Strange Remembrance and Memory's Grief
When I remember my grandfather's stories of childhood, his words form shapes, colours and memories in my mind like ancient history. He was only a teenager when he landed upon the soils of West Bengal. He was an alien here, he belonged to the East. His home where he came from wasn't home anymore. He needed a new home, the government said so. His father was a priest, mother known in town, and their house had a lawn and his school had strict masters. He was the oldest of many. He appeared at his relative's home after the Partition, studied by night, worked by day, brought all his family, one by one, and shared his fruits fruitfully among all till he finally met my grandmother and bore his fruits sweeter. When I think of my grandmother's stories of childhood, they remind me of nothing. No acquaintance, no remembrance. Does she make it so purposely? Is she devoid of memories? Or does she find no vocab to remember? Her childhood had been struck with poverty and a very early ...
