Opinion Arriving in Armanitola
Unforgettable memories are all weve returned with from Madhyapara village outside Dhaka
Unforgettable memories are all weve returned with from Madhyapara village outside Dhaka. For my father,this was a nostalgic return after 63 years to our ancestral home theyd abandoned during the Partition riots. Hospitable occupants at our lost home were inviting my parents to spend more time here,but unknown to us,a hostile undercurrent was gathering momentum. They were afraid we were coming to repossess our 400-acre mislaid property,especially as Bangladeshs Parliament had recently passed an amendment to ease enemy property recovery. We later heard they were livid with the man who first identified my great grandfather. They thought wed bribed him to help us reclaim our land.
My fathers childhood memory determined the places wed visit. He recalled the Padma river ferry junction from where theyd travel to Faridpur,Madaripur,Barisal. I later understood his main intention was to re-experience the Padma river hilsa (ilish in Bengali) fish,the benchmark of all hilsa according to East Bengalis. Eating Padma ilish at the ferry-ghat is a tradition,even public buses advertise ilish in large letters to entice people to this fresh hilsa destination.
Back in Dhaka,my father was enjoying a green mango drink in a modern cafe. He asked for one more,but without ice. The waiter refused,saying the drink formula called for ice. We explained again,but he was adamant. Then he came near me,switched to a local Dhakai Bengali accent,and confessed that without the ice,the tall glass would look empty as its the ice that makes it look full. My father laughed out at the boys honesty,and happily accepted the iced drink. In fact,I noticed my father was continuously embracing the people of Bangladesh as though they were a part of his family. This was clearly a psychological connect Ive not seen in him in West Bengal.
Nor have I ever seen my father throw a tantrum to go to any place. But he absolutely had to visit Armanitola in Dhaka. He recalled his last journey here as a 10-year-old after his fathers death,from Rangoon to Kolkata by boat,then to Gualnanda by train,by ferry to Sadarghat in Dhaka to stay with relatives in Banshibazar and Armanitola. Then from Sadarghat,theyd reach Madhyapara by steamer,where you can now so easily go by road. But the traffic jam in Dhaka city is unimaginable. Our dead-slow car ride to Armanitola was to find a field where he used to play with his relatives.
When moving tortoise-like,you have to toggle your mind-gear to enjoy the jam session street festivity to avoid boredom. Were Dhakas auto-rickshaws obsessed with safety? They have a metal mesh as in police vans carrying convicts. Suddenly,a three-wheeler auto-rickshaw sidled up to the side,a bird-cage door opened,passengers started emerging. I counted one,two,three…a total of eight people were travelling in that auto-rickshaw. I was calculating the high efficiency of these three-wheeler transport cages with the luxury of the Pajero,Land Cruiser,BMW among others that were stagnating along with us in the traffic squeeze.
My father was very disappointed when we arrived at Armanitola. We couldnt find the playground,nor his relatives house. I suddenly awoke to the name Armanitola. Does it have anything to do with Armenia? Armenians had come to India much before the British for trading mostly in silk,muslin and jute. Theres an Armenian church in Kolkata and other cities. My on-the-spot Google search confirmed that Dhaka has an Armenian church built in 1781. After Madhyapara,this beautiful heritage church is now etched in my mind. The kaleidoscope of my Armenian connections in Paris appeared before my minds eye,they are all highly rooted to their homeland. Even Patrice Civanian,whod worked in my company,is from Armenia but born in France. His parents had told me that Armenians came to India as early as 327 BC,with Alexander the Great.
That evening,I met an Armenian gentleman whod come to pay homage to his ancestors at Armanitola church. He knew little about Bangladesh,the tourist guide told him he could experience golf and rickshaw at the same time. He said he wanted to take home a decorative pedal rickshaw displayed at our hotel. He thought it was to draw tourists,and had no idea that the livelihood of poor people in Bangladesh depended on rickshaws.
Its time to say au revoir to my erstwhile native land where I experienced my lifes five most memorable days. On the 30-minute flight back to India,it felt like we were distancing ourselves with thousands of kilometres in-between. This feeling was reminiscent of the romantic-heartbreaking Hollywood movie Roman Holiday. After a short but intense relationship,the couple knew their parting was inevitable. That was a story,but this,my respected readers and victimised brotherhood,is my real life experience of discovery and loss. The unwanted political separation in 1947 turned so many of us into beggars,homeless,suffering tragic deaths,a situation Ive never been able to accept. Im sharing my small Bangladesh experience with all of you whove lost everything during Partition,as though wed been in the Holocaust.
Shombit Sengupta is an international creative business strategy consultant to top management. Reach him at http://www.shiningconsulting.com
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