The New Nation - Internet Edition

Better not to reignite the old flames

Maswood Alam Khan

In spite of ourselves, many of us always stay reserved and refrain from talking in a manner that may sound childlike. Because of the fear of being ridiculed we resist our temptation to play a game with children. We deny ourselves the innate pleasure of fondling a toy---a toy like a bus, a gun, a teddy bear or a stuffed doll---a toy that so immensely comforted us in our childhood! We are tragically afraid of behaving not like a matured man. Every man and every woman on the planet at one stage of his/her life, especially in their twilight years, will want to be a kid again. People will do anything to get the feelings of youth back.

They will spend money to obtain a trinket, a plaything or any trivial object they were once fond of when they were children: a little empty tin box (with a picture of a dog listening to the sounds of his master's voice on the hinged lid) that used to contain stylus needles for gramophone, for an example. They'll revisit places where they used to play as kids; they will scour through gardens and jungles to find out an old tree they used to climb up. Deep within every individual lives an innocuous child, in his/her most beautiful form. It is this child's manifestation that we see getting expressed every now and then when we see people around us getting into a euphoric state over seemingly minor issues. We see so many grown-ups acting in a childish or child-like manner. We don't, though, see it happening with everyone; and of course, not all the time.

Does this mean it is only in some few rare people that this child-like behaviour prevails? Not at all! It is important to understand that the reason for the lack of child-like behaviour in many is not to be attributed to its absence but to its suppression. There are elderly people we come across who we see carrying themselves in such a sophisticated and matured way that we are surprised when we see them, at some rare points, getting excited over things so trivial! Totally forgetting their mellow manners they behave just like a child---a beauty they so brutally suppress in their routine life. Such childlike expression, once in a while, helps each one of us in some unique way. For some, it's a stress reliever; for some, it helps them look at life in a more sunny fashion. People, who display such child-like behaviour frequently, very often tend to display positive vibrations and have a contagious aura and enthusiasm surrounding them! My mother, who was a very religious lady, used to burst into peals of laughter whenever she would hear my wistful wish to demand a queer prize from God if He, after my death, ever asks me a question on the day of judgment:

"Maswood, it looks you did some good jobs in your temporal life. Well, what do you want now?" If I could remember that day what I am now contemplating I would appeal to God: "Oh God! You can do whatever you fancy. Please recreate Sunamganj in its exact form where my father was posted as a civil servant and where I was there a child 7 years old. With the school backpack heavily loaded with books strapped on my shoulders I want to trudge one mile of muddy road from my sweet home to my dreamy school; at the lunch break I along with my classmates want to walk to the bank of the river Shurma just at the rear of our school and find a chance to climb onto the kitchen roof of an idle motor boat tied to the jetty and sit there having our school tiffins of buns and bananas."

"I want to revisit Jhunu Didi's home every day in the afternoon to be tutored mathematics by her as I used to when often in the evening I saw her---a rare paragon of beauty I have ever come across---worshipping with her folded hands after her placing an oil lamp on the concrete altar surrounding a tulshi tree at a shady corner of her house. I want to be photographed by Tota Bhai, our neighbour, and would love again to peer into his dark room to see how he washes photographs and then clip those wet prints on a line to be dried in the sun. Allow me please, God, to play with those my beloved pets who used to nudge my legs with their noses". I could have waited till the day of judgment for a magical revisit to the wonderland of my boyhood. But, I made a terrible blunder. As a part of my official tour in Sylhet Division I chose to attend a conference of my bank's managers working in Sunamganj, a choice that was more for my secret wish to see Sunamganj of my childhood---only to find later my heart shattered into pieces. The Sunamganj I saw last Friday is totally different from what Sunamganj my eyes had seen in the early 1960s. My boyhood house I was so eager to see is no more there in its original form and the grassy field in front we played on is now filled with concrete jungles.

My soul cried out: "Oh no, God! I didn't want to see my Sunamganj in such modern fashions glittering with electric bulbs and sparkling with neon lights; I wished to see the small town in her pristine condition when a man from the municipality would come every evening to kindle the kerosene-fuelled street lamp in front our house." My heart elated when a colleague of mine rushed to me to declare that he found out my Tota Bhai, the photographer, and Jhunu Didi, my mathematics tutor! "Both are eager to see me", he said. I could not wait to meet them at their places. But, my heart abysmally shrank as I saw Tota Bhai and Jhunu Didi---both bent down under weight of age, their faces creased by wrinkles, their hands shrivelled and their hairs took on a pale and greyish hue. I wished I had not seen them---I didn't want to maim their serene portraits I had been treasuring since my childhood. The pictures of Tota Bhai and Jhunu Didi I so adoringly had painted on a canvas, then so securely framed those in my memory album and so discreetly hid the images deep inside my mind is now evaporated into smoke! Nazrul Islam, the most romantic poet in the realm of Bangla literature, said: "Woman as created by God is a human being"---"such a description gives only half of her image; because man's fancy and imagination about women which he has been weaving since his childhood conjure up the other half".

Everybody, you and I, who has a soul to appreciate beauties of life, did at least once fall in love with someone before his/her marriage. In most cases, tragically, a pair of lovers cannot really translate their love into marriage. Jilted they are compelled to embark upon their journeys of life with their fated life partners on two different ways in two diverse directions and gradually fade away from each other. After several years of no communication one of those lovers, whose poetic soul has now turned elegiac, feels tempted to re-establish contact with his/her lost love. Reuniting with a bygone love is a great fantasy, no doubt. But we make blunders by becoming too childish to control our emotional impulses when we bump into our old loves---our old flames! The moment our eyes contact those of our past loves our throats get dry and our lips tight; but our enthralled eyes start beaming volumes of words in an ethereal induction from both sides.

Absolute silence, in such a situation, could be the wisest way to reflect from a distance on the beauty of our old romance. But, we break the golden silence only to hear what we least want to hear! We forget a simple truth that 'reality is often different from what we're fed in romance novels and movies'. We forget that 'love is divine and when love is satisfied or translated into marriage all charms are gone away.' In 'Shesher Kabita', the epoch novel Rabindranath Tagore wrote at his old age, the hero was Amit who was in passionate love with Labannya.

Their love could not be translated into marriage. Later, married with Ketoki Amit was enjoying a happy marital life in love with his wife. At one stage Amit was asked to describe his love with Labannya, his past fiancée, vis-à-vis his love with Ketoki, his present wife. Amit (rather Rabindranath himself through the mouth of Amit) replied: "My love with Ketoki is just like a pitcher of water at the corner of my room; whenever I feel thirsty, I take a glass of water from the pitcher to quench my thirst. But, my love with Labannya is not mere a pitcher; it's a huge lake. Whenever I fancy, I go over to the lake, dive into it, splash on it, and swim over it to my heart's content without taking a single drop of water."

Dhaka - 1948

Mohammed Nawazish

Years roll on and old memories continue to fade away. But the memory of my first acquaintance with Dhaka far back in 1948 when my father was posted to the newly created provincial secretariat lives on with a fair clarity. We came all the way from a sub-divisional town and for a sprightly boy of eight it was an occasion of thrill and adventure to be in such a 'large' town with waves of buildings and people. We were accommodated in a large house in Wari which had a huge compound with lush gardens and fruit bearing trees. Wari was an aristocratic area with rows of single one or two-storey well-maintained buildings adorned with luxuriant gardens and large trees. Metalled roads ran in parallel formation all converging on Madan Mohan Basak road (now Tipu Sultan road) leading to Nawabpur. The entire locality represented a serene and soothing ambience. The railway track to Narayanganj passed by Folder Street that was very close to our Wyre street residence. I often slipped out of the house to watch the whistling trains escaping the vigilant eyes of parents. Dhaka did not have any sanitation and sewerage facility. Obnoxious service latrines were used in most houses and the sweepers regularly cleared the latrines spreading horrible stench from their drum shaped bull carts. But part-time water supply to houses and roadside taps and power supply was regular though the concept of running water in bathrooms was still a distant vision. Streets were lighted with ordinary bulbs under simple shades on running poles. We stored water in a large cemented tank in the front yard and in buckets. The town by and large was clean and tidy.

Our grocery centre was Thatari bazaar. There were some more such big bazaars in the town of which I knew very little. But Nawabpur was definitely the Oxford Street of Dhaka that presented an attractive look with colourful shop lines. Victoria park (later Bahadur Shah park) was perhaps the town centre beyond which, as we were told, were the wholesale markets at Patuatuly, Islampur, Chawkbazaar and some other busy commercial centres we seldom visited. I remember having occasionally gone to Sadarghat on the Buriganga to have a taste of the famous 'Kulfi' and view the legendary cannon installed on the bund road. It was a panoramic view at Sadarghat, boats with sails on and small dinghies skimming over the blue rippling water under a soft river breeze, emerald green village outlines against the azure in the opposite horizon, small shops and hotels, people moving in no hurry many of whom being just casual walkers, it was a place of relaxation for the town folk, not the whirlpool of rude crowded turmoil of today.

Compared to other district headquarters in Bengal, Dhaka was all along a much larger and commercially active town. Even before the Mughals it was a busy trading hub. During 1948, the town limit virtually extended up to Fulbaria railway station as though the rail track from then Hatirpool (now demolished) to Gandaria via Fulbaria set up an informal boundary line. In fact, the town already expanded beyond the railway track and there were quite a few pockets of upscale old residential areas at Gopibagh, Purana Paltan, Azimpur, old Dhanmondi, Orphanage road and the like. The secretariat with one or two buildings and dozens of temporary sheds, the Curzon hall, High Court (old), medical college, race course and the red buildings in Ramna etc all lay in the extended suburb. These were mostly quiet sleepy areas aloof from the bustling town. The suburban extension was chiefly the result of the short-lived partition of Bengal in 1905. Immediately after the independence of British India, a large number of temporary barracks were constructed at Pallasey and Nilkhet to accommodate the bulging number of officials and refugees from India. We used to visit one of our grand mothers at Azimpur Sheikh Sahib Bazar and watch on way these barracks and the newly developed activity centres. My aunt lived in a house on Ramkrishna Mission road. The locality had a cool rural setting and we siblings and cousins used to play in the ritzy flowery lawns of the nearby Rose Garden palace.

Dhaka had narrow but metalled public roads; two-horse box coaches and rickshaws were the principal modes of transport. Cars were scarce, old American and British models were sometimes seen passing with an aura of concealed pride. I was then too young to know about the local inhabitants, their language and special dishes of kebabs and biryani and bakharkhani. My world actually revolved round Wari, St. Gregory's High School where I studied, Sheikh Sahib Bazaar and Ramkrishna Mission Road. Near our school was the Victoria park where hawkers and sales agents crowded with their merchandise and magicians displayed their tricks. The nearby O.K. restaurant with large glass panes and smart turbaned waiters was a piece of special wonder for me though I never ventured a closer look. Another place that attracted me most was the glass-cased showroom of Dienfa Motors located somewhere near the present Gulistan plaza. A cute sports car was displayed that made me sigh if I could own one some day.

Those were the days following a great national upheaval. We had to collect rice, oil and other eatables against ration cards. Even wheat breads were supplied against coupons. The rice was rotten with such a foul odour that we opted for hand-made bread instead. We collected wheat bread from one Humayun hotel somewhere between the rail track and Hatkhola road. My memory never fails when I tell about the marauding hordes of monkeys that came down every morning in separate groups to plunder fruits, vegetables and even food stuff from inside the houses. They were so fearless and free that we hid ourselves whenever a group was seen rampaging around. They cared little even the adult men and snatched things away from their hands. These primates in groups would be seen everywhere in the town. Each group had its leader, a huge robust and ferocious male who scared us even by its presence.

Acute accommodation problem encouraged the government to adopt a veiled policy of forced requisition of houses belonging to minority community. I heard this from elders but am not sure of the real situation and context. One night when we were fast asleep, we woke up hearing a loud outcry from our neighbours who belonged to the minority community. We huddled together to know what happened. By that time it was all silent. In the morning we came to know that the inmates of the house were forced to vacate the ground floor as that part had been requisitioned. They were lodged upstairs. We learned later that the non-Bengalee refugees spearheaded the nocturnal invasion. I was too young to know or inquire if entering one's house at that unearthly hour was legally right or wrong.

We had a short stay in Dhaka on that occasion as my father was transferred to a district. It was still shadowy in the pre-morning haze when the train slowly pulled out of Fulbaria. The parting was painful and we remained unusually calm as the town was slowly disappearing from view. Little did I know that it would be another seven years before I would come back to the same town to observe down the chain of eventful years its speedy transformation to a sparkling megalopolis of concrete mass with a clumsy cobweb of roads and lanes filled with thousands of turbulent vehicles and a reeling population touching the ten million mark. My small Dhaka is lost with the small boy but, then, change is life, change is progress.

Remembering Shamsur Rahman

Mohammad Shahidul Islam

If Tagore was the last poet in the Bengali tradition, Jibanananda Das was the first of a new breed. And this new breed, in the trend of Bengali modern and post modern poetry, has been unarguably continuous with the powerful contributions of Shamsur Rahman.

Shamsur Rahman emerged in his time as the most popular poet of modern Bengali literature. Popularity apart, Shamsur Rahman had distinguished himself as an extraordinary poet presenting a paradigm hitherto best chosen. It is a fact that his most familiar poetic diction, choice of words and thematic preferences took not much time to reach the heart of the readers. Today it can be said without exaggeration that the poetry of Shamsur Rahman has become the defining essence of modernism in 21st century Bengali poetry.

Shamsur Rahman was born on 24th October , 1929 in Dhaka. He studied at Pogos High School[ matriculation in 1945], Dhaka College and Dhaka University. Shamsur Rahman wrote most of his poems in free verse, often with the rhythm style known as Poyaar or Aakhsharbritto. It is popularly known that he followed this pattern from poet Jibanananda Das. He also wrote poems in two other major patterns of Bengali rhythmic style, namely, Matrabritto and Shorobritto.

Of Bengali modern poets, poet Shamsur Rahman was equally popular in both Banglas. Surely, his early poems bear the influence of Jibanananda's and some other poets like Satyendranath Dutta and Buddhadeb Bose. However, before long, he thoroughly overcame all influences and created a post modern poetic diction. However, as his style and diction matured, his message appeared to touch urban hearts. In fact, he put huge attention on liberal humanism, human relations, romanticised rebellion of youth, the emergence of consequent events in Bangladesh, and opposition to religious fundamentalism in his poetry and writings and these were considered mostly comprehensible.

His poetic talent has reserved a crown for him in Bengali modern poetry.

His literary creativity transcended borders and revealed his literary, social and political commitments. The poet not only came to be looked upon as the nation's conscience keeper but also as someone who provided intellectual and moral sustenance to liberals. And when the real test came, he led from the front and inspired them to emerge victorious. His role in ousting a dictator like Ershad from power is well known.

Also quite widely known was his abhorrence for the country's past rulers whose outfits once had made an attempt on his life. Their intense and pronounced hatred for him centered round his stout commitment to the values of the liberation war, especially secularism.

His most celebrated works include Prothom Gan Ditio Mrittur Age (1960), Roudro Korotite (1963), Biddhosto Nilima (1967), Bondi Shibir Theke (1972), Bangladesh Shopno Dakhay (1977), Udbhot Uter Pithe Cholche Shodesh (1983) , Buj Tar Bangladesher Hridoy (1988) , Octopas (1983), Adbhut Adhar Ak(1985), Alating Belating(1974), Robert Froster Kobita(1966), Robert Froster Nirbachito Kobita(1968) and many other creative works.

He has achieved numerous awards like Adamjee Award (1962), Bangla Academy Award (1969), Ekushey Padak (1977, Swadhinata Dibosh Award (1991), Mitshubishi Award of Japan (1992), Ananda Puroshker from India (1994),TLM South Asian Literature Award for the Masters, 2006 etc.

Shamsur Rahman died in Dhaka at the age of 77 on 17th August 2006. Bengali literature received a big blow with the death of Bangladesh's poet laureate Shamshur Rahman.

His death also dealt a body blow to all those in Bangladesh who have fought authoritarianism, and the terror of Islamists for upholding the cause of secularism, democracy and Bengali nationalism. We remember this prolific poet with due homage in his second death anniversary.

O United Nations

The book O United Nations composed by Sinha M. A. Sayeed is so beautifully produced in a prosaic poetry fashion that it echoes the feelings of all right-thinking citizens. It also creates a great interest about the United Nations even in the minds of an ordinary citizen. I am very much confident that this book will promisingly have its place in the global market of publication and distribution. Credit must also be given to Bangladesh Political Science Association for taking a bold and timely initiative to bring the book to the notice of readers of various nature and diversification, national and international.

Though I am not a political scientist, as a historian I share all his feelings about the United Nations. Sinha's verses capture the travails, anguish and expectations which the UN symbolizes. The value of the work is enhanced by the pictorial depictions which are aesthetically put on art paper.

Professor Deepak Kumar,

President, International Association of Historians of Asia (IAHA),

Z. H. Centre for Educational Studies,

Jawaharlal Nehru Universit.

A book of excellence

Having gone through the book O United Nations composed in a prosaic poetry style by Sinha M. A. Sayeed and published by Bangladesh Political Science Association and reviews made by various national and international personalities and organizations, we are, truly speaking, encouraged to conclude as follows:

That the book has rightly spoken of the problems and issues surrounding the United Nations and recommendations put forward therein deserve to be attended with due care and flavor for the overall onward journey of the UN. Sinha M. A. Sayeed, by producing this book, has not only showed his excellence in voicing the rights of the peoples in the world but also placed him solidly as a cosmopolitan thinker.

Pancha N. Maharjan Ph.D.,

Professor of Political Science

Tribhuvan University, Nepal

Poem

I wish to believe

Sanaul Huq Khan

Still I wish to believe

Everywhere calfs are calling

'Mam Mam'

Mam is calling her child

"Still you are in bed

Sun is over our head

at night solved 'chirata' will be useless

Sun is so hot in Baishakh

Milk 'chirata' Muri' 'Chatu'

will be stale

'Yet us my child'

House is not cleaned,

'Dhoop, Loban

'Agarbati' is not still lifted

Grocers shop is open

Only my work is not yet completed

Your Josnadre is waiting with milk

You will make her sorry

Please get up my child

Will you not go to graveyard

Papa is waiting for your sound

Tell me why any white saree looks more white today

Goshna say while see is flag of our house

Sweets of Ganesh, sweet meat of chitta and card

They are gone before 10 AM you used to say.

When dialogue between mother and son was going

then Arup and Arundhuti cried

Do you know Anti Suchitre's condition is serious

ETV is saying that Suchlitra is suffocating

Kidney is also not working properly

Why your white saree is while to day

Sweetmeat of Ganesh 'Chamchaim' of chitta

They have gone before 10 AM

Suddenly Arup and Arundhati cried

"Do you know ante, Suchitra's condition

is very serious she is suffocatin

ETV amounting her kidney is not working

Moreover she is not meeting with any man

Please pray for her

she is helpless today

We don't understand

First day of Baishakh may come to anyone

31st night come shamelessly

Jazz music also come

till sharee comes in Bangladesh

Translated by Hasan Salaudin

Children

Julian Parrish

All children always like to pranks and play,

With Pc, doll, ball, colour, water and clay.

Whatever they see that like to obtain at easy,

And always watch cartoon, so they are busy.

Many children don't like to drink and eat,

So physically they are ill and fully unfit.

Many are like to chat only with buddy,

But feel bore for too pressure of study.

It is not correct to give too much pressure,

But excess fondle is bad and err for future.

Affection and love are essential for survive,

And also need to control to get moral life.

Practice telling lie one kind of addiction.

Wear unsocial dress one kind of fashion.

They look at very smart and like model face,

But do not hesitate to do any immoral case.

Do not fulfil their wants in the same time,

As for lacking in future, they could be crime.

Help them to learn meaningful moral rhyme,

And encourage them to eat slight hot and lime.

Let them have patience, request, humble and cry,

Then be understood, to get any, need to try.

Ask them; pray every day to Almighty God,

So that mind and soul be escaped from fraud.

Discourage to watch bad scenery of television,

And teach them what is their actual mission.

They should respect their beloved parents,

And also should be accountable and transparent.