I have always known memory becomes an act of rebellion, an act of resistance, refusing to be forgotten-but somehow today, remembering does not feel the same. In the past several days, we have witnessed nothing short of history. History has been rewritten, narratives have shifted, sides are taken, old scars have come to surface; words of Sahir Ludhianvi, Manto and Mahmoud Darwish echo once more. Simultaneously, people’s sentiments are divided between overarching feelings of fear, resilience, grief, pride, powerlessness and freedom, all at the same time. Each contradicting the other. Not too long ago, a trail of nostalgia was carried and kept alive in the generous exchange of songs, films, writings and stories on shared history and heritage across both sides of the border. An act of giving and returning love from a distance-most of all for the ones who quietly reminisced the days before 1947, lingering somewhere in memory, pondering over what could have been had events played out differently. And yet, moments in hand leave a bitter aftertaste of memory today. Perhaps, a dying nostalgia for the older days.
A place that once poured an abundance of love and endearment into every cup, despite its turbulent history, now suffocates in the torment of war where even an ounce of empathy seems hard to find. Tragically, the desire to romanticize or the urge to feel a certain kind of ‘nostalgia’ silently crumbles down into an illusion, not knowing what to feel-a dilemma for those who could never fully deal with the past of the fractured nations and fail to make sense of their present fate today, too. The nostalgia slowly fades in the pangs of war heard across the borders-lost in the hostile moments of shared animosity, war drums, furious glances, unparalleled rage, broken promises and being trapped in a constant state of hurling hatred toward each other while families bury their dear ones.
During the years, I have shared immense love for relearning history around Partition through lost narratives and personal stories after knowing about the distortion of truth in history, as written in textbooks, innocently studied across time and generations. Nevertheless, what has always pushed us to remember, relearn and redefine these stories was our connection with India. Our generation had never known India in the same regard, our grandparents did. But we tried. We crafted a truly heartfelt bond beyond borders, a bond of nostalgia and fondness that brought us together on accounts of shared past, culture, food, traditions and above all, silent love. It would be almost surreal to imagine what it would be like to visit the far side of the border for a day, knowing that it would not feel too different. But in the days gone by, one comes to realize there might be a difference. Even if it was not the case before, it certainly is now.
Seventy-seven years into the journey of Independence, the Pak-Ind War sets an apt example of how the monopoly of war mongers, fascism and fundamentalists largely enjoys its Independence behind the backdrop of Modi’s politics
‘But love isn’t real when only one side shows up with flowers and the other with fire’, I read this somewhere on the internet a few days ago. I don’t know whether this love is real or not, but it’s really not fair.
Seventy-seven years into the journey of Independence, the Pak-Ind War sets an apt example of how the monopoly of war mongers, fascism and fundamentalists largely enjoys its Independence behind the backdrop of Modi’s politics. Around this time, the dominant BJP (Bharatiya Janata Party) strategically weaponized both land and waterways to advance their agenda, followed by bombing civilians and destroying bases. It strives for nationalist terrorism which feeds on brutality, destruction and casualty of lives, homes, dreams and above all, the truth.
With a heavy heart, truly startling was the constant rounds of laughter, applause and celebrations from the Indian side. In spite of constant appeals for dialogue, history will testify that Pakistan did side with peace and resilience this time. We knew what was coming. Sadly, nothing could put a halt to the crisis. Present circumstances at hand, one can learn that war only operates by the will of those who directly benefit from it. Dominant institutions like media are carefully exploited to manipulate narratives in the favor of the powerful, at the cost of civilians who are left to suffer from the death of their loved ones, dear families along with distant friends, bonds that once felt inseparable-all dislocated and displaced as fragments of memory lying all over the place. In times of hostilities, one must question their leaders, their state, their media, their people and above everything else, their conscience.
Deep inside, one now knows this love comes with its own share of bitterness. A love that knows discomfort and uncertainty.
The undeniable truth is that thinking of India would not feel the same anymore. Sipping chai in the evenings, listening to old ghazals and Bollywood songs, knowing our nation and the art that it creates, is rather banned, that we are not desired to be seen or known, would not possibly feel the same. The memory box of childhood filled with migrant stories from grandparents, their handwritten letters, old photographs, collection of old Bollywood movie CDs, greeting cards, favorite Jagjit ghazals that made their nights feel a bit longer than usual, shared traditions like Basant, kites soaring up in the skies, their threads stretching from the hands of both Muslim and Hindu children; the good old days would fall short to give solace and for that matter, redeem ourselves, a significant part that we have lost today, on opposing ends of the border. The past that we once yearned to witness, the life-stories of our forefathers we desperately wished to be a part of, the side of history we wished to experience, all would not feel the same now. A boat of memories sailing down deeper and further, as time passes.
Perhaps, we can call this a dilemma of the two rivers that run side by side, but never meet. Where it aches to remember, and it aches to forget.
Closing with the heartfelt words of Jennifer S. Cheng,
I don’t have any poetry these days. Language is too slack; I lose hold of it. I am either gripping my fingers too tightly or too loosely; I can either hold everything in my hand or nothing at all; the universe is either gathered or it is terrifyingly dispersed. – So We Must Meet Apart
The writer is a freelance columnist.