The other day, going through an old album, I came across a faded photograph of my grandparents: a grandfather I had never seen, and my grandmother , a formidable lady who survived the loss of her husband and home in what is now Bangladesh, to carve out a new identity for herself and her children in newly independent India. Having reached a point in life when the past has become as important as the future, the photograph seems to have become more meaningful to me.
Looking at it with a vision that was perhaps more perceptive, I wondered about the two people I saw. I had read my grandfather's diaries- a record of the turbulent times he had lived and died in . The yellowed brittle pages, covered with spidery Bengali writing expressed the pain and anxiety of a man with an uncertain future. The world he had known had been changing rapidly- his skills as a naib of a zamindar were no longer needed, and the very land he had administered for so long had become hostile.He and his family were caught in the backlash that ruined thousands of lives in the aftermath of the partition of India. Death put an end to his troubles.
My grandmother did not maintain a diary. Perhaps she did not have the luxury of enough free time. Her pain was never expressed, her anxiety never conveyed to her grandchildren whom she lived to see. Her husband's death left her with nine children, none of whom were financially independent yet. In spite of the difficulties she faced, she managed to educate her children and ensure that each one became well established in life. I remember her as a slight, white clad old lady with an indomitable will and tenacity of purpose. With the brashness of youth , I never appreciated her abilities or the strength of her character. She had never had any formal schooling and could not converse in English. We had nothing much in common. It was only after her death that I learnt to respect her strength. Today as I look back I wonder what my life would have been had she not taken the pains to educate my father.
There she was, in the photograph, a remarkable woman who had taken on life, and won ,but at a great cost. I dream of writing the story of her life......someday.
