The New Nation - Internet Edition

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)