Sunday 16 June 2019

Write...Edit...Publish...+ IWSG : Caged Bird June 2019




In life nothing is constant but change, and I'm dealing with a whole slew of them. Some changes are expected, I'm okay with those - seasons, months, growth, the expected transitions...but not all. Especially discomfort-inducing are those changes which happen too fast and without reason, descend on me with a rush like a rockfall. But...thankfully, some changes are reversible. Storms in teacups, not much harm done to the cups or the tea. C'est la vie... the idea is to keep calm and carry on writing...at Write...Edit...Publish...  - where I’m continuing with my photo-essay spree, and it is strangely apt that someone who taught me the definitive lessons on navigating change, should be the subject of it. 

The original is way over word count, so my entry consists of a few sections only. To explain the title - the person was a posthumous child, his losses started even before birth and carried on from there.



Born into Loss



S.N. Maitra with two of his grandchildren at 18/68B Dover Lane in 1982.


Three things are indelibly associated with that time and place, and with him – the wall clock, the tobacco water-pipe, and the small radio with the wooden fascia. I asked about them years later, but they were gone by then. Sold off to the junk-dealers because the radio and clock had both stopped working. Not sure what happened to the water-pipe, maybe the scrap traders got it for the metal.

Unlike his wife, he left me nothing tangible. No childhood presents, no souvenirs, not even a book with his name signed on it. No photograph albums, fat chance! - no such luxury. There’s just one photo I have, with him, my little cousin and me together in one frame, the one above, I was nearly an adult then. But he did leave me three clearly enunciated names – Meghna, Machhpara, Faridpur. And he left me an example of how to calmly navigate change and carry immeasurable loss without disintegrating. Intangibles all. Nothing that I can quite close my fist around, but all worth holding on to.

He had a cigarette-holder too, small, jet-black with a filter incorporated, in which he occasionally smoked a brand called Capstan, one cigarette cut carefully into pieces, for reasons of economy rather than health. The family was hard up even then, even with his elder son working at a renowned architectural firm in the city. A decade back, the father had sold off his last valuable - his gold watch, in some vaguely grand, O’Henryesque gesture, to pay off the backlog of hostel fees of his adult child, without which the said child would not have been able to sit his final university exams. A whole cigarette in one sitting felt too extravagant still. 
  
Everything was eked out, cigarettes, coal, postcards. The last item he filled with XXS size handwriting, beautifully formed letters by a rocksteady hand, without a hint of a tremor, even when he was 90+. But again, I get ahead of myself, I was the recipient of those 15-p postcards in teenage, where an entire week’s worth of family news was written on less than 50 square inches. But then Bengali is a compact script, there are hardly any loops and flourishes below the line. There was a singular lack of loops and flourishes below the line in our lives then, his and mine.
  
The room had several windows, green louvred with straight, black, vertical wrought-iron rods - forbidding, cool to the touch. The ceiling was low, the floor was set a couple of steps down from the landing, the same polished red oxide as the rest of the house. The door frame was smaller, lower than the others in the regular rooms on the upper or ground floor. He was a tall man, very spare, very upright, he must have had to duck to get in. There is, of course, more to being caged than a cramped room and straight bars on a window. And one man’s cage can be his grandkid’s polestar.  
  
***

I once asked him why he didn’t show the papers of the village property and get due compensation that the uprooted from East Pakistan were given by the Indian government. His told me that there were other branches of the family still living in the property, the papers were with them, naturally. Besides, where was the chance? We didn’t really plan this move, we didn’t flee as refugees, we came here to work, to get our children educated. We just got trapped this side of the suddenly sprung-up border. There was no way to go back.
  
I don’t really know how that feels, I was born years after the Partition. But I can take a good guess.  From the rambling, many-roomed, haphazard homestead with four courtyards, built over centuries a wing at a time - to a new built, two-storey, tiny, suburban house with a courtyard the size of a hanky. From being one of the first families in a small village where everyone knew him by name to the huge anonymity of a city of millions. From the collective memories of generations rooted in the same patch of land to one where there was no memory to draw upon. No templates for living life - the old ways rapidly disappeared, the new ways were not yet devised. 
  
Sapta purush jethae manush shey maati mayer baRa – where seven generations have been brought up that land is greater than the mother.*  How to negotiate a change of citizenship in which your own birthplace, the land of your ‘seven-generational’ ancestors becomes foreign and forbidden to you? He lived nearly half his life in Dover Lane, away from his home and birthplace, both forever out of his reach. It must have been excruciating. Trapped on this side of the border. We are all trapped by our respective borders and yet we can never know the exact nature of anyone else’s struggles, regardless of how close they are to us. 

***
  
One Wednesday afternoon in April 1986, my father called me at work. Come to Dover Lane. By then my parents had moved back to Calcutta, my mother was in remission from cancer, I lived with them in their hastily-acquired new home and worked not too far from Dover Lane. 
  
I found the house fuller than usual, my father’s cousins had come by, my eldest aunt, Boropishi was there sat by his bed. She told him I had come – he opened his eyes, looked at me for a long moment but said nothing; and then shut them back again. My grandfather lay perfectly still, his face calm, the eyes shut, the bones of his jaw and chin very prominent, his lips thinned as if some invisible internal force was sucking them in.
  
Shortly after, he sighed  - a long drawn out, rasping groan. The usual rituals were observed, a drop of Gangajal was touched to the mouth. My father checked for a heartbeat and could not find one. The neighbours, who happened to be doctors and had treated him for years, were called in and medically confirmed the death.
  
There was no last minute rushing in and out of hospitals, no last words, no mortal agony – just a peaceful departure. One minute he was there, the next he was not. My grandfather died with the same quiet dignity with which he had conducted himself all his life.  The cage had finally broken and the captive had gone free.



WC 1075
FCA


*A line from a famous Tagore poem called Dui Bigha Jomi (Two Bighas of Land)



Read the other entries here -




48 comments:

  1. Emotive and beautiful. Free at last, and leaving with the same dignity he conducted his life in.
    This phrase in particular 'one man’s cage can be his grandkid’s polestar' will stay with me, and I expect to think on and about it for some time. Thank you..

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    1. His entire generation was stoic with a stoicism that makes every succeeding generation of Indians look like snowflakes in comparison. Glad you enjoyed it, EC.

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  2. Hari OM
    This is a treasure... YAM xx

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    1. Thanks for reading! And hope you are fully recovered now.

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  3. Like how you compared the cage through another's eyes. Each have their own and sometimes we don't understand, but all break free in the end. Going out the same as one lived is the best way too.

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    1. That is so true that one way or another we all break free in the end. Thanks.

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  4. That was beautifully written Nila. I imagine the full writing is much more intriguing. I loved the simplicity of this, and the love was painted in so intimately. Using societal norms as a cage was an imaginative use of the prompt.

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    1. The full length is more than triple the wordcount so..yeah, not appropriate for WEP :) thanks for reading Donna!

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  5. You write so beautifully!
    The line ... how to calmly navigate change and carry immeasurable loss without disintegrating ... says so very much in so few words.
    I'm glad to have shared your memories of a remarkable man

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    1. Thank you. My grandfather was very typical of his generation. A no fuss, no tantrum lot.

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  6. As always, Nila, a beautifully written tribute to a great man, not in the world' eyes, perhaps, but in his family's eyes. Why else the value placed on simple trinkets? Things to remember him by. A peaceful departure is the best hope for each of us. Imaginative use of the prompt.

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    1. Yes, Denise, only in his grandchildrens' eyes. I wish his kind of death for everyone of my loved ones, the most peaceful, painless and nonfussy exit possible.

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  7. This essay reminds me of my own grandfather. He is long gone, alas, but I still remember him, one of the best and most kind persons I've known. Wonderful post!

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    1. Thanks Olga, I'm so pleased it reminded you of your grandfather - the best praise the essay could have got.

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  8. Lessons learned through a person that had purpose. I had two grandfathers. My dad's father taught me how to appreciate love and the emotions. He cared deeply for me and I could feel his emotions toward me. My second grandfather taught me discover who I was and to step up to the plate and to hold my head up with dignity.
    All these are things that are intangible and priceless. You can never buy them.
    Thanks for sharing your flash.
    Shalom aleichem,
    Pat G

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    1. Both my grandfathers were among my first teachers. They both taught me to value my heritage too. So true about these being things you can't put a price on. Thank you for sharing your memories here.

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  9. What a lovely tribute to your grandfather, well written and a great take on on the prompt.

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  10. quite a story and I can picture his dignity in life and death. I did like the description of writing all the news on a tiny postcard. Frugality personified. Perfect!

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    1. He was a great correspondent. I love the internet - my entire world is so much wider because of it. The only regret is that it's killed off hand written letters, something I used to love sending and receiving. Thanks so much for being here.

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  11. Hi Nila - beautifully written and so evocative of your times ... I can feel some of 'signs of the times' - your times with the Partition ... that must have been so so desperate and then to realise they could move around freely to visit family and friends the other side. A really great story of your grand father - he was caged ... in many ways - yet he lived long ... so well told - thank you - cheers Hilary

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    1. The borders opened up only after years, unfortunately my grandfather never was able to see his village again. I feel awful about that. For about ten years now there has been a rail link established from Kolkata to Dhaka and people can take the train back to the village...like he used to...but not in time for him, sadly. Thanks for reading.

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  12. I also learned much from my mother's father, a cowboy, hard-working yet filled with song and love of all things wild. What a stunning memoir of your grandfather and what he mean to you hinted at in those detailed descriptions of his possessions and his inner life. I don't see him as quite caged, though, for his heart seems too large for a cage.

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    1. That's so beautiful you learnt to love nature from your grandfather, that's an amazing legacy to have. Thanks for sharing that memory here.

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  13. A emotional tale that spans generations, and how random geographical borders can change their life. Along with having some impressive descriptions. Well done.

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    1. Borders can change lives indeed. Right down to present times. Thanks for reading and the feedback.

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  14. Your writing here is lovely and heartbreaking. I love how you wove this tale. Borders can indeed be cages, and so many people find themselves trapped by them. Wonderfully done!

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    1. Thanks, Laura. Borders are cages for rather a lot of people round the world at the mo. Saddening.

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  15. Extremely evocative Nila! You brought alive the house in Kolkata and the belongings of an older man of that generation. Heartbreaking.

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    1. Thank you Kalpana. Just a random fact - my eldest aunt was called Kalpana too :)

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  16. I hope my passing can be as peaceful as you describe his.

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    1. Yes, I wish that for all of my family and friends - a painless and dignified exit.

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  17. A real and tragic cage well described. This personal piece puts a human face to Partition. I only knew the basic cold facts. Many thanks for shedding some light with your emotive words.

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    1. History remains a set of impersonal facts till one looks into the individual lives affected by it. Thanks for reading and your warm words.

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  18. "the land of your ‘seven-generational’ ancestors becomes foreign and forbidden to you"

    That's a line I can understand. That's what it's most like to be a Native American. The land of your ancestors isn't yours. There's no where that you technically belong. A place that has stood for 100 years is historic, a place that has been there for thousands of years isn't.

    You've written a good description of a hard life. Thanks for sharing.

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    1. Yes, standing on ancestral lands is a primal need for people, it pegs their exact places in the world. Only the uprooted and dispossessed or those who have seen it very closely can appreciate the trauma that a lack of access causes. Thank you for reading.

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  19. A well written account of your life with your grandfather. He died the way many of us hope to go. You're blessed to have known him.
    Nancy

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    1. Thank you. Indeed he was and is a blessing in my life, and also in the lives of his other grandchildren who knew him.

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  20. A lovely piece with a peaceful ending and so full of emotions.

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  21. Interesting how a few things we leave behind can lead to such a great post. Great work!

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    1. The smallest things are the ones that make the greatest memories, I find. Thanks for reading.

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  22. Beautiful. You really gave me a feeling for your grandfather, and for that awareness that you never asked all the questions you should have when you had the chance (do any of us?).

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    1. Yeah, half the questions never occur to me in time. Thank you.

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  23. How beautiful, Nila. You've paid a great tribute to this man.

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