An Epic Family Trip Back to Its Roots
I never quite got why my father (aged 72) waxed eloquent about Dhaka. After all, he left when he was six years old — in 1954; how could he love a land so much that he kept himself up-to-date about what’s happening there and wove incidents from his past that should have been long forgotten, into daily family conversations.
“Come on, Baba,” I told him one day. “Let’s go and see what you’re talking about. Let’s plan a trip to Bangladesh.”
My idea was to find out what the fuss was about; our memories are often more romantic than the realities that made them. After some hemming and hawing, worrying about the apparent inconveniences it would cost us, (“I only want to see vestiges of my past. No sightseeing. You guys will get bored…”), he finally agreed.
Next, he convinced his brother, my jethu (now 83), to come along. My uncle actually grew up in Dhaka and left much later, in 1965. His children and granddaughter too were immediately enthused by the idea, and thus came into being a grand once-in-a-lifetime family trip.
Imagine this: Nine of us stuffed in a rickety Toyota HiAce, our heads swivelled to the windows; mad, swirling Dhaka-famous traffic all around, only slightly mellowed by the balmy winter weather; two wrinkled, balding brothers, oohing and aahing at every turn, shouting stories to entertain their adult children and harassing the driver with questions, excitedly stopping passersby (ignoring the groans and eye-rolls from the rest) and striking shrill conversations. We were warmly greeted and comically gaped at wherever we went and ate a double of our body weight.
The trip surpassed our wildest expectations, enabled by some clever planning (pats on our backs) and several lucky coincidences.
Here’s what happened:
Day 1: Algi Village, Madhabdi
My grandfather was born in Algi, 2 hours from Dhaka, and various members of his family have lived here on and off before the partition. We consider it our ancestral village — ‘desh’ — as many old-timers call it. It was good to call one mine, finally.
While the village itself was small, we had had little luck finding our old house. No surprises there; what had we been thinking? We had only my uncle’s hazy memory to rely on. Over sixty years had passed, and we knew none of the locals. Most people in Dhaka had not even heard of Algi village.
So, round and round we went until the driver suggested we get down to ask people. With little hope, we disembarked. My uncle caught hold of a passerby and asked if he knew of a large house — Pal-bari — which used to be a landmark in the village. Our old house was close to it.
Turns out, not only did he know the landmark, but also our family’s erstwhile neighbour, Nantu Chakraborty, now over 90 years old. Excitedly, he was presented to us, and for the next few hours, we were given a guided tour of what remained of our ancestral property, sold off and remade since. Only a few aata (custard apple) trees remained.
We were accompanied by a horde of curious and giggling villagers during our tour. Photos were clicked and invitations to visit their home flew around. We went to one too, at first to use their pukka toilet (I know, shameful), then persuaded to have a round of milky tea and Lexus biscuits with them, followed by a slideshow of the son’s wedding and honeymoon photos in a newly purchased flat-screen TV. We ultimately extracted ourselves from their fervent pleas to stay for lunch. The family, along with most of the village, dropped us back to our car.
This was going to be the first (and not the last) time we were blown by the Bangladeshi otithi porayonota. I’ve never met kinder or more hospitable people; they’d go out of their way to make us feel welcome.
Day 2: 17, Rupchand Lane and Pogose School
Puran Dhaka or Old Dhaka is a mad, mad place. Narrow winding roads, hundreds of vendors, ramshackle buses, variously loaded pushcarts, honking smoke-bellowing cars, and rampaging rickshaws vying for an inch of space. Through a friend, my father had earlier befriended Janab Md Azim Bux — the founder of Dhaka Kendro, a charitable institution — with whose help we navigated this mayhem, making our way to the narrow lanes, skirting scampering dogs and curious eyes, to find 17 Rupchand Lane. This is where my father’s family lived between 1941–1965, various members of the family leaving along the years as living conditions grew worse for the Hindus before everyone finally emigrated to India. Almost all of the original edifice has disappeared, replaced by a disappointing mish-mash of living quarters in an underwhelming building. At first, we were not sure we were at the right place at all, my uncle insisted it was, but both my father and he looked confused. While we stood at the door, wondering and debating, the current owner came down and opened the door wide. “Aashun,” he said, with a dimpled grin.
We went in and realized this indeed was the home my family lived in over fifty years ago. Shafiq kindly showed us around his house, calling on his family members to fill the blank spaces, what had happened since the house came into their hands. Where was the old well? What about the staircase to the upper floors? Wasn’t there a kitchen here and a garage there?
But memories can be painful. “Everything is destroyed,” my father told us once we were on the road again, shaking his head gravely. “And this…” he looked the building up and down with a scathing glare, “…eyesore has taken its place”, the feeling of being wronged writ all over his face. He was to say this several times over the next few days, and perhaps we would hear this for years to come.
Fortunately, what happened next, would alleviate the pain somewhat.
Located on Chittaranjan Avenue, one of the few Hindu streets in Dhaka, Pogose Laboratory School and College, was established in 1848, as the first private school of the country by the Armenian merchant Nicholas Pogose. My paternal grandfather, Manindra Chandra Bhattacharyya, served as its 12th headmaster between 1941 and 1961. When we climbed the stairs of the school, we realized it was results-day: teachers were busy filing report cards and stacking corrected papers to distribute to students. We found the principal and his teachers huddled in a room, discussing important matters I’m sure when my father knocked on the half-open door and launched into an impassioned soliloquy of how we were Manindra Chandra Bhattacharyya’s kin and would like to see the place.
What happened next was akin to a small bomb drop. “Uff Uff,” the current principal exclaimed, repeating what my father said to the gawking team of teachers behind him. Turning to us again, he herded the family out and into his a-century-and-a-half-old office.
Once all of us were respectfully seated, an animated discussion about the school followed: its history, my uncle’s student years in it, my grandfather’s two decades as its headmaster. My grandfather was a renowned academician and my heart swelled with pride when I saw his name written on the honours board and witnessed how much respect the mention of his name still brings forth and that he hasn’t been forgotten.
We had to drag my uncle out.
Day 3: Dhaka’s colourful streets
We reserved the last day to explore Dhaka’s old streets. It was crazy and full of stories. A new wonder greeted at every stall, at every corner. We took care not to eat too much and not be run over by the rampaging rickshaws. ‘Chaipa, chaipa” (roughly translated: move to one side, stick to the walls) rang all around us. We went to a cacophonic fish market to buy shutki (dried fish) and hilsa, tasted and bought a bagful of bakarkhani (a thick, spiced flatbread that is part of Bangladeshi snack culture), marvelled at the rotund onions imported from China, purchased gallons of fresh biscuits in quantities that would put a café to shame, visited Pogose’s cemetery at an Armenian Church surviving since 1851, ending finally at the Buri Ganga ghat at the southwest outskirts of Dhaka city, replete with colourful boats and bathers. Smoke, trash, spittle, marauding rickshaws, lascivious stares were heaped upon us, but we did not care. Our hearts were full. We had done everything we’d wanted to.
When the trip ended, I knew what it meant.
The tug of the motherland. The yearning to go back to the beginning of the story I am living in.
I’ll be looking at what’s happening in my country and all around the world very differently from now on.
History of the Bengal Partition
When British India gained independence in 1947, two provinces were cut up from it: Pakistan in the North West and the predominantly Muslim East Bengal (now Bangladesh) in the east, separating it from the predominantly Hindu West Bengal, which remained a part of India. The years after the partition was tumultuous, with massive population transfers from both sides, accompanied by bloody riots, rapes and killings.
At first reluctant and in denial, the Hindus finally decided to migrate from Bangladesh to West Bengal. Those who were economically better placed, particularly higher caste Hindus, left first. They often had relatives and connections in West Bengal and were able to settle with less difficulty. Like my grandparents. Most of the rest followed soon after.
Initially a part of Pakistan, East Bengal later became the independent country of Bangladesh after the 1971 Bangladesh Liberation War.
Good to know if you’re planning a trip to Dhaka
Visa: Is free for Indians but getting it is not straightforward. Only a few Indian cities process it and rules differ from city to city. Weird, I know! The best way is to get hold of a visa agent to help get one. It takes about a week to get the visa.
Flights: From Kolkata are 30 minutes long and costs between 8–10k for a return trip. Several airlines fly from Kolkata to Dhaka including Air India, Indigo, and Biman Bangla.
Stay: We stayed at Hotel 71 in Old Dhaka which was great. Most hotels and apartment stays are located in New Dhaka, particularly in Gulshan I and II.
Transport inside Dhaka: Rickshaws are best for plying short distances. An 8-hour 4-seat car hire costs 3000 Taka or 2500 INR. Traffic is killer; try travelling between 12 p.m. — 4 p.m.
Shopping: Basundhara Mall in Dhaka houses eight floors of local shops. Here you will find everything ranging from locally made saris, burkas, sherwanis, to trendy clothes on offer from local lifestyle retailers such as Aarong and Deshi Dosh. The food court on the eighth floor offers a range of cuisines from the subcontinent. New Market in Puran Dhaka is another good place to shop. To buy local fruits, produce, vegetables and fish, head over to Chawk Bazaar. Walk to Armanitola (the Armenian Street) via Becharam Dewri.
Currency: 1 INR = ~1.2 Taka. Carry dollars to convert locally. Most malls have exchange counters. Big shops and hotels accept dollars.
Best time to visit: Winter months, between Nov — Feb
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