Where I Come From
Everyone has a story, right?
Most of you have been loyal readers for years. And, since 2011, you’ve heard from “MileNerd” here. No pictures of me as the blog logo. Today, with one of my final posts, I’d like to talk about where I came from. Me, not MileNerd. If you’re interested, here we go…
In the time of Gandhi (about 70 years ago), there was something called Partition. We don’t read about it in our history books, but it was one of the most violent times you can imagine. As the British rule over India ended, one nation was split into two. In a historically disorganized way. To this day, nobody quite understands why it was done so quickly. Boundary lines were drawn by a lawyer who had previously never even visited India. It was a mess from start to finish…
Partition was one of the largest forced migrations in the history of our planet. Millions of people trying to get where they were being forced to go. Individual families were separated. And the mess quickly turned into a massacre. To give you an idea of that time…mothers were throwing their daughters down wells. Literally killing their children to spare them from the rapes and brutality that were going to happen otherwise. If you have kids, it’s probably impossible to imagine. But that’s how bad this was.
My dad was an infant at the time of Partition. His family (mother, father, and sister) were attempting to get to safety. They never found it. All were murdered with machetes and left in the dirt. My dad was next. They took chunks out of his arm and neck and left him to bleed to death. To this day, he has a kind of “dent” in his forearm. As a kid, I remember asking where it came from. He’d always give me a different story – “From a robber,” “It got stuck in a door,” or whatever else he could come up with. The only reason he survived was because a small child picked him up and carried him to a nearby village. His life was saved that day and he was raised by a family as “one of their own.” Not really. Something always pulled at him. He never understood why he felt like an outsider in his own home. But he did. Something felt off. Why was he always being called inside to show visitors his scars? He grew up never knowing any of his story.
Many years later, as a young man, my dad moved to Canada. It was a challenging journey, involving cargo ships and extreme conditions. He’d always been frail, so there was a good chance he wouldn’t survive the trip. But one thing my dad is…is a survivor. He made it to Canada. And, soon after arriving, a cousin told him the truth about his real family. The entire village knew his tale, as it was common knowledge to everyone but my dad. This devastated him beyond belief. Nothing he knew was real, and the only people he loved had lied to him his entire life.
He took jobs at a gas station and on an assembly line. Eventually, he saved up the money needed to make it back to India to find some answers. But the “parents” who had raised him had died within that year. The “brother” he was raised with had committed suicide. Through a lot of digging, he found that even the little boy who saved his life had died. There was not going to be any closure.
None of that would match the devastation of what he learned next. He was reminded of an incident when he was a teenage boy. An old man saw him playing in the street and ran up to hug him. This man was crying, totally overwhelmed with emotion. He hugged my dad and wouldn’t let go…but, within seconds, he was threatened, talked to privately, and eventually led away…told never to come back. This man was my dad’s real father. He’d survived and had spent years trying to locate his boy. After being banished from the village, told that he would only do damage…he later adopted 2 other sons. But he never allowed them to call him “dad.” He would say, “I already have a son.”
Those adopted boys didn’t have much. Their inheritance was going to be a pretty worthless piece of land and a gun. There was only one other thing of value – a notebook.
Inside the notebook was a lifetime of loving communication from a father to his long-lost son. All of the things he was never able to tell him. And a note that said if his son ever showed up, the worthless land and gun would go to him too.
That old man (my grandfather) died the same year my dad went back to India. The adopted boys desperately needed the gun and land, so they burned that notebook. Those pieces of paper would have meant everything to my dad, but he never got to read them. He never really got any closure at all. I don’t think he ever believed he mattered to anyone. Many years later, he wanted to tell me (his only son) this story. He was waiting until I was old enough, but didn’t get that opportunity either. Another distant relative told me everything when I was 15 at a mall food court.
Growing up, all I knew was that my dad wasn’t really there. I knew he wasn’t present, but couldn’t understand why. It was before the days of anti-depressants and therapy, so things were very different. I remember so many nights when he’d come home from work, not say anything, and go eat dinner in his bedroom. I’d wait by the door hoping to catch a smile or a hug. But I just don’t think he knew what it was to be in a family. To feel that security. I wish I could say I was understanding of what he’d been through. But I guess I was just a kid who wanted his dad to love him.
A few years ago, I was on a plane to New Orleans and got overwhelmed with emotion. Something hit me very suddenly. I felt a wave of clarity that I’d never experienced. I was going to make a documentary about this – Partition…my dad…and the ripple effects one moment can have even 70 years later. It was vividly clear. This was something I had to do. I couldn’t hold back the tears as I sat in that cramped aisle seat next to a lady who smelled like cheese.
Soon, I put all the pieces in place and just had to raise the money to do it. Instantly after mentioning it to a small group of friends, they volunteered to put a few thousand dollars in. A good start. I’m certain I could have taken them up on it and figured out the rest. I could have done it.
But I didn’t.
Now years have gone by. Life happened…and so did fear.
I’ve been incredibly disappointed in myself.
I’m not sure if I needed to do the project for my dad…or because I want to experience a deep relationship with him…or if it’s just a story that people should hear. Probably all of the above. That day 70 years ago changed the course of my life and the life of my family. It’s a big part of where I come from. I had a dream of doing something meaningful with it…more important than anything else…and I didn’t. I let fear and noise get in the way.
That’s a tough pill to swallow.
But, today, I did tell the story. Right here. To you. Maybe tomorrow, I’ll figure out a way to pursue my dream project again. And maybe that’s the lesson here…one that I still need to learn…to not give up on people…on things you want to do…or on yourself.
For the second to last time…have a great weekend, nerds!