Imagine boarding a train in 1947 not knowing if you’ll reach the other side alive.
That’s what thousands of Bengalis did during Partition. Some were running toward safety. Others were running from it.
In my mind, I sometimes write stories about those trains. A young girl clutching her grandmother’s hand. A man leaving behind the only home he’s ever known. A poet scribbling verses on the back of a ticket, knowing these words might be the last thing he creates.
History books give us dates and numbers. But the real story lives in the quiet moments – the last cup of tea shared, the song hummed under breath, the promise whispered that “we’ll meet again.”
Some promises were kept. Most were not. But every single one mattered.
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