Arts & Letters

DHAKA TRIBUNE SATURDAY, JULY 2, 2016

n Mahadeb Saha I want to see Editor Zafar Sobhan Editor Arts & Letters Rifat Munim Design Asmaul Hoque Mamun Colour Specialist Shekhar Mondal

You show me the distant sky A faraway world But I want to see life round the corner You want to show me inaccessible stars Far-flung seashores An extended horizon, remote mountains You want to show me, even further away, A romantic island, a tranquil lagoon I only want to see this familiar lake The river nearby You want to show me the enormous universe, To take me close to eternity My vision is limited My eyes cannot see so far away I only want to see the regions That border on life Leave the distant stars alone, show me The map of proximity Show me the river bank, the vine on the roof The front yard Not distant mysteries, I only want to unravel Your heart

Unititled There’s a chance that you might come back That’s why the monsoon is here before spring That’s why all the flowers have bloomed early And morning has arrived before morning Translated by Arunava Sinha. He’s a prolific translator of Bangla fiction, though occasionally he delves into poetry translation.

to word n Rifat Islam Esha they who make the word fill a certain shape, define pain.

When You Laugh n Syed Badrul Ahsan When you laugh long distance, the distance gets bridged When you laugh across the hills, the skies have reason to dance When you laugh over the seas, riotous excitement is in the waves When you laugh in brilliant starlight, the sun rises afresh in my firmament When you laugh at my crack of humour, the drowsy trees break into song When you laugh at the naïve in me, the birds roll into good cheer When you laugh in the old way, I imagine the seductive swan neck in you When you laugh through your night, I crave for you through my steamy day When you laugh as twilight deepens, I plough back to memories of us When you laugh and throw your head back, I touch you in nervous affection When you laugh between sips of coffee, I drink inebriation from your lips When you laugh and hold my hand, I need to pull you closer to my wild heart When you laugh and teach me love’s ways, I know endearments I must yet learn In your laughter, my love, arises the melody of the waterfall In your laughter, cerebral woman, poetry sings on silent shores In your laughter, soulmate, monsoon rains grant fecundity to a parched earth.

In your laughter are the blustery stirrings of my rainbow thoughts of you.

Dhaka, 17 June 2016

Girl Awake n Saqiba Aziz i.

You want girl asleep Mouth closed, eyes closed Slumber deep Darkness shrouded, silent creep This is the kind of sheep you keep She cannot see wakefulness on the brink Girl asleep will not be The woman who will think

ii.

laughingly, a gravedigger, unaware, measures the starry night-as one corner of his eyes takes in the flashes of summer’s lightning.

I am girl awake Beneath my cotton palms Are bones that can break Yours Look at me Beneath the delicateness of my lids Are orbits that can penetrate your pretentious upkeep Behind the glisten of my plush, red mouth Is an acid tongue And steel sharp teeth.

laughingly, no one tastes the burden of sleep as he does.

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SIC Sir at 80

The light that never goes out n Junaidul Haque

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rofessor Serajul Islam Choudhury reached eighty on June 23, 2016.

He is affectionately called SIC Sir by his students. Regarded as the country’s foremost intellectual, he is the most inspirational and influential teacher of Dhaka University’s Department of English in independent Bangladesh. When Edward Said said the men and women of learning in our time should be “oppositional, progressive, secular and independent”, wasn’t he talking about intellectuals like Prof Choudhury?

I still remember his brilliant lectures with awe. He was always well-prepared and focused, and there always was pin-drop silence in the classroom.

He would keep us spellbound with his majestic voice and his deeply insightful thoughts. He would not even look at us. He would look through the window into the distance. That was, I suppose, partly because of his shyness. Even in the corridor he looked downwards while walking, not looking at us. But we never failed to identify the devoted, selfless teacher in him.

Prof Choudhury was a voracious reader. I saw him collecting four books every day from the DU library, month after month, year after year.

He read, he wrote, he taught and he edited.

He was the most active teacher of his generation.

We never saw him wearing expensive clothes or even riding a rickshaw. In the campus he always walked.

In our noblest dreams, we wanted to be like him.

As a teenager I thought loving Bangladesh was to love her nature – her majestic rivers, her green and golden paddy fields, her lovely trees and her beautiful villages. SIC Sir’s books taught me that loving Bangladesh means loving her people, her suffering millions. Since my boyhood I have been sort of a socialist democrat. It is for Prof Choudhury that I learned to respect Marxism and take it very seriously. His books taught my generation how to love our poor people, how

to live to think about them. He is our first and foremost literary genius to interpret literature in sociological terms. He has been a very serious writer but always immensely popular, mainly because of his championing the cause of the poor and never failing to understand their suffering.

I have always been fond of his wonderful prose which flows like the waters of a serene river. He has explored our history, our culture, our politics, our society and our literature with matchless insight, imagination and erudition. SIC has been our first scholarly essayist who could move people of several generations to tears.

We remember with pride that SIC Sir was in the VC panel of DU on three occasions in the past and always received the highest number of votes.

But he never wanted to be the VC. I remember that in my early twenties, while going to the British Council, I would look at the VC’s beautiful residence and feel sad that SIC Sir never stayed in it. We heard from reliable sources that Justice Shahabuddin Ahmed and Justice Latifur Rahman wanted him in their caretaker governments but he refused them both, though thousands like me felt that he could be the best possible advisor.

I have written elsewhere that as a young man whenever I saw SIC, either in the English Department corridor or anywhere else on the campus, I kept gazing at him till he was no longer visible. If I had a companion, I stopped talking to him or her to look at him.

In fact, our admiration for this very simple, grey-haired person knew no bounds.

I’d conclude with an anecdote. Politics and Culture, which is a collection of essays published in honour of SIC, was edited by Fakrul Alam and Firdous Azim, two of his best students. On a winter afternoon in 2002, at the TSC, I asked Sir for an autograph on the lovely anthology and requested him to write even more after his retirement. What was his reply? “Tumi kokhono lekha bandha korbe na!”(You should never stop writing). He wrote those words on the book before signing it. Was I happy? I had this bad habit of going into hibernation after a few years of writing. The teacher I adored read my works and liked them!

Why shouldn’t his comment make me ecstatic? He has been the best teacher we had at the department.

He had thousands of adoring students and he was the best scholar we had. He was also the nicest and the most affectionate person we knew.

The great teacher, scholar and writer should live for a hundred years. That is what his students, readers and wellwishers pray for at his 80th birthday. l

Junaidul Haque writes fiction and essays.

He was a student of Prof Serajul Islam Choudhury. He can be reached at haque. junaidul@ yahoo.com

DIPA MAHBUBA YASMINE

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ARTS & LETTERS

Book reviews

The man who lives on drama n Promiti Prova Chowdhury

L The writer occasionally reviews books and is a journalist at Dhaka Tribune

ife is a wonderful journey if you think positively, love affectionately and work efficiently. This is what a 68-year-old actor-playwright-stage director had been doing all his life.

Born in a leap year in 1948, he has come to be known as the man of the theatre, “natoker Mamunur Rashid.”

Rashid’s long career and tidbits of life come alive in the coffee table book Mamunur Rashid-Theater er Pothe (Mamunur Rashid-A walk with Theatre). It is neither an autobiography nor a dried-up narration of his life in the field of theatre. It is a lively account, written by two of his colleagues, of how a man dedicated his whole life to the vocation of acting, of how he tried to change the division-ridden, inequal society of Bangladesh through the medium of stage play.

Published by Bangla Publications, the book brings out how Rashid made phenomenal changes into the field of drama in Bangladesh. In 1982, he went to Toronto, Canada, as a representative of the International Theatre Institute from Bangladesh. In the process of travelling and working around different parts of the world, Rashid got the chance to get acquainted with indigenous communities of Latin America, Australia, Greenland and the Red Indians and gathered knowledge over their lives. His love and inquisition for indigenous people is found in the play Rarang, a signature project of Rashid’s theatre group Aranyak. The play outlines an overall picture of the Santal community.

The book will enlighten you on how the “Mukto Natok” came into being with the initiative of Rashid. Mukto Natok is a kind of play where illiterate people act based on their real life experiences, without any script. Under a project of Proshika NGO, Rashid introduced the genre by employing some women labourers. That is how

the Bangladesh Mukto Natok was born. Rashid introduced another short-lived trend where efficient and well-known theatre and television actors would come to work in a stage play for remuneration.

Rashid did not show any reservation against applying the knowledge and experience that he gathered during his stint with foreign theatres. He also directed two Chinese plays in Hong Kong, which were translated by Safdar Hashmi, a communist playwright and director, best known for his work with street theatre in India.

Is art a commodity or not? – that debate is also neatly presented in one of the sections in the book. It also presents you with a glimpse of the making and un-making of many prominent theatre groups such as Podatik, Theatre Art Unit, Nagorik Nattya Sampraday, Nagorik Natyangan, Prangone Mor, Prachyanaut.

The biographical sketches were not overlooked by the writers.

In 1973 Rashid got married to Tuli and till date Tuli remains the inspiration behind his creative endeavours. However, the writers are apt to point out that Rashid roamed across the country and the world and so did his love for women.

The bi-lingual book with charming photos collected from Rashid’s family albums, different newspapers, Aronnok’s archive, current and previous members of Aronnok is also a treat to the eyes.

Faiz Zahir and Hasan Shahriar, two friends of Rashid, have done the job of compiling the dynamic life of this legend following the proposal of Adib Rashid Mamun. The English version is done by Shahidul Mamun while Sohel Pranon made the illustrations thus making the book visually pleasing. The book, published in March this year, is available at Tk1000. l Faiz Zahir and Hasan Shahriar, Mamunur Rashid- Theaterer Pothe; HB, 200 pages; Dhaka, Bangla Publications

History for youngsters n Abrar Farhan

T

The writer is a debater and occasionally reviews books for Arts & Letters

rue that our youngsters are no stranger to comic strips, whether translated or original. But when it comes to graphic novels, they actually have no access to the genre, unless through some imported English books. This is why the graphic novel series, Mujib, attracted my attention: it is the first of its kind in this country. But as I started reading, I realised its true worth lies elsewhere.

There is no lack of excitement in it that a graphic novel comes with; nor is there any dearth of colourful illustrations and drawings to keep you hooked. But the story it tells is not that of a super hero with extraordinary physical attributes. Though not endowed with magical or inexplicable powers, the man whose life the novel follows is also a hero. The difference, however, is that he was placed on the pedestal by hundreds of thousands of men and women who had stood behind him when he was steering them towards liberation, towards a dignified way of life.

That’s where the true worth of this novel lies: it’s a breakthrough not only because it’s the first graphic novel series but also because it presents youngsters with the most towering personality of our history retaining all the excitement and fun that is characteristic of the genre. Under this series the Centre of Research and Information (CRI) will bring out a total of 12 volumes and each volume will deal with a specific chapter in Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman’s life. All the volumes together will make up the complete novel. The current book is the second in the series that portrays the young Mujib and his formative years.

The artistic success owes entirely to cartoonist Syed Rashad

Imam Tanmoy whose portraits of young Bangabandhu capture the contours of a face always troubled by people’s suffering and revived by big dreams. This emotional appeal serves the story very well as it is written and prepared in the first person, drawing profusely from Bangabandhu’s Unfinished Memoir. The text was prepared by Siddique Ahmed.

The use of colours strikingly comes into play in order to breathe life into the events as they unfold. Sheikh Mujib wrote his Unfinished Memoirs while in jail. To capture that ambience, the jail scenes are portrayed in monochromes whereas the flashbacks and recollections are done with vibrant hues.

Graphic novels appeal to the youth because they stir emotions through the visual portrayal of the character and the trials and tribulations faced by that character. The novel Mujib gives us glimpses into his childhood and how he played sports or had to study for his board exams. It is because of this that the historical image of Sheikh Mujib becomes more accessible to the youth.

The Mujib series will definitely appeal to the youth because it stirs emotions through the visual portrayal of the character and the trials and tribulations faced by that character. It has paved the way for other artists to follow. It also shows that the capability of graphic novels to deliver a compelling story is sound.

Publishers Radwan Mujib Siddiq and Nasrul hamid, state minister for power, deserve a word of praise for taking this initiative to enlighten young readers about the most glorious personalities of our history. This initiative is grand because we live in a time when the uncontrolled, enormous inflow of stories about western heroes or superheroes keeps our young generation occupied.

We do hope parents and teachers. l

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Book note Bengal Lights Summer 2015 issue Publisher: Kazi Anis Ahmed, University of Liberal Arts (ULAB), Bangladesh

n Farhan abrar

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ike the previous issues, the Summer 2015 issue of the Englishlanguage literary journal Bengal Lights has the richness and diversity that has set it apart since its first issue came out in the Autumn of 2012.

This issue has taken on board more writers of Bangladeshi origin, which has struck a perfect balance between Bangladeshi and “foreign” authors. It should be mentioned that BL is the first literary journal from Bangladesh that began its journey with a broader vision of giving writers from different continents a transnational platform, thus creating unique opportunities for literary exchange.

The fiction pieces by Kazi Anis Ahmed, Jane McAdams and Nadeem Zaman will leave a mark on readers for both their complexity and storytelling. The pieces under the category flash fiction, especially the ones by

Mahesh Rao and Ahmede Hussain, will definitely give readers a jolt for the offbeat content and perspectives they offer.

The poetry section is no less rich with contributions from Kaiser Haq, Sadaf Saaz, Nausheen Eusuf, David Shook and Adrian A Husain, among others. The nonfiction pieces by Khademul Islam and Ahsan Akbar are an extra treat for readers.

However, translation constitutes the richest segment in this issue.

Translation of five Burmese poems, an African short story, Syed Shamsul Haque and Shaheen Akhtar’s stories, Sunil Gangyopadhyay’s poems, among others, is excellent read. This segment is a testament to Bengal Lights’s transnational platform.

Translation of Bangla literature has become a fashion these days. Due to the spread of vanity publications, anyone who has nothing better to do tries his or her hands at translating some Bangla stories into English. As there is no well-thought-out government or private initiative, Bangali authors feel elated at the news of a new translation of their stories, no matter how abysmal it is. But Bengal Lights, since its inceptio, has taken the task of translation with the seriousness that it deserves. This is the first journal that not only carries quality translations but also takes it upon its shoulder to bring them out in the form of books so that individual works of translation do not get lost in the maze of umpteen pieces of translated stories or poems. l

Essay

Magic realism in context n Razu Alauddin

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n 1925, Franz Roh coined the now-famous phrase “magic realism”, though the idea was widely spread by the writers of the Latin American Boom, especially through the immense popularity of Garcia Marquez‘s novel, One Hundred Years of Solitude. But if we look at it more attentively, we will find that the words, “magia” (magic) and “maravilla” (marvellous) were there in the Latin American culture even before the colonial period started. While describing the distinct reality of Latin America, the conquistadors – as they were called in that region – were so surprised that they could not but call the new sort of world as an amazing magical land.

Marquez, in his Nobel lecture, has mentioned conquistador Antonio Pigafetta’s magical experience which confirms us that the idea of magic realism emerged with the beginning of colonial period in Latin America. Though this idea entered the continent through the European conquerors, it spread its wings in different ways. The indigenous forms of magic – black magic or white magic, or witchcraft – were transformed into a sophisticated literary theory by Alejo Carpentier. Even before Carpentier, Andrés Bello and José Martí had sown the seeds of magic realism writing about the history and reality of Latin America. If we fail to put this in context, magic realism will appear to us Bangladeshi readers as a different idea. In one of his writings, Alejo Carpentier informed us that this theory is not meant to breed just theories.

He believed that Parisian Surrealism was not enough for an adequate literary portrayal of Latin American reality. But he knew it very well that a theory, in many cases, has very little to do with reality, and so, he did not forget to remind his readers of the existence of magic in the nature and culture of Latin America. He even asked: How could America be anything other than marvellous?’

Latin American writers, who are politically, historically and culturally conscious, have managed to transform their cultural experience into unique literary expressions. The question now arises: Didn’t Europe go through the same sort of experience? They have been living in the same planet. They have contributed a lot in fiction writing. And yet why couldn’t their literature ex-

press such magical experiences, though Europe too was a land of black magic and witchcraft before renaissance? Between 1450 and 1750 AD, they even burnt 3,500 to 100,000 witches to death. So it can be assumed that the cultural reality of Europe was not much different from that of Latin America. In Apuleius’s novel The Golden Ass, written before 158 BCE, the protagonist experiments with black magic and accidentally turns into an ass. This kind of magical elements had been very common in Europe, but the ideologies emanating from the age of enlightenment held such a sway that everything beyond logical explanation was banished from public discourses. Latin America, on the other hand, have focused on the co-existence of logic and magic, and this is why their novelists have inherited the age-old magical elements with the result that their works offer readers tales that are more diverse and that have appealed to a far more bigger readership than those of the Europeans. l Razu Alauddin is a poet, essayist and translator. Translated from Bangla by Muktadir Al Abdullah.

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ARTS & LETTERS

Microfiction & short poems

Sehri tales n Sabrina Fatma Ahmad Once upon a time, back in my school days, I used to be, for the lack of a better word, a creative writer. Blissfully ignorant of things like plausibility, and originality, and all those subtle little markers of quality, I was a prolific writer. I read voraciously, and tried to imitate my favourite authors. Poetry, fiction, plays -- you name it, I dabbled, and how!

And then I grew up, and discovered what “good” writing was, and just how woefully inadequate my own work was in comparison. The steady flow slowed down to a trickle of painfully self-censored pieces, not written for

MICROFICTION

2-line horror stories I leaned forward to examine a stain on the mirror. A finger poked through the glass and wiggled at me *** She was comforted by her husband’s hand caressing her shoulder while she slept. Until she remembered he was out of town for the weekend, and anyway had five fingers, not eight

60 WORDERS A

“worder” is a type of micro-fiction where the writer is given a word limit, and the story has to be exactly that number of words.

The most popular word limit used in Dhaka used to be 60, as set by Rising Stars, the nowdefunct teen magazine from The Daily Star.

From his vantage point, he could see the half-eaten box of naan just waiting for him. He shifted his weight to his toes, ready to spring into action, when the air was rent with the most horrible shrieking noise. “Eek! A mouse! Behind the boxes!” Cursing, he tucked his tail close to his body, and scurried back to safety. *** “Bay leaf, date, cardamom, and peppercorn...”

“Eugh! What godawful recipe are you planning?”

“I’m not planning dessert, I’m categorising the enemy by size.”

Curious, I tiptoed behind my mother as she marched into the kitchen, sandal in hand.

A few hard slaps, a crunch, and she stepped back, satisfied. Conquered, the cockroach twitched a few times, and then lay still.

DRABBLES

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A drabble is another kind of worder, but about 100 words long. This word limit was set by Birmingham University for its science fiction entries, but the popularity of the exercise soon transcended the confines of science fiction.

Silence falls like a heavy curtain. The sight of the great hosts massing upon the vast expanse prompts a scramble for shelter. The streets empty, doors are pulled shut, and nervous eyes turn to the tableau unfolding.

public consumption. Fiction gave way to reporting and technical writing, so that my own pitiful words could be backed up by fact and structure. Poetry was packed up and boxed away for good.

And then, hoping to “fix” the problem, I decided to go abroad and study Creative Writing, and even the little trickle dried up in the face of all the superior writing I came into contact with. This Ramadan, I decided to stop being stupid and wallowing in self pity. Maybe I’ll never be as good as the writers I admire, but I don’t have to be. I wanted to tap into that kid who wrote because she loved the shape and feel of words, and that’s what I’ve tried to do with these sehri tales, one written each night.

And then comes the first wave, sweeping across buildings, bending back trees. The rumble of the war drums is punctuated by bolt after bolt of white heat. Silver missiles pound hard earth to soft clay, till it begins to weep and ooze, releasing clouds of mossy green fragrance.

A dozen cellphones are pointed at the windows to capture yet another spectacular thunderstorm. *** Some nights, after a long day spent staring at lines on a screen until the eyes feel like sandpaper, when the body hits the bed and the muscles let go, all at once, it is equal parts pain, and pleasure. The temples throb, the tongue sticks to the roof of the mouth, and the eyes drag themselves shut. It is precisely at moments like this when a leg kicks out involuntarily, jolting the entire system back to wakefulness. Wouldn’t it be unfortunate to realise there is a strange and silent figure standing at the foot of the bed, watching you?

PROSE POEMS

Stonehenge

A Stonehenge is a prose haiku developed in the mid 2000s at Champlain College, Virginia. It consists of a single line of action “propped” up on two lines of description. I have modified the basic ‘henge to stuff the first two lines of description with as many alliterations as I could manage.

Burbling babies, blushing brides Filtered photographs of fancy feasts Eyes rolling, the troll begins to type ** Beads of sweat blossom against his bare brown shoulder Sliding down his side into pools of perspiration Muscles straining, the rickshawallah pedals on

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Fiction POETRY

the subject. The fifth line is single word synonym or other reference for the subject from line one.

Haiku

a

Haleem Meaty, spicy Bubbling, rolling, splashing Such a paroxism of pleasure Heaven **

There are several descriptions and arguments about what a haiku should or shouldn’t consist of. What I’ve done here is stick to the common three-line, 5-7-5 syllabic form.

Slap! Clap! Death arrives No more whining in my ear Stupid mosquito

Birthday Loud, frenetic Singing, wishing, laughing Happy gluttony and music Milestone

** Comfy pillow, bed Wait, did I just miss sehri?

Empty stomach. Dread ** Fritters and dates I must not think of food Hear the azaan yet?

Limerick

Quartrain Any four-line rhyming verse can be classified as a quartrain. This one started out as a stonehenge before I decided a fourth line would be better.

The choruses of calls collide around me, Folds of floral fabric lie before, I close my eyes, and leaning forward, Touch my forehead to the floor

A limerick is another five line poem, with an anapestic meter, and a strict rhyme scheme (AABBA). Although traditionally, the limerick was intended for rhymes of a crude, sexual nature, I decided on a more “halal” subject for mine.

There was a man from Panthapath Who took out his car, because he forgot That the Ramadan traffic Is simply horrific And so, had iftar in the “ janjot”

Cinquain/Quintain The didactic cinquain is a stanza of five lines of accentual verse, in which the lines comprise, in order, 1, 2, 3, 4, and 1 words.

The first line is two syllables, and is the subject of the poem. The second line has four syllables and describes the subject, the third has six syllables which describe the subject in action, and the fourth has eight syllables which describe and emotion connected to

Acrostic poem In an acrostic poem, the first letter of each line spells out a word or a message, or in the case of mine, a name.

And I packed up a quarter century Barrelling towards a future unknown Across the oceans and back Knowing I was headed home The writer is Features Editor, Dhaka Tribune.

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ARTS & LETTERS

Translation

Lakhindar Babu, please listen n Shawkat Ali Shawkat Ali is a leading Bangladeshi fiction writer. His most notable novels include Prodoshe Prakritojon, Daksninayaner Din, Kulay Kalosrot and Purbaratri Purbadin, among many others. He has also written many excellent short stories. In the story ‘Lakhindar Babu, please listen’, he has attempted to deconstruct the mythical story of Behula and Lakhindar. In the original myth, Chand Saudagor, his son Lakhindar and his daughter-in-law Behula

G

upinath stands upright in the dim lamp light, the knife in his hand dripping with blood. Without changing his posture, he holds up the just peeled-off skin of a giant lizard.1 “You Saudagar2, the son of Saudagor, Lakhindar Babu, you are very wise in the world’s affairs; you tell me -- does an animal live without blood?” he says in a Santalese dialect.

Lakkhikanto admits, “No, of course not. Blood is what keeps an animal alive. Son, how can an animal survive without blood?”

Gupinath nods. His face brightens as he speaks.

“You are really a good man. You understand what I say. But why are you so repulsed by the sight of blood?”

Lakkhikanto is perturbed by this question.

He didn’t see it coming. “I’m not repulsed at all. This place belongs to another person. So why cut up that lizard in here and spill blood all over the place?” he says in frail protest.

“I know, Saudagor. I know. But when Kasimuddin Saudagor plays with my life and cuts my heart into pieces, then it all feels right, ain’t it, Saudagor Babu?”

Lakkhikanto flushes with embarrassment. “Son of a bitch! How he digresses from one topic to another,” he thinks to himself. The peeled-off lizard is now moving about the floor, leaving thick trails of blood everywhere. The animal is crawling obnoxiously while its whole outer skin is hanging from Gupinath’s hand – what a repellent sight! Lakkhikanto feels as if a worm is crawling all over his body. Hiding his repulsion, he says, “Please Gupinath, get rid of the animal. Please do something about it!”

Fixing his gaze on the bloody lizard, its head fastened to its tail, Gupinath gives a good laugh. “I know Kasimuddin Saudagor has set up his business in here. But what does he exactly do in this room, Lakkhindar babu? Is this not the place where he reaps my heart into pieces? What the heck is that huge mound of rice? Or wheat? Ain’t they smeared all over with human blood, ain’t they, Saudagor? Tell me!”

Lakkhikanto takes a close look at Gupinath. But he can barely make out

are devotees of Shiva and given a superior status whereas the goddess Manasa is relegated to a much lower rank. Gupinath, the snake charmer and a devotee of Manasa, revolts against this myth and claims that such mythical narratives are intended to protect the interest of the rich. His revolt, however, has a material basis. Identifying Lakkhikanto, a rich merchant, with Lakhindar, he demands the rich pay off all their debts to the poor, debts that have accumulated from time immemorial. Here we publish a truncated version of the story in English translation.

anything from a face covered in stubble with long, untidy locks of hair falling over.

“When famine strikes, what does the son of Saudagor do? He reaches into my heart and reaps it apart. Then it all seems right, ain’t Babu?” Gupinath continues determinedly.

Lakkhikanto does not answer.

What point is there in speaking to a lunatic? So he chooses silence.

Gupinath walks about the floor for a while. Stopping short suddenly, he holds the skin up in front of Lakkhikanto’s face. He swings it a bit, dripping blood on the ground.

“You don’t like this?

Such solid skin! You don’t like it, Saudagor?” he says.

“Why do you keep insisting, son? I told you that I quit this trade; I’m no more into selling snake skin,” Lakkhikanto almost entreats.

Gupinath drops the skin on the ground. Then he reaches down and grabs hold of another lizard, equally giant.

As the rope around its neck loosens, it begins to hiss, floundering helplessly, trying to hit Gupinath with its tail. Gupinath tackles it impeccably, speaking intently to it at the same time. He stretches it to show its size and length, grabbing its head with one hand and tail with the other.

“Still you don’t like it, Saudagor?

Still you don’t?”

But Lakkhikanto has decided against speaking to this insane man. So he turns away.

“Stop it for god’s sake!” Gupinath squeals all of a sudden. But it was not clear who he chided so angrily. “I don’t like my Lakhindar. I don’t like anyone.”

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Translation As he speaks, he holds the lizard in the air, squeezing its head in his grip and stamping its tail tightly under his foot. He slashes a few times at its neck with a sharp knife. In a moment or two he peels the whole outer skin off it, and drops it on to the floor. The skinless lizard writhes in pain, hisses angrily, and starts running around, splashing blood all over the place. Ignoring these noxious circumstances, Gupinath faintly smiles and spreads the justremoved skin in front of Lakkhikanto’s face again. “Look at this one, Lakhindor Babu. You like this one? This is not just a snake, this is the sona gui3,the best of its kind. You like it, babu?”

Lakkhikanto finds this unbearable. He looks at his watch: it’s only nine in the evening but it already seems like the dead of night. He says, “OK, son, it’s OK. I think I’ve got it. I owe you a little money from last year. You’ll get it for sure. Now for god’s sake, stop skinning the lizards. After all, they too are god’s creation!”

“Yes, god’s creation,” Gupinath nods. “But which god created him? My god is Mother Bishohori4. We’re Santals, babu, the Kaalnag5 is my brother!

You got it, Babu?” Then he pokes his finger into the sack beside his feet, causing a hissing sound to rise, a deeper hiss. The reptile inside the sack moves and rustles. Gupinath shouts, “Stop you bitch! I have important business with the son of this Saudagor, Lakhindor babu.”

Lakkhikanto keeps his eyes on the sack, its mouth tied tightly in a knot.

He realises that Gupinath is carrying a venomous snake in it. “Why did you have to carry that one in the sack, Gupinath?” he shuddered in fear.

Gupinath smiles. “This is my daughter, Babu. My cute daughter, the Kaalnagini6! Her front is black like pitch but her back is as white as milk and her eyes look like the clear water of a pond. Have you ever seen such a thing?

Have you? Well then, take a look,” Gupinath stoops down to open the sack’s mouth.

“No, no. What are you doing? Are you insane?” Lakkhikanto blurts out. He continues in a beseeching voice. “For god’s sake, son, don’t you try to pull that thing out of that sack! I promise I’ll pay everything off.”

“Yes, yes, you’ll certainly pay off! You are a big Saudagor, you have a lot of money. I know everything. Ain’t you the successor of Chand Saudagor7? You can pay everything off but your debt is really big. Doesn’t it go back to several centuries? No one knows for sure, ain’t it Babu?”

Lakkhikanto utterly fails to make sense of what this lunatic is saying. He nonetheless makes an effort to calm him down. “Gupinath, son, there’s nothing unclear about my debt. It traces back only to last year. Remember? It was last year you gave me some lizard skin in two instalments. But I was really under a heck of problems back then, so could not take care of a lot of things.

Later I heard that that stupid servant of mine drove you out by the neck. I did not know anything about that, believe me, son, I had no idea that he’d do that!”

“I did not take it seriously, babu,” Gupinath speaks subtly with an undertone of mockery. “You have so many people at your beck and call – what a big Saudagor you are! I know that all! Your servant laid his hand on me but I didn’t mind. Just think of my Mother Bishohori, just consider what Chand Saudagor did to her son: how he cracked his backbone! Oh! What agonizing pain – my mother weeps seeing her son suffer thus terribly, but she cannot do anything about it because she’s the mother. If she is infuriated, she will not be able to hold her poison –so she withholds her rage and bears with her pain.

That’s why, Babu, that’s why I too bear with my pain because no one has the guts to confront my rage—I withhold my rage for the same reason, Babu, for the same reason.” ...

This is really a nuisance, Lakkhikanto thinks. That bastard is sticking to his gun. He says, “OK then, I’ll take them in the morning.”

Gupinath smiles. “I don’t trust you, Babu. Saudagor’s words are only worth a toad’s dirty head. You must pay me now!”

Lakkhikanto holds out two ten taka notes. “Take this. Now please rest in that corner, and don’t make any more fuss.”

Gupinath receives the notes and says, “Now settle up your old debts. Will you?”

Lakkhikanto by then has reached the end of his tether. He can no longer keep his cool. He starts shouting. “What debt, ha? What debt? You think you can fleece me like this? I just gave you enough money for those skins. Not a single penny more.”

“Stop it!” Gupinath snubs him.

Lakkhikanto loses his temper altogether. So he charges Gupinath. “Who are you shouting at, Gupinath? You are shouting at me? Me? ......”

“No, no, Babu, the son of the great Saudagor. How can we shout at you?

You live in that iron palace of yours, guarded by hundreds of men and all those magicians and also by those who can even treat snake bites. How can we shout at you? Shame on us!”

Gupinath’s tone changes subtly but conspicuously. “But what can I do, Babu? This debt of yours is pretty old, going back perhaps to several centuries. How long will we roam aimlessly like this? My grandfather and great grandfather lived in the Santal hills. Kaalnag’s blood runs in our veins. Just consider how old this debt is. Just think how many famines and floods have gone by and yet we have never received any share of the harvest you take home every year. This is about time, Babu, this is about time you did all those calculations and paid off every last penny that you owe us.”

The man does not agitate. Casting his shadow on the blood-splattered floor, he keeps talking slowly in a controlled voice. His shadow sways from left to right. As if an enormous snake is tilting its head from side to side just before striking its deadly bite. Lakkhikanto appeals weakly. “Son, I cannot make out anything at all. What debt are you referring to?”

“Ponder. Just ponder and you’ll understand. First calculate your debt during the famine when you had bought and stored tonnes of rice. Then again during the flood, and yet again when you bought a whole lot of skins last year. So keep calculating and you’ll find the answer.”

“Son, I live on the other side of the border. How can I be responsible for a famine that struck on this side?”

Gupinath laughs again. “Don’t talk gibberish, Babu. What difference does your living on the other side make? Ha? Kasimuddin lives on this side, right?

Then why’s he with you all the time? Ain’t he your pal? Tell me whose disciple is Jodu Roy? Ha?” Gupinath leans forward a little, perhaps in an effort to take a good look at Lakkhikanto’s face. Then he sways again from side to side. It is not clear what Lakkhikanto exactly sees but he gives a scream and says, “ For god’s sake, Gupinath, don’t come closer; don’t you come any closer!”

Gupinath stands back. “Don’t be scared Lakhindar. I’m a man, not a snake.

I will not bite you. You just pay me off.”

Lakkhikanto cannot bring himself to glance at Gupinath anymore. An unknown fear, emanating from some deepest core of his mind, grips him and leaves him motionless. “Son, I’ll bow down to your feet if necessary, but trust me son, I don’t have any money right now. When the first light of dawn strikes we’ll go to that side of the border. I promise I’ll pay off every last penny that I owe you.”

Gupinath responds, a faint smile painted over his face. “Lakhindor, you consider me a fool, don’t you? This time you’ll surely employ two healthier servants to kick me out of your place. I’m not going to take any more of that shit. You pay me now!”

“Son, you have to understand. I have got no money on me now. How can I pay you off when I have no money?”

The lamp’s light has dimmed by then. Perhaps it is running out of oil.

Lakkhikanto screams again. “Gupinath, son, pour some oil in that lamp. For god’s sake! I can’t stand this darkness.”

“Lakhindar, but we prefer to live in the dark. We are born in the dark and we live and die in the dark too.” Laughing, Gupinath seats himself down on the floor. The lamp becomes weaker. He begins, “Listen Lakhindar, now I will get some sleep. In fact, one of my eyes will sleep while the other will be wide awake. My Mother Bishohori has got only one eye, so one of my eyes will be open. And the other eye which will be blinded in sleep belongs to my Kaalnagini. So I will set her free now; I’ll untie the sack’s mouth. Hope you pay me off!”

Darkness settles heavily all around. Even the smouldering wick is visible no more. Lakkhikanto cannot figure out whether Gupinath is awake or asleep, lying down or sitting up. He tries to move a little, after a while. A hissing sound emerges, almost immediately, an awful, malevolent hiss. In the total darkness surrounding him, Lakkhikanto cannot fathom whether it is the non-venomous lizard or the just-relieved Kaalnagini!

The reptile that rules in the dark keeps rustling around, hissing every now and then, mounting an invincible guard. l Translated by Ranjan Banerjee

Endnotes

1

Locally known as gui snake, a large nonvenomous lizard, usually 3-4 feet long.

2

In Bengali, a Saudagor means a powerful merchant.

3

A species of gui snake, known for its strength.

4

Mother Bishohori refers to Mother Manasa who is a goddess of snakes in Hindu mythology.

5 6 7

Male cobra species Female cobra species.

In Manasamangal Kavya, one of the greatest poetic narratives of medieval Bangla literature, Chand Saudagor is a very powerful merchant devoted to god Shiva. He soon falls victim to a spiteful Manasa, the snake goddess, who demands Chand quit worshipping Shiva. Gupinath frequently refers to these narratives of Hindu mythology and indicates that these stories are told from the point of the merchant and hence, protect the interest of the richest class.

9 D H A K A T R I B U N E S U N DAY, J U LY 2 , 2 0 1 4

ARTS & LETTERS

Essay

The novel that is yet to be written n Prasanta Mridha

I Prasanta Mridha is a fiction writer.

(Translated from Bangla by Arts & Letters Desk)

t won’t be an exaggeration to say a thousand years of struggle for freedom culminated in the nine-month-long war in 1971. It is from this point of view that the liberation war is considered the most defining historical event in the life of our nation, and rightly so. But when it comes to literature, question should arise if the subject of the war has been dealt with in its entirety in our literature, specifically in our fiction. Is there a novel, a masterpiece that can be said to have captured not just one aspect but all the different aspects that every war comes with?

We have quite a good number of poems but how many of them have become parts of our everyday conversations? Or just after the independence when our theatre rejuvenated a new life in that era, how many of them actually depicted the totality of the war and its values? If one talks logically, without resorting to nationalistic emotions, s/he has to draw the conclusion that our literature, especially our fiction, has failed to portray the war in its totality.

Is the gradual disintegration of the state and societal values after independence the cause behind this? Or is it that our freedom struggle has failed to generate the values that we thought would be part and parcel of our national life.

After independence, democracy gave way to dictatorship and military rule.

On a social level, people’s basic rights were being violated. The rich-poor gap widened.

Promises of the war were far from being fulfilled. Struggle of the general population for a better life went on even after independence. Social values waned and the spirit of freedom dissipated. The state even failed to ensure women’s security, leave alone economic equality for them. It did not offer the young generation any values or promise that might guide them

towards a constructive social and political life.

However, due to frequent changes in the government, the middle class was the biggest beneficiary. The section of the middle class that coped up with the changes that came with a new dictator rose through the ranks and became rich. But what did the general people get, those who had nothing during the war and who had fought valiantly in the hope of a better country? Frustration and deprivation were what the lakhs of starving people gained.

Their importance in the making of a nation, however, is realised only during the elections when their votes are crucial to forming a government.

Our literature shows the same symptoms of failure. It hasn’t produced works that individually offer the epical vastness of those nine months, reading which the later generations will get a sense of their true place in history through an accurate picture of the war that laid the foundation of our identity.

Yet, our main achievement lies in short stories. Most of our writers have written considerable good stories. Shushanto Majumdar, a fiction writer, once wrote, “Both the younger and older generations of writers have written stories on the biggest achievement of our history. Artistically successful short stories have enriched our fiction. On the other hand, the emotions regarding the birth of a new nation have marred literary potential of many stories.” Although this quote speaks of the success, it also points to some marks of failure.

All in all, our fiction has yet to give us that novel which could be the strongest basis of our identity and the strongest expression of our solidarity against the anti-liberation forces which are on the rise in today’s society. Whereas the liberation war has injected new blood into our literature. If language movement has brought life to our psyche, the liberation war has given a force to that life. The subject of war, therefore, deserves to be treated in its entirety, not in fragments. l

Book notes

Cheleder Meyeder Snaner Shobhdo

C

heleder Meyeder Snaner Shobhdo is Zafar Ahmed Rashed’s fourth collection of poems. Published by Kathaprakash, the slim collection offers a total of 37 poems.

The book demonstrates Rashed’s growth as a poet.

While the emotions are as powerful as before, the language is more controlled and the cadence more mature.

Rashed, known to readers for his fluidity of language,

is at his best when capturing his emotions of love and childhood. While his prose poems are commendable, his love poems will strike a chord with many readers.

This collection is an excellent read not only for connoisseurs of literature, but also for aspiring writers and poets.

Rashed obtained his honours and master’s in Bangla literature from Chittagong University.

Bodhone Bishorjon

B

odhone Bishorjon, a collection of poems by Bikash Majumder, has been published by Alokbortika.

Revolving around love, loss, life, and faith, the poems deal with a vast array of subjects, often transforming simple aspects of everyday life into something profound.

This is the first collection of the young poet. His poetic persona often reflects on his indifference to his chaotic

surroundings and also on how people have become so self-absorbed that they fail to empathize with others.

Additionally, there are allusions to mythology, references to issues such as minority repression.

Bikash Majumder studied marketing at Dhaka University and works in a multinational company.

Prepared by Arts & Letters Desk

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Nonfiction

In London at the Globe n Khademul Islam

“A

nything special,” my brother asked over the phone, “you want to do while over here?”

2016 is the 400th anniversary of Shakespeare’s death. Which occasioned events celebrating his life and work on a global scale, in cities from Cairo to Delhi. With the biggest bashes taking place, on his birthday April 23, in London and at his birthplace Stratford upon Avon. Even London’s subway system, the Tube, joined the party, releasing a version of its famous map with stations named after the plays and characters.

Glancing at it online, I saw that Marylebone station on the Bakerloo Line was Ophelia. Aha! Was this a hidden game for a few, a happy few? The name Marylebone derived from the old St Mary’s church beside the winding Tyburn River, and Ophelia of course drowned, in a brook where a willow grew aslant, showing hoar leaves in the glassy stream. Then again, the station at Notting Hill was Much Ado About Nothing. A dig at the posh area?

Signs to the initiated?

“A play,” I said to my brother, “at the Globe Theatre would be great.”

He sighed, and said, “Getting tickets this late is going to be blue murder.

I’ll see what I can do.”

London! A city with a thousand things unfurling every day: book launches, concerts, talks, musicals, plays, restaurant openings, exhibitions, art shows, sidewalk yodeling, pavement finger painting – you name it, they had it going – and yet the audience for it was inexhaustible. In London you couldn’t just turn up, coat collar up against the wind, buy a ticket and walk in. The reason was its humongous tourist machine which, at rip-off prices, fed, bedded and entertained an endless horde of visitors. All those bodies, wall to wall.

“Any particular play?”

“No, any will do.”

A day before I landed in London, he got the tickets. Not primo, somewhere up there in the rafters. A Midsummer Night’s Dream. *** June 5. Across London Bridge, in low afternoon light, to the Globe, an exact reproduction of the original Elizabethan playhouse. The newly constructed The Globe in 1598 was London’s first proper theatre. It was here that Shakespeare, a part owner, finally made his money, a sign of the popularity of theatres in Elizabethan times. It enabled him to get his muchcoveted coat of arms and return home to Stratford as a wealthy man. There he was more businessman than playwright, buying malt and hoarding it illegally to sell at higher prices. Shakespeare obviously liked having some dough.

Well, why not?

I looked at the surrounding area, which back then had bear baiting rings and seedy watermen joints. To think that Shakespeare lodged here, near Clink prison not too far from The Globe, and walked these streets felt unreal. But then, what’s past is prologue. Around me the crowd, tourists like me, strained and pushed at the stands for beer and hotdogs. We bought sodas, and rented cushions (cost 1 pound, blankets and raincoats were 2 and 3 respectively) from a pair dressed up in Elizabethan togs. All part of the machine – Shakespeare, the Globe, every last bit of Englishness that could be scraped up was fed unremittingly into its maw. It used to be just The Globe; now, lest we miss the point, it is Shakespeare’s Globe.

Oh well, we all like dough, don’t we?

A bell rang. We went in, and up narrow wooden staircases to the uppermost third storey. The stage, with its roof, was like a cinema screen at one end, with the audience arrayed in front and on the sides in horseshoe-shaped tiers. Our seats – hard wooden benches actually for which cushions were necessary – were all the way at one end of the horse-shoe, the view an angled slice of the action. But there was one advantage to the seat – from on top one had a schematic view of the whole thing, the classic Elizabethan theatre house. To look down was to time trip.

Khademul Islam is the editor of Bengal Lights.

And then Theseus, Duke of Athens, and his betrothed, the Queen of the Amazons appeared on the stage. “Now, fair Hippolyta, our nuptial hour/ Draws on apace,” he said to her. *** For almost the next three hours the play was more a show, conducted at a rollicking, almost burlesque, tempo. A high-energy thing of fit young actors. It was a modernized version, where Helena became Helenus in a gender switch, with Ankur Bahl in the role. Central characters were played by non-white actors – Theseus/Oberon played by Zubin Varla, Hermia by Anjana Vasan, Nandi Bhebe as Starveling, Demetrius by Ncuti Gatwa – all of them performing flawlessly. For me, though, the standout actors were Meow Meow (yes, that’s her name and she is a cabaret performer) as Titania, shedding clothes, in perfect control of a role that demanded she lose control to a tidal wave of desire, and Ewan Wardrop as Bottom, with fine comic delivery. To see Shakespeare performed in London in a setting such as The Globe, set to some lovely music, was to be reminded how the characters and roles and words and gestures were in the very blood of these British actors, radiating an ease and fluency impossible to achieve outside of the UK, no matter how skillful the talent may be.

But at the end, I couldn’t escape the feeling that perhaps there had been overmuch of surface spritz, of a sound-and-light show. That it had been designed cannily by Emma Rice (the Globe’s newly appointed artistic director) for an audience on a fun trip to London, who would feel they got their money’s worth of song and spangles, of sauce and slink. As far as that went, looking at the buzzing, happy crowd around me, Emma had it right on the nose.

But A Midsummer Night’s Dream is a meditation, expressive and lyrical, on the themes of appearance and reality, dream and waking, fixity and fog.

As other lovers quarrel and resolve them in mimicry of the central quarrel and resolution between Oberon and Titania, the King and Queen of Fairies, the play explores love and marriage, the former’s urgencies stated, in deliberate inversion, by Titania to Bottom the weaver with an ass’s head: I am a spirit of no common rate; The summer still doth tend upon my state; And I do love thee.

That was the play the production missed. l

11 D H A K A T R I B U N E S U N DAY, J U LY 2 , 2 0 1 4

ARTS & LETTERS

Interview

For the love of whales

Asha de Vos

Bipasha Chakraborty is a translator and science writer.

Read the full interview online: http://www. dhakatribune. com/arts-letters

A few weeks back, Arts & Letters received an interview with a Marine biologist who specialises in the whales. The interview was taken by a science writer who writes mostly in Bangla. In a note, the interviewer explained what interested her to go for this interview.

She wrote, “ Very recently, I’ve grown a fondness for whales. While reading about them, I came across an interview of Asha de Vos, a whale researcher from Sri Lanka, who, facing all the challenges in a male-dominated profession, has become a new generation hero of the ocean. She has called upon the young Srilankans to love the sea and to preserve the treasures of the sea. In her interviews, she frequently refers to Sir Arthur C Clarke, one of the most celebrated science fiction authors, which piqued my curiosity further.”

Arts & Letters is keen on giving space to science writing. So we decided to carry the interview to know more about Arthur C Clarke and the whale population in the waters of Sri Lanka.

Asha de Vos is a TED Fellow researching on marine mammals. She got degrees from the Universities of St Andrews and Oxford. She got her PhD from the University of Western Australia. She oversees the Sri Lankan Blue Whale Project, the first long-term study on blue whales in the northern Indian Ocean.

n Bipasha Chakraborty Why and how did you become involved in the courageous profession of marine biology? What was your original inspiration?

When I was young, my parents would bring home second hand copies of National Geographic magazines. As I flipped through the pages, I started to imagine myself in the place of all those adventurers. That’s where my dream to become an adventurer scientist first began. I wanted to explore places no one else could ever go to and discover things that others were yet to discover. This all began at the age of six. As I grew up I grew an affinity for animals, understanding their behaviour and water. I was a swimmer and discovered that water, of any form, was my element. I guess all these ingredients came together and I very organically moved on the path of becoming a marine biologist.

In different interviews, you often mention Sir Arthur Clarke. Why? Arthur C Clarke moved to Sri Lanka and did a lot of wreck diving there over the years. I was lucky in that he would come to the same swimming club I used to train at. I spent many afternoons listening to him talk about the deep blue and the things he saw. I still distinctly remember the day he told me that he was diving off southern Sri Lanka once and saw this big piece of never ending skin swimming under him. He never found out what it was, but at that moment I knew I wanted to.

Please tell me more about your work and especially your research on unorthodox whales.

I pioneered this research on blue whales in the Northern Indian Ocean because I was curious about why a population of the largest animal to ever roam the planet, would choose to remain in warm tropical waters year round. Typically, large whales undertake long range migrations between cold feeding areas and warm breeding and calving areas. But in this situation we were seeing these whales year round along Sri Lanka’s coastline and we see evidence of feeding, breeding and calving. So my project began out of curiosity and also concern. Concern because the south coast of Sri Lanka is one of the biggest shipping lanes in the world, and I realised that the overlap between the whales and the ships could not be a good thing. And I was right, it turned out. The biggest threat to these whales is ship-strike, where whales get hit by ships and killed. I documented a few cases and submitted a report to the International Whaling Commission (IWC) as a result of which the IWC started communicating with the government of Sri Lanka and urging them to realise that this is a population in urgent need of research and conservation action. Right now, along with my team, I am working on providing some suitable recommendations on how to reduce this threat to the whales with minimal disruption to the shipping industry.

How do you feel about the world’s largest blue whale colony in Sri Lanka?

The fact that it is the world’s largest blue whale colony is inaccurate. Someone renamed this Channel 7 news piece before they uploaded it on youtube and I guess it has misled a lot of people into believing that this is indeed the world’s largest colony. We don’t actually know how many individuals there are in this colony. We are currently working on generating a population estimate.

What kind of challenges have you faced in your work over the years?

I have faced various challenges along the way – I have wrestled with government officials ignoring me because I was too young and female; I have dealt with foreign scientists disregarding my work because the equipment I used was too basic. Of course, when I reminded them that the foundation of all our scientific knowledge was built using the most basic equipment, they had no choice but to nod in approval. I have dealt with having my work overlooked in my own country in favour of the work of foreign scientists; I have dealt with boat breakdowns, equipment failure; I have dealt with the madness of not having enough funds to run a field season. The challenges are endless but to me, they are there to help us be our best selves. I work hard to figure out how to make those challenges work for me rather than against me, and that makes all the difference. l

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Biography

Captain Suresh Biswas, myth and reality Captain Suresh Biswas, a Bangali, had left his country as a young man and spent the rest of his life abroad. He became a legend in undivided Bengal and remains so to this day. This is the first installment of a two-part essay that seeks to understand the myth surrounding his adventurous persona.

n María Helena Barrera-Agarwal “… he had a hero. Another Bengali, who left home a hundred years ago and went to England, working as crew on a ship. Eventually, he ended up in Brazil - or was it Mexico? - and joined its army. He became a colonel and greatly impressed everyone by his valor and courage.’ ‘Do you mean Suresh Biswas?’ Feluda asked. Lalmohan Babu, too, had recognized the name. His eyes gleamed. ‘Yes, yes,’ he said hurriedly, ‘Colonel Suresh Biswas. He died in Brazil.’”

The Adventures of Feluda Satyajit Ray My curiosity was piqued. A Bengali martial hero in Brazil? I was quite surprised. Let me explain why.

The British policy in then undivided Bengal was based not only on tangible control of the region and its inhabitants, it also required the nurturing of an ideology that promoted a stereotype whose aim was to conceptualize Bengalis as weak, lacking martial virtues. Bengalis were even denied a chance to build a military career. In such a context, how did a Bengali emerge as a martial hero in a land as remote as Brazil?

The answer to this question is found in the pages of a Kolkata newspaper, the Amrita Bazar Patrika (ABP). Established in 1868, by the Ghosh brothers, ABP promoted the idea of India’s freedom since its beginning. The journalistic line privileged patriotic pride, denouncing the injustices rooted in the colonial system and proclaiming the worthiness of the native population.

As part of that policy, it aimed to provide Bengali and Indian life examples: ABP readers were presented often with profiles of Indians, depicted in ways vastly contrasting those promoted by the British imperial machinery.

In such a context, in 1894, ABP published its first note about Suresh Biswas’s exploits. The news item had a solid base: its referential frame was the news coverage of the Brazilian Civil War being fought that year. Despite the geographical distance, it was a conflict that was covered with interest in India. A broad range of newspapers regularly reprinted news taken from the European media. ABP was no exception to that trend. In the first semester of 1894, it surprised its readers by adding to its coverage a wholly original angle. In an article, it was revealed that a Bengali was fighting heroically in the Brazilian war, as a member of the Brazilian armed forces.

The exact way in which Biswas was first featured cannot be established, as the issue in which the article appeared cannot be located. Nonetheless, the existence of the note can be ascertained thanks to a reference in a second article on Biswas, published by ABP, where it is mentioned that “Suresh Biswas, the Bengali Lieutenant serving in Brazil, and an account of whose brave deeds was, the other day published in these columns, is not dead.”

The article also features a more direct link to Biswas himself: ABP transcribes a brief letter written by him to his uncle. Biswas’s style is marked by clarity: “My dear uncle_ Last month, I know not the exact date, I received your letter dated 17th of July 93. At present, I cannot write to you more, a time will come when I will write to you about me more at my leisure. The only information I can give you about me now is that I have been very ill, and have suffered from one of those revolutions in my system from which I have so very often narrowly escaped. I am getting better, for God will so have it.”

This letter is the first of a number of pieces of correspondence that were published in the newspaper, in the years to come. The source of the documents is Suresh’s uncle, Kailash Chunder Biswas. The link between Suresh’s family and the ABP was a regular one, allowing the publication of many important documents, including testimonies of at least two of Biswas’ friends, from India and Brazil.

The material published in the ABP was, eventually, complemented by two books. The first book, published by Upendra Krishna Bandhopadhyay, in Bengali, was titled Lieutenant Suresh Biswas. The second book, written

by Hur Chunder Dutt in English, was titled Lieut. Suresh Biswas: His life and

adventures. In his book, Bandhopadhyay introduces himself as a friend of Suresh’s family. He edits together facts related to his life, including the letters written by Suresh to his uncle in Kolkata. Dutt is a writer and journalist who has worked for and founded a variety of Bengali newspapers. His sources concerning Biswas are similar to those used by Bandhopadhyay, including a direct connection to the family.

Every reference to Suresh Biswas, in the 20th and 21st centuries, has as its sources Bandhopadyay’s and Dutt’s books. There is no evidence of other materials being used.

Europe Born on 1861, in Nathpur, Nadia District, Suresh belongs to a family of modest resources. His father, Girish Chunder Biswas, and his uncle, Kailash Chunder Biswas, are state employees. The obituary dedicated to Girish mentions that he was a devout Vaishnava. Despite such background, a teenaged Suresh abandons Hinduism, converting to a Protestant denomination.

Soon after his conversion, Suresh departs from Bengal. In a letter written many years later, one of his friends mentions that he “went to England with a European gentleman taking the appointment of a steward in a ship.” Other testimonies suggest that, after sailing from Kolkata, he resided temporally in Rangoon, before starting his journey to Europe.

It is impossible to determine the exact year of Suresh’s arrival to Europe.

The first documented details of his presence in the continent date from the World’s Fair at the Royal Agricultural Hall, Islington, 1881-82. The Fair’s manager, John O’Connor, had put together, as entertainment fare, a series of acts.

Some are assured by the Continental Menagerie: “Agricultural Hall. [...] The grand Continental menagerie, which occupies the center of the Hall, and which is open to all, contains a really good collection of animals, birds and reptiles, including a group of African lions, amongs which a clever Hindoo lion tamer performs at intervals.”

The tamer is Suresh, whose spectacular performance finds echo in another note, in which his feats are described with admiration: “Among the beasts are three lions, which leap and perform other acts at the bidding of their keeper, Suresh-Biswas, who enters their cage. This exhibition, which takes place frequently, attracts great attention, and the daring young Hindi, master of the king of beasts, is loudly applauded for his display of temerity.”

In a Fair flyer, Biswas is depicted at the cage door, facing the public, while the lions wait, calmly, behind him.

The image confirms the newspaper’s description, suggesting Suresh’s poise and fearlessness. It also gives context to his feats: the public observes, mesmerized from a lower plane, while the tamer – defined as “lion hunter” in the flyer – does not shy from a gallant and superior stance. l

Maria Helena BarreraAgarwal is an Ecuadorian writer based in New York.

She is the first writer to translate Nazrul Islam‘s poetry into Spanish.

She also researches on different aspects of Bangla literature.

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Feature

Growing up with books n Saudia Afrin

Saudia Afrin works for Dhaka Tribune.

In this time and age when reading habits are being replaced by watching habits, children are naturally more exposed to movies and video games than to books. All those sleek gadgets or special effect-rich images of movies keep them occupied when they are not reading the textbooks. Ask any parent and they’ll tell you, “Where is the time for reading story books?”

For today’s kids, growing up with books is not usual as it used to be, say, two decades back. So, are there any need for thinking up alternative ways of designing and presenting a book with more pictures and soothing visuals that might take the kids back to the reading table from the HD images of a cartoon on TV? Some say the decline of children’s reading habits is caused by the lack of quality books. Though hundreds of new titles are published during the Ekushey book fair, most of them are churned out to make some quick buck.

Books that are considered good are imported in most of the cases while original works by indigenous writers are being ignored. Some others, conversely, blame it all on the present education system which, they say, puts huge pressure on the kids.

While this debate, it seems, will go on forever, a few creative minds have got together to surprise kids with books that have all the potential to take them back to the reading table. These are no ordinary books. When you open them, much before you are taken in by the story, you’ll be struck by figures of trees or huts or boys or girls popping up from inside them. If it’s a book about the spirit of the liberation war, then perhaps a wonderful artwork of the National Memorial, cut out of paper, will pop out.

Da Pop-up Factory started its journey in 2014. Their story started when Rumana Sharmin decided to buy her little niece a book as a gift. After moving from one shop to another, she failed to collect any quality book.

Being an architecture student, she decided to make a book on her own.

Rumana thought a pop-up book would be a nice way of telling the story. She got on to work and that’s how the first Pop-up Factory book, The Dragon Prince originated.

“The result was amazing when I presented my niece with the book. She found it very interesting and was reading again and again,” recalled Rumana.

Thus enthused by the excitement of her niece, she began promoting her endeavour through facebook. “I got very good response from people. Within a few days all the books were sold out,” she shared.

The positive response on facebook led Rumana to think seriously about this? Pop-up books, she thought, already have an established market but there is no such initiative in Bangladesh. She wasted no time and took care of the legal formalities in one week. Now there are a number of writers working for Pop-up Factory.

Photos: Saudia Afrin

So far, design and illustrations of all the books have been done by Rumana herself. While speaking, she took out a book, The lost fairy, from her bag. When she opened it, a spiral of paper popped up, beside which was a flying fairy and her home. “Through this illustration, I hope the kids will get the taste of a dreamy world,” she said.

Rumana herself does the book design and illustrations.

After finishing the legal aspect of publication within one week, she went for mass publication.

So far, design and illustrations of all the books have been done by Rumana herself. While speaking, she took out a book, The lost fairy, from her bag.

When she opened it, a spiral of paper popped up, beside which was a flying fairy and her home. “Through this illustration, I hope the kids will get the taste of a dreamy world,” she said.

When Da Pop-up Factory first took part in the Ekushey Book Fair in 2015, it grabbed the attention of celebrated children’s writer Muhammed Zafar Iqbal. He not only appreciated the initiative but wrote a book on the liberation war for Pop-up Factory.

“Participating in the fair, we realised that children like our books. Responses from children and parents were tremendous,” Rumana said.

Pop-up factory has so far brought out seven books and except for three, the rest are written by Rumana. Some are short stories while some are dedicated to general knowledge and information.

The book prices range from Tk 250 to 600. “Parents often complain about the high price. Materials used in the books are expensive and all the books are handmade, so it takes a certain amount of time and skill to prepare these books,” Rumana explains.

However, Safeen Ahmed Anik, managing director of Pop-up Factory, said, “We have our own website where people can place their orders directly to us and enjoy a discount of up to 25 percent.”

For the upcoming book fair, the team has planned to publish 20 more books. This time they’ll introduce regular children’s books along with popups. For more information about their books, please visit www.dapopupfactory.com l

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Wanderer with a sketchbook

Mingling with other trekkers

Left, other tourists, right, Mr Tundu, master porter from Sandakphu

First water colour sketch during rain. Drawn in a room at Kalapokhri

The Mall, Darjeeling

Shiring, the tour guide

On the way to Mirrik, drawn on a running motorbike from the pillion seat Caption

A view of Kanchanjangha range from a Sandakphu peak

Coming back home: at Netaji Shubhaschandra airport Trekking from Garibas to Kalapokhri  Page 16

The writer is staff cartoonist at Dhaka Tribune. The illustrations have been scanned from Tanmoy’s Sketchbook.

The second night at Kalapokhri I learned another thing: there are many things that money cannot buy. No, I am not talking about happiness or the sunset; I am talking about things like hot water and blankets! The things that actually have monetary value. Because of insufficient supply, the host were dillydallying to provide us with those things without which it was difficult to get by at that point. These are the moments where I always believe in my art! So I started sketch-

ing and interacting with our host. I looked at my other friend, MA Maruf, the agency guru, and immediately he knew what to do. Using his undisputed marketing skills, he started negotiating with our host with all that we have. The bargain was to sing a Nepali song, a portrait and a few puffs from my friend’s vaping device in return for hot water and blankets.

The negotiation went well. There was also a complementary hot water bag for the night from the host, impressed as he was by my friend’s

‘melodic’ voice, the host mentioned. We survived our last night.

Drawing is something I do to express myself and to communicate with others. It makes me calm when I tell my stories and draw others.

The trip was coming to an end and so was my sketchbook. On our way back, we travelled through Darjeeling, rode a motorbike to Mirrik and laughed and enjoyed the moments. After living those moments to the fullest, we were ready to go back home. l

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Wanderer with a sketchbook

A trek to Sandakphu n Syed Rashad Imam Tanmoy

even without knowing we were entering Nepal and exploring its unique geographical and architectural beauty.

I realised when you decide to trek it is very

B

y the time we were at the Dhaka airport ready to depart for Kolkata, we kind of knew this trip was going to be incredible. I was ready with my sketchbook, so were a singer/songwriter with her ukulele and an agency guru with crazy ideas in mind. We could hardly wait to set off. Other than our travelling route Kolkata-Shiliguri- Maniyabhanjan-KalapokhriSandakphu, everything else was pretty much unplanned.

Travelling for me has always been a gateway to the wilderness. Doesn’t matter if it is concrete jungle or the vastness of the sea – the aim is always towards the “great escape.” Basically to break away from my own mental captivity.

A view (of a road winding uphill) from a lodge in Manyabhanjan even I was having hard time saying goodbye to the people sitting or standing around. This is also something that fascinates me about travelling and life in general, even at moments when you

Inside a compartment of Shatabdi Express on the way to Shiliguri After landing in Kolkata, pushing ourselves through the crazy mid-day traffic we finally jumped inside the train heading towards Shiliguri and realised this was going to be a long train journey with people from diverse ethnic backgrounds not talking to one another. But as soon as Sovvota, my friend, took out her guitar and I started sketching a face or two, everything changed. By the time the train journey was over, everyone bonded over art and music so well that

Left, tour guide Shiring and porter Barfi, right, at the breakfast table at Tonglu different from when you compartmentalize yourself in the back of a vehicle and let someone else drive you to a destination. I learned trekking to unknown places propels you into taking authority and overcoming physical limitation, which adds meaning and deeper understanding to yourself and to your traveling as a whole. For example, at the end of our first day when we got to see the sunset from the top of Tonglu, it didn’t

Trekking to Kalapokhri on day two

Tea break on the way to Manyabhanjan

are out there looking for the “great escape”, your heart still continues to make friends, struggles to let go and wander knowing none of this is permanent.

We did trek for three days from Maniyabanjan to Sandakphu staying the nights at Tonglu and Kalapokhri. The trekking route was on the IndiaNepal border and it was planned in such a tortuous way that sometimes we were in India going inside the Singalila National Park and sometimes

Lunch break at Garibas

feel like unreal or a scene from a TV screen; it rather felt more like we earned it and this was “as good as it gets.”  Page 15

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