Every year Teachers Day pass by and every year I find
beautiful messages on Facebook, Social media. Every such message reminds me of
my innumerable teachers who shaped my life, thoughts and beliefs. Every year it
reminds me of the debt which I could not pay back to any of my teachers! No
words can really match their contributions.
This year circumstances are little different. Since last few
days I am overburdened with only one thought and that is about the fate of my
greatest teacher, my mother. Yes, I realized at this age that she is one of my
greatest teachers! She wasn’t highly educated, neither she has got degrees yet,
somewhere I felt her role is never the less in shaping my thought process. She
was neither a great teacher as compared to my father yet she played a silent
role in my subconscious mind. Those who are closer to me know few of my
dimensions and one of those include fascination for the martyrs who sacrificed
their lives in the British era.
In my early childhood, I used to sit for my studies in the
kitchen while my Mom cooked food for us. Probably, I used to complete my tasks
too fast to listen to her stories. Most of the time she will narrate various
incidents related to Netaji, sometimes Khudiram Bose or Binoy-Badal-Dinesh and
even Masterda Surya Sen. She repeated stories of Chittagong armoury raid and
valiant tasks done by Pritilata Waddedar. She will also narrate the story of Kanaklata
who valiantly raised our flag in a police station. She could even make me aware
of the contributions of Bhagat Singh or Chandrashekar Azad. She might not be
that elaborate on facts but such repeated stories have indirectly imbibed
patriotic feelings at the depth of my heart.
Often she will make me realise how these fighters were tortured and also
about the existence of Cellular Jail at Andaman Nicobar.
Apart from these she will also tell me the sorrows caused
due to Bengal partition at the time of independence and how lakhs of people
left their properties and homes in Bangladesh and came to India. Many could not
just stay back realizing the fact that they no more belong to India while many
left just to safeguard their daughters and ladies in their families. Most of
these families had to start a new life altogether. We all know this and there
is no point repeating the words and reminding the black days. Every time she
will tell that these martyrs never thought about the division and every time
Netaji and Masterda spoke of United India only.
There was a sense of repentance in her mind always about her
childhood and her growing up almost as an orphan without her parents most of
the time. Their whole family was scattered those days and she had to spend her
early childhood with her paternal aunt in an interior village in Tripura. From
there she shifted to Assam when their family got partially united before the
China war.
Now, she is an old lady in her seventies waiting to be
lifted by God (as she says). Although she somehow spent her life without many
expectations she is now facing the greatest crisis of her life. She has lost
her identity, she has not been counted as an Indian in the recent development
in Assam.
On this Teachers Day, I decided to write on my life’s teacher
who gave me the sense of patriotism (whatever little I possess), who made me
realise the contributions of innumerable martyrs for the freedom of our country
has now questionable future.
Who knows
she might be having sleepless nights counting unknown consequences in the
coming days! Yet I am learning from her, how brave one should be to face the
reality of this unknown life.
