The New Nation - Internet Edition

Recalling Syed Ismail Hossain Siraji

M Nurul Haque

There are a few literary persons who think literature as weapon of life struggle. They are by born revolutionist.Their literary works is not for joy and well being, rather its main purpose is for implementation of their revolutionary consciousness .. Such a litterateur was Ismail Hossain Siraji. He faced two problems in his acting life. One was achievement of India's independence, another was prosperity of Muslim nation who was in much backward position. He combined these two problems and came forward in struggle for solution. Another problem perturbed him. That was unity of Muslim community.

Syed Ismail Hossain Siraji was born on I-5th July 1880 in Sirajganj. Since he was born in Sirajganj the word 'Siraji' was added with his name. He was born in a poor family; so he did not get the chance of higher education. He acquired much knowledge at his own endeavour which we realise reading his books. His first book of poem 'Anal 'Probaha' was published in 1900 AD. He was admitted in Pathshala in 1886 at his grand mother's house. Later on he was admitted in Minor school and had started to write , poems.

When he was a student of class seven in Bonuarilal High school he read the life of Jamaluddin Afgani. He realised that perfect knowledge cannot be acquired only from books and school. He took determination to go to Turkey. His another book of poem 'Udbodhan' was published in 1907. In 1908 his 'Anal Probah was modified, enlarged and published again. He felt the deplorable condition of the Muslim in outburst of emotion and expressed grudge against the English ruler. Bengal Govt. had proscribed that book. When Siraji was engaged in preaching works in North Bengal, warrant was issued against him for anti-govt' activities. He surrendered to Calcutta Court. He was convicted for two years, RI. for anti-state activities.

He could not appeal to High Court for want of money. He was released from jail on 14th May 1912 undergoing two years term. He had written a book 'Kara Kahini' (jail story) which was published serially in monthly paper 'Sadhana' but was not published as book.

In 1912 Russia attacked Turkey. Red Crescent Society was organised and decision was taken to send Medical Mission to Turkey to help them in such disaster. As representative of that mission from Bengal Ismail Hossain Siraji had started from Sirajganj to go there. He availed of ship from Bombay and reached Constantinople, the capital of Turkey On 31st December 1912 via Alexandria. He extended his best cooperation to Turkish people in different ways and achieved such fame that Sultan of Turkey was pleased to adorn him in title of' 'Gazi.' and a valuable 'Khilat' was awarded to him. While he received the 'Khilat' from Royal Court he expressed his gratitude through a short speech in Turkish language. Royal staff were highly pleased to hear it and embraced him. He came back to homeland on 15th July 1913 and had published two books named 'Turaska Bhraman' ( Turkey Travel) and 'Turki Nari Jiban' (Life of Turkish women). His renowned book 'Spen Bijay' was published in 1914. Poet Abdul Kader said that the book is similar to Meghnadbadh Kabya. He had written some other books for emancipation of the Muslim-both man and woman. He had written three novels of which "Roy Nandini" is the best.

Ismail Hossain was a Muslim in heart and soul. He took it as vow to stir up the slept Muslim Community and to educate that neglected group. He performed that austerly endeavour in speech and pen throughout his life.

One day he said to poet Jasim Uddin t. ' Jasim, you are a poet. I knew that poets can realise and see far distant furure of the country. Can you say, will my austere endeavour be successful on any day? I do not want honour or resources. I want that the sleeping nation should awake and flourish.

Let them shout in roar of lion. I want such a Muslim society, independent fresh Muslim nation who will never be less in education, literature, bravery and self-sacrifice than others. They will stand against all falsehood and blind superstition. They will not confine the womankind within boundary of four walls and retard their progress. Tell me Jasim, . will I be able to see it ?

We feel pain to think that desire of Siraji now has come to reality which he could not see in his life. He spent his life in struggle for progress of nation. The extra ordinary orator, guide of national liberation, pioneer of Muslim Nationality, undaunted organiser and strong writer Syed Ismail Hossain Siraji died on 17ili July 1931 at the age of 51 years.

After his death his son Asaduddoulah talked with poet Jasim Uddin. In tearful eyes Asaduddoulah said .. "When daddy died, we had not a single taka in our house. We borrowed money from Mahajan against ornament and met funeral expenses." In a painful heart poet Jasim Uddin said 'My chest was being burst in crying of Asad. Was there not any rich Muslim in Sirajganj town who could come forward to help Asad financially? Could they not help Janab Siraji for his treatment, food and sick-diet to mitigate his sufferings during the last days of his life?'

Ismail Hossain Siraji is no more with us, but he is alive in his ideology and activities. We remember him with deep respect.

The writer is a Retired A G M Janata Bank and Life Member, Bangla Academy.

A service of love

O. Henry

When one loves one's Art no service seems too hard. That is our premise. This story shall draw a conclusion from it, and show at the same time that the premise is incorrect. That will be a new thing in logic, and a feat in story-telling somewhat older than the great wall of China.

Joe Larrabee came out of the post-oak flats of the Middle West pulsing with a genius for pictorial art. At six he drew a picture of the town pump with a prominent citizen passing it hastily. This effort was framed and hung in the drug store window by the side of the ear of corn with an uneven number of rows. At twenty he left for New York with a flowing necktie and a capital tied up somewhat closer.

Delia Caruthers did things in six octaves so promisingly in a pine-tree village in the South that her relatives chipped in enough in her chip hat for her to go "North" and "finish." They could not see her f-, but that is our story.

Joe and Delia met in an atelier where a number of art and music students had gathered to discuss chiaroscuro, Wagner, music, Rembrandt's works, pictures, Waldteufel, wall paper, Chopin and Oolong.

Joe and Delia became enamoured one of the other, or each of the other, as you please, and in a short time were married-for (see above), when one loves one's Art no service seems too hard.

Mr. and Mrs. Larrabee began housekeeping in a flat. It was a lonesome flat-something like the A sharp way down at the left-hand end of the keyboard. And they were happy; for they had their Art, and they had each other. And my advice to the rich young man would be-sell all thou hast, and give it to the poor janitor for the privilege of living in a flat with your Art and your Delia.

Flat-dwellers shall indorse my dictum that theirs is the only true happiness. If a home is happy it cannot fit too close-let the dresser collapse and become a billiard table; let the mantel turn to a rowing machine, the escritoire to a spare bedchamber, the washstand to an upright piano; let the four walls come together, if they will, so you and your Delia are between. But if home be the other kind, let it be wide and long-enter you at the Golden Gate, hang your hat on Hatteras, your cape on Cape Horn and go out by the Labrador.

Joe was painting in the class of the great Magister-you know his fame. His fees are high; his lessons are light-his high-lights have brought him renown. Delia was studying under Rosenstock-you know his repute as a disturber of the piano keys.

They were mighty happy as long as their money lasted. So is every-but I will not be cynical. Their aims were very clear and defined. Joe was to become capable very soon of turning out pictures that old gentlemen with thin side-whiskers and thick pocketbooks would sandbag one another in his studio for the privilege of buying. Delia was to become familiar and then contemptuous with Music, so that when she saw the orchestra seats and boxes unsold she could have sore throat and lobster in a private dining-room and refuse to go on the stage.

But the best, in my opinion, was the home life in the little flat-the ardent, voluble chats after the day's study; the cozy dinners and fresh, light breakfasts; the interchange of ambitions-ambitions interwoven each with the other's or else inconsiderable-the mutual help and inspiration; and-overlook my artlessness-stuffed olives and cheese sandwiches at 11 p.m.

But after a while Art flagged. It sometimes does, even if some switchman doesn't flag it. Everything going out and nothing coming in, as the vulgarians say. Money was lacking to pay Mr. Magister and Herr Rosenstock their prices. When one loves one's Art no service seems too hard. So, Delia said she must give music lessons to keep the chafing dish bubbling.

For two or three days she went out canvassing for pupils. One evening she came home elated.

"Joe, dear," she said, gleefully, "I've a pupil. And, oh, the loveliest people! General-General A. B. Pinkney's daughter-on Seventy-first street.

Such a splendid house, Joe-you ought to see the front door! Byzantine I think you would call it. And inside! Oh, Joe, I never saw anything like it before."My pupil is his daughter Clementina. I dearly love her already.

She's a delicate thing-dresses always in white; and the sweetest, simplest manners! Only eighteen years old. I'm to give three lessons a week; and, just think, Joe! $5 a lesson. I don't mind it a bit; for when I get two or three more pupils I can resume my lessons with Herr Rosenstock. Now, smooth out that wrinkle between your brows, dear, and let's have a nice supper."

"That's all right for you, Dele," said Joe, attacking a can of peas with a carving knife and a hatchet, "but how about me? Do you think I'm going to let you hustle for wages while I philander in the regions of high art? Not by the bones of Benvenuto Cellini! I guess I can sell papers or lay cobblestones, and bring in a dollar or two."

Delia came and hung about his neck.

"Joe, dear, you are silly. You must keep on at your studies. It is not as if I had quit my music and gone to work at something else. While I teach I learn. I am always with my music. And we can live as happily as millionaires on $15 a week. You mustn't think of leaving Mr. Magister."

"All right," said Joe, reaching for the blue scalloped vegetable dish. "But I hate for you to be giving lessons. It isn't Art. But you're a trump and a dear to do it."

"When one loves one's Art no service seems too hard," said Delia.

"Magister praised the sky in that sketch I made in the park," said Joe. "And Tinkle gave me permission to hang two of them in his window. I may sell one if the right kind of a moneyed idiot sees them."

"I'm sure you will," said Delia, sweetly. "And now let's be thankful for Gen. Pinkney and this veal roast."

During all of the next week the Larrabees had an early breakfast. Joe was enthusiastic about some morning-effect sketches he was doing in Central Park, and Delia packed him off breakfasted, coddled, praised and kissed at 7 o'clock. Art is an engaging mistress. It was most times 7 o'clock when he returned in the evening.

At the end of the week Delia, sweetly proud but languid, triumphantly tossed three five-dollar bills on the 8×10 (inches) centre table of the 8×10 (feet) flat parlour.

"Sometimes," she said, a little wearily, "Clementina tries me. I'm afraid she doesn't practise enough, and I have to tell her the same things so often. And then she always dresses entirely in white, and that does get monotonous. But Gen. Pinkney is the dearest old man! I wish you could know him, Joe. He comes in sometimes when I am with Clementina at the piano-he is a widower, you know-and stands there pulling his white goatee. 'And how are the semiquavers and the demisemiquavers progressing?' he always asks.

"I wish you could see the wainscoting in that drawing-room, Joe! And those Astrakhan rug portières. And Clementina has such a funny little cough. I hope she is stronger than she looks. Oh, I really am getting attached to her, she is so gentle and high bred. Gen. Pinkney's brother was once Minister to Bolivia."

And then Joe, with the air of a Monte Cristo, drew forth a ten, a five, a two and a one-all legal tender notes-and laid them beside Delia's earnings.

"Sold that watercolour of the obelisk to a man from Peoria," he announced overwhelmingly.

"Don't joke with me," said Delia, "not from Peoria!"

"All the way. I wish you could see him, Dele. Fat man with a woollen muffler and a quill toothpick. He saw the sketch in Tinkle's window and thought it was a windmill at first. He was game, though, and bought it anyhow. He ordered another-an oil sketch of the Lackawanna freight depot-to take back with him. Music lessons! Oh, I guess Art is still in it."

"I'm so glad you've kept on," said Delia, heartily. "You're bound to win, dear. Thirty-three dollars! We never had so much to spend before. We'll have oysters to-night."

"And filet mignon with champignons," said Joe. "Where is the olive fork?"

On the next Saturday evening Joe reached home first. He spread his $18 on the parlour table and washed what seemed to be a great deal of dark paint from his hands.

Half an hour later Delia arrived, her right hand tied up in a shapeless bundle of wraps and bandages.

"How is this?" asked Joe after the usual greetings. Delia laughed, but not very joyously.

"Clementina," she explained, "insisted upon a Welsh rabbit after her lesson. She is such a queer girl. Welsh rabbits at 5 in the afternoon. The General was there. You should have seen him run for the chafing dish, Joe, just as if there wasn't a servant in the house. I know Clementina isn't in good health; she is so nervous. In serving the rabbit she spilled a great lot of it, boiling hot, over my hand and wrist. It hurt awfully, Joe. And the dear girl was so sorry! But Gen. Pinkney!-Joe, that old man nearly went distracted. He rushed downstairs and sent somebody-they said the furnace man or somebody in the basement-out to a drug store for some oil and things to bind it up with. It doesn't hurt so much now."

"What's this?" asked Joe, taking the hand tenderly and pulling at some white strands beneath the bandages.

"It's something soft," said Delia, "that had oil on it. Oh, Joe, did you sell another sketch?" She had seen the money on the table.

"Did I?" said Joe; "just ask the man from Peoria. He got his depot to-day, and he isn't sure but he thinks he wants another parkscape and a view on the Hudson. What time this afternoon did you burn your hand, Dele?"

"Five o'clock, I think," said Dele, plaintively. "The iron-I mean the rabbit came off the fire about that time. You ought to have seen Gen. Pinkney, Joe, when-"

"Sit down here a moment, Dele," said Joe. He drew her to the couch, sat beside her and put his arm across her shoulders.

"What have you been doing for the last two weeks, Dele?" he asked.

She braved it for a moment or two with an eye full of love and stubbornness, and murmured a phrase or two vaguely of Gen. Pinkney; but at length down went her head and out came the truth and tears.

"I couldn't get any pupils," she confessed. "And I couldn't bear to have you give up your lessons; and I got a place ironing shirts in that big Twenty-fourth street laundry. And I think I did very well to make up both General Pinkney and Clementina, don't you, Joe? And when a girl in the laundry set down a hot iron on my hand this afternoon I was all the way home making up that story about the Welsh rabbit. You're not angry, are you, Joe? And if I hadn't got the work you mightn't have sold your sketches to that man from Peoria."

"He wasn't from Peoria," said Joe, slowly.

"Well, it doesn't matter where he was from. How clever you are, Joe-and-kiss me, Joe-and what made you ever suspect that I wasn't giving music lessons to Clementina?"

"I didn't," said Joe, "until to-night. And I wouldn't have then, only I sent up this cotton waste and oil from the engine-room this afternoon for a girl upstairs who had her hand burned with a smoothing-iron. I've been firing the engine in that laundry for the last two weeks."

"And then you didn't-"

"My purchaser from Peoria," said Joe, "and Gen. Pinkney are both creations of the same art-but you wouldn't call it either painting or music."

And then they both laughed, and Joe began:

"When one loves one's Art no service seems-"

But Delia stopped him with her hand on his lips. "No," she said-"just 'When one loves.'"

The calling

Silmi Abdullah

When I met my grandfather's brothers, I was dumbstruck by their resemblance with my grandpa: the same snow white beard, the lean stature, and the same bright, sparkling eyes that refused to grow old with the rest of the body. Perhaps that is why I missed him incredibly that time, more than any other moment during our month-long vacation.

When I saw the two old men standing side by side, I could almost envision my late grandpa standing right next to them. There must have been many moments long before my birth, or perhaps even after, when the three brothers not only stood together, but ate together, chatted together and completed the picture of this trio that branched out of the same origin. Yet, how different their lives were! While his brothers, throughout their lives used all their strength toiling in rice fields and riding horses, my grandfather remained immersed in his pen and ink bottle, and gradually became entangled with life in the city. But his heart remained far behind, in the village by the river, his very home of Mahmudpur. Through his stories, his speeches, and his letters to me, my grandpa tirelessly expressed his love and his longing for his people. But I was indifferent, and never realised that in actuality, his soul had not left his home at all. Despite his separation from his brothers, my grandpa cannot be compared to the broken branch of a tree that can never be reattached to its origin. He was more like the petal of a rose, who despite being detached from the rest of the petals would carry its original fragrance wherever it went. It was this very fragrance that pulled me towards my village in a state of hypnosis. I began to realise I had a responsibility towards this family of mine, these people who are marginalised and locked out of our consciousness as "strange inhabitants of some primitive land."

Soon, the evening light was lost under the horizon and the entire sky above our head was lit up by an army of dazzling stars. Down here on earth, lanterns had to be lit as none of the villages around that area, including ours was blessed with electricity. And so, began our experience of the nighttime outside of the city. After a few merry moments of chitchatting, dinner was served inside the house. I was captivated by the interior of the house. The rooms were spacious, but devoid of any fancy furniture. A large bed and a small side table were all that occupied the bedrooms. The walls contained no picture frame, no decorations, or no coat of fancy coloured paint. Yet, an indescribable feeling of serenity filled my heart as I performed my maghrib prayer on a bed, neatly made with authentic embroidered sheets. Candlelight flickered near the bedside, aiding in creating the perfect atmosphere for my deep meditation.

In the dining room, a wooden table stood in the middle, which was surrounded by chairs on three sides and a bed on the fourth. An authentic candlestick was placed right at the centre of the table, our only source of light in the room. Fresh food was brought to the table by my hospitable aunts. The taste of steaming rice from the fields, the aroma of the blended spices in the chicken and fish curry, and the sweet and pungent smell that was characteristic of my deshi limes had already filled my hungry stomach. The prickling heat was uncomfortable, but there was no scarcity of people to surround us and fan us with the "pakhas." I was overwhelmed by these experiences, as never before had I felt such warmth amidst a group of people I had met for the first time. How can I express the thrill I felt when a team of ducks ran past our feet and crickets chirped in the background as I chatted with my grandaunt on a wooden bed? How can I describe the emotions that ran past me when my aunt assisted me to the front lawn in the dark and poured water over my hands after dinner? It was a love that was eternal, universal and pure, a love that transcended the boundaries of the human race and extended towards animals, rivers, trees and all the constituents of nature. I experienced this love as an emotion that is irrespective of time, that spreads its arms even towards that which is a part of the past, such as my great grandparents who rested a few steps away from the house.

When dinner ended, my father, brother and I accompanied my relatives as they guided us with the help of lanterns through the haunting darkness occasionally interrupted by dense shrubs and trees. We slowly walked through the pathway that led to the graves of my great grandparents'. While performing the ziyarat of their graves, the moment reminded me of my place in this great circle of life, the interconnectedness between my ancestors and me. I felt a blessing being bestowed upon me as I prayed by their graves for the peace of their souls, and I realised what it meant to be satisfied, to be content and happy. It was a happiness I could find only in a pristine village like mine, where nature is cherished and experienced in its entirety, and ancestors are held in high esteem.

After the ziyarat, time had arrived for us to head back to the town of Madhyanagar, once again through the grand waters of the Surma. The weather was now starting to worsen, and an intense feeling of fear began to wrap me. Somewhere at a distance, the grumbling of enraged thunder could be heard. But we embarked on our boat once again, and as the boat's engine started to rumble on the waters, I saw my village gradually moving away from me. I waved at my family, and their waving hands began to fade as the village began to appear smaller and smaller before my eyes. I felt a deep pain in my heart, the pain of leaving a group of strangers who I had just met, the strangers with whom I had an eternal bond. Slowly, the only source of light, the dim lanterns in the village began to appear like little fireflies, that eventually disappeared somewhere behind the depths of the bushes. The blackness all around was now more profound. The pitch black sky and the black water now merged into one patch of nothingness, of deep black. All around, the villages appeared like a darker black patch with the trees taking a ghostlike appearance. The only source of light was that which came from the sky, the sudden flashes of white that roared and made my heart skip a beat, mixed with the serenity of the full moon's reflection that scattered and dispersed within the waves of the river. I could not fathom the magic of creation, how the once paradisiacal picture had turned into a canvas of emptiness in a matter of hours, as if the painter had spilled an entire bottle of ink on the painting. My heartbeat stopped for a few seconds when a feeling of tremendous fear crept into me as our boat suddenly stopped in the middle of the river. For a moment, I envisioned the whole scene from the perspective of a distant onlooker, and to think that our miniscule boat was stuck in the very middle of this vast nothingness sent a shiver down my spine. With weeds entangled around the engine of our boat, it had stopped operating when we were crossing the deep waters, and the boatman within a few moments was able to solve the problem, and with a sigh of great relief, we resumed our journey. I was even more relieved to finally see some man-made lights, indicative of the nearness of Madhyanagar. We reached Madhaynagar around 8 p.m., with not the slightest idea that the biggest shock and perhaps one of the most meaningful moments of my life awaited me inside the little house in the midst of the busy marketplace.

We walked back to my aunt's house where we had had lunch earlier in the day. A dim light had made the curtain at the main entrance translucent, and although I could see the silhouette of quite a few people, I had no idea who it was that was waiting for me on the other side of that curtain. The moment I walked in, before I received the chance to look at everyone, an old woman ran up to me and all I felt was two arms embracing me tightly, and the next thing I could hear was a loud sobbing. Within seconds, my clothes were wet with someone's tears, and all I could hear was the person saying, "My daughter! My daughter!" For a few seconds, I was confused, dumbstruck, and unaware of what to do. As I finally recovered from the shock of this unexpected experience, I realised that the elderly lady that locked me in her warm hug, was my first nanny who had taken care of me after my birth. I myself could not comprehend what I felt at that moment. At that split second, a million thoughts and emotions ran through me like a tornado, giving a rigorous shake and a sudden awakening to my mind, my heart, and my soul. I could not bring myself to believe that while all these years, I was busy with my own self-absorbed activities, there was someone who thought of me, who missed me, and yearned to see me. My bua/nanny had children of her own, but what I saw in her eyes for me that day was a love that was no less than what she had for her own children. There was such truth, such sincerity and such passion in those tears. That such truthfulness could exist in one's love for someone completely unrelated to him/her was something that I discovered standing on the soil of my country. When she embraced me and I felt my shoulders turning moist with her warm tears, I could not stop myself from letting my tears stream. But I knew that I wept not because I felt the same way about her, but because I was shocked at the discovery that someone somewhere in this world loved me to my complete oblivion. I cried because I could not reciprocate her feelings, and because I could not do anything in return for all she the care she took of when I was a baby. After I chatted with her and the rest of the relatives for a while, and captured some of those moments in my digital camera, it was time for us to head back to the launch ghat.

The arrival of the launch was scheduled for 10:30 p.m. But somehow, we received information that it would arrive at 9 p.m. and we began to walk towards the ghat through the same narrow path that led us to so many precious experiences. Our relatives followed us for some time to see us off, tearful and reluctant to let us go. My aunt and my nanny kept on stroking my back saying, "wonder when we'll see you again." After sometime, as the road became busier with crowds of people, I turned around to find them not there anymore, realising that they had headed back to their homes. At that point we received the correct information about the arrival of the launch, and were quite at a loss, as we had left the house behind and did not know where to wait until the launch arrived. It turned out that the vociferous crowd belonged to a Hindu wedding that was taking place somewhere around. Here I experienced yet another thing that was completely new to me, a village wedding! It was something that I had only witnessed in Indian movies, and it seemed far too surreal for me. It was rather interesting as it seemed that the bride's house and the groom's house were right across from each other, on either side of the road. On one side, there was a gate gracefully decorated with plastic chairs situated outside. On the other side, I could see camera flashes coming out of a room, and I assumed that the bride sat somewhere inside. The groom was the son of a school's headmaster, and we were directed to the house of the groom's uncle to sit and wait for our launch. I was skeptical at first, as I was not comfortable with the idea of intruding into a stranger's house. But my father and brother walked right in following my two uncles, and I had no choice but to follow them. I gradually started to realise that this skepticism, this paranoia and lack of trust were feelings that are planted deeply in our minds due to the ways of the city. In the midst of the mechanical lives where everyone operates with the ultimate goal of self-benefit, the development of true and meaningful human relationships often becomes less of a priority. In that little room where there was no electricity and two beds were all there was room for, I witnessed another example of true hospitality. In minutes, lanterns and candles were brought in, little children who were complete strangers to us started fanning us, and people were sent to the market to bring in cold drinks. I could see the little boy's face who fanned me continuously and tirelessly in the dark, and I began a conversation with him.

"Aren't you getting tired?" I asked. "Why don't you sit down at least?"

"It's alright," he replied. "I sit around all day anyway."

That little boy, who barely had any education, any contact with our so-called "modern, civilised society" had demonstrated more courtesy and politeness than any of the rich city boys I had encountered in Dhaka or Toronto. When the launch finally arrived, news came to us through the door and I saw unknown, random individuals grabbing our luggage and carrying them on their heads, walking hurriedly towards the ghat and gradually getting out of our sight. My paranoia returned, but I stopped myself before I began to think that our luggage would disappear. The men ran towards the launch and placed our luggage inside to reserve our seats. It was a well-known fact that no one would patiently make a line and enter the cabin one by one, and finding seats was a real hassle. After we thanked the Hindu gentleman and his family for his kind hospitality, we walked to the ghat and saw the launch slowly approaching, the lantern hanging on top of the cabin being the only thing marking its presence against the pitch black background.

The atmosphere of the night time gave me a sudden chill, and embarking on our return journey, I anticipated the experience of something completely different. For the first time, my fear reached such magnitude that I was not sure whether I would make it back home safely. I tried to get some sleep inside the cabin, hoping that most of my journey would pass without the realisation of sailing through complete darkness, but the heat and the lack of comfort of the seats prevented me from sleeping. Every few seconds, my eyes would open and look for something comforting, but whether I looked out of the window or went to the deck outside of the cabin, I was horrified by the darkness and each second passed with immense fear and uncertainty. The moon that aided us with its light during our boat journey decided to stop co-operating and hid behind the dense clouds, leaving no trace of light anywhere. My father and brother sat on the deck, and I thought that perhaps joining them would be the best idea. While sitting on the deck, I saw our boat entering into the daunting darkness, as if it was being engulfed by a black hole. The navigating light was turned off to save electricity and was turned back on every time the launch approached a village for stoppage. I was dumbstruck by the skill that the navigator displayed as he flawlessly guided the launch in complete darkness! Every time the navigating light was cast near a stoppage, the foliage of some large tree was all that was visible. I prayed for the night to be over soon, as I had never felt this vulnerable in the hands of nature.

I had actually managed to sleep for an hour or two inside the cabin despite the discomfort, and when I returned to the deck, I was delighted to think that it was almost time for the sun to peep through the end of the horizon. In fact, I was so elated that despite the blackness all around, my fear had completely disappeared. It was the first time I would see the sunrise from a boat, sailing on the velvet waves of a river! Before my eyes, the sky gradually changed its appearance as thin streaks of reddish-orange ran through the light purple canvas of the dawn. Slowly, the beauty of my motherland began to unravel once again, which was covered under the deep black blanket of the night. Although the clouds prevented us from experiencing the complete beauty of the scene, the whole atmosphere with the serenity of the gentle waters and the soothing breeze created a divine feeling. Within another hour or so, the launch ghat of Sunamgonj became visible and slowly our launch halted at our starting point, marking the end of our adventure. Upon reaching Sunamgonj, we headed towards another one of my aunt's house for breakfast, and around 11 a.m. a jerky bus ride took us back to the main city of Sylhet.

Ever since my return to Canada that year, I have not been able to forget Mahmudpur and its spellbinding beauty, the hospitality of my family, and my nanny in Madhyanagar. Many an evening, as I sit at my computer desk and burn my eyes in the process of typing reports and assignments, I occasionally sit back and shut my tired eyelids. I imagine the blue-grey hill where the giant lives, the turquoise eyes of my granduncle, and the boat cradling me on the lap of the river. I hear the soft melody of the waves and feel the warm embrace of my nanny. I clearly envision the innocent smile of the little boy that fanned me, and I become restless. I pine to go back and to give back. I become anxious to return the warmth they had showered upon me. I shrug off my false pride of studying at the University of Toronto, of being a pre-medical student out to achieve material success. I become determined to continue my grandfather's work, to love and to give to those parts of my motherland that are ignored, neglected and forgotten.

(The writer is a pre-Medical student of University of Toronto, Canada)

Poem

I feel happy whent..

Shentia Uddin

I feel happy whent

The flowers bloom in the spring.

The snowflakes fall in the winter.

The sun shines so bright in the summer.

The coloured leaves fall in the autumn.

The birds sing outside my window.

The stars light up my night.

The river is at peace.

The rain falls on my face.

The sky is as blue as can be.

The clouds are fluffier than usual.

The grass is greener than ever before.

The breeze flows through my hair.

The moon brightens the dark sky.

The trees reach the highest height.

All of nature works together.

Life itself is a beautiful painting.

Better than the best

Who says

Youth is the best?

For others

If not it is dedicated

If not it is used?

The Youth for (him) self

But not for others

Is worse thanthe worst.

The youth spent for others

Is even better than the best.

From morning to evening

I talked to her regarding

so many things

from morning to evening.

But no arrangement could be made

for its measurement

for want of suitable instrument

But the thing was that

she talked to me

and I talked to her

from sunrise to sunset.

The fact was also that

we talked to each other

in brief and in details

on so many things

from morning to evening.

We talked so much that

it was equivalent to hill.

Even a few kilometres

were left behind

when we were talking

from morning to evening.

Dr. Sirajul Karim