The New Nation - Internet Edition

The language I speak

Mizanur Rahman

Bangla is my language. To me it is the sweetest one. I am to articulate all my senses through this language. It is my mother tongue. I love it as I love my mother. Even if I speak any other language or write it, I got to have it translated into my mind. It automatically blends and melts inside my heart. Even if I sing any song, Bangla tone catches me at earnest. It is equally natural throughout the world for every individual that speaks any language. Every individual that may remain at any place or region utters the same language in different tone. That is speech variation. The sound of the language varies from childhood to boyhood and from young age to old age along with the growth of the physical feature of the body. That time takes every one of us on its wing anyway without any discrimination. We cannot hold the gallop of the horse of time. The language of age sounds the language of our tongue. Since I am born and brought up my education has been started naturally but our caretaker mother or teacher taught us to carry on life's journey. Its not likely that everybody will get the opportunity of schooling though every child should avail of it as a matter of human right.

I can hardly expect any fruit from my tree unless I take care of it properly.

The tree wants to grow up with proper treatment and care with light, air and water. That will bear the sweet fruits for me. This applies almost in all cases. If you want to make your language sweet you have to know and learn it. It has its grammar and syntax. Your sentence must be grammatically correct with appropriate words and phrases.

Our Bangla language might be as old as Bangalee people are living in Bengal. Now this Bengal had already been politically partitioned in 1947. But this language had been chastened at the advent of British rule in India long before Bengal's partition. Some European missionaries came to Bengal during eighteenth century and endeavoured to propagate and preach the religion of Christianity among the people of the region. They probably felt that knowledge of Bengali would require convincing the Bengali people about their tenet or faith in the language of the land. Not only that, they ventured also to bring out a newspaper for wide publicity of Christian faith in Bengal. So they made up their mind to establish a printing press. Manoel de Assumcam and Dom Antonio had developed Bengali in their credit with the works in Bengali prose in 1743 e.g., "Brahman-Roman Catholic Sambad" and Crepar Xaxtrar Ortho, Bhed 1743 and "Yocabolario em idioma Bengallae Portuguez in Sree Rampur Mission. They appeared to be the pioneers developing Bengali prose for both Textbook and Newspaper. Long after their works done Sir G.A. Grierson researched them out in 1943. The typical Bengali grammar and its linguistic approach of medieval form that Manoel had to make in Roman transcription in which dialects of Faridpur and Dhaka regions were unveiled. Only after Manoel, N.B. Halhed, a writer of the East India Company, published "A Grammar of Bengal Language (Hooghly, 1778). Later Lebedeff (1801), Ram Mohan Ray (1826), and Father William Carey, D.D. (1827) made Bengali grammar more systematic and comprehensive. Carey's works on Bengali grammar and Bengali-English dictionary were commendable in his time.

Since Bengali language and literature has been proceeding on the path to progress. Dr. Shahidullah had arduous efforts gathering rich Bengali vocabularies to improve our Bengali language.

Traditionally I have been trading a long trailed-path of rich language called Bengali.

Tagore, Rabindranath and Kazi Nazrul Islam had enriched and formed Bengali language in such a way that there seems no loophole through which someone can put his/ her mouth and nose to fork anything waste. It was earnest perseverance on the part of our great poet and litterateur. I should not confine myself talking about our great men. There are many other writers and poets whose contributions cannot be ignored. When I speak of them I count their endless qualities. But I do not have so much space at my heart to embrace them all together. I pay them my sincerest respect. They are our guides, friends and philosophers. We salute them.

When I recite a Bengali poem, I feel joyous, and then my heart exerts elixir of pleasure. When I speak my words that must express the voice of love and friendship. I must shun a thing that percolates bad smell. Why shall I not have the smell of the fragrant rose or any other scented flower? A thing of pleasure cannot be left aside however insignificant that seemed to be.

I must be careful before my words come out of my lips whether I speak anything wrong. If I set my spoken Bengali words correctly and in proper way, I think there is no harm for anybody in it. It might attract my listeners.

The valiant sons of this land had shed their blood and laid down their lives for the preservation of the sweetest form of our Bengali language. I must pay my proper respect to those heroic Bengali language-heroes. So why should I not speak Bengali correctly and avoid all vulgar terms to smoothen the language itself?

The people of almost every district of Bangladesh have some separate spoken Bengali linguistic dialects, accents, and pronunciations that cannot be changed overnight. At least we can teach our pupils the common form of lucid Bengali language accurately, then our next generation can be set free from anomalous and erroneous speech variations. It does not mean we shall imitate West Bengal, Bharat to avoid speech variations. No, we have our own form of sweet Bengali colloquials. That will make the distinction between the west and the east. Bengali grammar, spelling and formation of speech, narration, voice seem to be highly simplified by the savant educationists under the aegis of our Bangla Academy which require immediate implementation.

Let me love my language, let me speak it correctly and let me do well for it.

Now I am a free person of a free country and I must remember my mother language Bangla that brought freedom for me through a bloody War of Liberation. Ours is a nation-state based on state language Bangla.

One thing is not to be forgotten that the birth-chamber of modern Bengali language is West Bengal (now an Indian state). Some of the orientalist academicians like F.E. Pargitar (1886), W. Sutton Page, John Beames, and Hoemla took interest in researching in Bengali spoken language i.e. colloquials, grammar of classical nature. In their studies some of the places of Eastern Bengal (now Bangladesh) and its colloquials were included. According to a Bengali research scholar and exponent Sunity Kumar Chatterjee, " t the first Bengali with a scientific insight to attack the problems of the language was the poet Rabindranath Tagore t The work of Rabindranath is in the· shape of a few essays on Bengali phonetics, Bengali onomatopoesis, Bengali nouns and other essays collected now in one volume that is "Sabda Tattwa" and another is "Bangla Bhasha Parichaya". Another Bengali poet Mozammel Hoque (1860-1933) of Santipur, Nadia (now India) was an exponent of Bengali Language and an eminent Bengali examiner of Calcutta University, who authored, "Sisurabjan Barna Sikhwa" "Prathomic Rachana Sikhwa", intended for the students of High and Middle English Schools, "Sahitya Sikhwa "and "Maktaber Bangla Sikhawa, put a considerable impact on Bengali Education in Bengal (undivided) of his time. Modernism in Bengali Language and Literature had been started since 19th century and proceeded onward with the standard of eminence whereas the western world influence of classics got enough space on the firmament of Bengali literary sphere. Translation works of western and oriental literature in Bengali gave vent to ideas preferring to Bengali minds. It bridged the gap where we were lagging behind in Bangladesh.

Towards the development of Bengali language and literature hence many hands had to work together and the future prospect of it seemed brighter one. Our literary circle in Bangladesh is, however, no less adventurous. We are of course marching forward.

I am happy to see my country Bangladesh of language heroes is marching towards peace and prosperity upholding the standard of my sweet Bangla language. I love it as I love my mother forever.

(The writer of this article M. Mizanur Rahman is a poet, essayist, translator and columnist.)

My grandfather

Fahin Rahman Aungkita

My grandfather's name is Ayezuddin Mollah. He was a brave freedom fighter and at the same time he was successful at his business. He fought for our country Bangladesh and made it independent. On the 24th November 1971 at dawn under the district of Sherpur he sacrificed his life while he was fighting face to face with the Pakistani army.

30 lakhs of people including my grandfather died in that war. My grandfather's dead body was found behind our house in the bush. In other places vultures and other scavengers came and ate up the unknown dead bodies. I heard from my father that every house was burnt including our house with all the things.

My father also said that for a week or two they had to eat burnt cereals and they had to face many troubles. A little new house like tent was built and they passed their days very hardly. My grandmother was really shocked about the incident and after six years she also died. Being the eldest son of the family my father took the responsibility to look after the family. Finally new houses were built.

My grandfather has two sons and four daughters. There are many books in which my grandfather's fate is written. Some of them are : "Twenty years after the Genocide in Bangladesh" dedicated by George Harison and Ravi Shankar, "Ridoye Ekattor" edited by Panna Kyesar, "Khuje Firee" written by Roshid Hyedar and many more. I wanted to see him how he looked like, how he behaved and how he fought. My little brother, Ahanaf Rahman Ador who is just 3 years old knows my grandfather by seeing his portrait hung in our house. I request the Government to punish the war-criminals who were involved in my grandfather and other people's death.

(The writer is a student in Mastermind School, Dhanmondi, Dhaka, Section : Yellow, Class : IV )

The Magic Circle

Ethel M. Dell

(From previous issue)

He took a sudden step forward.

"You refuse deliverance?" he questioned harshly.

She did not retreat this time, but faced him proudly.

"I do!"

"Listen!" he said again, and his voice was stern. "Sir Roland Brooke has returned home. He knows that you have disobeyed him. He knows that you are here with me. You will not dare to face him. You have gone too far to return."

She gasped hysterically, and tottered for an instant, but recovered herself.

"I will-I will go back!" she said.

"He will beat you like a labourer's wife," warned the jester. "He may do worse."

She was swaying as she stood.

"He will do-as he sees fit," she said.

He stooped a little lower.

"I would make you happy, Lady Una," he whispered. "I would protect you-shelter you-love you!"

She flung out her hands with a wild and desperate gesture. The magnetism of his presence had become horrible to her.

"I am going to him-now," she said.

Behind him she saw, in the brightening moonlight, the opening which she had vainly sought a few minutes before. She sprang for it, darting past him like a frightened bird seeking refuge, and in another moment she was lost in the green labyrinths.

* * * * *

The moonlight had become clear and strong, casting black shadows all about her. Twice, in her frantic efforts to escape, she ran back into the centre of the maze. The jester had gone, but she imagined him lurking behind every corner, and she impotently recalled his words: "There is no way out of the magic circle."

At last, panting and exhausted, she knew that she was unwinding the puzzle. Often as its intricacies baffled her, she kept her head, rectifying each mistake and pressing on, till the wider curve told her that she was very near the entrance. She came upon it finally quite suddenly, and found herself, to her astonishment, close to the terrace steps.

She mounted them with trembling limbs, and paused a moment to summon her composure. Then, outwardly calm, she traversed the terrace and entered the house.

Lady Blythebury was dancing, and she felt she could not wait. She scribbled a few hasty words of farewell, and gave them to a servant as she entered her carriage. Hers was the first departure, and no one noted it.

She sank back at length, thankfully, in the darkness, and closed her eyes. Whatever lay before her, she had escaped from the nightmare horror of the shadowy garden.

But as the brief drive neared its end, her anxiety revived. Had Sir Roland indeed returned and discovered her absence? Was it possible?

Her face was white and haggard as she entered the hall at last. Her eyes were hunted.

The servant who opened to her looked at her oddly for a moment.

"What is it?" she said nervously.

"Sir Roland has returned, my lady," he said. "He arrived two hours ago, and went straight to his room, saying he would not disturb your ladyship."

She turned away in silence, and mounted the stairs. Did he know? Had he guessed? Was it that that had brought him back?

She entered her room, and dismissed the maid she found awaiting her.

Swiftly she threw off the pink domino, and began to loosen her hair with stiff, fumbling fingers, then shook it about her shoulders, and sank quivering upon a couch. She could not go to bed. The terror that possessed her was too intense, too overmastering.

Ah! What was that? Every pulse in her body leaped and stood still at sound of a low knock at the door. Who could it be? gasped her fainting heart. Not Sir Roland, surely! He never came to her room now.

Softly the door opened. It was Sir Roland and none other-Sir Roland wearing an old velvet smoking jacket, composed as ever, his grey eyes very level and inscrutable.

He paused for a single instant upon the threshold, then came noiselessly in and closed the door.

Naomi sat motionless and speechless. She lacked the strength to rise. Her hands were pressed upon her heart. She thought its beating would suffocate her.

He came quietly across the room to her, not seeming to notice her agitation.

"I should not have disturbed you at this hour if I had not been sure that you were awake," he said.

Reaching her, he bent and touched her white cheek.

"Why, child, how cold you are!" he said.

She started violently back, and then, as a sudden memory assailed her, she caught his hand and held it for an instant.

"It is nothing," she said with an effort. "You-you startled me."

"You are nervous tonight," said Sir Roland.

She shrank under his look.

"You see, I did not expect you," she murmured.

"Evidently not." Sir Roland stood gravely considering her. "I came back," he said, after a moment, "because it occurred to me that you might be lonely after all, in spite of your assurance to the contrary. I did not ask you to accompany me, Naomi. I did not think you would care to do so. But I regretted it later, and I have come back to remedy the omission. Will you come with me to Scotland?"

His tone was quiet and somewhat formal, but there was in it a kindliness that sent the blood pulsing through her veins in a wave of relief even greater than her astonishment at his words. He did not know, then. That was her one all-possessing thought. He could not know, or he had not spoken to her thus.

She sat slowly forward, drawing her hair about her shoulders like a cloak. She felt for the moment an overpowering weakness, and she could not look up.

"I will come, of course," she said at last, her voice very low, "if you wish it."

Sir Roland did not respond at once. Then, as his silence was beginning to disquiet her again, he laid a steady hand upon the shadowing hair.

"My dear," he said gently, "have you no wishes upon the subject?"

Again she started at his touch, and again, as if to rectify the start, drew ever so slightly nearer to him. It was many, many days since she had heard that tone from him.

"My wishes are yours," she told him faintly.

His hand was caressing her softly, very softly. Again he was silent for a while, and into her heart there began to creep a new feeling that made her gradually forget the immensity of her relief. She sat motionless, save that her head drooped a little lower, ever a little lower.

"Naomi," he said, at last, "I have been thinking a good deal lately. We seem to have been wandering round and round in a circle. I have been wondering if we could not by any means find a way out?"

She made a sharp, involuntary movement. What was this that he was saying to her?

"I don't quite understand," she murmured.

His hand pressed a little upon her, and she knew that he was bending down.

"You are not happy," he said, with grave conviction.

She could not contradict him.

"It is my own fault," she managed to say, without lifting her head.

"I do not think so," he returned, "at least, not entirely. I know that there have frequently been times when you have regretted your marriage. For that you were not to blame." He paused an instant. "Naomi," he said, a new note in his voice, "I think I am right in believing that, notwithstanding this regret, you do not in your heart wish to leave me?"

She quivered, and hid her face in silence.

He waited a few seconds, and finally went on as if she had answered in the affirmative.

"That being so, I have a foundation on which to build. I would not ask of you anything which you feel unable to grant. But there is only one way for us to get out of the circle that I can see. Will you take it with me, Naomi? Shall we go away together, and leave this miserable estrangement behind us?"

His voice was low and tender. Yet she felt instinctively that he had not found it easy to expose his most sacred reserve thus. She moved convulsively, trying to answer him, trying for several unworthy moments to accept in silence the shelter his generosity had offered her. But her efforts failed, for she had not been moulded for deception; and this new weapon of his had cut her to the heart. Heavy, shaking sobs overcame her.

"Hush!" he said. "Hush! I never dreamed you felt it so."

"Ah, you don't know me!" she whispered. "I-I am not what you think me. I have disobeyed you, deceived you, cheated you!" Humbled to the earth, she made piteous, halting confession before her tyrant. "I was at the masquerade tonight. I waltzed-and afterwards went into the maze-in the dark-with a stranger-who made love to me. I never-meant you-to know."

Silence succeeded her words, and, as she waited for him to rise and spurn her, she wondered how she had ever brought herself to utter them. But she would not have recalled them even then. He moved at last, but not as she had anticipated. He gathered the tumbled hair back from her face, and, bending over her, he spoke. Even in her agony of apprehension she noted the curious huskiness of his voice.

"And yet you told me," he said. "Why?"

She could not answer him, nor could she raise her face. He was not angry, she knew now; but yet she felt that she could not meet his eyes.

There was a short silence, then he spoke again, close to her ear:

"You need not have told me, Naomi."

The words amazed her. With a great start of bewilderment she lifted her head and looked at him. He put his hands upon her shoulders. She thought she saw a smile hovering about his lips, but it was of a species she had never seen there before.

"Because," he explained gently, "I knew."

She stared at him in wonder, scarcely breathing, the tears all gone from her eyes.

"You-knew!" she said slowly, at last.

"Yes, I knew," he said. He looked deep into her eyes for seconds, and then she felt him drawing her irresistibly to him. She yielded herself as driftwood yields to a racing flood, no longer caring for the interpretation of the riddle, scarcely remembering its existence; heard him laugh above her head-a brief, exultant laugh-as he clasped her. And then came his lips upon her ownt.

"You see, dear," he said later, a quiver that was not all laughter in his voice, "it is not so remarkably wonderful, after all, that I should know all about it, when you come to consider that I was there-there with you in the magic circle all the time."

"You were there!" she echoed, turning in his arms. "But how was it I never knew? Why did I not see you?"

"Faith, sweetheart, I think you did!" said Sir Roland. Then, at her quick cry of amazed understanding: "I wanted to teach you a lesson, but, sure, I'm thinking it's myself that learned one, after all." And, as she clung to him, still hardly believing: "We have found our paradise together, my Lady Una," he whispered softly. "And, love, there is no way back."

Poem

Discovery

M. A. Taher

In the twilight

Of a winter,

His disappointing mind

Could not bear.

Set out for a aimless walk,

To lighten the burdenhawk.

To have a tet-e-tet elsewhere,

Suddenly there

In the parlour

Appeared a deer-eyed

Peerless, meak and mild

With the last sip of tea

Discovered the Solomon's islands

Where in the solitary nature

Beaconed

Lucy of him.

Beware of dogs

M. Shamsul Haque

Hold the dog, it barks to any degree,

When we are on the high way of freedom,

It barks.

When on the way of salvation, it barks,

When on the road to goal we go, it barks.

When I read it barks.

When I write it barks.

When I rise, it barks.

When I ride, it barks.

When I earn, it barks.

When I learn, it barks.

When I sing, it barks.

When I prosper, it barks.

When I shine.

As a star, in the sky

It comes on to bite.

Please hold the dog.

We beg no alms

Oh! hold the dogs.

Three mini poems

Waheed Murad

One

Slept you on the quilt

Beneath the head

Where dreams come down

Lastly to kiss you

Thre's no dream of happiness

In the kingdom of lavishness

The rhinos don't laugh

Even after tickled.

Two

Men fight so much

To conquer death

Death reveals, " I live

In your own dwelling house."

Three

I was absorbed

In tilling that day

Tilling of my mind

As in the woodland

I was startled

With the touch of love

When the string was

Torn from my kite.