Those days that I have left behind – “bharā thāk smritir sudhāy” (“let them remain full of memory’s nectar”). But all my memories were not, after all, nectar-filled. Casting a net into the river of memories, I can see so many fragments of both happiness and sorrow. So many memories have also perhaps been lost in the river of time – can anyone even try to retain them all? Now, having arrived at my life’s last horizon, I thought that I should perhaps thread my memories into a garland before they’re lost forever. These stories may become a source of joy in the future for my son, my daughter-in-law, my granddaughter. The events of this insignificant ordinary life may be invaluable to them, and then these writings from an unpractised hand may become filled with significance.
I was born in Sibsagar – a district town in Assam. My father had what was, in those days was a world-renowned title – “Engineer” – and, thanks to it, was an officer of rank in what used to be called the Imperial Service in British times. We had a wonderful, large bungalow next to an ocean-like lake. My father had a somewhat fanciful hobby –…
Source: In singer Bijoya Chaudhuri’s autobiography, a life in music through Sylhet, London, Bombay, Calcutta
