History and Homecoming: Partition Stories and Cross-Border Memories from India and Bangladesh

• A young Bangladeshi woman and an elderly Indian woman meet in Kolkata and discover a deep connection through shared memories of Partition.
• Their conversation reveals how intergenerational stories of migration, faith and resistance continue to shape present-day identities.
• Their meeting becomes a gentle reminder to honour the stories we inherit and to carry hope across borders.

Faith Futures Collective is launching Moment Stories, a monthly series in partnership with Sohini Jana. Sohini is a development practitioner, conflict analyst, writer, and advocate for inclusion, diversity, and minority rights. She has worked with communities across borders to bring stories of hope and belonging to light.

In the Moment Stories series, Sohini shares windows into real conversations and lived histories that she has gathered over years of work in peacebuilding. These stories capture quiet moments that hold deep reflection and remind us how even small encounters can help us see the world differently.

The first story in this series, History and Homecoming: Partition Stories and Cross-Border Memories from India and Bangladesh, brings together two women from different generations and countries who find comfort and belonging in each other’s memories. It is a gentle reminder that stories can help us carry hope and honour the past as we shape the future.

Introduction

I have drawn these Moment Stories from journals I have kept over the years as I found my footing in the world of peacebuilding. This story, while fictionalised, comes from a real and tender encounter between a Bangladeshi friend of mine and my maternal grandmother. In the 1940s and 1950s, the Partition tore apart the Indian subcontinent and left deep scars. My grandmother was one of many who lost their home and childhoods to communal violence simply because of her faith. She carried with her a quiet ache for a homeland that no longer existed in the way she had known it.

Stories like hers are rarely held in the official telling of history, but they carry truths that help us understand the human cost of political choices and mass violence. This conversation between Fatimah and Dipika Chowdhury is a small attempt to bring these stories to light.

21st February 2020

“Amma…”

“Amma… dekho ke esheche tomake dekhte (look who has come to see you)!” Sukh called out.

Standing at the door of a brightly lit room, the young woman called out to her elderly grandmother.

Hunched over and squinting intently at the newspaper in her hands as if she could find clues to the future in a document recording the present for posterity, Dipika Chowdhury was immersed in a never-ending battle with her steadily failing eyesight.

She missed her granddaughter’s call the first time but jolted out of her focused exercise upon hearing it the second time.

“Sukh! You are back? When did you get home from the airport? Come here!” Dipika stretched out her hands to welcome Sukh with a hug.

Sukh nudged her friend Fatimah to accompany her as they both proceeded to the bed, where Dipika was seated.

Fatimah bent to touch Dipika’s feet. As she straightened up, Dipika realised that this was a new face and a new person.

“O Ma! Eta ke? (O ma! Who is this?)” Dipika asked, looking at Sukh.

“This is my friend Fatimah from Bangladesh, Amma. She lived for some time in the same locality as your home there.”

Dipika’s face lit up, her eyes suddenly brightened and became misty. “Bangladesh!” she sighed.

“Aaj toh Bhasha Dibosh. Ei dekho, newspaper-e porchilam Bhasha Dibosh paloner kotha. (Today is the Bhasha Diwas celebration. Look, I was reading about the celebration in the local newspaper.)”

Fatimah took her seat beside the elderly lady; her hands were already cradled in between Dipika’s ancient, frail, wrinkled palms.

Dipika continued, “We lived near the Dhakeshwari Temple in Dhaka. There was this ghetto. A few Hindu families lived there, about 20 if I remember correctly.”

“How old were you when you had to leave your home, Amma?” Fatimah enquired gently.

“Can I call you Amma too?” she added cautiously.

“Of course, you can call me Amma!” Dipika chuckled.

“We left home when I was very young. We had to move. There was communal rioting everywhere in the 1940s. I must have been barely five years old then. We stayed in different ghettos for a while and finally crossed over to India in the early 1950s. Those were difficult times. Our home was vandalised and burnt. We could see the neighbourhood burning from the Dhakeshwari Temple, where we had taken refuge.” Dipika’s memories flooded back as she narrated.

“I stayed right next to the Dhakeshwari Temple for over seven years when I came to study in Dhaka, Amma,” Fatimah added.

“I remember the temple. I remember every detail. The priest sheltered about eight Hindu families inside the temple during the communal riots. Our Muslim neighbours and friends really helped us. They brought us food, medicines and everything we needed. They protected the temple. We are alive today because of them.”

Dipika turned to Fatimah and cupped the side of her face with one hand. “Enough about me. Tell me about yourself. Tell me about your family.”

Sukh silently watched this unfolding dialogue, the overwhelming connection that two women of different generations shared as they narrated. They bonded on language, history and memories rooted in a core identity that they both held so close to their hearts.

Dipika seemed to have practically forgotten that Sukh was around. Sukh felt she was flitting back and forth in time, witnessing two lives as they reflected a nation’s emergent historic identity in one another. Fatimah took them back to the 1960s and 1970s.

“My father was a freedom fighter in Bangladesh, Amma. He fought to liberate Bangladesh in 1971.” Fatimah introduced her legacy, her voice brimming with pride and patriotism.

Dipika sat up, alert. “Ah! Mukti Joddha!” she exclaimed.

“I used to follow every detail of the news from here in Kolkata. It was Indira Gandhi’s government then, and the Chief Minister of West Bengal was a dear friend of my father-in-law. My husband came from a family of strong political connections. He was a journalist, so he would also share with me what was happening in Bangladesh. I was so concerned. I had relatives and friends there.”

“Amma, my father fought very bravely. He had come to India for his training and was also nearly killed in the struggle. But he made it in the end. He taught me the value of freedom. My father’s side of the family was politically influential. My grandmother was also an activist and poet. She worked very hard for women’s education in Bangladesh. Sukh told me about your career here as a teacher for young women and all about your community work. You do remind me a lot of her. She passed away before I was born. I have her handwritten poems from that time, though,” Fatimah paused.

“Our lives are a reflection of all the stories that contribute to people’s history. They never fade, you know. You are a continuation of the story of your grandmother. It is up to you to decide how to narrate the next part of the plot,” Dipika reflected.

“After coming to West Bengal, I tried to help many women refugees and women immigrants find a sense of belonging through me and my colleagues at our Women’s Association. After we are gone, maybe those women will take the spirit of the tale and weave another narrative of support for others to come. You girls should do the same for each other and for others who come after you.”

3 April 2022

Fatimah unloaded her bags from the car. The bustling Howrah Station waited and witnessed yet another parting memory.

“Thank you, Sukh, for everything! I don’t know how my two years here in India would have been without your family’s support. You guys have become a second family, you know. Thank you so much for supporting me through my internships and holidays, for mentoring me and for taking me in like your sister and a second daughter in your home. It means a lot to me and my family.”

Fatimah gushed as she and Sukh pulled away after their parting hug. “I miss Amma so much!” she added.

Sukh smiled and responded, “Someone once said to me, Fatimah, that we should make the active choice to honour the legacies and storylines our ancestors left us with by living them. If Amma found a home in India, so can you. And so, you have!”

“Bon voyage, sister.”