History of Betrayal
Far away—some radiant city of beauty, its streets made of illusion— I walk there, into a past imagined, dark, uncertain. They say the old days were good, but those days bled with restless questions, with accusations that still follow us like shadows. The historian must answer: why fashion the past from fantasy? Megasthenes, Abul Fazl, Goebbels— scribes of empire, courtiers of power. We studied their words, believed their pages of glory, yet who will answer for the dried blood at the corner of the book’s cover? Ancient memories are not gone— they still bind the future with the tightened rope of waves. I walk again into that familiar Bengal, famine’s claw in 1943 , fields empty, soldiers marching for Churchill’s war, while Gandhi’s men sang freedom songs, and the poor farmer’s rice fed the barracks instead of his children. No salt, no grain, only corpses that never became martyrs, only hollow stomachs that never earned statues. And their children, still alive today, p...