Rangoon Reminiscence

A frequent reminiscence of my maternal grandmother, 'Didima', paints an everlasting image of a lady who was more energetic than her grandchildren. The vim with which she executed household chores amazed us! As young kids, my sister and I counted the days for our Summer break to be with our maternal grandparents. It seemed so festive; most of my cousins would also visit them around the same time, setting the stage up for a melange of happy faces, fun and frolic,infused with liberal doses of humor; arising mostly out of amusement watching Didima scurrying around the house. Everything worked to clockwork timing in that house. Retired as a Wing Commander from the Indian Air force, my grandfather was a stickler for time and I could write quite at length about his punctuality, but I shall keep that for another day. Didima performed a range of activities through the day, from serving us meals to ensuring that the part timer cleaned every corner of the house, while she followed the victim of her suspicion around the house with precision. Once her vision enabled her to swipe out two peeled onions that were tucked firmly into the folds of the maid's saree as she sat down to grind spices for our meal. While the maid had to be content with less onions in her curry that day, Didima's epic discovery remained etched in our minds. Shuttling between the pantry and the dining table while serving meals, she would pause in front of us briefly with her usual refrain, "I'll be back in two shakes of a duck's tail!" She would always be the last one to eat her meals, owing partly to tradition and partly to her discomfort in using her dentures to eat. Dressed in a crisp red bordered cotton saree, her hair tied in a neat bun, she would complete the ensemble with a giant red dot on her forehead. She took us out to the parks in the evenings. As she stepped out of the gate, she would ensure that she had her dentures in place , just in case a neighbour's greeting necessitated a polite response. Her day began at 4 a.m every morning. She would run her fingers on our backs at bedtime and share reflections of her childhood in Rangoon. Born on 21st August, 1925, Didima was christened as Biva (Vibha) meaning ' cosmic light'.Her father, Rebati Raman Ghosh, was an Indian civil servant posted in Rangoon.The large Indian population in Burma was a legacy of the British empire. Burma had become a part of the British Indian dominion in 1895.She had eight siblings. Her recollections of Rangoon lent prismatic hues to our understanding of its landscape and culture. She grew up and attended primary and middle school in Rangoon. Burmese or 'Ba- maa - sa' was part of her curriculum. In Burma, they enjoyed prolonged monsoons and short dry spells of winter. The countryside was a tapestry of crop fields, mountains and rivers but the town had a curious blend of parks, lakes, pagodas and colonial structures. She would count from 1-10 in Ba-maa-sa and recite rhymes to entertain us. 'Minglaba!' ( Hello!) sounded so sweet in her voice. Then I loved the nasal sound 'thun-ya' ( derived from the Sanskrit 'Shunya')and she would continue, " tiet, hni..."(one, two). Her rare ability to learn languages, helped her to speak in Punjabi, Tamil and a bit of Russian that she picked up from a visiting delegation . As children they studied about the heroic exploits of King Mingdon and Thibaw. She told us that the world's best rubies ( called 'pigeon blood ruby' ) were mined from Burma. Through her accounts, the mind captured the verdant green of the flood plains above the Irrawady delta. She informed us about the palaces and monasteries of Ava, Mandalay. She handed down the recipe of the famous Burmese 'Khow Suey' which is still a family favorite. Like the devil in a fairy tale, the Second World War brought in a retrograde flow into their idyllic life in Rangoon. Air raid precautions were taken and trenches were dug out for safety. Regular safety drills were conducted in schools and offices. The bombing of Pearl Harbor shocked the world. News came in of Britain's greatest military humiliation- the fall of Singapore. The Allied forces failed to check Japan's steady advance through Thailand. Didima described the sight of numerous airplanes hovering in the night sky, their shimmering metal and flickering lights making them appear like fireflies, the sound was akin to an approaching swarm of bees. Then Japan blitzed Rangoon on the 23rd and the 25th of December 1941,pushing the British and Indian forces further North and cutting off the Burma Road that carried vital fuel and ammunition supplies. The fanatical courage with which the Japs attacked , created mass hysteria. The Indians in Rangoon were evacuated by the British. The exodus in 1941 took place either through the Arakan pass into the Chittagong hill tracts or across the Irrawady and Chindwin rivers into Manipur. Didima's family crossed over to Comilla via Chittagong in caravans and mule columns through the inhospitable terrain and climate of the Arakan. Dysentery and Malaria were rampant in the marshy, impenetrable jungles. Yet, it was Providence that, Didima's family was safely out of Rangoon. She completed her schooling at Comilla Government Girls' High School and got married two years later in 1943, at the age of 18. My grandfather had by then, served as a young Air force cadet in Rangoon. Those were the bloodiest days in his youth when he washed his face in choked basins full of earth and blood. His family hailed from Sripur, in Chittagong. My mother was the youngest of their five children. As a couple, my maternal grandparents stood out as a shining example of love, loyalty and commitment. A few souvenirs from Burma, like a lacquered cigar case , sits on my mother's bedside table now. Trapped in it , are the misty reminiscences of Rangoon..

Acid Jars and Tiger claws - Part 2

The two worst affected states by Partition were The Punjab and Bengal. Devastating levels of violence forced government attention to The Punjab were populations were exchanged on communal lines. Bengal remained neglected resulting in prolonged identity crisis and refugee influx from East Bengal, then under the reins of a newly born Pakistan. The government seemed incapable of handling the crises and many who lived through the trauma of Partition bore acrimony towards the government's indifference towards Bengal . 

The horrific experiences of women were kept hushed by families in a bid to hold onto the remaining threads of honour and tradition. The mass scale persecution annihilated the cultural and intellectual identity of the people, it changed the social fabric and destabilized the economy . All the garbage that was dished out with the truth hardly restored harmony; the prudence of the common man brought in some stability- the willingness to move on.

 The exodus of people from East Bengal does not even figure in the list of great refugee movements. Official figures are not available to this day. The truth is that The UN today recognises smaller refugee movements like those of Bosnia Herzegovina or Rwanda and Timor. The Partition of 1947 saw the largest migration in world history. The politics of Partition can be studied in state archives and documents but these do not reveal mass sentiment and grass root experience of those uprooted and humiliated. 

I leave you with the question of whether The Partition was avoidable. After all, it is in public knowledge that it was fuelled by the desire of a politically ambitious few. The millions displaced or massacred became mere pawns in the creation of a new geo political order that is still struggling to find solutions to its border disputes .

Acid Jars and Tiger claws - Part 1

This one's a bitter pill but something that needed a vent. In the late 80's, I'd spend the afternoons lazing beside my beautiful grandmother for a post lunch chat.She would help herself to some betel leaf from her mother's brass container(which is now with me). I'd wait eagerly for her to share her memories of youth and her recollections of life in an undivided Bengal. The conversation would centre around the Partition.. I was privy to her memories, a mix of sweet and sour, mostly acrid and unpleasant. Something in me made her confide. 

My grandparents belonged to the erstwhile aristocracy of East Bengal, that was dissolved and it's people displaced with ruthless precision due to the shortsightedness of the politics of power. My grandfather's family came from Jessore, my grandmother's family was from Barisal , both in undivided Bengal. My grandmother's father was a well known lawyer in Barisal. They grew up in great abundance but with even greater humility. She recalled the house in Jessore that she stepped into as a young bride just after completing her Intermediate. It was a red bricked double storied house with French windows and black marbled floors. The property comprised crop fields,ponds,fruit orchards and horses that my great grandfather loved to ride. The produce from the fields and the catch from the ponds catered to the needs of the household and the rest was given to villagers at nominal rates.

The family performed the Durga Puja in the house and the villagers were fed the 'bhog' in makeshift tents for 5 days. 

The utopia did not last too long. The Partition of Bengal resulted in the largest exodus in recorded human history. About 8 million people were displaced and worse, it shattered all notions of identity. People were forced to live as refugees in their own country. In a bid to flee, properties were put up at distress sales. Our house in Jessore was given away for an unrealistically paltry sum of a few hundred rupees. The land, was left behind. In most cases, properties were abandoned and occupied by strangers.I was told that our family just made it through with enough to buy a house in Calcutta.My great grandfather was a gynecologist in the British Indian army. He retired as a Captain. His knowledge and resources enabled him to set up his own practice at the house he bought in Calcutta on Harish Mukherji road. 

Helping herself onto another betel leaf, grandma asked me to water the plants growing in the ceramic acid jars in our house.On being asked about these jars, her face became grim.She revealed that when the riots broke out, houses would be stocked with acid jars and women would use it to intimidate dangerous intruders. While going to school , girls would fend off molesters with the 'bagh nakh' - it was a metallic claw like weapon that was worn in the fingers and remained hidden in the palm. It could tear open the enemy in an instant. The unspeakable atrocities against women during the Partition prompted such self defence.

Grandma's Precious Pickles

Hello ! It's been an awfully long time since my last post. A bit of this and a bit of that, difficult to pull out from the web of life. However , it's so wonderful to be posting again ! It's interesting how one thought leads to another. Sometimes, in the late afternoons, I see a little girl twirling in a frock , on a terrace in a building nearby.The image transports me to my childhood in an instant.

During our pre teens, my sister and I would love the afternoons. It was a time shared by us exclusively; partaking of simple pleasures deepened our bonds. That which gave us unspeakable joy , was my grandma's home made pickles. She made quite an assortment of these with berries, mangoes , chillies and lemons. Mouthwatering ! Even the thought of it . We admired her skill. From a careful selection of the ingredients to the right time of the maturity of the pickles- her precision held us in awe. She would use a wooden bowl and spatula for mixing and sunning the pickles. The terrace was the perfect place for the pickles to mature.

So, my sister and I would wait for the family's siesta time to sneak up to the terrace and do justice to the pickles. Have you ever tasted pickles before they mature ? Dear me ! They're absolutely magical, certainly better than the finished product ; or so we'd think until we had attained maturity. I remember the berry and mango pickles were the most sought after. Big wooden bowls stuffed with pickle would be placed on straw mats to cook in the sun . The containers were covered with a thin muslin cloth. Occasionally grandma would come and stir the contents with a spatula and leave them covered again. She would bring the pickles out in the sun after breakfast and carry them back carefully just before sunset. She wasn't as possessive about her jewelry as much as her pickles !

The mellow afternoon sun gave a comfort that was only second to my mother's lap. There we were, sitting on the terrace, slowly lifting the covers over the bowls and digging our fingers into the young pickles. The burst of sweet , sour and salty flavors bathing our palettes, secrets shared in hushed tones followed by giggles, defined happiness. Ears remained propped up for the slightest sound of footsteps, for fear of being chased with anything within reach, for indulging in the sacrilege of touching young pickles ! Care had to be taken to keep the pickles and covers back with dexterity so as to avoid any suspicion . The feeling of triumph was often accompanied by a twirling of our frocks, spinning round and round, holding on to each other firmly, until the world seemed to spin around us and a tacit understanding that our secrets would remain safely guarded.

So grandma never caught us stealing a taste of the pickles. Well, if she's watching us from somewhere up in the heavens,  I admit the guilt of stealing her magical pickles and ask for her forgiveness .
I enjoyed bringing this out into the open. Twirling their frocks in the mellow sun, two sisters bonded deeply over a taste of grandma's magical pickles ...