The Boat Ride Across the Big River That Took Our Home

Our village was on the bank of a big river in East Bengal. When my father decided we had to leave, he sold everything we had — our land, our cows, even our old wooden bed. With that money, he arranged for a boat to take us across the river to the other side, which would become part of India. The night we left was very dark. My mother was carrying my small sister. My father was carrying two big bundles of clothes and some rice. I was holding my younger brother’s hand tightly. We walked quietly to the riverbank where many other families were waiting. The boat was small and old. Many people got inside it. There was no space to sit properly. Some people were crying. Some were praying. The boatman said we had to be very quiet because there could be bad men on the way. I was so scared that I could not even cry. I just held my brother’s hand and looked at our village getting smaller and smaller as the boat moved. In the middle of the river, the water became rough. The boat started shaking. My mother was whispering prayers. One old woman started crying loudly. The boatman told her to be quiet. I thought we would all die in the river. But after some time, we reached the other bank. When we got down from the boat, we were in a new country. But it did not feel like our country. There was no home waiting for us. We slept on the railway station platform for many days. My father tried to find work. My mother sold her gold earrings to buy food. I missed our village, our river, our fields, and our old life very much. That boat ride took away my childhood. Before that night, I was a happy village boy. After that boat ride, I became a refugee. Even now, when I see a river, I remember that dark night and the fear in my mother’s eyes. Partition was not just lines on a map. It was real people leaving everything they loved and crossing water with tears in their eyes.