A Nostalgic Trip

Our young guide on the road where our house used to be.  The house was at the back end of the vegetable vines behind the field on the right hand side of the road.

Our ancestral home was located where the vegetable vines are planted now, and part of the field on the right..

Jamai Hala, a large pond behind our house.  Our latrine was located at the edge of this pond, covered with green vegetation when we lived there.  Now it is a fishery.

The same road going south towards Sarail. Looks exactly the same as it did sixty three years ago.

Ullaskar Datta house in advanced state of decay.

New addition to the Ullaskar Datta house where the current owners live.

Inner courtyard of Ullaskar Datta house.  Typical of most houses in the village.

Son of the current owner of Ullaskar Datta house.  He works in Saudi Arabia, was home for vacation during Ramadan.

Movie house next to the army cantonment in Sarail-kalikaccha border.  My rented Toyota SUV is parked in front.

Road connecting Sarail to Brahmanbaria, with rice fields on both sides.

It has been over sixty two years since my family left what is now Bangladesh after the partition of India.  I was an eight year old boy then, and it was exciting to travel with the family to a new place.  Although I was told that this was a permanent move, the only thing that mattered to me at that age was having the immediate family with me.  The rest did not matter.  When we settled down in the seaside town of Puri in India, I liked our new house, new school, the sea, and everything associated with that bustling mid-size town, very different from the village we left behind.    As I grew older, I started remembering our ancestral village, the house, extended family, the trees, ponds, going places with my grandfather, my playmates, festivals, fairs, and many other things.  Surprisingly, the memories grew stronger as I grew older; the village became a nostalgic dream, a place I longed to see again.  Although I did not have any pictures, I realized that there was no need for them.  I could just close my eyes, and the village, with its entire green splendor would just appear in front of me.  I have lived in many places over the years, including Puri and Kolkata in India, New York City, small university towns of Clausthal, Germany and Rolla, Missouri, and finally Monroeville, Pennsylvania, my home for the last 33 years.  However, I have not been able to get my ancestral village Kalikaccha off of my mind.  So, when my son in law Chris accepted a teaching position in Dhaka in the fall of 2008, I realized that my dream of setting foot in my ancestral village might still come true.

In late August of 2010, during my second visit to Dhaka, Sheela, aware of my often expressed desire to visit my ancestral village, suggested that I make a day trip to the village located about 120 kilometers north east of the capital.  A rental car (a Toyota SUV) with a driver familiar with the territory was arranged.  Equipped with my camera, a lunch box prepared by Sheela, and a bottle of water, the driver and I took off in the mid-morning of August 29, in search of our ancestral home.  Sheela and Chris live away from the congested center of Dhaka, in a newer section in the north-eastern part of the city called “Baridhara”, a gated locality where many expatriates and embassies make their home.  Yet, it took us over an hour just to get through the northern edge of Dhaka using roads clogged with cycle rickshaws, buses, cars, trucks, push-carts, and pedestrians who are forced out on the street by temporary stores set up on the sidewalks.  Finally, we were on the open road, on highway AH1, connecting Dhaka with Brahmanbaria, administrative head quarter town of the district where our village was located.  Upon reaching Brahmanbaria, we took the road to Sarail, a small town adjacent to my ancestral village Kalikaccha.  Sarail seemed very different from what I remembered from my childhood days.  There was now a large army cantonment covering part of both Sarail and Kalikaccha.  The driver stopped at the gate and asked the guard if he knew where the Singharoy family house was in the village.  The soldier had no idea.  He suggested that we ask shopkeepers and customers in stalls along the side of the road.  The driver kept walking around and asking people, but no one had heard of the Singharoy family.

I was beginning to lose heart.  Finally, I remembered a famous revolutionary named Ullaskar Datta from our village, who was an expert bomb maker, and whose bomb was used in the attempted murder of a British officer during the struggle for independence.  I asked the driver to find out where Ullaskar Datta’s house was.  He walked into a tea stall where a group of men were sitting around, talking.  Soon, he walked back to the car with a bearded young man wearing a lungi and a shirt, who said his uncle now owned the house where Ullaskar’s family lived.  He said his uncle would definitely know where the Singharoys used to live.  I asked him if he had time to take us to his uncle in the village.  He said he was off from work because this was the Muslim holy month of Ramadan, so he would gladly show us around.  He got into the car and guided us onto the unpaved, dry mud road of the village, barely wide enough for the SUV.  Fortunately, it was a bright sunny day, so the road was passable.

Within a couple of minutes, we saw a rickshaw approaching from the opposite direction, with a bearded, middle-aged passenger in typical Muslim garb of pajamas, long kurta, and a white cap.  Our guide said, “There comes my uncle”.  Our car had to move slightly off the road to make room for the rickshaw which stopped next to us.  Our guide introduced me to his uncle and explained the purpose of my visit.  The Uncle told me how happy he was to see me come all the way from America to see my ancestral home.  “It must be the pull of the soil”, he said, “but unfortunately, your house is no longer there”.  He pointed to the rice field and vegetables vines next to the road, and said “that is where your house and gardens used to be.  One of your relatives by the name of Sitesh Singharoy took over the house after the departure of the rest of the family and continued to live there with his wife and children.  He sold the house to a Muslim family during Bangladesh’s struggle for freedom from Pakistan in 1971, and left.  The new owners decided to demolish the old house, so only the fields are there for you to see.  I wish I could spend more time with you and talk more, but I am late for a village council meeting.  My nephew will show you around”.

I was very disappointed to learn that the house I remembered so fondly was no longer there.  I also remembered Uncle Sitesh, the last resident in the house.  He was the son of my grandfather’s step brother, whose house was just across the courtyard from our house.  It is all green fields now.  I wanted to at least walk on the land where my grandfather’s house used to be.  Our young guide and I got off the car and walked next to the vegetable vines where the house used to be.  Walking around the corner behind the vines, we came across a large pond.  I remembered that it used to be called “Jamai hala”, and it used to be totally covered with green vegetation.  Our latrine used to be at one edge of it.  My guide was surprised that I remembered the name of the pond.  It was all cleaned up now, and he said it was used as a fishery.  Back on the road in front of the field where our house used to be, I looked around me to enjoy the lush greenery all around.  It was idyllic scenery, houses barely visible behind trees.  The road ran north-south, but it was still the same dry mud road that I had remembered all these years.  I did not see any electricity lines, so there was probably no electricity in the village, just as in the old days.  We walked about a block to the house of the revolutionary Ullaskar Datta,, now owned by my guide’s uncle.  My guide introduced me to his cousin, son of the owner, who said he works in Saudi Arabia, and was home for Ramadan.  He was typical of many Bangladeshi men who work in the middle east, and whose remittances are a large part of Bangladesh's foreign exchange reserves.  He welcomed me in to the house, which was in advanced stage of decay, not inhabitable.  The family lived in a new addition attached to the old building.  I realized that our house probably would be in a similar condition now if it was not demolished.  As we walked through the rooms of the old house on to the inner courtyard, there was a tube well, just like the one I remembered in our house.  The man said he would have liked to offer me tea and refreshments, but the family fasts all day during Ramadan.  After walking around the neighboring areas of the village for a few more minutes, the driver and I got back into the car and headed back to Dhaka.

What impressed me most about Kalikaccha was how green and peaceful it looked. Life appeared to be rather slow paced, and people were friendly.  I was disappointed by the slow pace of development.  There was some development in the neighboring town of Sarail, but not in the village.  Everything except our ancestral home was just as I remembered as a little boy many years ago.  It was nice to see the village again, but it was not a place where I could ever go back to live.  I have finally gotten over my nostalgia.