Once upon a time in Kalni

My heart wasn’t on my mouth, rather my feet and waist were crying out. The traveler in me would just not listen, so I went on. On the back of a 125 cc motorbike, into the harshlands of Sunamganj. I wasn’t driving that little old Japanese gem, it was my colleague who was doing that thankless job.

For 2 days, 15 hours and over 300 km… roads, no-roads, boat, bamboo bridges known as Shako‘s, held our destiny with aplomb. The roads, aah well, that is why I went there. No, not to build them or break them. Rather to find a way to reach out to those god-forsaken people with information! Good thing about motorbikes, they don’t need roads. They just need to know the Newtonian third law is at work, that’s it!

I was standing upright when I started for Sunamganj. It never occurred that walking could get difficult. It was evening when I reached. Our journey inside started next day, early morning.

Purpose of my visit was to do research on a new project we were starting. I traveled to find out certain needs and observations of the people of the Haor. Before that I did go to SunamG town, but not an inch beyond. This time it was ‘the real’ Sunamganj I was experiencing.

The 26 km road from SunamgG to Derai is majestic. We crossed Derai and went beyond. To places I never been before, never imagined before! Crossing the majestic Derai road is always a treat. A complete confusion. Smooth asphalt followed by broken bones; cropland followed by thin forestation; steel bridges every now and then and forgotten old ones just beside; bazaars followed by serenity; ashrom of goddess Kali on the right while a madrassah on the left. That is the most beautiful looking religious site I ever seen – made in heaven. A tale of 26 km! And rightfully, it takes much longer than it should. Otherwise how on earth one would sit back and enjoy this diversity. If you look a bit far, find the range of hills on the Meghalaya border. Yes, it is magic!

I can go on telling stories of this road. This is the distance - between materialism and non-materialism (not sure, if that is idealism!); between separation of banjo from dokki; hummer from dinghi; habib wahid from Shah Abdul Karim. This road leads you to the outback.

Speaking of the great mystic, Shah Abdul Karim, I have fond memories of him. But that is a different story.

As one enters Derai, will not be impressed. Dirt and potholes to welcome you along with the customary dilapidated shops. That is what I like about Sunamganj, as a whole, it’s power to surprise you. It has that ‘oomph’. A feel that is so unique. May be it is because of the islandic nature of the place. It is not your usual rural Bangladesh. The same waterways, the same paddy fields, the same human specie – still it is not what you may think it is. Or may be it is just me, SunamG is very personal.

Sunamganj has a history of folklore, a very rich one. Musicians are found as easily as you may find fish in the Haors. Shah Abdul Karim, Amiruddin, Hason Raja, Firoz Shai to name a few mystics who ‘made it’. I have come across numerous musicians. How can I not mention Dhonu and Dewan. Dewan is a class apart! I remember fondly the times I went there, spend hours at night on top of a boat; with the moonlight washing down my beloved Kalni and Kirton sailing its way from the other side. It took me back again and again. Boatman Sridham would narrate me those myths and he would patiently tell me inner meaning of the ‘Haare Ram Haare Krishna…’ and legends of the land of the mystics.

Now as we entered Sunamganj and found our way to a tea-stall to wet our beak. We kept on charging our way by the banks of Kalni towards Sulla. This river is timeless. It defines the way of life here. The way which is simple yet invigorating. It made Karim what he is today. Kalni has the magic to bring out the best. The best of a philosopher, of a musician and that of a farmer of a fisherman. Kalni is lyrical, it is ‘shorgiyo’.

We crossed one human habitat after another and between experienced life. At times I would be struck by the ‘hole’ it created and could hear the sound of silence.  I would turn to see old ladies in white saris passing by. Sometimes I would be awed by the extent of paddy fields that stretches beyond horizon and would imagine the despair of the place filled with water during monsoon. I had to go back many times in love for both.  Never knew before such dryness could bring out the gold out of the land. It was a pilgrimage to fill up my eyes with lands of gold, of the struggle and labour our farmers are putting to feed us. And it is not even their land! While I amused myself having good lunches with the Atop rice, caviar and Bagra fish fries, could imagine the sarcasm people of Kalni lives with.

What more unselfish, unfortunate bunch of people can one come across? I left thinking to come back to do good. I am still coming back and could do little. I will keep on coming back and sail in Kalni, because the fate of these people lies here.

shadhumishael, Dhaka.

September 25, 2010;

Ashwin 10, 1417.

story tellers of the Raj

As I yawn away this lazy Sunday hartal day in my room listening to ‘runner’ of Hemanta Mukhopadhay takes me back to my school days. And when I recited this poem over and over back in school it took me to the world of a colonial subcontinent.

How was the world then for a postman? Or for anybody? What did they use? It is some months already that I collected a handful of antiquities. A quite elegant looking telescope, a bailey silver milk pot – on which it is scribbled ‘Strand Hotel Rangoon’ – quite impressive I must say, a magnificent looking rusty bicycle oil lamp of the Heykel brand and a little Buddha.

They tell us of the days back in the times of Raj and more. Tells us of their lives and their masters. Our lives. How each of them shaped our world today of an independent nation, subcontinental India. Perhaps, someone in this part of Bengal used the oil lamp as he went out on a bicycle at night. Could he be a physician? Or a post man! Gives me satisfaction that perhaps it belonged to a person who thought beyond himself.

The bailey silver milk pot, one of my prized possessions speaks of a hotel in Rangoon. Built more than a hundred years ago (I wiki’d!). Imagining who served the pot to those Raj-class guests. Served the milk from the pot to make their 4 ‘o clock tea to be remembered. Some remembered and surely some forgot. But the Strand Hotel server couldn’t afford to drop anymore or any less, couldn’t be more cautious to notice to keep the milk not too hot not too cold.

The Raj guests who traveled across oceans in their famed ships all the way to their jewel of the crown were guided by marines with one of those telescopes I posses. They had to be well cared for, to be looked out of for any pirates, of icebergs and to be safely shipped to ports of southern subcontinent. This telescope of mine may have come through Chittagong. He who traveled to Chittagong and farther had this magnificent -scope with him all the way from the center of the world, London, down to center of their world, British India. The Raj glorified by themselves with Lords and Barons wrapped around from shores and -Shires saw the new world through the lenses. The lenses that brought the land closer, made the land look thirstier to them.

While my Buddha gently weeps this day as the Bhupen Hazarika classic beckons me…

“Bistirno Dupare, Asonkho manusher
Hahakar shuneo, nisshobde nirobe
Oh ganga tumi, ganga boicho keno?”

shadhumishael, Dhaka

June 05, 2011;

Jaishtha 22, 1418.

Rain, raincoat and a rifle

Rain has a distinct utility. It has a calming effect and power to cultivate your memory. Especially if it is a weekend and mug full of fine Lankan tea in hand. Clouds having a game all day and how I enjoy that. Could get very tricky for the mind. And so it has happened to me.

Trudging my memory back to the 80′s. According to newspapers – Maradona has a Hand of God, Afghan warlords were then called Mujahideens and Dhakaites tolerating the autocratic regime. And I, a little boy from Paltan enjoying my first years in school.

It was a rainy day. Clock ticking its way to noon, time to go home. The school I went to was attended too by few of my immediate ancestors. A small school, now I realize quite large compared to ones these days. On rainy days, we would sit back in the class. The sky was gloomy and it kept on drizzling.

As other mates, I was too gazing at the first of the 3-door big classroom – the place where I got my first education, waiting to find my loving mother. I saw a man, standing outside. Looking for someone among us. We were more than 100 and it was not easy for him to locate anyone in particular. I kept on looking at him. He, was not short and had a nicely trimmed thin mustache. Aged somewhat around the 30′s i would assume. Unsurprisingly wrapped in an olive coloured raincoat. The raincoat has already made him an interesting subject to me. You don’t see many of them walking around in that, umbrellas are more common.

He had a gun in his hand, a rifle! Held firmly at the barrel and studded down. My eyes got stuck and mind a bit chaotic. I could slowly watch him in one frame now. A man with a gun in hand. I do not remember exactly if it was for the first time I saw a killing machine. May be it was. I was in awe. He set himself apart from the surroundings. Standing right there in front of the door.

It happened all to quickly. He stood, looked for someone and walked on to the next door. Possibly for a minute or so I saw him. The man has forever rooted himself in my memory. One of my earliest memories, cause of the earliest fear and of surprise. Not that he created a lasting fear. But he blew me away.

I wonder what connects him to me till this day. Perhaps a rainy day.

shadhumishael, Dhaka.

October 09, 2010;

Ashwin 24, 1417.

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