Why my grandfather refused to turn into a citizen of India

Partition had drawn a line thru homesteads and assets. (Illustration: Suvajit Dey)

The passport is crimson, no longer the acquainted inky-blue. Inside, on a yellowing web page, the {photograph} of a boy, fresh-faced and unrecognisable: my father. On its quilt, beneath the insignia of the Ashoka Chakra is written: “India-Pakistan passport (east zone)”. That hyphen is peculiar. It isn’t rather barbed cord between antagonist international locations, being on a report supposed to lend a hand hop borders. I consider it as a narrowing trail, one my father and his brothers took ceaselessly within the years following 1947, from an outdated nation to new, from India to East Pakistan — and again. Till they may do not more.

As within the north, so within the east. Partition had drawn a line thru homesteads and assets. My grandfather remained at the different aspect in Mongolpur village, Sylhet, adamantly rooted to the land of his delivery. The sons, a few of whom had travelled a couple of hundred kilometres to seek out paintings within the tea estates constructed by means of the British, all at once discovered themselves out of the country, with other destinies. Even after Partition, it was once imaginable to go back and forth thru the ones checkposts with some bureaucracy. In the early 1950s, the primary of those passports started to be issued — congealing an older, fluid cartography, turning desh and tribal homelands into countries, and even hostile provinces.

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Before the July 1947 referendum which awarded it to Pakistan, the populous Sylhet department, well-known for its tea gardens, was once part of Assam. In the run-up to the referendum, Assam’s leaders, cautious of Bengali dominance, had made it amply transparent: colonial ambitions of larger income within the 19th century would possibly have led the British to glue the Bengali-majority department to Assam, however they have been satisfied to peer it parcelled off. Most of it was once, excluding the fragment of the Barak Valley. Today, its edge, the city of Karimganj, in whose slushy fields my father performed soccer barefeet, dips its feet into the Kushiara river. Across the waters, lies Sylhet.

But the theory of a brand new country, of citizenship, is an upstart in comparison to the stubbornness of outdated ties. And so, my father and his brothers returned ceaselessly, to fulfill their father and circle of relatives, many unconvinced of the want to transplant themselves — although waves of Hindu-Muslim riots persisted to ship Hindus around the border.

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Off they’d pass, at the teach to Pakistan. To Mahisasan, the railway station at the Indian aspect, after which over to Latu, cheek-by-jowl, however a international land. These journeys petered off by means of 1959. When the sons would no longer go back, the daddy came to visit — on a Pakistani passport. On his ultimate seek advice from to Karimganj, my grandfather grew apprehensive about returning, at the same time as he was once surrounded by means of his youngsters. He walked off to the rail station, impatient to board a teach house. He was once in panic: “I don’t wish to keep right here. I don’t wish to die right here.” He made it again. He didn’t need to die on international soil.

That soil become house to his sons, no less than considered one of whom — a police officer in Ayub Khan’s East Pakistan — came to visit to the view that it was once not protected to stick on. One night time in 1967, he arrived on the Ali Nagar tea lawn, herded his brother’s circle of relatives, became at the radio and the sunshine of their quarters — and walked off into the darkness, all of the method to India.

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For a folks knotted up in an excellent quantity of historical past, I heard none of those tales rising up. No nostalgia for a misplaced place of origin on the dinner desk. No craving for folks left in the back of. No poring over the paraphernalia of Partition. A folks in denial, able to transport on, refusing the dangers of reminiscence. My father had made his method to the hills of Shillong, the place he discovered paintings and made a house. The hill station introduced the neighborhood an come upon with modernity, but in addition the poetry of its dripping pines and bewitching skies. If the promise of citizenship, stamped in that passport, might be fulfilled, for sure it was once on this the city of dreamy mists?

The Shillong I grew up in was once a much more divided the city. As youngsters, we absorbed the reality of our landlessness, it hobbled our sure-footedness on the ones streets. In a couple of many years, the Bengali (in addition to the Bihari, and the Nepali) had turn into the undesirable dkhar in a tribal land — gotten smaller by means of muggings, riots and the understanding that there can be no report, nor justice for the violence we skilled. It drove us to chop our losses and leave, and ready my oldsters’ era for a moment exodus.
At least, ekhane aamra second-class citizen na (At least, we don’t seem to be second-class voters right here).” In tiny residences in smoky Calcutta, the place many elders of the neighborhood scattered, I heard this ceaselessly from bewildered aunts and uncles, now and again shocked into anxiousness and despair by means of the yawning loneliness of a giant town, by means of the lack of buddies, by means of the shortcoming to strike root, once more.

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The crimson passport became up, due to a cousin who had preserved it, after I started pestering my father for historic paperwork — what may we provide on the altar of the National Register of Citizens (NRC)? As the Assam NRC dredged up questions of who belongs to those frontier lands, and because the northeastern states erupt in anger concerning the Citizenship (Amendment) Act (CAA), I questioned: what was once 1947 — independence or betrayal? The CAA is an illusionist’s hoodwink — many years since Independence, thousands and thousands of Hindus persecuted for his or her faith in what’s now Bangladesh have discovered safe haven in India, for higher or worse. That is the historical past of West Bengal’s reshaping after 1971. That is the historical past of my circle of relatives, a few of whom have thrived in India, a few of whom have struggled.

Despite years of relative peace and amity, the prevailing turmoil threatens to deliver us again to the chasm between “safe haven” and “refugee”, particularly for the Bengalis within the Northeast, whose presence has been contested in in large part tribal lands. To many, we have been the offending individuals who stood in for the savarna countryside that militarised the area — although our historical past, too, is of displacement and loss, of being minorities disregarded as Bangladeshis. For the Assamese and indigenous peoples combating towards the CAA, the suspicion of the Bengali and recollections of the language riots have no longer waned. For the liberal left, we’re a neighborhood of savarna Hindus, to confess whose previous violations upsets too many equations. The Hindu right-wing recognizes the injuries. But, as their imploding calculations in Assam display, they provide a myth within the guise of reparation: Give me your trauma, and I will be able to give you extra hate to quench your anger. Unfortunately, many Hindu Bengalis, together with the ones in my circle of relatives, settle for this discount.

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While looking at the fierce, non-communal protests in Assam towards the CAA, I had felt the envy of the exiled: what if we had a land to struggle for? Would belonging be extra positive, since human dignity is outlined by means of territory? But, no. The promise of citizenship was once made even to these with none floor underneath their toes, whether or not Hindu, Muslim, Sikh, Christian or Buddhist. It was once no longer a pledge at all times redeemed in complete measure, shot with betrayals and compromise, but it surely was once the most efficient guess we had towards historical past.

In Bengaluru, a long way clear of the roiled northeast, my father possibilities upon a newspaper file on residences seeking to clear out “unlawful Bangladeshis” from the employees. How do they know? Those who say, “aami kheyechi (I’ve eaten)” are kosher, those that say “aami khaisi” don’t seem to be. He appears up, a speaker of the ones offending dialects. A wry snigger. “Amraar aar ufaay nai (We are carried out for).”

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