Kolkata: At the Park Circus Dharna Manch—now the pulsing epicenter of Bengal’s resistance against the Social Identity Register (SIR)—a ‘Memory Wall’ has been erected with a simple yet defiant purpose. It is a space where the past is invited to speak to the present, not through the clinical lens of legacy codes or land deeds, but through the visceral fragments of lived experience that no state document can fully capture. Here, on this wall, citizenship is not a matter of paperwork; it is a tapestry of whispered stories, faded photographs, and the unshakeable truth of belonging.

The Secular Cup: A Lesson in Equality

Nisha Biswas recalls a small but powerful moment from her childhood that shaped the way she sees society today.

In her father’s office in Bareilly, Uttar Pradesh, there used to be a separate cup kept aside for Shakir Miyan. It was different from the cups used by everyone else.
One day her mother quietly broke that cup.

From that day onward, tea was served to Shakir in the same cups as everyone else, even though her grandmother strongly disapproved. It seemed like a small act, almost invisible in the ordinary rhythm of daily life. Yet that quiet gesture stayed with her.
Something changed in the way she began to see society.

From then on, she started looking at the world with different eyes—eyes that noticed how discrimination hides in the smallest details of everyday life.

Years later, when she watched the processes of the NRC in Assam and the SIR in Bihar, she could not see them merely as administrative exercises. She looked at them through the memory of that broken cup and the quiet courage behind it.

On the Memory Wall today there is a simple image—a cup and a pair of spectacles. They represent that moment.

They are the glasses through which she eventually found herself joining the anti-SIR movement, seeing questions of citizenship, equality, and dignity not just as political issues, but as matters of everyday justice.

Gurucharan Murmu: Remembering a Pioneer from the Santal Community

The first voice on this wall comes from Maruna Murmu, who is currently out of town but wanted to participate in the Memory Wall we began—a place where past circles meet and connect with the present. She chose to remember her father, Gurucharan Murmu (1944–2012). Born in a small village in West Midnapore, he became the first Santal to enter the Indian Police Service in 1972. For him, this land was never merely a territory on paper; it was the soil of his childhood, the forests and villages where his people lived and struggled.

As a police officer, he believed deeply in justice and integrity, standing against corruption even when it came at a personal cost. After retirement, he returned to his village with a dream—to build a school, a hostel, and a place of care for the elderly. His life reminds us that belonging cannot be reduced to papers; it lives in memory, struggle, and the stories carried forward by those who remember him.

Maulana Mohammad Hossain: A Voice for Education and Justice

Another contribution comes from Saidur Rahman, who remembers his father, Maulana Mohammad Hossain (1930–2005). Born in the village of Bishanpur under Chanchal Police Station in Malda district, Maulana Mohammad Hossain rose from humble beginnings to become a respected religious scholar, social reformer, and advocate for education and justice. Throughout his life, he worked tirelessly to promote education and social awareness across Malda and neighbouring districts such as Murshidabad, Birbhum, North and South Dinajpur. His influence extended even beyond West Bengal into Bihar’s districts of Katihar, Purnia, Araria, and Supaul. Those who knew him remember that he never remained silent in the face of injustice or oppression. His voice was fearless, his conscience unwavering, and his commitment to truth unshakeable. For Saidur Rahman, whenever he finds the courage to raise his voice today, he knows that it is not merely his strength—it is the legacy he inherited from his father.

A Grandmother, Peanuts and the Warmth of Everyday Love

The wall also carries a small but deeply personal recollection by Himadri Mukherjee, born in 1963 in Kolkata. In his note, he remembers an ordinary afternoon from his youth in North Kolkata when he was living with his 72-year-old grandmother. One day before leaving for college, she asked him to bring cheena badaam (peanuts) from a shop on the way home so she could fry them for an afternoon snack. Concerned for her health, he protested because the doctor had advised her not to eat oily food. Yet she insisted gently.

When he returned home later, she had already prepared tea, bread, bananas, and boiled eggs for both of them. After they finished eating, she fried the peanuts and placed a single piece in his hand before eating the rest herself. Smiling, she told him that if he wanted more, he would have to go and buy them again.

The memory is simple, yet it captures the quiet warmth of everyday affection—moments that rarely appear in official histories but remain deeply alive in personal memory.

Growing Up with Stories of “Opar Bangla”

Another note on the wall reflects on the experience of growing up in a Partition-affected family. The writer describes how their family originally came from Madaripur in Faridpur, now in Bangladesh, and how childhood was filled with stories of “ওপার বাংলা”—the other side of Bengal. These stories carried nostalgia and displacement at the same time, creating a lingering sense of rootlessness while growing up in Kolkata.

Yet the writer remembers a turning point between December 2019 and March 2020, when protest sites across the country became spaces of collective expression. Standing among crowds carrying different flags and symbols—portraits of Ambedkar, banners of resistance, and voices of dissent—the writer felt, perhaps for the first time, a genuine sense of belonging.

A Family Legacy from Mangalkot Across Generations

Alongside these reflections are memories of family histories rooted in Mangalkot in Bardhaman. One section recalls the legacy of Dr Muhammad Abu Torab, remembered as a doctor who served people with dedication. The lineage continued through Qazi Abu Saleh and Qazi Nurul Islam, with younger generations trying to preserve both documents and memories of their past. Among them is Maria Khan, a fifteen-year-old student in Class Ten, who reflects on the dilemma of preserving family history. For her, documents may preserve names and dates, but memories preserve something deeper—the traditions, gatherings, and experiences that connect generations.

NRC Memories: Proving Belonging Through Old Voter Lists

The wall also carries a reflection from Komal Chakraborty of Silchar, Assam, who writes about the experience of the NRC process in 2015. At first, he did not understand what terms like family trees and legacy codes meant. His father had worked in the railway office, and the family possessed little property or documentation. Eventually, using an old voter list belonging to his late father, he managed to submit the necessary forms and prove his citizenship. Yet the experience left him with a troubling realisation: in the eyes of the state, simply living in a country is not enough. One must prove belonging through documents that trace back to one’s ancestors.

A Ninety-Two-Year-Old Teaching Chushi Pitha

Another quiet memory comes from a family story about Shaibyarani Nandi. Married at the age of thirteen, she moved from Dhaka-Narayanganj to her husband’s village in Kushtia. When she arrived at her in-laws’ home, she noticed an elderly aunt patiently cutting tiny strands of dough to make chushi pitha, a traditional sweet dish. Watching her day after day, she slowly learned the delicate craft.

Today, she is ninety-two years old, and the roles have gently reversed. Sitting beside her, her sixty-eight-year-old son carefully learns how to cut the thin strands of dough for chushi pitha. The lesson moves slowly from her experienced hands to his. In that quiet kitchen moment, memory travels from one generation to another—not through documents, but through gestures, patience, and taste.

Remembering Ammaji and Bahadur Mamu

As the wall grew, I too felt compelled to contribute. While writing, I came across an old photograph of Ammaji and Bahadur Mamu together. For a moment, I considered placing it on the wall. But the image felt too intimate, too personal to display in a public space. Instead, I kept the photograph in my mind and began writing about it.

As I wrote, emotions welled up unexpectedly.

My memory returns to the days of the 2019 anti-CAA protests, when I spent long nights at protest sites and spoke out against injustice despite threats, trolling, and attempts to silence me. During that time, my uncle would proudly tell people, “Dekho dekho, yeh meri bhaanji hai.” But my grandmother held my hand one day and said softly, “Tumko meri kasam hai… naara lagana band karo. Mujhe dar lagta hai.” She was afraid for my safety.
Today, both of them are gone—Bahadur Mamu passed away on 17 February 2019, and Ammaji on 28 April 2020 during the lockdown, when I could not even see her one last time.

Together, these stories—of a pioneering Santal officer, a fearless scholar, a grandmother sharing peanuts with her grandson, a ninety-two-year-old mother teaching her sixty-eight-year-old son how to make chushi pitha, young people searching for their roots, and citizens struggling to prove belonging through documents—form something larger than individual recollections.

They reveal a quiet truth:

Documents record facts.

But memories record life.

And that leaves us with a question that echoes softly across the entire wall:

Where do memories go?

Perhaps they do not disappear.

They move—from grandparents to grandchildren, from kitchens to public squares, from photographs kept in drawers to words written on a wall.

Perhaps memories travel like rivers across generations.

And when we pause long enough to listen, we realise that remembering is not only about the past.

It is about refusing to let life be reduced to documents alone.