The Night the Fires Came to Our Village

I was twelve years old in 1946. Our village was small and quiet, near the big city of Calcutta. We had Hindu families and Muslim families living together for many years. My best friend was a Muslim boy named Rahim. We played together every day after school. One evening in August, we heard strange news. There was trouble in Calcutta. People were fighting because of religion. We did not understand much. But that night, we saw fires far away in the sky. The whole horizon was red and orange. My father looked very worried. He told us to stay inside the house and not make any noise. The next morning, some people from nearby villages came running to our home. They were crying. They said men with sticks and knives had come to their villages. They burned houses and hurt people. My mother held me tight. I could feel her heart beating very fast. In our village, nothing happened that night. But the fear came and stayed. Hindu families started looking at Muslim families with different eyes. Muslim families also became quiet and afraid. Rahim did not come to play anymore. His father told him to stay inside. For many days, we heard stories of killing and burning in Calcutta and nearby places. People said thousands had died. I could not sleep properly. I kept thinking about Rahim. Why did our friendship have to change because of what was happening far away? That was the first time I understood that the big fight for freedom was not only about British leaving India. It was also making brothers fight against brothers. The fires I saw that night in the sky stayed in my eyes for many years. Even today, when I close my eyes, I can still see that red sky and feel the fear in my small heart.