The New Nation - Internet Edition

Silmi Abdullah

For many years in the midst of the glittering street lights and neon lumineance of billboards and logos, the high-rise buildings, the hustle and bustle and all the comforts and luxuries of city life, I had been feeling a strange emptiness. Despite the crowds, and the noise of cars and zooming subway trains, I felt the presence of a vacuum, and a hollowness persisted in my heart which craved for something more, something different. Like everyone else, I woke up every morning to head off to university, performing the very common North American rituals of sipping coffee and reading the newspaper on the subway. Sitting through lectures of Anatomy, Biochemistry, and Physiology inside the massive lecture halls of the University of Toronto, a subconscious sense of pride of being a pre-medical student often lingered somewhere within my mind's deep interior. Yet, I returned home every day carrying a heart that felt the pain of an unquenched desire. I went to bed every night with a feeling that lacked fulfilment, and over the years, the intuition that my routine life needed a larger purpose transformed into a firm belief. When my family planned a vacation to my motherland, Bangladesh for attending my youngest uncle's wedding during the summer of 2006, I was delighted as my restless mind had been looking for the slightest opportunity to escape from the monotony of my self-centred and mechanized life, albeit temporarily. But who would have known that this trip would be a life altering experience, that my spontaneous and impulsive visit to my ancestral village was a carefully designed plan of the divine Creator to facilitate my encounter with the very purpose of my existence?

An unfathomable feeling of joy engulfed my body when I set foot on the soil of Dhaka after five long years. My grandparents' home was ever the same. The sound of colliding metal as the collapsible gate opened, the door that provided entry into the living room, the blue ceiling fans revolving overhead in their lazy pace all brought back familiar memories of my childhood. The family portraits of each of my father's brothers and sisters once so lovingly placed on the wall by my grandparents still remained in the living room. Moreover, to see each portrait come to life as my entire family stood before me in person brought me a feeling of joy that I had not felt in many years. They had all arrived to attend the wedding from abroad, and very soon, the noise of celebratory laughter and conversation began to pulsate from our house to announce our much-awaited merry reunion to the neighbourhood. But, something significant was surely missing. My grandfather. The very man who had breathed life into this family, who cherished every moment spent with his children and grandchildren was absent during one of the most precious times of our lives. It was when I peeked into the balcony attached to his bedroom that I realised that much had changed. The table, where he used to spend many a solemn afternoon writing about his beloved village and his people stood there in solitude. His immense collection of books were chipped and torn by hungry insects, and a sheet of dust glistened on the bookshelf as sunlight penetrated through the balcony windows. I left the balcony with a heavy heart and tried to divert my mind by immersing myself into the wedding celebrations, until one day my father disclosed his plan to visit my granddad's birthplace, the village of Mahmudpur.

The wedding was over, and my father began his preparation for the visit. All of a sudden, I recalled one of my grandpa's final letters to me. He had written, "one day, I will take you to my village, and you will see how beautiful it is." His dream remained a dream, but at that moment, fate commanded me to take the opportunity that it was providing me, and I could not remain quiet. When I expressed my wish to accompany my father in his journey, a lot of resistance came from some of my family members, as they saw the village to be a territory far too dangerous and alien for me, especially because I was a woman. For a moment, I began to doubt my confidence in the decision. But then, I smiled. I smiled as I recognised the fear of my family as the timeless characteristic of human nature, the fright of the unknown. I realised that the paranoia of my family regarding the 'stares' and 'glares' of the strange village folk was no different than the fear that the villagers felt of facing us, the intimidating city dwellers. It was a clash of two contrasting worlds that was about to take place. But somehow I knew that the meeting of the two worlds would not be as antagonistic, and that they need not be so drastically different as they are constructed to be. And so, I went against the wishes of all to embrace this adventure, for never before had I felt such certainty regarding a decision.

Mahmudpur is a tiny, insignificant fragment of land occupying the north eastern corner of Bangladesh. But the significance that it holds for me is something that I discovered when my body transcended the boundaries of the city, and my mind, the limits of my city-governed thoughts and ideas. Never did I imagine that somewhere in a remote corner of the world, God has left such a spellbinding sample of paradise. It is a place where his fine artistry has been preserved to such perfection that the human eyes are left craving for more and more of the mesmerising scenery. I commenced my journey with my father, brother and my maternal uncle as we boarded a small microbus one fine morning of August. It would take us to Sunamgonj, a small town near Sylhet city where the launch awaited us.

The ride to Sunamgonj was a jerky one; with the microbus hopping along the rough road and making the sceneries of the country side appear as a mobile picture frame. Once in a while, unique scenes shocked and enlightened me simultaneously about the hardship-filled yet fascinating village life. The main road on which we drove was on elevated land, with ditches, puddles and ponds at a lower level on either side of us.

The bamboo huts in the villages on our periphery were also elevated, supported by long vertical canes that penetrated into the water beneath. What amazed me were the narrow canes that horizontally joined the main road and the entrances to the houses on either side, the only pathway available for the village folk to reach their homes. As I watched the little school girls with their heavy backpacks and adults with groceries carefully walking on the canes that barely made room for one foot at a time, I felt ashamed of myself. I realised that the courage, the determination and the strength of my people was of a level which I can never reach. Upon reaching Sunamgonj, our microbus halted at a little convenient store where we had some coffee and picked up my father's cousin, who was to guide us through the rest of our journey.

The "launch ghat" was a vociferous place, with crowds of passengers hurrying to board their designated launches and boats floating by the river bank. As we reached our launch, the skinny, lungi-clad boatman stood on the deck, yelling in his pursuit of accommodating the last set of passengers into the vehicle. We hurried in with our small bags of food and extra set of clothes, and walked into the cabin which had room for some forty passengers. And thus, we embarked on our grand journey through the majestic waters of the river Surma.

The cabin was rather suffocating, with tiny windows and wall fans that deprived us of the fresh air outside. The television at the front of the cabin that aired third rate Bengali films for entertainment did not make things any more facile. I then walked out of the cabin and stood outside, with my arms resting on the rusted railings and my nose and lungs inhaling the fresh breeze that blew towards me. I blocked out the people around me, and gradually became one with the nature that I witnessed before me. The launch moved steadily against the gentle current of Surma, cutting through its velvety flow and creating a spellbinding rhythm, a soothing tune that pulled me into a state of hypnosis. The perfect harmony between the clear, baby blue sky and the river water painted with its reflection, the dense foliage of banyan, palm, betelnut and coconut trees hiding the joys and sorrows of rural life on the little island villages created a brilliant canvas of paradisiacal beauty.

Every once in a while, the launch would halt at an island to exchange some passengers, as one of the crew members stood on the deck and jabbed a long piece of cane into the sand through the shallow water of the bank. A thick, flat piece of wood joined the bank and the front of the deck, which the passengers used to step in and out of the launch. As the launch stopped at each station, a mere corner of the villages, the beginning of a narrow road, a small section of a bamboo hut, or perhaps a little half-dressed girl with a tin vessel locked in her arm was all that was visible. Nonetheless, it was sufficient for getting a glimpse into the lives of the villagers.

At one point, my eyes captured the view of a little boy in loose shorts, extracting grave amusement from hitting a snake to death just by the river bank. My initial encounter with samples of such simplicity had already started to become so overwhelming, that what awaited me in the subsequent parts of my journey was simply beyond my imagination.

Five hours elapsed as we rocked on Surma's lap, and we began to approach the market town of Madhyanagar, our final stop prior to Mahmudpur. As we arrived within the close proximity of Madhyanagar, I witnessed from the deck of our launch the most spectacular phenomenon of nature, an image that was surreal, and seemed to be part of a dream. The range of the magnificent Khasia-Jayanti hills that marked the border of India and Bangladesh painted with various shades of soothing grey-blue and illumined by the crown of mid-day sunrays stood majestically, guarding the horizon. An ecstatic feeling of elation and pride engulfed my entire body and soul, a feeling much more intense and real than that which I felt sitting in my university lecture hall. My uncle mentioned that every evening, as the sun poured its warm hues or orange, red and purple all over the hills, they would glow like a newly adorned bride, pleasing the villagers as they watched from their very homes. I felt great pride in knowing that my village, the home of my ancestors was part of this heaven on earth. But all of a sudden, this picture perfect fantasy land went out of our sight and our minds as we arrived in Madhyanagar for lunch. From here, we would catch a smaller boat to travel to our final destination, Mahmudpur.

As we disembarked our launch and entered Madhyanagar, reality lifted its veil and stood before our eyes, which by then had become accustomed to seeing pleasant things only. Dirt and filth lurked in every corner, and the row of bazaars on the right hand side of the narrow street on which we walked, released the mixed odour of fruits, raw meat and cow dung. My urban psyche forced me to anticipate a residential area outside of this marketplace, where I would find the house of one of my father's cousins. Who would have guessed that the place we searched for hid somewhere in the midst of this very hodgepodge of unpleasant sights, smells and sounds. A small entrance squeezed between two shops was covered with a thin piece of curtain, and this was the "door" that allowed our access into the home of a family of four or five. The rooms extended vertically towards the back, and the innermost room that partly resembled a kitchen led to the backyard.

The front room was a living room of its own kind, with a bed and a small table with four chairs surrounding it. The walls were unique, as two of them were made of mud, and the other two with tin. What caught my eye was a little shapeless piece of mirror that was pasted on to the wall, which to my knowledge, served the purpose of a dresser.

The backyard was small and muddy, with a few bricks wet from the rain providing a platform for washing. I stepped up and performed ablution for prayer as my aunt poured water over my hands and feet. Perhaps it was this warm hospitality that made me fall in love with Madhyanagar, despite all its filth and the discomfort. The heat waves of summer had made their way into the house, and the lack of electricity did not make things any easier. But the people of the house surrounded us, restlessly fanning us with hand fans to provide us with utmost comfort. At times I felt just the contrary. I felt uncomfortable to receive such special treatment, but such was the hospitality of my relatives. The food that was brought to the table tasted simply heavenly mixed with the freshness of the fields and farms, and the immense love of my relatives.

With satisfied stomachs and the excitement of finally visiting our village, we promised our Madhyanagar relatives that we would return that very night and headed towards the launch ghat. This time, a small row boat waited to take a few of us through the deep waters of Surma. It was our good fortune that the row boats operated not by the stroke of the oars, but by a tiny engine attached to its rear.

Had this technology not been there, I perhaps would have been hesitant to rely on a manual row boat for traveling through the deep river. And so, the six of us, my father, brother, two of my uncles, the boatman and I hopped on to the boat, and off it went, running through the water beneath the vast, gaping sky and re-entering the dreamscape that we had forgotten for a moment.

The sun had begun to descend and the water sparkled as it bathed in the late afternoon rays. Bright red dragon flies danced around the edges of our boat. Gradually, the gigantic hills came closer and closer and thrust me in a state of awe as my eyes witnessed yet another view that seemed to belong to a page in a fairytale book. Shockwaves penetrated my body as one of the peaks of Khasia-Jayanti hills, shaped just like the tin roof of a village house appeared before me. As I locked my eyes into this wonder in utter surprise, my father told me that years before, when he and my grandpa traveled to Mahmudpur, my grandpa would trick him into believing that the hill was the home of a dangerous giant. At that very moment, my mind shifted to a state of disengagement from my surroundings, as I deeply pondered about this beauty of life, the unbreakable ties between generations. What I experienced that moment with my father in the boat, was something that he experienced with his many years ago.

I smiled in joy as I imagined myself with my child, floating on the majestic Surma and sharing the story of my travel with my father. I began to feel my grandpa's presence everywhere, in the river, in the soothing evening breeze, and all over the sky accessorised with the setting sun.

Within an hour, our boat left the deep river and entered into shallow water, an area known as "Tangor Haor." While throughout our journey, the river water was opaque with dust and sand, Tangor Haor was crystal clear, exposing everything that lay beneath. I learned that

Tangor Haor was made up of the remains of rain water that had flooded the rice fields during the rainy seasons. I felt thrilled for a moment, to think that our boat was just inches above the vast rice fields of my village. As I looked through the water from our boat, I could see little plants immersed right under, waving at me along with the motion of the waves.

Every once in a while, heads of small grass and large trees popped out of the water, indicating the presence of a world hidden beneath the rain water. As we endulged in the natural beauty around us, another hour passed and the little boat stopped at our long awaited destination, the village of Mahmudpur.

My relatives stood at the riverbank, waiting to assist us in disembarking from the boat. It was a struggle to set foot on the village ground as most of the pathway was muddy. The only other way was to climb the pile of unstable rocks. An aunt of mine held my hand and helped me up as the boat floated to and fro and continued to bump into the rocks until the boatman finally managed to secure it to the bank. When my hand slipped into her grip, a strange, but positive feeling crept into my body. Somehow, I knew that this was not a simple encounter of two people, the mere holding of two hands, but a destined union of two worlds branching from a common origin, much like the reattachment of a child with its mother through an umbilical cord. My soul was fully aware that my foreign upbringing and my village ancestry had to meet for a purpose, and my discovery of that purpose was like a moment of enlightenment, a moment that filled my heart and soul with an incomprehensible feeling.

The house was unbelievably close to the river bank. It was a spacious bungalow made with mud walls and tin roofs and beautified with coconut and banyan trees overshadowing it from multiple sides, and was probably one of the sturdiest and best looking houses in the area. A small cowshed accommodated a few cows and haystacks a few steps ahead of the house.

The lawn in front was large and clean, a perfect place to rest. Our village relatives became busy trying to make us comfortable. Several chairs were brought out and we sat there after heartfelt greetings were exchanged. I cannot express what it felt like, to be sitting beneath the blanket of the open sky, on the lap of mother earth and chatting with perhap the most neglected individuals who were none but my own flesh and blood.