Fakrul Alam writes nostalgically of his visits to Feni in Noakhali, a small town which now suffers from severe flooding due to climate change. Click here to read.
Rakhi Dalal reviews Swadesh Deepak’s A Bouquet of Dead Flowers translated from Hindi by Jerry Pinto, Pratik Kanjilal, Nirupama Dutt, Sukant Deepak. Click here to read.
Imagine the world envisioned by John Lennon. Imagine the world envisioned and partly materialised by Tagore in his pet twin projects of Santiniketan and Sriniketan, training institutes made with the intent of moving towards creating a work force that would dedicate their lives to human weal, to closing social gaps borne of human constructs and to uplifting the less privileged by educating them and giving them the means to earn a livelihood. You might well call these people visionaries and utopian dreamers, but were they? Tagore had hoped to inspire with his model institutions. In 1939, he wrote in a letter: “My path, as you know, lies in the domain of quiet integral action and thought, my units must be few and small, and I can but face human problems in relation to some basic village or cultural area. So, in the midst of worldwide anguish, and with the problems of over three hundred millions staring us in the face, I stick to my work in Santiniketan and Sriniketan hoping that my efforts will touch the heart of our village neighbours and help them in reasserting themselves in a new social order. If we can give a start to a few villages, they would perhaps be an inspiration to some others—and my life work will have been done.” But did we really have a new social order or try to emulate him?
If we had acted out of compassion and kindness towards redefining with a new social order, as Miriam Bassuk points out in her poem based on Lennon’s lyrics of Imagine, there would be no strangers. We’d all be friends living in harmony and creating a world with compassion, kindness, love and tolerance. We would not have wars or regional geopolitical tensions which act against human weal. Perhaps, we would not have had the issues of war of climate change take on the proportions that are wrecking our own constructs.
Natural disasters, floods, fires, landslides have affected many of our lives. Bringing us close to such a disaster is an essay by Salma A Shafi at ground level in Noakhali. More than 4.5 million were affected and 71 died in this disaster. Another 23 died in the same spate of floods in Tripura with 65,000 affected. We are looking at a single region here, but such disasters seem to be becoming more frequent. And yet. there had been a time when Noakhali was an idyllic vacation spot as reflected in Professor Fakrul Alam’s nostalgic essay, filled with memories of love, green outdoors and kindnesses. Such emotions reverberate in Ravi Shankar’s account of his medical adventures in the highlands of Kerala, a state that suffered a stupendous landslide last month. While Shafi shows how extreme rainfall can cause disasters, Keith Lyons writes of water, whose waves in oceanic form lap landmasses like bridges. He finds a microcosm of the whole world in a swimming pool as migrants find their way to New Zealand too. Farouk Gulsara muses on kindness and caregiving while Priyanka Panwar ponders about ordinary days. Saeed Ibrahim gives a literary twist to our musings. Tongue in cheek humour is woven into our nonfiction section by Suzanne Kamata’s notes from Japan, Devraj Singh Kalsi’s piece on premature greying and Uday Deshwal’s paean to his sunglasses!
In translations, we have Nazrul lyrics transcreated from Bengali by Professor Alam and poetry from Korean by Ihlwha Choi. We pay our respects to an eminent Balochi poet who passed on exactly a year ago, Mubarak Qazi, by carrying a translation by Fazal Baloch. Tagore’s Suprobhat (Good morning) has been rendered in English from Bengali. His descriptions of the morning are layered and amazing — with a hint of the need to reconstruct our world, very relevant even today. A powerful essay by Tagore called Raja O Praja(The King and His Subjects), has been translated by Himadri Lahiri.
Our fiction hosts two narratives that centre around childhood, one by Naramsetti Umamaheswararao and another by G Venkatesh, though with very different approaches. Mahila Iqbal relates a poignant tale about aging, mental health and neglect, the very antithesis of Gulsara’s musing. Paul Mirabile has given a strange story about a ‘useless idler’.
A short story collection has been reviewed by Rakhi Dalal, Swadesh Deepak’s A Bouquet of Dead Flowers, translated from Hindi by Jerry Pinto, Pratik Kanjilal, Nirupama Dutt, Sukant Deepak. Somdatta Mandal has written about a book by a Kashmiri immigrant which is part based on lived experiences and part fictive, Karan Mujoo’s This Our Paradise: A Novel. Bhaskar Parichha has reviewed Ayurveda, Nation and Society: United Provinces, c. 1890–1950by Saurav Kumar Rai, a book which shows how healthcare was even a hundred years ago, politicised. Meenakshi Malhotra has reviewed Anuradha Marwah’s novel, Aunties of Vasant Kunj, of which we also have an excerpt. The other excerpt is from Mineke Schipper’s Widows: A Global History. Ratnottama Sengupta converses with Reba Som, author of Hop, Skip and Jump; Peregrinations of a Diplomat’s Wife.
We have more content that adds to the vibrancy of the issue. Do pause by this issue and take a look. This issue would not have been possible without all your writings. Thank you for that. Huge thanks to our readers and our team, without whose support we could not have come this far. I would especially like to thank Sohana Manzoor for her continued supply of her fabulous and distinctive artwork and Gulsara for his fabulous photographs.
Let us look forward to a festive season which awakens each autumn and stretches to winter. May we in this season find love, compassion and kindness in our hearts towards our whole human family.
Salma A. Shafi writes from ground level at Noakhali
From Public Domain
The Greater Noakhali region of Bangladesh is experiencing one of the most severe flood and water-logging crises in recent memory, driven by persistent heavy rainfall since mid-August 2024. The flood affected more than 5 million people, submerging houses, roads, and marketplaces, and leaving large portions of the region inundated. A total of 71 people, including women and children, lost their lives in the flood affected areas. With water levels reaching alarming heights, the disaster has raised significant concerns about vulnerability of the region for future flooding.
Almost every year floods occur in Bangladesh, but the intensity and magnitude vary from year to year. Their nature causes and extent of destruction gives them various definitions such as river flood, rainfall flood, flash flood, tidal flood, storm surge flood. The term manmade flood is a recent phenomenon attributed to encroachment on vital water channels, such as canals and wetlands sometimes for construction of roads and bridges and frequently for fish cultivation, hatcheries and shrimp farming.
Context of recent flood in Bangladesh
Since August 20, 2024, Bangladesh has been facing severe flooding triggered by continuous heavy rainfall and, according to the Bangladesh Ministry of External Affairs, water releases from Dumbur Dam, upstream in Tripura, India[1], a claim that is denied by the Indian government. Tripura also suffered severe floods and landslides[2] from this August. The flood impacted several districts in Bangladesh, including Feni, Noakhali, Comilla, Lakshmipur, Brahmanbaria, Cox’s Bazar, Khagrachhari, Chattogram, Habiganj, and Moulvibazar. By August 23, 2024, the Ministry of Disaster Management and Relief reported that floods had affected 4.5 million people across 77 upazilas in 11 districts. Nearly 194,000 people, along with over 17,800 livestock sought refuge in 3,170 shelters as the crisis continued.
In addition to widespread displacement, the floods led to tragic fatalities, with deaths reported across multiple districts. Communication with key river stations, such as Muhuri[3] and Halda[4], were completely severed, hampering collection of vital data necessary for relief and rescue operations. The extensive flooding has caused significant damage to property, crops, and infrastructure, displacing thousands of families. The disruption to transportation and agriculture deepened the humanitarian crisis, demanding immediate action to mitigate long-term impacts of disaster on the affected communities.
The flood situation in Noakhali District worsened due to continuous heavy rainfall and rising water levels of the Muhuri River. The district Weather Office recorded 71 mm of rainfall within 24 hours, exacerbating the flooding. Approximately 2 million people were stranded as floodwaters submerged roads, agricultural fields, and fish ponds. Seven municipalities in the district went underwater, with widespread waterlogging affecting both rural and urban settlements.
Map provided by Salma A Shafi
On September 1, 2024, the Noakhali Meteorological Office reported a staggering 174 mm of rainfall within a 12-hour period, causing widespread flooding and waterlogging across low-lying areas. The worst-affected upazilas include Noakhali, Senbagh, Sonaimuri, Chatkhil, Begumganj, Kabirhat, Companiganj, and Subarnachar, where over 2.1 million people were stranded. Additionally, more than 264,000 individuals sought refuge in emergency shelters and school buildings. The prolonged water-logging devastated local economy, particularly the agricultural sector, where vast areas of farmland, including Aman rice seedbeds and vegetable fields, were submerged, jeopardizing livelihoods of farmers and disrupting essential food production for a prolonged period.
With 90% of Noakhali district’s population impacted by this flash flood, the region faced critical humanitarian and environmental emergency. An analysis of the causes and consequences of flood and waterlogging in Greater Noakhali reveals an interplay of meteorological, infrastructural, and environmental factors coupled with geographic location of Bangladesh and the geo morphology of the river systems of the region. Bangladesh and India share 54 rivers of which the Teesta, Ganges, Brahmaputra, Meghna forming the GBM basin are the most important. This river basin is one of the largest hydrological regions in the world and stretches across five countries Bangladesh, Bhutan, China, India and Nepal. This basin area is home to 47 percent of the Indian population and 80 percent of the Bangladeshi population. Food security, water supply, energy and environment of both countries are dependent on the water resource of the rivers.
Uncertainty and Challenges in Flood situation
During the monsoon periods development of a low-pressure system over northern Bangladesh can bring very heavy to extremely heavy rainfall in Assam, Meghalaya, and Tripura posing great threat to flood-prone areas in Bangladesh. These overlapping weather patterns and regional dynamics create highly uncertain and dangerous situation, making it difficult to coordinate an effective response and leave millions of people vulnerable to worsening flood conditions.
Map provided by Salma A Shafi
Flooding in Noakhali region resulted from heavy rainfall and floods in western Tripura in August and as per MEA[5] news broadcast that the Dumbur Dam, a hydro power project had been, “auto releasing”, water as a consequence of the rainfall. The Dumbur Dam in Tripura is located far from the border about 120km upstream of Bangladesh. It is a low height dam (30m) that generates power and feeds into a grid from which Bangladesh also draws 40MW power. There are three water level observation sites along the 120km river course. As per news from the monitoring agencies excess water from the Gumti reservoir was automatically released through the spillway once it crossed the 94m mark which is the reservoirs full capacity. It is a known fact there is no comprehensive regional mechanism for transboundary water governance or multilateral forum involving the five Asian nations. The lower riparian nations particularly India and Bangladesh are therefore the worst sufferers.
Key Impact Areas in Bangladesh:
The flood in the Noakhali region was caused by overflow of water from the large catchment areas downstream of the Dumbur Dam. While river channels were not deep enough to accommodate the excess water, unplanned constructions on rivers and canals caused the water to spill into settlement areas causing humanitarian crisis unseen in decades. Kompaniganj and Hatiya upazilas (sub-districts) were completely inundated by floodwaters, while Subarna Char, Sonaimuri, Noakhali Sadar, Kabir Hat, and Senbag upazilas were partially affected. The flooding submerged homes, roads, and marketplaces, with water levels reaching roof levels in the high flood zones, waist-deep in some areas and knee-deep inside most homes. The rising floodwaters devastated farmlands, particularly Aman paddy seedbeds and vegetable fields, swept away, a large number of the cattle, poultry including the sheds which sheltered them.
Current Challenges
The ongoing flood crisis in Bangladesh faces several critical challenges. One of the most immediate issues is the submersion of roads and the disruption of communication networks, which has significantly hindered relief efforts. The situation is fluid, with new districts continuously being affected, complicating the delivery of aid and emergency services to those in need. This has also resulted in delays in evacuations, leaving many communities stranded without access to basic necessities.
Another key challenge is the conflicting information from different meteorological agencies. The Bangladesh Meteorological Department and the Flood Forecasting and Warning Center (FFWC) have issued varying reports regarding upcoming weather conditions. This uncertainty is affecting the preparedness of the affected populations, making it difficult for them to take timely and appropriate measures to protect themselves and their property.
Geo-political Tension in River Management in Bangladesh
Bangladesh, known as one of the most climate-vulnerable nations globally is facing increasing geopolitical challenges due to its strategic location on the Ganges-Brahmaputra Delta. Besides, annual monsoon floods, flash flood, particularly in northeastern districts of Sylhet, Feni and Cumilla, Noakhali are exacerbated by water releases from upstream dams, such as the Dumbur Dam. These actions have intensified tensions between Bangladesh and India, highlighting the complex dynamics of transboundary river management.
Despite legal recognition of rivers as living entities, both nations continue to exploit these water resources through infrastructure projects that disrupt natural river flows. Extensive dam and hydropower projects on shared rivers have caused significant environmental and social injustices downstream, impacting both ecosystems and livelihoods. This situation reflects a broader pattern of unilateral control and inadequate cooperation in water management, which contradicts international agreements and hinders equitable water sharing.
The Bangladesh-India Joint River Commission, established in 1972, is yet to resolve these critical issues. The recent floods have further underscored the need for more effective communication and cooperation between the two nations to prevent future disasters. As calls for water justice grow louder, there is increasing pressure on both countries to remove barriers and ensure the free flow of rivers across borders, upholding the principles of transboundary water governance and protecting the rights of those affected downstream.
Flood Map of Noakhali District, 2024. Map provided by Salma A Shafi
[5] Ministry of External Affairs, in this case Bangladesh.
Salma A. Shafi is an architect and urban planner. She did her MSc. in Urban Planning from AIT, Bangkok, Thailand and has a Bachelor of Architecture (B. Arch.) degree from BUET, Dhaka. Salma Shafi has extensive experience in urban research and consultancy, specialising in urban land use and infrastructure planning, housing and tenure issues. She is a well-known researcher in the field of urbanisation and urban planning. Urban Crime and Violence in Dhaka published by the University Press Limited (2010), Housing Development Program for Dhaka City, Centre for Urban Studies, Dhaka (2008) and Feroza, a biography of her mother published by Journeyman (2021).
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Fakrul Alam writes nostalgically of his visits to Feni in Noakhali, a small town which now suffers from severe flooding due to climate change.
Green Feni, Noakhali Feni flooded due to climate change From Public Domain
Every year, twice a year, during winter and summer vacations, my family would travel to Feni, Noakhali, where we would spend our holidays in our Nana Bari, the home of my Nana, or maternal grandfather.
For days before the journey, our excitement would keep mounting. For one thing, Amma[1] would make frequent trips to Nawabpur, or what was then called Jinnah Avenue, to buy fabrics or wool which she would then sew/darn/weave into clothes or woolens to gift her family members when in Feni. She would also spend more time in the kitchen than usual, cooking as many dishes as she could for my father, the only one of us who would be staying behind since he had his office to attend to; he would join us, if at all, for a few days at the end. For days before she left, Amma would repeat instructions to our household help until, by the time we left, we had memorised what they were supposed to be doing while we were away. Moreover, she would spend the last few days before the journey packing and repacking since she had to ensure that we had everything we needed, not only for the fortnight or so we would spend in Feni, but also for the journey back and forth.
And then, finally, the day of the journey to Feni would arrive! The six of us would board two or three rickshaws in the morning elatedly and head for the railway station in Phulbaria. We would have to thread our way through a platform overflowing with passengers and hangers-on, coolies and vendors, beggars and con-artists, as well as railway police and ticket checkers. Intrepid and inspired, Amma would lead us through the milling and tense crowd. It was as if the whole world was heading for the same interclass compartment; indeed, it seemed that we always managed to reach it just when the train was ready to leave the station.
Eventually, the train would leave Phulbaria and we would relax and feel exhilarated again. Because we did the trip so often, we looked forward to the highlights on the way. Bhairab Bridge, huge and unending, had views of the riverscape that were breathtaking in all seasons and for as long as the train clanged through it we were awestruck. Kasba, the station on the border where Pakistani and Indian troops skirmished frequently throughout the 1960s, was always the place where we tensed up a little. The red hills of Mainamati looked incongruous in the green world of Bangladesh. There were junctions like Brahmanbaria and Laxam, where vendors hawked their wares and cries of “cha gorom[2]” and “deem[3]” filled the air. Although the trip to Feni was supposed to be seven or eight hours long, by the time the train reached Feni station, it would be late in the evening and we would be exhausted, worn out by a journey that seemed to have gone on and on.
Feni in the 1960s was a small mofussil town, and to us Dhakaites, quaintly interesting. Rickshaws were often veiled! The traffic consisted almost entirely of rickshaws and bullock carts; the buildings seemed rickety or run-down, as if someone had forbidden them all to look good or completed or told them not to stand up straight. Although the trip to our Nana Bari from the station was not more than a few minutes by rickshaw, to us, it seemed to take forever; we just couldn’t wait for the journey to end by this time.
But all our fatigue evaporated as soon as our rickshaw took a bend and Nana Bari swung into view, revealing our uncles and aunts waiting eagerly to take us in. Nana, intensely religious at this stage of his life, would often be waiting to greet us with the warmest of smiles before hurrying off to prayer. My Nani[4] would first embrace Amma and the two of them would sniff a little, both overcome by the emotion of the oldest daughter returning home after some months. Then she would hug the five of us turn by turn and dash for the kitchen where she had been supervising the cooking. We would join her there as soon as we had washed and changed so that she could serve us delicious pithas[5] and all sorts of delicacies that Amma could cook in Dhaka only now and then. If it wasn’t too late, Amma’s relatives and friends would drop in, making us feel very important, for everyone wanted to know what we children were doing in school and the details of our Dhaka life. Eventually, we would drop off to sleep in utter exhaustion, but not before our uncles and aunts revealed the plans they had for us for the next few days.
The next few days, in fact, would go in a whirl. If it was summer and the heat was too intense or the rain too heavy, we would play carom or snakes and ladders inside for a while; if there was a cloud cover or only a drizzle outside, we would play hopscotch or football in the courtyard or retreat to the shaded grove in the backyard. Sooner or later, though, we would head for the pond, the centre of our daily rituals. Once we went into the water, we stayed in till Nani and Amma dragged us out for lunch. It was in this pond that we all learned to swim in successive trips; here we floated on banana-trunk rafts for hours and were thrilled at the way my uncles caught fish either with a net or a fishing rod. Sometimes, a tiger-skinned snake would slither past us shushing us instantly until it disappeared. Then we would resume our water games once again. If it was winter, on the other hand, we would stay in bed as long as possible, until the sun was completely up; afterwards, we would head for the courtyard where we would play hopscotch or cricket or go to the farthest reach of our Nana Bari in the plot of land adjacent to the pond, pretending to be picnicking. And then after we had psyched and warmed ourselves adequately we would go to the pond for a quick dip and rush out shivering to dry ourselves and have lunch in the sun.
Some evenings Amma would take us out to visit her relatives. Other evenings, we would go out for strolls. At least one evening we would spend promenading all around the dighi (large tank) around which colonial Feni had grown and where there were dak bungalows and the offices of this sub-divisional town. On one of these evenings, our uncle would take us to the edge of the town to show the old bridge and the massive and ancient banyan tree on the Grand Trunk Road, narrating to us, as we went, the story of how Sher Shah had built it and the bridge hundreds of years ago as part of his plan to administer efficiently the territories he had wrested from the Mughals. On another evening, our uncle would take us to see the ruins of Feni airport, for the town was once one of the key forward bases of the Royal Air Force, even though it would be abandoned at the bend of our history when India was partitioned. At least once during every visit to Feni, we would sneak out to go to see a film, for our now-puritan Nana was known to frown even at the mention of the cinema and would get mad at my uncles and aunts if he came to know where they had taken us.
At night, we would occasionally go to dawats[6]. Once every trip, Nanu would reciprocate by inviting relatives, friends, and even acquaintances she considered important to Nana Bari so that they could also meet us over dinner. On nights when we stayed home all by ourselves, Nana would join us after evening prayers, relaxing and joking with us for at least an hour, and thus remind the other elders of how he had been full of life and a Swadeshi (self-rule) campaigner once, an activist in the cause of one Bengal, but how he had become other-worldly now. Sometimes his stepbrother would visit us, tooting his odd-sounding bicycle horn entirely for our benefit as he came and went, and filling Nana Bari with his booming voice and loud laughter. Nani, too, would join us for a while, finally relaxing after another day of hard work, and would tease us as grandmothers are supposed to do, making us grandchildren feel silly and important at the same time.
Reluctantly, we would go to sleep after dinner; some on beds and some on the mats spread out on the floor. But sleep would take long to come, for we would first review the events of the day or plan for the one that was coming up, exchange secrets in the dark, or whisper stories about the ghosts and robbers that were supposed to be all around Nana Bari.
But we felt totally secure in Nana Bari, wrapped up in the love of my grandparents and uncles and aunts. Every part of the Bari[7] was full of family history. “There,” an aunt would say, “was where you were born!” “Those rooms are where all of us used to live before your Nana decided to extend the house for all you grandchildren,” my Nani would tell us proudly. In time, I began to fill parts of Nana Bari with my own memories too, although I was still a boy. Wasn’t that the room, for instance, where I was painfully initiated into the faith, though the occasion led to a feast in my honour afterwards? Occasionally, we all became part of family history in the making, as an uncle or an aunt got married, or one of us or a cousin had his akika[8] or birthday celebrated, and Nana Bari would then take on a festive air for days.
For the fortnight or so we were in Nana Bari, we were thus completely happy. Little did we know then the financial difficulties my Nana was experiencing due to the religious turn he had taken in old age; the hours he was spending in prayers and meditation meant that other people were taking advantage of him, encroaching on his land and trying to defraud him in business. Little did we know the strain Nani was going through then, running the large family on a reduced budget—Amma had three brothers and seven sisters—for she was always generous with us. Little did we realise that our uncles and aunts had to make do with much less than they had been once used to, for they seemed to be totally indulgent and giving whenever we asked them for anything.
No wonder that when the time to return to Dhaka came we were all quite unhappy. As we departed, Amma (and Nani) cried a lot, this time because mother and daughter knew that they would not be seeing each other for at least another six months, and because every leave-taking now confirmed to them that the first parting was irrevocable. We felt a little sad too. School was something to look forward to, but how could the cramped life we led in the busy city compensate for the freedom and the open spaces and the love swirling all around Nana Bari? The journey back, therefore, would seem uneventful and unending and we would go back to Dhaka a fatigued and melancholy lot.
*
Last year, two of our sisters and I visited Nana Bari for a few hours. My Nana had died in 1970, and my Nani went in 1997; all my uncles and aunts were now in Dhaka or abroad. Nana Bari had shrunk in size, for my uncles had decided to sell parts of it in a strategic move to secure the main house from the machinations of the covetous lot that controls remittance-rich and hooligan-infested Feni. The pond, the shaded groves, and all our favorite haunts were gone and we felt totally depressed at the diminished thing that the Bari had become. Better not to come any more, I told myself, better to keep Nana Bari intact in memory than confront the diminution of the place where more than anywhere else we had once been totally happy. Better to wax nostalgic than be confronted with the ever-increasing intimations of mortality.
Ratnottama Sengupta shows the impact of Gandhi and his call for non-violence on her father, Nabendu Ghosh as she continues to emote over his message of Ahimsa and call for peace amidst rioting
Eka Naukar Jatri (Journey of a Lonesome Boat)Gandhi. Courtesy: CReative Commons
The ferocity and senselessness of riots — Nabendu Ghosh had personal experience of both. In his autobiography, Eka Naukar Jatri (Dey’s Publication, 2008, Journey of a Lonesome Boat), he writes at length about grappling with the riots that had rocked Calcutta, Bengal — nay, the entire Subcontinent on 16th August 1946.
The Direct Action Day call was given out by Mohammad Ali Jinnah to press the demand for a separate Muslim State, Pakistan. The epicentre was Calcutta, a flourishing centre of business and education, that had Suhrawardy of Muslim League as its chief minister. On that black Friday, they unleashed unprecedented bloodletting along communal lines. At least 4000 deaths were reported on the very first day of the ‘Great Calcutta Killing’ that continued for more than four days. Many women were raped, many were kidnapped, many killed and hung naked in public areas… Dismemberment, forced conversion, bustees set on fire… Violence spread to Khulna in East Bengal, and Bihar. Within a year the hatred ignited on religious grounds culminated in the Partition of India.
The savagery of the mindless bloodbath had left such a deep dent on the yet-to-be-thirty writer, that he wrote a number of stories and novels on the theme: Phears Lane, Dweep, Trankarta, Ulukhar, ‘Chaaka’(Full Circle), and ‘Gandhiji’.
Gandhiji builds majorly on the author’s own memories of a darshan[1]of Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi while he was passing through Patna, sometime in early 1931. This is how he records his ‘encounter’ with the Saint of Sabarmati who worked magic on the masses with the mantra of Ahimsa, non-violence.
“By 1930 all of India and its British rulers too were uttering one name with awe: Gandhi. One evening it came to my ears that the Mahatma would reach Patna at 7 am the next morning, spend the day in the city and leave by the Punjab Mail at night.
“I did not sleep well that night. I was up at the crack of dawn and left home at 5 am on the pretext of getting a book from a friend. But I could not get anywhere near the Patna railway station, which was teeming with people who had arrived before sunrise. It was no different along the path he would be driven down. I hung around at one end of the platform, eyes glued to the exit gate.
“Policemen on horseback trotted past me. A police van was parked close by. Those patrolling the platform carried bayonets and batons. Because of my green years and my small built, I was allowed to inch ahead. From time to time the sky was rent with the cry of ‘Mahatma Gandhi ki jai! Long live the Mahatma!’
“All of a sudden, perhaps to steel myself, I started to whisper: ‘Vande Mataram! I salute you, my Motherland!’ As if on a cue, the man next to me cried out aloud: ‘Vande Mataram!’ The crowd roared in an echo: ‘Vande Mataram! Vande Mataram!!’
“Suddenly a train rolled in with a long whistle. And people all around me broke into the cries of ‘Mahatma Gandhi ki jai!’ ‘Bharat Mata ki jai!’ ‘Vande Mataram!’ I found myself matching their voice…
“Soon people started saying, ‘There he goes…’ Some cars came forward with Gandhi-topi clad volunteers. And then, there was the face so familiar from the newspapers, peering out of a hood-open Ford. Mahatma Gandhi, clad in a knee-length khadi dhoti, a chadar draped over his bare torso, a volunteer on either side, was greeting everyone with folded hands. What an inspiring image!
“I also broke into the cry of ‘Mahatma Gandhi ki jai!’‘ The crowd had started running behind the moving car. I joined them, without a pause in the slogan. A few paces later, I bumped into someone and fell down by the wayside. As an elderly gentleman lifted me up and soothingly dusted me off. I felt a resolve surface in my thoughts: ‘Freedom must be won!'”
*
Nabendu Ghosh may or may not have had another prototype for the protagonist Ratan in Gandhiji. But it is said there actually lived close to College Street — where Nabendu lived at the time — a person named Gopal Mukherjee who owned a meat shop. He was a devotee of Subhash Chandra Bose and a critique of Gandhi. Reportedly this ‘paatha‘ — butcher — was funded by some Marwari businessmen and he led his team to retaliate from the fourth day of riots. After Independence, when he was urged to surrender his guns, knives and sword to Gandhiji, he apparently refused, saying, “I would willingly lay down my arms for Netaji, but not for Gandhiji. Why didn’t he stop the killings in Noakhali?”
The author may have woven in some traits of Gopal Paatha but, like a mirror image that is identical yet opposite, his protagonist Ratan is transformed by the iconic personality so that he surrenders his weapons — expressed symbol of violence — at the feet of the Mahatma.
*
As I watched Kamal Hasan’s Hey! Ram (2000), I was reminded of this story, ‘Gandhiji’ that was published in the collection Raater Gaadi (The Night Train) in 1964. Perhaps unknowingly the character played in the film by Om Puri reflects the protagonist Ratan.
In Hey! Ram, A rioteer who has snuffed out scores of lives walks up to the fasting Gandhi in Beliaghata, throws a roti towards him and says, “I have bloodied my hands with many lives but I will not have your death on my conscience.” He resonates Ratan, the butcher who finds his biggest high in draining out human blood but once he rests his eyes on the frail sage, something happens deep inside him. He who wondered why his taking a life should matter to ‘Gendo’, stakes his own life to protect a Muslim.
*
Nabendu Ghosh experienced the magic of the Mahatma at age fourteen, long years before he became my father.
I felt the magic of the man whom Rabindranath Tagore gave the name of Mahatma when I was well into my forties, and was doing a Fellowship in Oxford, on a Charles Wallace award, on John Ruskin and his Influence on Gandhi and Tagore.
Then, almost 20 years later, we were at the critical juncture in time when we were completing 70 years of Gandhi’s passing and approaching his Sesquicentennial Birth Anniversary. That is when I started wondering: “What does Mohandas Karamchand mean to those acquiring voting rights in India now? Is he only the face on every Indian currency note? Is he only ‘M G Road’ — the high street of every city in India? Is he a boring memory who forces every one of his countrymen to shun drinking on his birthday?”
Or, is there any valid reason to recall what he said — in Natal and Transvaal and Pietermaritzburg; in Kolkata and Noakhali, Chowri Chowra and Dandi, Bombay and Delhi? Is there anything in his actions that can change the lives of not only Indians but everywhere in the world where people are tired of terror strikes and gunshots and discrimination in the name of caste or creed or colour?
For, influence he certainly did, the lives of so many personalities… Not for nothing was Mohandas of Porbandar to become Gandhiji, Mahatma, Bapu, Father of the Nation.
Ratnottama Sengupta, formerly Arts Editor of The Times of India, teaches mass communication and film appreciation, curates film festivals and art exhibitions, and translates and write books. She has been a member of CBFC, served on the National Film Awards jury and has herself won a National Award.
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We did it! … Announcing our first anthology … Monalisa No Longer Smiles… Click here to read.
Conversations
Suchen Christine Lim, an iconic writer from Singapore in conversation about her latest book, Dearest Intimate. Click here to read.
Blazing trails, as well as retracing the footsteps of great explorers, Christopher Winnan, a travel writer, delves into the past, and gazes into the future while conversing with Keith Lyons. Click hereto read.
Saturday Afternoon is a poem by Ihlwha Choi, translated from Korean by the poet himself. Click here to read.
Tagore’s poem, Tomar Shonkho Dhulay Porey (your conch lies in the dust), has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty as The Conch Calls. Click here to read.
Basudhara Roy has reviewed Afsar Mohammad’s Evening with a Sufi: Selected Poems, translated from Telugu by Afsar Mohammad and Shamala Gallagher. Click hereto read.
“Jethi Maa[1]..you have lost your son! He will never come back home!”
With these words, Kalam entered the old hut where his Jethi Maa was cooking lunch for her family. Having lost her husband at a very young age and with no financial support of her own, Chand Banu had to let her elder son stay as a jaigir[2] in faraway homes so that he could continue his studies. Once he got admitted to Jagannath College in Dhaka, the whole village was elated. Habib would go to the big city Dhaka to do his ISC [3]! Habib, the eldest son of the family was always a bright student. His local schoolteachers wondered at his intelligence and diligence. Coming from a very poor family, Habib never gave up on his dreams. After his father’s death, the additional burden of looking after his mother and siblings was thrust upon him when he was only in Class 4[4]. He used to sell peanuts when he was not at school. Never averse from taking in new challenges, Habib did all kinds of manual jobs from his childhood — some of which would shock some of his colleagues much later in his life.
In Dhaka, he was struggling to find a place to stay. He needed to find a place soon or else he would jeopardise his studies. A family finally agreed to keep him as a jaigir. They liked the quiet and humble boy who was full of dreams and ambitions of his own. As the days went by, they began to appreciate the intelligent young man and decided to let him tutor their children at home. Later Habib would recount how the mistress of the household would force him to eat more and to have milk everyday so that he could study well. Gradually they embraced him as a member of the family and began to see him as a prospective son-in-law for one of their daughters. Habib of course had no inkling about their secret plans. He was too intent on earning his keep and focusing on studies. Every month he used to send the extra money he earned from his private tuition classes to his mother. His goal was to sit for the ISC exams.
On a pleasant spring day, when Kalam informed his Jeti Maa that he was going to Dhaka on an errand, he took Habib’s address. Not knowing how her son was doing, his Jeti Maa held his hands and tearfully told him to see how her beloved son was doing.
Reaching Dhaka, it took a few days for Kalam to sort out his affairs. Finally, after three or four days, he went to meet Habib. When he knocked on the front gate of the house, a young girl opened it. As soon as she heard that he was from Habib’s village, she let him in and took him to Habib’s room. A tiny little room with a desk and chair at the corner was lit by a hurricane in the mellow evening. Kalam stepped into the room and said “Habibullah! Are you here?”
Overjoyed with this surprise visit from his cousin, Habib jumped up from his chair and embraced him. It felt as if the whole village of Kafilatoli had come to see him! How he missed his family and friends back home! Taking Kalam’s hands, Habib urged him to sit down on his tiny bed and asked him about his mother, brothers and sisters.
Kalam was happy to see Habib in good health and spirits. But, as he looked at his cousin animatedly describing his experiences as a college student of Dhaka, a strange ominous thought entered his mind. Kalam noticed how the family was taking care of Habib. He was well fed and was treated as a beloved member of the family. And furthermore, he also noticed that there were three young beautiful girls in that family — all students of Habib. It did not take long for Kalam to understand the true motives of the family. Back in those days — in the 1930s and 1940s, it was not unusual for parents to marry off their daughters to well behaved and academic jaigirs. It was generally known that these young boys were destined to shine later in life either as government officers, doctors, academicians or reputed scholars of the country. Many parents successfully married their daughters to these bright young men with the hopes of ensuring the best future for their daughters.
Kalam left for his village early the following morning. Hurrying into his Jeti Maa’s hut, he did not waste any time to beat around the bush.
“Oh Jeti Maa! You have lost your son. He will never come back home again!”
Shocked, Chand Banu dropped the wooden ladle on the terracotta stove and ran towards him. “What do you mean Oh Kalam? What happened to my Hobu?!”
As soon as she heard about the family of three daughters with whom her dear son was staying as a jaigir, her whole body froze. The grim image of her dear son being bewitched by an unknown strange Dhaka family — people who belong to a totally different region – was agonizing to her.
Although she was illiterate, Chand Banu was an extremely astute and wise mother. Despite her poverty, she knew that her Hobu had much more to offer to prospective brides in her village. Her frantic search for a Noakhali girl for her dearest Hobu began. She told Kalam, “Go and find a suitable bride for Hobu—from the nearest villages—so that he never deserts us. We must make sure that he starts his family in his home—in Noakhali!”
Habib’s mother never allowed her adverse financial condition to hold her back in dreaming and aspiring for the best for her children. She knew of a reputed family in Meerganj — the Meer family — who had several eligible daughters. Long before Habib left for Dhaka, Chand Banu had a secret desire to welcome one of the Meer Bari daughters as her daughter-in-law. She had heard that the eldest daughter of the Meer Bari[5] had been married off to a cousin, an educated head teacher of a local High School. The second daughter was next in line.
Chand Banu did not waste any time. She knew that the Meer family valued education more than anything, they would definitely want an educated son-in-law for the other daughters. She summoned her extended family to consult with them on how she could send a proposal to the Meer family. Unfortunately, one of her neighbours informed her that the Meer family had already decided that their second daughter would get married to a rich chilli merchant’s son of the same region. They were extremely wealthy and boasted several warehouses all over Meerganj and an impressive three floor ‘paka[6]’ house in the region. How could Chand Banu compete with them?
Imbued with an immense fear of losing her son to the strange city of Dhaka, Chand Banu decided to take a huge risk. She sent a representative of the family, Selim Miah, an elderly neighbour, who was a mutual friend of both the Meers and her family.
The Meer Bari, as it was known and is still known today, was one of the most reputed families of the region. They were one of the few families who had acres of land, ponds, a huge mansion and dozens of families working for them all throughout the region. They had several silos or warehouses to store the rice harvested from all their fields!
On a warm and humid summer morning, Meer Saheb was sitting at the verandah watching his men drawing in fishing nets with catch from the large pond behind his home. When he stepped onto the verandah, Selim Miah found him in a good mood, because his second daughter was due to get married the following day. Greeting each other warmly, the two men sat down to have a friendly conversation of fishing and farming in general. Meer Saheb was especially in a good mood. After a few furtive glances towards Meer Saheb, Selim Miah finally mustered up the courage to convey Chand Banu’s message to him. Meer Saheb turned towards Selim Miah and looked intently into his eyes.
The following day, the chilli merchant and his son came to Meer Bari with twenty other members of his family. The whole mansion was decorated to the tees and the groom was looking exquisitely handsome in his satin white sherwani[7] and silk turban. As the guests arrived, the ladies of the household quickly ran inside and allowed the men to greet them. The very tall Meer Saheb, elegantly dressed in an off-white punjabi, payjama and white tupi[8], stood in front of the guests. Accompanied by the senior members of the family, Meer Saheb, requested that the guests be seated. After they had all settled in, Meer Saheb took a deep breath, and apologised to the chilli Merchant. Bewildered, the groom and his father looked inquisitively at Meer Saheb. Then the news was given to them…the news of Meer Bari’s second daughter getting married to Habibullah of Kafilatoli village just the night before!
A few miles away, Chand Banu was rigorously fanning her terracotta stove so that the flames could cook the meat quickly. She did not have much time left. She finished sweeping the yard earlier. Her eldest daughter was in charge of cleaning the only two rooms of her dilapidated mud hut. The local boys and girls were making handmade streamers out of cheap coloured paper to welcome the new guest.
Chand Banu’s daughter-in-law was finally coming. Her dear Hobu’s bou[9] was coming!
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Glossary
[1] Father’s elder brother’s wife – aunt. Translation from Bengali
[2] Meritorious young men from rural regions staying with a host family in the city
“Under this Flag there is no prince and there is no peasant, there is no rich and there is no poor… Whether we be Hindus or Muslims, Christians, Jains, Sikhs or Zoroastrians and others, our Mother India has one undivided heart and one indivisible spirit.” — Sarojini Naidu, poet and political activist, on the resolution on the national flag in the Constituent Assembly, 22 July 1947
The immutability of prodigious speeches and their magnifying impact on people can’t be underestimated. The prize of a great speech comes from pure wisdom that originates from indulgence. These words from Naidu’s speech can work as magic anytime one reads them.
Building A Free India – Defining Speeches of Our Independence Movement that Shaped the Nation by Rakesh Batabyal is just the book you needed to read as India celebrates her 75th year of its independence. It is a thought-provoking assemblage of solicitous speeches delivered by some of the most prominent Indian personalities.
Many of these men and women have made invaluable contributions to India’s coming together as a nation of people and are the pride and honour of the sub-continent. These are people who impacted the lives around them. Their words were the gems that had the power to evoke courage and emotion in countless people and inspire them to make history.
Rakesh Batabyal teaches history, theory, and philosophy of media at the Centre for Media Studies, Jawaharlal Nehru University. His The Penguin Book of Modern Indian Speeches is widely accepted as an important work in the genre. He is working on a book on the history of nationalism in India.
Says the blurb: “The new public sphere that emerged in nineteenth- and early-twentieth-century India was a space that enabled magnificent public oratory, particularly that which mounted a challenge to colonial rule. From social and political platforms like the Indian National Congress, in the courts of law, or inside legislative bodies, leaders of the freedom struggle gave eloquent and clear-eyed articulations of not only the social, economic, and political problems that faced India and their possible solutions but also the kind of sovereign nation we must collectively aspire to be. India’s democratic ethos was a product of these foundational ideas of the freedom movement.”
Building a Free India brings together these landmark speeches delivered over roughly a century by the leading lights of the national movement—from Dadabhai Naoroji, Surendranath Banerjee, Bhikaiji Cama, Lajpat Rai, and Tilak, to Gandhi, Nehru, Ambedkar, Bose, Sarojini Naidu, and Maulana Azad—as well as a range of lesser-known but equally remarkable figures.
Writes Batabyal in the book: “As the movement progressed—from the economic critique of colonial rule by the early nationalists to the unequivocal demand for Purna Swaraj[1] and the immense moral authority of the Mahatma Gandhi-led resistance—the notion of an equal society that ensured dignity to all—irrespective of caste, class, gender or religion—came to occupy a central place in it. By the time the Constituent Assembly met in December 1946, not just civil rights, but the particular rights of women, of minorities, of the Depressed Classes, and the Adivasis were being articulated and demanded, not as favours but as a matter of course.” As the editor of this volume writes in his brilliant introduction, the effect of the speeches delivered by the leaders of our national movement was to focus “political action towards scripting an ennobling nationalism that would give us a just and equal society”.
A couple of speeches in the book are captivating. This one by India’s philosopher-President Dr Sarvepalli Radhakrishnan on India’s history and legends reads: “Our pledge tells us that this ancient land shall attain her rightful and honored place. We take pride in the antiquity of this land for it is a land which has seen nearly four or five millenniums of history. It has passed through many vicissitudes and at the moment it stands, still responding to the thrill of the same great ideal. Civilization is a thing of the spirit; it is not something external, solid, and mechanical. It is the dream in the people’s hearts. It is the inward aspiration of the people’s souls. It is the imaginative interpretation of human life and the perception of the mystery of human existence. That is what civilization actually stands for.
‘We should bear in mind these great ideals which have been transmitted to us across the ages. In this great time of our history, we should bear ourselves humbly before God, brace ourselves for this supreme task that is confronting us and conduct ourselves in a manner that is worthy of the ageless spirit of India. If we do so, I have no doubt that; the future of this land will be as great as its once glorious past.’
Painstakingly divided into six chapters, each section in the 300-plus page veers around freedom and that itself makes the collection unique. What’s more Batabyal provides a context to every single discourse.
On his way to Noakhali and in the face of the large-scale massacre, to the question ‘Will Partition Change Us Forever?’ Mahatma Gandhi replied: “I have seen more of history than anyone of you, and I tell you that I have known Hindu boys who called Muslims ‘uncle’. Hindus and Muslims used to participate in each other’s festivals and other auspicious occasions. You want to force me to leave this place but you should know that I have never submitted to force. It is contrary to my nature. You can obstruct my work, even kill me. I won’t invoke the help of the police. You can prevent me from leaving this house, but what is the use of your dubbing me an enemy of the Hindus? I will not accept the label. To make me quit, you have to convince me that I have made a mistake in coming here.”
This and many such defining speeches make the collection truly exceptional. The book is not only a priceless history of India’s freedom movement but also of the ideas of universal equality, dignity, and justice that are—and must always remain—at the root of any democracy. The assortment of some sixty communicative moments of oratory would provide the reader with a fresh perspective and evoke feelings of patriotism, motivation, and infinite stimulus.
Bhaskar Parichha is a journalist and author of Unbiased, No Strings Attached: Writings on Odisha and Biju Patnaik – A Political Biography. He lives in Bhubaneswar and writes bilingually. Besides writing for newspapers, he also reviews books on various media platforms.
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