother tongue.

Family life goes well. Food is available twice a day. His son works. And so does his daughter-in-law in a rich man’s house. His grandson is now grown-up enough to be a libertine. He often loafs around, copying the stars on screen. He also does some kind of work to earn his bread, but of what kind, is unknown to the old man. It seems as if he has forgotten his mother tongue. He has bought a tape recorder. He dances crazily all by himself by playing it in his room. One fine morning he brings home his newly-wed wife.

While brooding on his white beard and bald head the old man has forgot his own identity. He was thinking of a piece of land where he would finally close his eyelids and perhaps, go straight to his parents in some other world.

But his thoughts came to a stop. The hushed-up whisper became loud. He again got marked as a “Muslim.” Not only as a “Muslim” but as an “infiltrator” as well. He was branded as an infiltrator in his own birthplace!

Administration guised as a secular force sat on the bulldozer of oppression and started crushing everything. His beloved grandson has not yet come back from his work. All except him were pushed into the prison van by the police.

After three days, changing several vehicles, they came empty-handed along with others to the border of the country which the old man crossed twice earlier. They had to cross the known border as branded fellows. By shaving off half of their heads, as though they were branded thieves, the administration shoved them over the border. The blankets and wrappers, the last resources of olds and kids alike were set on fire.

Under the butt of a rifle the old man and his companions crossed the border of their land and attempted to enter another. There again they had to stop abruptly after moving a bit. In front of them stood another group of rifle-holders – just like those whom they had left behind – but in a slightly different uniform. They raised their rifles. Even this land was not theirs. They were the unwanted ones.

Thus passed four days. They lay without food and sleep under the bare sky. On the one hand their own country and on the other, the country of their religion. In between lies a small piece of land where mango trees and others grow – a place which the government has labelled as “no man’s land.”

On a tattered piece of cloth beneath a tree the old man makes a pitiful prayer – “Allah Meharban. You tell me which one is my country. How could I live in peace in a small corner of this land you made for me?”

Excerpted with permission from The Bleeding Border: Stories of Bengal Partition, edited by Joyjit Ghosh and Mir Ahammad Ali, Thornbird.