Border Tales

Bhaumik is no stranger to lifes cruelties. He deals with his ghosts every day. It has been 32 years and I still cannot forget the sight of dead bodies on the streets of my hometown,Mymensingh, he says. He was only 16 when the nine-month liberation war of Bangladesh started on March 27,1971. The war which pitted East Pakistan and India against West Pakistan resulted in the secession of East Pakistan,which became the independent nation of Bangladesh.

It was a war which snatched 19 of Bhaumiks classmates. It was April,my friends wanted to be freedom fighters. They decided to cross the border and be trained in camps in India,but they were gunned down by the Pakistani army. They were mere boys, says Bhaumik. It was then that his parents decided to leave the country. I know it may sound like a cliché,but we were zamindars back home. You will say everyone who migrated to India from Bangladesh claims to be zamindars. I cant argue with that,all I will say is that it was really painful to leave all we had and set out for an unknown destination, says Bhaumik.

On a muggy morning in May 1971,Bhaumik,his parents and his four brothers took a boat on the Brahmaputra till the Indian border. When we crossed the border,we started walking. We walked for hours together before we got a lorry to take us to Agartala, says Bhaumik. But his family was not the only one taking the route that day,or for that matter,days to come. It was a steady stream of humanity. We were going with the flow. We didnt even have the energy or the inclination to make our own decisions. We were going where everybody was going, says Bhaumik.

It was the same for millions of other Bangladeshis who migrated to India,leaving behind old hopes and dreams in search of new ones. Many took the badge of asylum-seekers and turned things around for themselves,scripting success stories,building bridges,being absorbed and shaping the local culture. Others,it seems,simply disappeared between the cracks of the system.

At the relief camp the gravitas of the situation hit the teenager. We were refugees. We had never lived a life like this before. It was then that I realised that life will never be the same again for us, he says. Today,Bhaumik owns a popular Bengali eatery on Mirza Ghalib Street in Kolkata. He is well off. His son is studying to be an engineer. But he can never be complacent. I know how easily things can be snatched away from one, he says.

Bibhash Bhattacharya,who is a regular customer at Bhaumiks restaurant,recognises the temporal quality of life as well. He is in Kolkata for his familys annual medical check-up from Dhaka. The healthcare infrastructure in Bangladesh isnt good at all, he says. But otherwise we are very happy there, his wife,Ladly,chides him. The Bhattacharyas,a part of the Hindu minority in Bangladesh,are careful not to step on any toes. I was only seven when the Bangladesh War happened,but I have a few distinct memories. My family decided to leave Jessore town. We were in a boat on the river Kapattakka. There was this 13 or 14-year-old boy with us. He was curious and was leaning out of the boat while the Pakistani army jawans were doing their rounds,they drove a bullet through his head, he says. When Bibhashs parents reached Kolkata and tried to make a living in the city,they were met with disappointment. We couldnt adjust here. The stigma of being a refugee was too much to bear for my father,I guess. We returned to Dhaka soon after, says Bibhash.

A few paces away from Radhuni restaurant is another popular Bangladeshi eatery,Prince. Its patrons include celebrities like Bengali littérateur Sankar,who described the eatery as the prince amongst the Bengali eateries in the city. Its proprietor,Bhupendra Chandra Saha,however,is more of a showman. A raconteur if you will. He wears his Bangladesh War survivor badge with pride and is replete with anecdotes. I had to flee my home in Mymensingh,Bangladesh,because I was a part of the Mukti Bahini freedom fighters. They the Pakistani army was tracking us down and killing us, says Saha. He had graduated from Dhaka University and was poised for a career in politics. I was actively into students politics there. But my parents were really worried about me so they smuggled me out to Agartala in April,1971, says Saha. Being a part of a Hindu trader family in Mymensigh made him an easy target. The Pakistani army would ritually torch my uncles storehouse in the Mymensingh market. We had no choice but to leave, he says.

While the Bhupendra Chandra Sahas and Nirpen Chandra Bhaumiks witnessed their dreams being torched in 1971,a quiet corner of south Kolkata played an important role in shaping the destiny of the country. The Ballygunj Phari residence of United Press Internationals bureau chief,Ajit Kumar Das,was the unofficial office of all foreign journalists covering the war. Ajit Kumar Das,who was feted posthumously by the Bangladesh government last year for bringing worldwide awareness about the war,was one of the first journalists to report about the conditions there. He involved the then King of Bhutan,Jigme Dorji Wangchuk,in the relief process of the Bangladeshi refugees. And also wrote a few angry but beautifully crafted letters to Henry Kissinger,the then secretary of state of the US,urging him to take a stronger stand on the crisis in the subcontinent. I have clear memories of how the government-in-exile of Bangladesh functioned from Kolkata then. Zillur Rahman,the current President of Bangladesh,would frequently visit our house. They would have meetings with my father till late in the night, says Asit Das,Ajits son. But these high-profile people were not the only visitors at the Das residence at that time. A steady stream of Mukti Bahini freedom fighters would come to their house for nourishment and brainstorming,ensuring Mrs Das was constantly on her toes. She had to make snacks and tea for them through the day,but she would never complain, says Das. The tradition of visitors from Bangladesh still continues. We have shifted house,my father died in 1997,but his friends,their children and grandchildren still visit our house. It is almost like a pilgrimage for them, he says.

Premankur is a freelance writer in Kolkata.