Mahua to Mohua. A story of millions of fear or reclamation - Mohua chinappa
The first voice we hear even before we are born is the sound made by a mother. The words that were spoken at that hour, stays long in our ears even after the umbilical cord is cut. From the baby language of gurgles and smiles, it evolves into the language we learn to speak with her. This is called the mother tongue.
Over the years I have become attached to my mother tongue. It took personal battles and finally an acknowledgement that this is a warmer place, where the pretty flowers bloom and the breeze is softer. It does not force me to be someone else. So naturally, I express myself best in Bangla.
I do consider myself fortunate for having travelled to many places across the world. It is even better, that I got to live and work in different states within India. As the years passed, I discovered the comfort I find in speaking Bengali among colleagues and friends. It is this common culture that makes communications easier and also gives me a sense of belonging. A truth that I only got closer to as I grew older.
In the past I took this for granted, till life removed me from this place of familiarity. This is when, I began to understand the significance of the words spoken to me by my parents at home. I began missing the little and the larger words to express disappointment or satisfaction. I began thinking of how I could make it up to myself, for the denial of me, for the past years.
Reflecting back at the history of this day, it was the sacrifice of many lives in 1952 in erstwhile East Pakistan when Bengalis revolted against the Government. They wanted Pakistan to recognise their mother tongue and make both Urdu and Bengali the two official languages of Pakistan.
Pakistani government did not agree. This is the genesis of the revolt. It began with protesters doing public marches for recognition of the language. The Pakistani police opened fire in which many protesters died. The revolution continued in which women were raped, murdered and men were killed. East Pakistan did not give up till it became the present Bangladesh with Bengali as the official language.
As a Bengali my roots began in Bangladesh. The migration of my grandparents and parents from Bangladesh to India, is filled with stories about the home, some odd family members and places they had left behind. I have never met them, yet I know them intimately. The more I heard, I started to feel one with their melancholy and recognised them with their “dak nam” which is the pet’s name, most Bengalis have for their children.
It is also the vivid memories of having lived in fear in Shillong in the 1980s, when all Bengalis rushed back home before it got dark and stayed awake each night in the fear of losing their lives. I felt one with my neighbours who were targeted and sometimes thrashed mercilessly for being Bengali or speaking it casually to the shopkeepers. During that time of unrest, most of us fled our homes to safer places.
I moved to Delhi.
Over the years, I grew up and embraced Delhi with its cosmopolitan culture. But the bullying in school on the hilly roads of Shillong had left its imprint in my heart. We had lived in fear of being recognised as a Bengali.
The more I was pushed away from my identity, my heart wanted to own Bengali language with a vengeance. This return to the roots was the culmination of the aggression I faced in my surroundings. The more they stopped me from being who I was, more was the desire to rebel. I began learning the literature and listened to Bengali songs and poetry.
I changed the spelling of my name from MAHUA to MOHUA. Just as it is pronounced in Bangla. I felt happy to envelop myself in the memories of the home I had left behind.
As I accepted myself, it evoked nostalgia with a gush and gently healed the suppression of the past. Not that it is fully recovered or reclaimed yet.
I still recall the conversations with my mother which was spoken in whispers in my Shillong home, where we feared to get caught as Bengalis during the insurgency. I still find myself whispering in dire times.
Languages all over the world must be protected, as it has its own history and diversity. It is imperative to include all languages in the understanding of the past, which is an important aspect of our present, the societal growth and its evolution.
I do speak to my son in the crowded tube of London, my words of endearment or caution only in Bangla. It is an unshakable bond.
It is a place of familiarity where my Ma and Baba chided me as a child for not speaking the language with clarity. It remains my language of love till today.
Bangla inspires me and reminds me that I cannot forget February 21, 1952, the killings in Dhaka, for the Bangla language movement. People sacrificed their lives to uphold their mother tongue.
Bengali is an emotion for me. It gives me a feeling of homecoming when my Ma calls me by my dak nam which is quintessentially the culture I was born into.
Mohua Chinappa