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The Old Bridge

This is the old bridge now. It was built at the time when Pakistan divided from India in 1947. It has distant memories, like that of a rusting tank resting in its final stage.

It used to be a big home then. There were couple of one-storey structures in the premises, forming almost a square, with boundary wall along east and west edges with a huge main gate due east. The inside of the square, which had been bunker sometime in late 1971, had a deep well and a high coconut tree. It used to be patio; memories of luncheon, preparing colour water for Holi festival, bathing with the water from the well and playing around are as vivid as the fading horn of locomotive on the other side of the border. How impatiently would I look out of the small window for the only ice-cream seller making signs of his arrival on his rickshaw with popular music.

I didn't feel present hustle in those days. I used to think life was so dull. Fifteen years back I took its peaceful and calm environment for monotony.

Neither that big home nor the atmosphere exists today.

I was a little kid of about 6. Father and I had arrived with toys for my younger sister. My loving Nanaji (mother's father), Naniji (late grandma), MausiAunty (late younger sister to my mother) Mamaji (late younger brother to my mother) and PanditMama (grandpa's employee) settled there after the war between East and West Pakistan got over in December 1971.

There used to be a kind gentleman who used to take me on his bicycle near Bangladesh border. There were sparses of gram plantation around that area. I was a lovable boy amongst his friends who were Border Security Forces (BSFs) stationed along the border. I used to carry few of those plants on my way back home, and kids on the street would come in our way to run off with few they could get hold of.
Early mornings I would go with PanditMama to pluck flowers for Puja offerings. Once, I even made myself partially black while I sat on top of a coal heap on his pushcart.

A little further away, behind the home, is Jamuna River. Though it has grown dirtier now the fond memories of playing in the river with PanditMama couldn't hold me from jumping into it again. The protection wall for abutment at this end (end nearer to the home) of the bridge has the same bricks that I saw years back. The only difference is that it has become a dumping site for the occupants nearby. Yet thank Heavens, Hili is like a small town, Jamuna is saved from pungent stench like that of Bagmati back home.

First pillar of the railing on the same end of the bridge is historic. Then, I was on top of this with Mamaji on my side. Sometime later a group of BSFs appeared on their way to barracks. When they were passing by, all of a sudden I uttered 'Shoot my Naniji.' Few saluted and marched on. That was for the rage against her for strictness and punishments.
The same bridge had once defended Indian military against illegal refugee and tighten border during the war in December 1971. It fixed hopes when its strength was doubted for their heavy tanks. It still stands there, with crumbling mid-pillar abutments and budding holes. It knows it is dying.

The recollections of Diwali then, Cinema, my anger on MausiAunty, the fair with huge bamboo structure, restaurant with a small tortoise in aquarium, local bazaar, the school, punishments for mischief; those dull things then brings me now joy like the bright blue sky.

There is this new bridge that stands today. The sky is different.

So many things died for this new bridge. Government killed the big home to make room for this new bridge. The sacrifice was inevitable. Someone had to give room for development. But that cost Nanaji a huge loss. The compensation is too low. And, all of a sudden, so many greedy foxes have come out, he is the only man in his family. This is another war.
In 1971, when the whole of Hili was evacuated, he sent rest of his family to a safer place. There were many valuables they couldn't carry. After the war got over, their return was a total dismay. So much damage had been done. Their home had been looted. There was nothing they could do about those whom they had given place for bunker and water.

With this loss of big home, we have lost a lot. Mamaji, MausiAunty and Naniji aren't amongst us. They all are gone, and only their memories are alive like the old bridge. Alas, the old bridge has to fall too.
PanditMama says he had once repaired the bridge. Today it needs no repair.