A tale of two banks

by Sabyasachi Dev (India)

I didn't expect to find India

I reached Karimganj, a border town in North East India. It was a small town with one cinema hall, a central main road, a temple dedicated to Lord Krishna, houses with ponds and a bus stand called Dashtedhing, which I later deciphered was the name of a shop close to the bus stand named Das Trading. The people in Karimganj identified themselves culturally as Bengalis, but spoke Sylheti which had its own linguistic nuances different from the Bengali language. Sylheti was what my parents spoke and so did my uncle who I had come to visit. Although I couldn’t converse in Sylheti, and I lived in the big daddy of all Indian towns – Mumbai, I always felt at home at Karimganj . A short stay here always rejuvenated me. The day would start off with a piece of toast and tea prepared with Red Cow milk powder imported from New Zealand, a heap of steamed rice, ghee and lentils for breakfast, a dip in the pond to beat the summer heat, more rice, shutki (dry fish chutney ) , fresh vegetables and fish for lunch, siesta in the afternoon followed by a long walk in the evening to make room for dinner, gossip and a game of carom with cousins, and then dinner. There was a road that went deeper into the village which I had never explored before, so I set off on that road one evening, taking my cousin along. The road was a typical, unpaved village road with houses on both sides. My cousin pointed out Laltu’s ramshackle shop which stood on this road – he was known to trade in smuggled goods across the border from Bangladesh, had been locked up by the police several times for his deeds and had two wives. Laltu and my cousin exchanged pleasantries and we moved on. After a short ten minute walk, we reached an embankment. We climbed over and went down the sloping sand towards the river flowing beneath. The sand was warm and my feet were hot. I wanted to dip them into the water and started walking towards the river but my cousin pulled me back. “Don’t go too close to the river. That’s the border” he said. “Border?” I asked, alarmed. “The river is the border. This river demarcates India and Bangladesh”. I instinctively turned back. Fed on stories of the heavily militarized India – Pakistan border on India’s North West, I was sure a bullet was on its way from somewhere to mow us down. In Indian films and popular culture, borders were portrayed to be bristling with guns and missiles, guarded by hirsute men and commanded by mustachioed generals. This no-fuss border setting was a disappointment, which I didn’t expect to find. I looked back at my cousin, and he just stood there with a wry smile on his face. Okay, I should relax. I looked around. The river was narrow and seemed to be shallow. Across the river was Bangladesh. There were neither houses nor people to be seen there, only trees and open land. The Indian side by contrast had houses spilling over past the embankment and almost into the river – nothing better could illustrate India’s population conundrum. The river seemed shallow, cool and inviting and I felt a sudden pull, a sudden urge to swim across the river. Across the river was the Bangladeshi district of Sylhet– the land of my forefathers. There lay, as Thomas Macaulay had put it, the ashes of my Fathers and the temples of my Gods. But borders complicate things – you can’t just swim across one. Borders like these came up swiftly as India gained independence, and the partition of two nations and the forced migration of people that followed thereafter, severed the umbilical cord that bound millions of families with their motherland. The sound of conch shells blowing in the homes indicated that dusk was falling. As we turned to go back home, I quietly prayed to my ancestors who might have walked on this very road, as they left their hearth and home, braving the rampaging marauders who plundered their wealth in the name of religion; for a new beginning as a new nation took birth.