I was down and out cast in mood of gloom, I posted my first blog just to let out some steam off my pent up emotions. For some years now I have been having a literary impulse of writing an autobiography about my father. No, he is not a famous personality about which one and all may hark upon. But, to me he is someone who had been very special. A beacon of inspiration for what he was, ‘a self made man’, a man who had achieved not many laurels but achieved enough laurels in our heart to be reckoned as the most remarkable person, through all the shades of a human characteristic in him – rustic, eccentric and other times genial. Starting from today I would start to chapterize his life (I had to dig up my old writings, trim it and put it up in this column). Though this chapterizations would appear to be random jottings I hope I would be able to compile good enough words one day to stitch up these columns in to a comprehensive and creditable reading material.
‘The River Crossing’
He lay huddled in a corner of the small country boat. There was an eerie silence punctuated with the occasional shrill shriek of the birds, frightened by the snaking length of the boat appearing to stalk them like a hungry predator. He could also hear the murmuring sound of the men around him. He could not discern what they were saying but caught the words ‘Hindu’ spoken with revile a few times and the long searching stares being thrown on him. The growing dusk has lent a shadow of snaky lines on the surface of the river. He tried to huddle deeper in the hallows of the small boat clutching the end of the small rugged bundle of cloths and the blanket stitched with pieces of his mother’s loin cloth. It was quite dark now, to see clearly into the face of the boy. He was thinly built and of the age of around 14 or 15 years. It was a small face, ordinary looking, like any country boy, but now contorted with terror. His eyes were constantly shifting from side to side and stealing furtive glances at the men, who now seems to have gathered their combined attention to him. He could now hear their voices more clearly “there is no mistake, he is a Hindu alright”, “what should we do with him”, “throw him into the river”, “no no! he is too young, only a child”, “what then! they are killing small childrens and women in India”.
It was the year 1950, India had gained her freedom and the country was in turmoil with the Hindu-Muslim clash after the creation of Pakistan. My father had been now living for some years now with my uncle at Hailakandi town of Cachar. He had just appeared for his matriculation and was growing homesick, his heart longed and yearned for the love of his Mother and Father, whom he had not seen now for 3 years. East Pakistan (now Bangladesh) was not carved out at that time, although the Hindu-Muslim clash had been going on for sometime in the western part of India, it had not spread as wildfire in the East. For the boy, it was just a matter of traveling to his village Banukas, a day or two journey by rickety bus and a boat ride across a small river and 20 to 25 kms walk to his village. So he was there now surrounded by men and women who were all Muslims. The news of the clash and the brutality of the killings had started to trickle in, there was anger, the mood was of revenge in the air. His sparse belongings tied in a small bundle along with the rag-tag blanket sewn out of her mother’s loin cloth, which are of a particular traditional design only woven by the women of my father’s village, who were all Hindu had marked him as someone different from the boatloads of Muslims. The word of his mother rang in his mind “son, no matter where you are never lose this blanket, this blanket bears the warmth of your mother’s womb, if you are afraid always wrap this blanket around you and your mother will protect you from all evils as she did for you while you were in my womb”. Now the very blanket had given his identity as a boy of different religion.
Now, the same blanket was clutched tightly by the terrified boy, the words rang out again and again, he now tried to wrap the blanket more tightly around him trying to find solace in the word that rang out in his minds. He could now feel as if the murmur of the men around him has turned into a cacophony of angry voices. “I say kill the boy now, and throw him into the river”, a men with a long beard hanging upto his chest spoke pointing his fingers to the boy. “wait, can’t you see he is only a small boy”, spoke the man who was sitting on the helm of the boat. He had kind eyes with a very small beard around his lower jaw. The man with the long beard gave him a harsh stare and spoke “so what! If he is a boy, are they not killing small boys there in Punjab”, a murmur of voices seems to agree with him. “Do think what you would be doing” spoke the same man with kindly eyes “do have the fear of Allah”. This went on and on – now the voices will all rise again agitatedly, to be calmed down by others who seem to be siding with the man with the kind eyes. It was only a small crossing to the other side of the river, with most of the men and the very few women along with them returning from the town. But to the boy it seemed to be an eternity. All this while he tried to crawl deeper into the hallow of the boat his thin and fearfully quaking body now wrapped tightly around by the small blanket. Slowly the men around him quieted down. Now and then a brief glance were thrown on the boy. But the stares were no longer hostile, for in the growing darkness, the boy who now had wrapped himself tightly with the blanket to him by his mother, appeared like a shroud, the features of the fabric now washed dark by the moonless sky and inkish reflections reflected by the river bed had made the boy look very small and featureless. Slowly the voices around him toned down and the men around him took any notice of the quaking boy who somehow have managed to bury himself in the deep hallow of the small boat. He did not move at all from that position until the last of the passengers of the country boat had disembarked. Still he sat there in the dark trying to muster courage. The long shadow of the shrubs on the river bank seems like to paunch on him the moment he set his foot on the river bank. He lay huddled there maybe for a couple of hours, and when the first twilight threw its rays on the eastern horizon, he stole a look out of the boat, there was not a soul on the bank of the river, still he could not muster enough courage to creep out of his position. At last when the night turned into a crimson bright colour he shook his fear and crept out of the boat and clutching the small bundle of cloths and the blanket which has been so long keeping him shrouded in its warmth, he ran for his village as fast as he could.
