My grandfather was a rebel who married my grandmother against the wishes of his parents and moved away from his family to Burma in his early 20s. It wasn’t a love marriage … he just decided he would marry only her. She was in her late teens. He tried his hand at various jobs and settled in one with the railways there under the British Raj. He was in a position of some influence because he lived in a good house, owned some cows and was ‘respected’ by locals too.
When the war began and people were asked to leave, he went
to the local store and exchanged the cows for some boxes of condensed milk that
would see his family through the journey of about 4 weeks across the border.
This was probably one of the smartest things he did in his life.
Then they got together whatever little they could and left
on foot …they –my grandfather, grandmother and five little children – two daughters
and three sons – my father being 8 years old then and the youngest brother
around 3 or younger because my grandmother carried him on her hip.
People carried some utensils, clothes and other small things
that they could, leaving behind everything else that made up their homes. The
journey was over hills and through forests, mosquito ridden, filthy from all
the defecating and strewn with dead bodies. Many people just collapsed from
disease and exhaustion. There was money – notes and coins on these bodies –
left behind by families of these dead people for the last rites. There was no
provision for cremation or burial. So the families walked on…
My dad recollected that one night when his mother had to use
the makeshift washroom, she asked my father to wait outside with the baby. As
he waited, he heard a bomb fall at a distance...he called out to his mother …and
then he saw the blast…and then a man running really fast – on just one leg –
not realizing that the other had been ripped away by that bomb ...and then he fell. I vaguely remember
him relating this scene to me once.
Drinking water was scarce along the way. One morning, my
grandfather asked the family to rest and tied two biscuit cans on a pole to
carry across his shoulder and left to get some water. He had to walk a distance
and climb up and down a hill to get to the water. The family waited – fear in
their hearts -for him to return. When he did finally, it was night and they
mixed the condensed milk with the water he brought and drank it.
When they arrived in Calcutta, they went straight to the
station like everyone else. There were people everywhere - on the platforms, on
the roofs of the trains, inside the compartments – everywhere…just wanting to go
wherever those trains could take them. My family went to Kerala. When they
arrived in Kerala, the youngest child passed away from dysentery and typhoid.
My grandfather got reinstated with the railways in Gujarat. My grandparents settled into their normal lives again and even had two more daughters.
All these men and women who saw each other and their
children through such dark times and stuck together till the end...are these not
the real love stories?
From what I’ve managed to Google up, millions of families
crossed over from Burma that fateful year. So, my father’s wasn’t one of a few.
Not that this makes the story any less important…on the contrary…
Whatever little I’ve gathered is from my mother…her
conversations with dad about this crossing over from Burma [a place dad called Pongi chao – that I am unable to find on the maps of Burma online]
to Calcutta in 1943. It is all in bits
and pieces – so not a well edited story. It is not a ‘me too’ piece either…it
is a story that I felt I had to tell. I guess it is similar to what refugees
from any war ridden country would have to relate and so will perhaps serve to
underline how sad and traumatic war is for those who ‘survive’ it.
Much of what I couldn’t fathom about my dad came from this
past, I guess - his simplicity, dislike for ostentation, strong interest and
opinions on diverse matters, his reserve, the quiet demeanor in spite of a
simmering temper, his love for his family, his fears, his strengths, his
courage, etc. RIP Dad!
Anita.
Anita.
