ghulam abbas kassar
Some of the most poignant moments in my life have been punctuated with moments of incredible courage. Courage from what I have now fully realised are God’s most benevolent yet intricate creations. WOMEN!
From a mother picking up pieces of a suddenly derailed life, to bring up two young boys to be the men they are today..to a wife who at the fag end of a 40 hour labour, just as she was being cut open without an anaesthetic, holding my hand and telling me “It’s alright Prithvi”..I have repeatedly been dumbfounded in realising how much of a lesser being I am in the company of the women in my life.
And today..as my dear friend walks in to the sets to kick start the shooting of her new film (*film name withheld to protect identity of actress*), I once again bear witness to an extraordinary moment of courage from…
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ghulam abbas kassar
Very often while sitting in groups, when friends share stories from the Mahabharata or Panchatantra recited by their grandparents, I am in contrast reminded of listening to real-life stories while growing up. These paint real life incidents of war and bravery, life and death, crime and hunger and about love and togetherness.
My roots are in Lahore, (now in Pakistan). Both my paternal and maternal grandparents were residents of Miyawali and Darewal districts of West Punjab before the partition in 1947. Both the families were well established. My paternal grandfather was a goldsmith and maternal grandfather used to work with the British. But the partition forced them to move to India and since last 40 years they have settled in Delhi. However, the journey from established and well-off settings in Lahore to a migrant city with no contacts and sources of livelihood is a story that has shaped me and…
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The wrinkles that used to appear next to the corners of his eyes when he smiled had turned into wrinkles of worry and anxiety. Age and the events of yesteryears had caught up with Debendranath Roy Chowdhury. He had become a chain smoker despite his wife’s daily pleads to start thinking about his health. The crooked old man was sitting and sipping tea on his front porch in Dhakuria, with a cigarette in his right hand, and a copy of the Statesman newspaper on his lap. The family had not been back to their estates in Vikrampur since that fatal night thirty years ago when they fled from the village manor to the town house in Calcutta.
As he was reading the news about the atrocities in East Pakistan, his eyes filled with tears. Hundreds of thousands of people had so far fallen victim of the genocide. India supported the…
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