Memories of a glorious past -I (Bardhaman)

This kerosene stove is an antique piece. Made of brass, if polished well, it gives a shine that can put gold to shame. But then, I am not the kind who loves flashy stuff. So I won't polish it.

Ma brought it down from the attic and shared her memories with me. But my mind was elsewhere. It was on it's own trip. It took me back to the year 1948.

A little boy, hair neatly oiled and parted, dressed in a modest half-shirt and a half pant is following his grandmother. The woman is unnaturally tall for her gender. Blessed with a dusky complexion, she has an imposing presence. No one dares to question her or ask her a question, twice.

The woman holds a big potli in her hand and with the other she leads her four-year-old grandson. They walk through the dark bylanes of Bardhaman. There were no streetlights then. A harricane was all you had to show the path.

Radharani did not need a harricane. Her sharp eyes and her instinct was enough to guide her through the dark.

They reached a spot beside a huge pond. Bricks had been dumped there. Bags of cement lined the area. Construction had already begun.

Setting the bag down, Radharani, the matriarch lit a kupi (an oil lamp). The child broke free of his grandmother's clutches and ran to the newly built wall. The tiny hands felt the bricks, one by one. He tapped his little fingers on every brick, rested his ears against them and listened to the sound that emanated. Stretching his limbs, he pressed his body against the newly built wall and breathed in. Something got into his nose and he let out a loud sneeze.

Radharani sat watching her younger grandson. A giggle escaped.

The boy turned around and blushed. He ran into his grandmother's arms and hid his face in her pallu. She massaged his thin arms. The little baby who was born at eight months was her constant companion, now!

After a while, she realised that the boy had fallen asleep. She spread the blanket on the ground and made a bed for him. Lifting him gently, she laid him down on the makeshift bed.

It was late when the child woke up. He saw his grandmother cooking on the stove. The stove was special. Every morning, Thakuma made puffed rice on this very stove and sold the packets to earn a livelihood. Every night the same stove was lit to prepare a meal for the two.

Every night, they trudged through the darkness to reach Hatipukur where his father was building a house.

Every night, Dilip, the little boy would count the number of bricks that had been set. He would measure the length of the wall, trying to gauge the progress made that day.

Every night, he would lie beneath the star-studded sky and mutter to his half-asleep grandmother

'R kota din, Thakuma.' (Few more days to go, grandmother).

Every morning when he refused to leave the place, Thakuma would utter the same words. 'Few more days.'

Few more days for the house to be complete. Few more days for their ordeal to end. Few more days for a new chapter to begin.

Radharani Sen is my great grandmother. Dilip Sen is my father. This stove is a witness to the struggle my father, grandfather, grandmother and my great-grandmother endured.

We wouldn't have been here had it not been for them.

Every night, I hug the stove to the astonishement of my children. They laugh. I cry.

I tell them. 'This is my root. This is how we began. How can I ever forget that!'