The shadow in the fetid stream stares back.

Two soulless black holes

Searching behind every crevice of my soul,

As if trying to catch me in a lie.

Out of the depths of some forgotten time,

A raspy voice makes a thousand cuts upon my skin.

"Who are your forefathers?" it challenges.

From the gates of Hades,

A chorus of a thousand dead souls echo,

"Who are your forefathers?"

I stand mute."

Trying to recall the names of my past,

I stutter -

He was a Bengali landowner - no lawyer - no no a philanthropist."

"Where did he come from?" the shadow questions.

"From Bangladesh."

"So he is not from the land of the Hindus. A non-believer!"

"He is not! He was a brahmin and well versed in the scriptures," - I counter.

"But not from this country! A foreigner - a traitor!" the shadowy voice accuses.

"But it was all one country then," I argue."

But now it is not - and your forefather was not born here - traitor!" it sneers.

"No no - I'm sure his forefathers were from here. I mean - right?" I question myself.

Letting out a hollow laugh it asks, "Who came before him?"

"Where were they from? And before them? Who were their forefathers? And before them?"

Relentless questions swirl around me,

Like acrid plumes of choking black smoke.

Questions, to which I have no answer.

The smoke clears - a gaunt haggard face stares back.

Who are my forefathers?

Was he the brahmin who married 60 young girls- all in the name of saving them?

Was he the landlord who stole the food of the peasants tilling his soil with sweat and blood?

Was she the rich man's wife, whose fair skin decked in gold competed with the morning sun,

While hungry peasant children begged for a morsel?

Was she the cruel mistress who whipped the little servant girl for touching her flowers?

Was he the Hindu who fled to India penniless after the partition,

Leaving behind the land of his forefathers?

Was he the refugee who struggled to make ends meet in a dark alley in North Kolkata?

Was she the old woman who sat huddled in front of a stove,

Begging for the kindness of strangers,

Thinking of the days when her word commanded an army or servants?

Was he the old man sitting on the burning ghats of Manikarnika,

Reminiscing about the glorious times gone by?

Were they the defeated men and women who thought of death at every breath,

But did not have the courage to end it all.

Who were my forefathers? Who were my foremothers?