Arts & Letters

DHAKA TRIBUNE THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 2, 2017

Editor Zafar Sobhan Editor Arts & Letters Rifat Munim Design Mahbub Alam Alamgir Hossain Cover Jinnatun Jannat Illustration Jinnatun Jannat Priyo Colour Specialist Shekhar Mondal

Editor’s note The March issue is themed on feminism in arts and literature.

Feminist pieces raise fundamental questions of identity and history in their appraisal of literature and films. Report on a book launch event and a few tributes, too, will make for interesting reading. Happy reading! l Rifat Munim

The anger of Adivasis turns to poetry of anguish and hope in a young woman's hands Jacinta Kerketta's poems talk of the identity issues of young Adivasis, and question the state's vision of development for tribal areas

n Anumeha Yadav Till the time Jacinta Kerketta went to a missionary boarding school in Jharkhand’s Manoharpur at the age of 13, she was witness to her mother Pushpa Anima Kerketta being beaten up and abused. This was at home in Siwan in undivided Bihar, where her father worked as a policeman.

In her book Angor (“embers” in her language, Sadri), Kerketta, an Adivasi, says: “For a long time, it was my mother’s sobs that resounded in the silence of my heart.”

Kerketta gets angry even now when she speaks of watching her mother walk behind her father in public, or having to wait till he finishes his meals before she can eat. It is this anguish that the 32-year old expresses in her poem “Bawandar aur Dishaayein,” talking of a tribal village being blown away like chaff by “development”, because “someone ought to make a sacrifice” – and this time too it is the turn of the Adivasi village.

The book, a collection of 41 Hindi poems, published in Hindi and English by Adivaani and co-published in German by Draupadi Verlag, was released on May 20. The poems are Kerketta’s attempt to express the struggles and hopes of young Adivasis of Jharkhand, within the state and outside in big cities while they look for jobs.

Kerketta speaks Santhali, Sadri, Hindi, and understands Ho, Mundari, Khariya, and English.

The poems deal with issues of displacement, violence against women, hunger, apathy of governance.

The six-lane freeway of deceit Emerging from the forests of Saranda, Gathering are people in a certain village.

Women with infants in slings on their backs, The aged scaling the valley leaning on their staffs, The young leaping over the hills, And children counting the sakua trees as they walk.

They gather not for a protest march, But a football tournament to watch, Where a goat is to be the winner’s trophy.

A madua sprout on the grave

No sooner is a child From her mother’s milk weaned, Than he is made a member Of some youth club in Saranda, While something else goes on behind the scenes.

A football instead of books is places in every hand That may someday join in protestors Against the illicit mining of their land.

To win goats as tournament trophies Kicked to the curb are books and studies.

On a little mound of mud in the village Has emerged a tiny madua sprout.

Not a mere mound it is, but a grave, In which lies the dead remains Of Sugna, perished of hunger and starvation.

Having soaked in the life-giving dew That madua seed cringing in fear hitherto Has now emerged from hiding.

His children squirm about Watching seedlings of paddy sprout On the long unlit earthen stove In the cow dung smeared courtyard.

And his widow, famished and distraught, Stares at the blackened bottom of the rice pot Kept upturned, empty, unfed, As if by fire of hunger charred.

Sugna’s wife and children Will this time not starve to death.

They will take their own lives instead.

For dying of hunger, they know too well, Stirs up no storms, does not sell.

A suicide, on the other hand, Guarantees their corpse will make headlines, And probes into the whys and wherefores Will lead them to many more doors With stoves unlit and ovens gone cold.

Slowly but steadily the child inhales The addicting opium of football.

Eyes, dazed and deadened by the game, Fail to see beyond victory and loss Their strife and struggle for survival.

Agents of mining corporations Knock on every village door.

And no sooner is uttered a desperate sigh of hunger, Than disease, unemployment and helplessness, Are shoved down their throats Grains, medicines, utensils, and clothes.

And the family carried away As labourers, for a pittance pay.

In the name of progress, now There are to be four and six-lane roads.

But those labouring away on concrete and asphalt Are unaware. They know not How many more free lanes of deceit Run through the forests of Saranda.

(Excerpted from an article first published in Scroll.in on June 05, 2016. The poems have been translated into English by Bhumika Chawla D’Souza, Vijay K Chhabra, and Father Cyprian Ekka.)

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Tribute

When Jibanananda translated his own poems February 17 marked the 122nd birth anniversary of the most influential modern Bengali poet

n Abdus Selim

T

here are perhaps innumerable examples of poets translating their own poems in the realm of literature, but what I am focused on in this brief writeup is sketching the trends in Jibanananda Das’s translations of his own poems. We all know the first most successful poetry translator of this subcontinent happens to be none other than Rabindranath Tagore, for, his renderings of his own poems into English brought him the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1913. But of course no such thing happened to Jibanananda Das. The English translation of four poems, “If I Were” (Jodi aami hotem), “O Kite” (Hai chil), “Banalata Sen” (Banalata Sen), and “Meditations” (Manosharani) came out in the anthology titled Modern Bengali Poems in 1945. All four of them were translated by the poet himself. Abhijeet Roy comments on Jibannanda’s translation in his lecture that he delivered at The Open University, UK, “Jibanananda as the translator of his own poem . . . was anxious to retain his lifetime obsession with the meaning of human history in the context of an unfathomable universe.” The poet himself held that, “Poetry and life are two different outpourings of the same thing; life as we usually conceive it contains what we normally accept as reality, but the spectacle of this incoherent and disorderly life can satisfy neither the poet’s talent nor the reader’s imagination . . . poetry does not contain a complete reconstruction of what we call reality; we have entered a new world.” This mysterious new world referred to

by Jibanananda Das was perhaps the anxiety and obsession for retaining the meaning of human history in the context of an unfathomable universe, that Abhijeet has tried to imply.

But then there is a mystery in his translations too. I am not very sure about the total number of poems translated by the poet himself, but the above four can be used to analyse the enigma that I am hinting at. It is well-known that Jibanananda Das’s modernism—for which he sounded so different from Tagore and was duly adored by his readers after his death—was in many ways actuated by Charles Pierre Baudelaire, Edgar Allan Poe, John Keats, WB Yeats and the likes, especially because of his use of similes, metaphors, parallelism and alliterations. Abdul Mannan Syed years back traced similarities between Keats’s “On first looking into Chapman’s Homer” and his “Banalata Sen,” especially in the use of similes and images. We also have attestations to show that Poe’s “To Helen” and “Annabel Lee” bear remarkable similarities to his “Banalata Sen,” especially in the depiction of the women’s beauty:

Pzj Zvi K‡eKvi AÜKvi wew`kvi wbkv/ gyL Zvi kÖvešÍxi KviæKvh©;

(Her hair was like an ancient darkling night in Vidisa/ Her face, the craftsmanship of Sravasti)

Helen, thy beauty is to me /Like those Nicean barks of yore/ . . .On desperate seas long wont to roam,/Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, (To Helen) Or, †Zgwb †`‡LwQ Zv‡i AÜKv‡i.../ cvwLi bx‡oi g‡Zv †PvL Zz‡j bv‡Uv‡ii ebjZv †mb| (Through darkness I saw her./ . . . And raised her bird’s-nest-like eyes – Banalata Sen from Natore) It was many and many a year ago,/In a kingdom by the sea,/That a maiden there lived whom you may know/By the name of Annabel Lee; (Annabel Lee).

Many critics also hold that his “Hai Chil” (which, as I mentioned earlier, he rendered into English too) was originally a translation of WB Yeats’s “He reproves the curlew.”

With those comes his use of foreign imagery, which has been rightly explained by Abhijeet, “ . . . all the foreign imagery in the poem is as real as the native honeybees and spray flies in the sun, and the heron, and the virgin vastness of the blue sky.” Thus the poet expertly blended his face of Bengal (Banglar mukh) with the imagery of Byzantium, Alexandria, Babylon, Neneveh, Egypt, China and Libya.

But a poet with so much of foreignness immersed within him was not that foreign when he translated his own poems into English. Such good examples are the following lines in Bangla that he deliberately excluded them in his translated version of Andhakar (Darkness), for the reason only known to him:

m~‡h©i †iŠ‡`ª AvµvšÍ GB cyw_ex †hb †KvwU †KvwU ï‡qv‡ii AvZ©bv‡`/ Drme ïiæ K‡i‡Q|

(The translation of the images used in Bangla can read in English like this: The sun-struck world is in the festivity as if millions of pigs are grunting and squealing around) Or, Avevi Nygv‡Z †P‡qwQ Avwg, / AÜKvi ¯Í‡bi wfZi †hvwbi wfZi AbšÍ g„Zz¨i g‡Zv wg‡k (The possible translation is: I wished to fall asleep again hiding myself between the darkness of breasts or deep within the vagina and remain eternally dead) Interestingly enough, the poet arbitrarily ignored the images like pigs grunting and squealing and darkness of breasts and vagina.

The mystery is, who was he translating these poems for? Were they for Western readers, especially the English readers or for the readers of this subcontinent who did not speak Bangla? The paradox is, the poet being open to western influences had no hesitation using challenging imagery in Bangla but was painfully shy translating them into English. This is the enigma of Jibanananda Das’s translation that makes me brood over.

Tagore translated his own poems and took suggestions from his Irish friend WB Yeats, yet many critics thought and still think they were not good translations, for readers of the Western world misunderstood and underrated him as a poet, writer and philosopher. Hallam Tennyson, one of poet Lord Alfred Tennyson’s descendants, once said Tagore’s translations should have been done by a native speaker of English with the help of an Indian who had mastery of both Bangla and English languages. But that does not apply to Jibananada Das as he himself had equal skill in both languages. The fact remains that poets are unpredictable, and it is more pertinent for a poet like Jibananananda Das who could, with enough ease, write lines like the following:

Abdus Selim is a writer and translator. He is professor of English and Linguistics at North South University and Cental Women’s University.

Kvj iv‡Z--dvêy‡bi iv‡Zi Avuav‡i / hLb wM‡q‡Q Wz‡e cÂgxi Puv` / gwievi nj Zvi mva|

(Last night—in the darkness of Falgun night/When the moon of the fifth day was no more to be seen/He decided to commit suicide.) l

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ARTS & LETTERS

Women & literature

As the dead awakened n Rifat Munim

Rifat Munim is Editor, Arts & Letters, Dhaka Tribune.

Shaheen Akhtar is not a prolific writer. Her fiction does not hit the Ekushey Boi Mela every year. In her 25-year-long literary career, she has authored only three novels. Her first book was a collection of short stories, which came out in 1997 and was followed by three more. One might call her stories a bit esoteric, at times like Wasi Ahmed’s, but no one would dare to call them popular. On the contrary, they offer recalcitrant interpretations of history, swerving sharply from the traditionally accepted ones.

To understand the sheer range of her literary gifts, readers had to wait till 2004, the year which saw the publication of her second novel Talash (The Search). Unlike many novels written by avowedly feminist writers, Shaheen’s novel barely has any idealised women characters: Women are seen as much objectively as men and not all the men are equally greedy. The story is told mainly from a woman’s point of view, which, when shifts, is passed on to another or several women. All in all, the novel departs from the trend that glorifies the War, presenting readers with a different picture of it altogether.

Idealising the Liberation War has been the most accepted literary convention in Bangladesh. Literature against a backdrop of the War relies heavily on the ideology of nationalism, drawing thereby on the prowess and valour of the Bengali males as freedom fighters. Another celebrated stereotype that readers find in such fictions is that of the birangona, which, though literally means a heroic woman, is actually a compensatory identity bestowed on women who were subjected to brutal torture and rape by Pakistan army during the War. Nationalism has accomplished its job both in society and literature. It has glorified the War and found scapegoats in the female victims to justify the immeasurable cost at which independence was gained.

Male authors were the first ones to defy the tide and influence of the nationalistic discourse. Hasan Azizul Haq, Akhtaruzzaman Elias, Mahmudul Haq and Shaheedul Zahir, among others, have written fiction challenging the nationalistic narrative. Some of them have addressed the sufferings of birangonas during the War, especially Hasan in “Bidhabader Katha” and Zahir in “Indur Bilai Khela.” Success of these stories lies insofar as the birangonas’ indescribable sufferings are transformed in allegories, and what we see happening is that the voice of the birangonas is actually buried in the artistic process of constructing those allegories. Thus, though their stories stretch beyond the War and relate to the present, the stereotype of birangonas remains almost unchanged, their identity fixed and their voice silenced and forgotten forever.

Talash, on the other hand, defies all existing modes and norms of representation and brings out the buried and long-forgotten female victims of the War. Most of all, it gives them a voice they were always deprived of; it gives them a power that enables them to view and judge the War and the society as a whole. The only literary instance of this kind is Nilima Ibrahim’s book, Ami Beerangana Bolchhi, which predates Shaheen’s novel and in which she documented speeches of quite a good number of birangonas. But that was

a work of nonfiction.

Although those records gave away the female victims’ plight, they were just fragments of what they had really gone through both during and after the war, lacking an all-inclusive narrative tying up all the bits and pieces into a fitting narrative.

We have often heard about an Amitabh Ghosh, the Indian novelist, doing extensive field work and library research before writing a novel. In our country as well, we have heard about an Elias who spent months and years collecting the mythical tales and folk songs in the rural areas of northern Bengal for his novel Khoabnama. But it was with Shaheen Akhtar that we first found an author who truly combined extensive field work and library research to write a novel on an epic scale.

Apart from journalistic and historical references, mythical and literary allusions have been used every now and then to draw parallels between myths and reality, and past and present. In matters of narration, no chronology has been maintained and the narrative oscillates between past and present, shifts from one birangona or freedom fighter to another, and yet the unity of the whole has not been compromised at all.

The 256-page novel begins with Marium, a birangona, remembering the political unrest of March 1971, when it had all begun. Then the narrative shifts to Mukti, a social worker interviewing birangonas and freedom fighters.

But the plot sticks to Mariam alias Mary and pivots around her life. Mukti, the interviewer, is not a full-fledged character but comes across as a mediator through whose presence one is able to piece together all the fragments of Mariam’s and others’ lives.

Thus the novel explores the lives of birangonas whose past was devastated by all forms of physical torture by an occupation army and whose present is shattered as they were abandoned by their own people. This abandonment has forced them to become prostitutes because neither their family nor the society is ready to accept them for crimes in which they were victims and not the Illustration: Jinnatun Jannat other way round. A non-linear narrative did serve the author well to work out the social incongruities woven into the birangonas’ miserable lives, caught as they are between present and past with many parallels and contrasts.

What seems an unorthodox feminist account of the War at first glance soon turns out to be a disenchanted representation of a war that failed not only the birangonas but also the religious and ethnic minorities and many freedom fighters who were left to rot in poverty.

After Talash, she edited a voluminous anthology of Bengali literature, Shwati O Shwatantara. Earlier, she had edited Zenana Mehfil: Seleted Writings of Bengali Muslim Writers. She published her third novel, Shakhi Rangamala, in 2010.

Critical of being labelled as a “feminist writer,” feminist concerns have always been at the heart of Shaheen’s fictional works. As is evident in Talash, her feminism does not lead one away from the intersectionalities of race and class; it rather opens up newer horizons of interpretations through which it is possible to gain fresh new insights into the human society.l

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Women & cinema

A critique of the “male gaze” in mainstream film narratives n Farhana Susmita

I

mages in multifaceted forms are presently dominating the world of culture, politics, and economy. The advertising industry is at its best now, and cinema has become the most powerful and influential form of entertainment. In these two mediums of entertainment, different techniques are applied for rendering particular perspectives, among which one of the most important is the angle of the camera. It is the narrator’s vehicle to say and show what s/he wants. Here the question of gaze, more specifically the difference between the male and female gaze, comes in. It has been observed that the gaze through which the narrative is presented in these narratives is basically male. Even in cases where the story is sympathetic towards a woman or simply has a direct feminist angle, the gaze cannot be proclaimed as “female” since it resorts to the conventions and techniques used by the male gaze. However, the very idea of gaze is directly connected to the concept of representation itself, something which is dependent on the norms and conventions of the culture of a particular society. Therefore, the question of the possibility of a “female gaze” becomes a complicated one. … In mainstream cinema, for example, in popular Hollywood or Bollywood movies, the female characters, especially the female protagonist, often enter the screen in a visually striking way with the camera focusing on some particular parts of her body. We can begin with a classic movie, Raging Bull(Scorsese 1980), where the first appearance of the female protagonist Vickie (played by Cathy Moriarty), in many ways, makes us understand the issue of male gaze.

She is seen sitting beside a pool wearing a white swimming costume while the protagonist Jake Lamotta (played by Robert De Niro) notices her and keeps looking at her. We can realise soon enough that using close shots, Moriarty’s body is being glamorised through the gaze of the film’s protagonist, a gaze that is immediately shared by the male viewers, even though the movie is done in black and white. Colour would have added another dimension to the whole process, but even without it, the point becomes clear.

The best example of this kind would be the “Bond Girls” in the popular James Bond franchise where the female protagonist always, as part of the tradition of the films, makes her entry wearing bikinis. Die Another Day (Tamahori 2002) is a case in point where the entry of its female protagonist Giacinta “Jinx” Johnson (played by Halle Berry) is to be noted. When she makes her appearance, her body is foregrounded by the camera for the male gaze, and the male viewer who quickly identifies himself with the hero, objectifies her body. It is noteworthy that in movies like these, the role of the female characters are extremely limited as far as the storyline is concerned, but when it comes to the exhibitionist aspect of the film, she becomes the prime focus. There are numerous other examples to support this particular point of the overwhelming male gaze in popular cinema. Hollywood blockbusters like True Lies (Cameron1994),The Fast and the Furious(Cohen 2001) or The Transformers(Bay 2007)can delineate this point further.

The case has been quite the same in mainstream Indian movies as well.

When Bollywood, the second largest film industry of the world, applies strategies that are culture-specific, the strong presence of a male gaze is felt too. One should refer to the massive sweep of the so-called “item songs” that are recently being seen in these films. These songs are visually extravagant, where both the lyrics and choreography are strongly sensuous. The main female performer is scantily dressed, and the camera becomes an instrument in subjecting her body evidently to the male gaze. We can refer to movies like Dabaang (Kashyap 2010), Tees Mar Khan (Khan 2010), Dum (Nivas 2003) which are probably famous more for their item songs than for the content or characterisation. These songs do not have much connection to the main plot, but are made to look essential by providing glamour and glitz at the cost of objectifying the female body.

In the advertisement industry as well, the same male gaze is evident.

Advertisements that we see on billboards or on the screen extensively use images of the human body, and, in most cases, the female body. Ads of beauty soaps, body lotions, fairness creams, and so on could be some of the best instances. For example, if we notice the very familiar and widely known narrative of beauty soaps like Lux, we can see the voyeuristic elements at work.

Lux is an international brand and celebrities from Sophia Loren and Brigitte Bardot to Bollywood actresses like Madhuri Dixit and Katrina Kaif made their appearances to promote the brand. In one of the ads, we see Katrina Kaif in the bathtub, soaping herself. She attracts the attention of the viewer with a kind of sensuality that is attached to the actresses of mainstream cinema.

Here, too, the viewer becomes the voyeur who secretly watches the actress engaged in a private activity like bathing.

A sensitive as well as conscious viewer of cinema and advertisement must understand this politics of gaze and react to it accordingly. Cinema is now one of the most powerful forms of entertainment and also one of the most influential. As a result, what we see on screen matters on levels the directors and writers are not always aware of. Therefore, there should be space for an active “female gaze” which would broaden the vista and create new possibilities for cinema by including subject matters that need to be addressed and that have long been ignored by mainstream media. l

Farhana Susmita is Lecturer, Department of English, Jagannath University.

(First published in Crossings, A journal of English studies (Vol. 6, 2015.

ISSN 2071-1107), brought out by the Department of English and Humanities, University of Liberal Arts, Bangladesh)

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ARTS & LETTERS

Interview

Films for Bangladesh:

in conversation with Tanvir Mokammel, a recipient of Ekushey Padak 2017

Photo: Courtesy

n Ahmed Ahsanuzzaman

T

anvir Mokammel is one of those few gifted and talented artists of Bangladesh who hardly needs an introduction. A perceptive writer and filmmaker, Mokammel is perhaps a unique voice as far as the love for the country and her people is concerned. Even a cursory glance at his oeuvre will reveal that Mokammel’s journey as a creative artist has revolved around Bangladesh. His debut film Hooliya (Wanted, 1984), based on Nirmalendu Goon’s famous poem, is a 28-minute experimental film and a political critique of the country. Then there is Smriti Ekattor (Rememberance of 71, 1994) which is a telling documentary on the murder of the Bengalee intellectuals by the Islamic fundamentalists during the war of liberation in 1971. In Ekti Golir Atyakahini (Tale of a Lane, 1995) Mokammel presents an ethnographic documentary on the life and the present condition of the Hindu conch shell-makers living in the architecturally interesting, almost antique lane of Shakharibazar in Old Dhaka. The deep concern for the motherland for whose freedom Tanvir joined the liberation war captures the centre stage of his first full-length feature film Nadir Nam Modhumati (The River Named Modhumati, 1995). Set against the backdrop of the war, the film received three national awards and was shown in prestigious international film festivals including the Tri-Continental Film Festival, Nantes, France. Chitra Nadir Pare (Quiet Flows the River Chitra, 1998) relates the tragic tale of a Hindu family in East Pakistan which had refused to leave the homeland after the Partition of India in 1947, but which was ultimately compelled to leave the country. His 215-minute mega documentary 1971 (2011) can be seen as a significant attempt to study the liberation war. Mokammel’s latest feature film Jibondhuli (The Drummer, 2014) which is set against the Chukanagar massacre on May 20, 1971

depicts the plight of low-caste Hindu people during the war. The documentary Seemantorekha (The Borderline) which the director is set to release this year will unpack the dreary narratives of the Bengalees uprooted by the Partition.

These films apart, Mokammel in the remarkable documentaries like Achin Pakhi (The Unknown Bard, 1996), Oie Jamuna (A Tale of the Jamuna River, 2002) and Karnaphulir Kanna (Teardrops of the Karnaphuli, 2005) as well as the films such as Lalsalu (A Tree without Roots, 2001) and Lalon (2004) repeatedly makes Bangladesh with her age-old secular, non-communal way of life his protagonist in more than one way.

A Dhaka University alumnus, Mokammel was born on March 8, 1955.

In a part e-mail and a part telephonic interview with the writer in December last year the prolific filmmaker spoke about his preoccupation and philosophy as an artist. The following excerpt from the interview is our humble gift to Mokammel on his 62nd birth anniversary.

You mentioned in quite a few interviews that the 1947 Partition of Bengal is a living reality for you. As you made it clear, at the heart of Partition was the lust for power and wealth which caused untold sufferings for millions, which is, of course true. However, the seed of Partition was sowed in 1905. Although that Partition was annulled, it had struck a decisive blow to the unity of the Bengalees. You seem to be disinterested in it. Why? Is it because you prefer to depict the events that directly impacted you?

The 1905 Division of Bengal is of course very significant. However, the British annulled it just after six years. It is now only a matter of conjecture how it would have really worked.

I am definitely interested in the 1905 Division as well. But for making films I have so far preferred the 1947 Partition which is real to me. I have seen

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and experienced the aftermath of this terrible tragedy which has destroyed the lives and livelihood of millions. I am about to complete a documentary Seemantorekha (The Borderline) on the agonies and sufferings of the people uprooted by the 1947 Partition. I have known some of these people personally.

But the event of 1905 is too far removed, almost in a different time zone! I have also dealt with the 1947 Partition in my feature film Chitra Nadir Pare (Quiet flows the river Chitra). In Seemantorekha I will try to delve deep into the whole gamut of the Partition of Bengal in 1947 and its impact. 2017 marks the 70th anniversary of the Partition of Bengal. We intend to release the film this year.

We look forward to watching it. Nevertheless, the first film on Partition was Chinnamul (The Uprooted) by Nemai Ghosh. Then came Ritwik Ghatak’s partition trilogy. How is your Chitra Nadir Pare both similar and dissimilar to those films by Ghosh and Ghatak?

The films of Nemai Ghosh and Ritwik Ghatak are great cinematic arts.

Nemai Ghosh’s Chinnamul successfully portrayed the trauma and pains of displacement of the millions of refugees. The raw reality documented in Chinnamul by Ghosh can be hardly surpassed.

Ritwik Ghatak’s films, especially his films of the Partition trilogy-Meghe Dhaka Tara (The Cloud-Capped Star), Komol Gandhar (A Soft Note on a Sharp Scale) and Subarnarekha (Golden Lining), are great pieces of art pregnant with archetypical motives of immense depth.

Chitra Nadir Pare is a very modest low-budget film. Whereas Ghatak’s or Ghosh’s films depict the trauma and tragedy of the uprooted Hindu population from East Bengal struggling in their refugee existence in Kolkata, Chitra Nadir Pare mainly deals with a Hindu family which has chosen to stay back. Though the family finally has to leave East Bengal for India after the 1964 riot, the film unveils their epic endeavour to stay put in their motherland alongside their Muslim neighbours. The film ends with the final departure of Minoti and her aunt on the Jessore Road en route to Kolkata. I guess the main difference between Chitra Nadir Pare and those of Ghatak’s or Ghosh’s films is that my film ends with a family leaving East Bengal when their works show the struggling refugee families in the soil of India.

Ghatak does not explicitly depict Partition in his films although it works as the biggest stimulus for him. Ghatak lived with the horrors of Partition all his life. How will you rate Ghatak as a maker of Partition films?

The Partition of 1947 is a grand event. It had its build up, the actual events, and also its aftermath. True, Ghatak mainly deals with the after effects of Partition on the refugee families. It is, however, equally true that in so doing he was also narrating the story of the Partition itself. In fact, there is no other filmmaker in this subcontinent who was so emotionally moved and made so many films on the theme of Partition as Ghatak.

The common thread that unites your Partition and liberation war films is the miseries of common masses. And of course there is this forced migration of thousands of Hindus. What particular point did you wish to stress in Jibondhuli (The Drummer)? How, in your opinion, is it different from our ‘mainstream’ liberation war films?

Jibondhuli depicts the sufferings of a low-caste Hindu drummer and his family during the liberation war in 1971. Hindu community, especially the low-caste Hindu families, suffered terribly during the war. They were also the worst victims of the genocidal killing by the Pakistan army like the Chuknagar massacre. But as these low-caste Hindus are poor and have no representation in the state power or on the corporate media of Bangladesh, so their cries are hardly heard. Jibondhuli narrates the story of one such poor low-caste drummer Jibon Krisna Das and his family. It is history seen from below, a kind of worm’s view. As an artist I am committed to those human beings who are most exploited, most helpless and whose situation is most wretched. This perspective, seeing history from below, is what separates Jibondhuli from other mainstream films on our liberation war.

How will you evaluate the songs and music in your films, especially in Jibondhuli?

Music is an integral part of cinema’s aesthetics. I do not mind to use effect music in the soundtrack of my films to heighten emotion. Ghatak used it very successfully, not only in Komol Gandhar, but in his other films as well. In Jibondhuli, as the central protagonist is a drummer, so we had ample scope to use music pieces, especially folk music in the sound track. We used different variations of one musical instrument dhak (drum) particularly in this film, as it was played by Jibon the drummer. I think the last scene of the film is very symbolic so far as the use of music is concerned. Jibon, the poor low-caste drummer, who always remains timid and subdued, rises up to the occasion and begins to play his dhak in a frenzied way. Here the music becomes a symbol of his protest against all the atrocities around.

The Jibondhuli soundtrack also has some songs. I do not like characters singing on the screen. That is a very crude idiom and the practice of the commercial film industry. So I loathe it. However, I see no problem in using songs, or part of it, in the soundtrack to induce the required emotion.

Jibondhuli has quite a few songs in the soundtrack. I myself have composed some of these songs.

In recent years there has been a renewed interest in the Partition. Scholars are also paying serious attention to Partition studies. How will you describe the phenomenon?

The Partition is such an epic event that artists, scholars, historians, social and political scientists are bound to fall back on. It is the root of most of our present social and political problems. The Partition destroyed and disrupted the lives of millions of people. As an artist I cannot remain oblivious of it. In my films and literary works, I have repeatedly tried to tell the stories about the Partition and the miseries it caused. Both Chitra Nadir Pare and the documentary Seemantorekha directly deal with the 1947 Partition. Some of my other films have also made references to it. In my literary works, Partition as a theme, has figured regularly, almost like a leitmotif. How much the Partition of 1947 haunts me can be understood from the fact that my two novels, the two novels I have written so far--Dui Nogor and Keertinasha, both have Partition at their centre.

The Partition has been described as the greatest human tragedy. How far will you agree with it?

I fully agree with it. It is one of the worst human tragedies ever happened in this land and also to humankind. It is a colossal tragedy for which Bengalees, as a people, will have to suffer for generations to come.

Ahmed Ahsanuzzaman is professor of English and the Director (incharge), Fine Arts Institute of Khulna University. A theatre enthusiast, Ahsanuzzaman who obtained both his MPhil and PhD from Oslo University, Norway is interested in partition and cultural studies.

Could the Partition be avoided? Ghatak dreamt of a ‘culturally’ unified Bengal in the absence of a geographically and politically united Bengal. Do you believe in the existence of a culturally unified Bengal? Can there be ever a unity for that matter?

There were definite socio-political, economic and cultural reasons, both objective and subjective, which caused the Partition. We cannot change the history now. Even God cannot change the past! So it is better to accept the reality and try to build a practical and humane relationship between the two halves of Bengal. Our language, and much of our culture, is same. There are more factors present for unity than disunity between the two Bengals. We should build on that.

A culturally unified Bengal? Sure. You can look at history from all different perspectives. You can see history by seeing 1971 as the starting point, one can see 1947 as the point of beginning, or even 1757, the year of the battle of Plassey, or when the Turks first came in the twelfth century. But as a Bengalee artist, I would like to see Bengali culture as a river which has been flowing for more than two thousand years. Indeed, I am proud and motivated to work for this ancient and rich culture. One political event, like the Partition in one particular year only, as the 1947, should under no circumstances stop or alter that flow.

As an artist, I am always for cultural unity. But political unity? That is for the politicians to decide.

Thank you.

Thank you too. l

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ARTS & LETTERS

The poet and the world

Coping with others:

The writer’s dilemma n Ruby Rahman

A

Ruby Rahman is one of Bangladesh’s leading poets.

fter the Bengali poet Jibanannada Das died in a tram accident in Kolkata on a gloomy October day in 1954, an onlooker wonderingly commented that not even a cow could be run over by the slowmoving Kolkata tram: how come then that the Babu (gentle man) became a victim of such an accident! Should we consider this accidental death as the usual way for the poet and writer to cope with others, with the World?

Or should we admit that Jibanananda Das failed to cope with the ‘others’ of his world and submitted himself to his tragic destiny? We may, in the same way, approach and brood over the fatal end of Ernest Hemingway who took his own life. In these two cases, was it a failure to cope with ‘others’? Could these ‘others’ be easily named?

The Writer, like every individual in society, is surrounded by a crowd of infinite others. A few individuals even bear the entities of others within themselves.

These various sorts of others constantly demand attention from them. To respond to this is not easy. When it happens to be uneasy, it becomes a matter of “coping”. It seems that the writer has to face such situations of “coping” more frequently than other individuals in society.

Am I right in considering the writer as someone different from other members of human society? Yes and no. The writer is, of course, a very normal human being with a rather special ability to explore his humanity and that of others. The writer is a highly sensitive person. Additionally, perhaps he has a conscious or unconscious sense of a mission, which could at times become a driving compulsion. And he is unusually endowed with the capacity of selfquestioning and social interrogation. The overriding importance to me, at the moment, is the writer’s (or for that matter any individual’s) willingness and ability to recognise and empathise.

There is a familiarity that hides and deadens perception, there is a proximity that obstructs vision, there is a force of stereotyping-- traditional, social and psychological--that robs human beings, including our dear ones, of their individuality and humanity. I suppose, I am expected to know my husband, son and daughter, but I wonder whether I know them well enough, and fully! How sincere are we when we recognise one another? How real are we to one another? The writer’s problem --not his dilemma --is to break down the various impediments that obscure the reality of human beings. So the writer feels the urge to speak out the truth that seems to be lying beneath the surface of the apparently visible Reality. Like a fisherman beside a river, the writer concentrates all his efforts on searching out the truth he looks for. In his endeavour the writer may come down to the street from the ivory tower of Art. There is Rabindranath going out to the vast open fields of Bolepur to set up a new education system for young people. There is Pablo Neruda talking about people’s rights. Bhisham Sahni reveals the conspiracy of British imperialism behind the communal riots in the subcontinent in 1947. Shamsur Rahman protests the inhuman terrorist activities of the fundamentalist activists in Bangladesh.

The writer cherishes a secret desire to change the world he lives in. He has a strong faith in the printed word. But every practitioner of the craft of writing knows that his manipulation of words involves a kind of reordering, subversion and change. The writer does want to change things. But he shares neither the Neanderthal simplicity of a George Bush nor the organised

cruelty and indifference of governments to ethnic and religious minority.

He recognises grey as well as dark areas. Arundhati Roy has said it all for us already--I cannot do it any better. Incidentally, a brave man in Bangladesh, Shahriar Kabir, attempted to tell his people, in his capacity as a writer, of the dark happenings that took place in his country during the past few weeks. He now finds himself in prison on the charge of treason.

The ethnic groups and religious minorities in Bangladesh could do with more attention and sympathy from writers than they have so far received.

Among the SAARC countries, India has a secular constitution while Bangladesh has its strong secular heritage derived from its liberation war.

And yet, ironically enough, in neither country do the government and the people seem to really care for secular values. For instance, we find little or no treatment of ethnic or Hindu life in Bangladeshi fiction -- a clear evidence that the minorities are largely absent from our minds. This points to a profound psychological and sociological problem, which is hardly ever discussed in public. We do not yet have a Mahashewta Devi who treats ethnic and minority characters with great understanding and tenderness in her recent novels. I do feel that we creative writers, with some exceptions, are indeed guilty of a serious failure of imagination. Our sense of human responsibility has not extended beyond our own group.

In all these situations, the writer faces a difficulty to cope with the others who are around him. He has to cope with his family members, his friends, and his collogues. At times he has to cope with the State and the government and even with a stronger global power. For example, after the 11th September devastation in New York and Pentagon the writer may have to cope with a powerful international alliance. As in the case of Boris Pasternak, the State did not accept the truth the writer upheld, and inflicted penalty upon him.

Sometimes the writer thinks far ahead of the others, and cannot communicate properly with them. History shows that the writer frequently fails to cope with others in such situations. But instances of his success are not at all rare.

He carries on this ceaseless effort of coping, and his success is inevitable in the long run.

People like to idealise the writer, to associate an aura of dream with his name. As if he were writing upon a table of sandalwood, his pen were studded with diamonds. May I now turn, with due apology, to another aspect of coping as a writer that is rather mundane and could even be embarrassing to the successful and affluent among you. In reality, like other human beings, the

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Book notes

Feminist activism: Towards gender parity n Saqib Sarker

writer too feels hungry, and may have debts to repay.

The writer also has to earn enough to keep his body and soul together. There are, in fact, few writers who are fortunate enough to earn their livelihood by writing.

To become a full-time writer is still a dream for most of the writers of the world, especially those of the SAARC countries where the people live below the poverty level.

It is quite impossible in this region to earn a proper livelihood by writing. So the writer has to do some other job that enables him to earn money. Consequently, writing becomes his part-time or secondary occupation.

With a reluctant heart the writer transforms himself into a teacher, a journalist, an insurance agent which marks his identity in society. Thus the writer has to maintain an existence torn by the contradictory pulls of his real passion as a writer and the distractions of staying financially viable.

The situation becomes worse when the writer is a woman, and furthermore, a poet. Poetry hardly brings money or popularity to a writer. In view of the glamour of technological advancement of the 21st century, wise people do not show much confidence in the utility of poetry in human life. So neither the family nor the society, nor even the publisher encourages the writer, specially the woman writer, to write poetry. On the other hand a woman writer’s concern for her children and her household demand has no less priority than her concern for writing. In fact, the woman writer is called upon to fulfill multiple demands.

This is the other part of the dilemma of the writer, whether a man or a woman, a poet or a novelist. Noone seems to possess the magic power to change the situation to the writer’s advantage in the near future.

Yet the difficult circumstances seem, paradoxically, to give the writer the impetus to carry on his pursuit. l

Voicing Demands Feminist Activism in Transitional Context is a collection of essays from some of the leading academics and practitioners of development and gender studies and interdisciplinary experts from the “Global South,” seeking to link “voice, feminist activism and transitional contexts.” Edited by Sohela Nazneen and Maheen Sultan, this book is part of a larger series and has a total of seven essays, spanning 256 pages.

Brainchild of the series editor Andrea Cornwall, the ideas behind the book evolved over three years prior to its first publication in 2014 by Zed Books in London, UK. Joining in the big global collaboration the two editors from Bangladesh represent both academic excellence and first-hand working experience.

A leading researcher in development studies in Bangladesh, Sohela Nazneen is a professor of international relations at Dhaka University and a researcher at the BRAC Development Institute of BRAC University. Maheen Sultan is one of the founders of the Centre for Gender and Social Transformation at the BRAC Development Institute. Sultan is a development practitioner with over 25 years of experience in working with national and international NGOs and global organisations.

Apart from contributions from the editors, the book features essays by Ana Alice Alcantara Costa, coordinator of masters and PhD programs at the Federal University of Bahia; Gertrude Fester, professor at University of Kigali; Eileen Kuttab, tenured assistant professor at Birzeit University; Rabea Naciri, former faculty at University of Rabat and current executive director of DEMOS consulting; Alexandra Pittman, researcher on women’s rights and movement; Cecilia MB Sardenberg, faculty at Federal University of Bahia; Mariz Tadros, research fellow at the Institute of Development Studies; and Afiya Shehrbano Zia, independent feminist scholar.

The overarching theme of the book relates to fundamental questions such as: What is feminist voice? What strategies or organisational ways make feminist voice effective and legitimate? What are the challenges and constraints feminists face in exercising their voice?

This is a must read both for academics and professionals working in the gender development sector.

Gender Proshongey is a translation of Understanding Gender by Kamla Bhasin, an Indian feminist activist and author. Translated into Bengali by Fawzia Khondokar and Shah Newaz, the first Bengali edition was published in 2016 from Pragroshor Publication in Dhaka.

Kamla Bhasin, known for her decades-long activism, is the main woman behind Sangat, a South Asian feminist network. She is also the South Asia Coordinator of One Billion Rising. Since 1984, Sangat has developed the capacities of more than 650 women activists from South Asia and offered a greater understanding of concepts related to gender, justice, poverty, sustainable development, peace, democracy and human rights.

To ensure effective communication with readers, the book is designed in the QuestionAnswer format. The language of the book is flowing and easy to understand, which must have been the original intention of the writer and the translators. Clearly aimed at the general public, the book explains and elaborates on difficult academic notions and thoughts in a language that is easy to follow and digest.

The questions are about the fundamentals of gender identity. They slowly build up to address a myriad of related concepts and ideas. In the answer section, Bhasin very precisely addresses how gender identity is formed and how lower gender status for women is rather a culturally manufactured construct than a natural phenomenon.

Answering the question about how to translate the word “gender” in South Asian languages, as many of these do not have different words for “sex” and “gender,” Bhasin says the problem can be solved by referring to “sex” as the “natural gender” and referring to “gender” as “social gender.” She further adds that this may even be more meaningful as the expressions carry inherent definitions.

The questions naturally delve into philosophical considerations by examining relations between the sexes, and how different roles and codes are prescribed and enforced for men and women in matters of dressing, and family and social responsibilities etc.

Bhasin’s answers are always lucid and factual. The Bengali translation is done very nicely and precisely. The 94 page-book can be an effective preamble to a deeper understanding of more complex theoretical issues of gender. l

Saqib Sarker is a sub-editor at the Features Desk, Dhaka Tribune.

(Read at the SAARC Writers’ Conference, Delhi 2001)

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ARTS & LETTERS

Tribute AKM Zakaria:

A life in letters

The Italian who made Bangladesh his home

n Hasnin Hassan

n Arts & Letters Desk

On February 24, Abul Kalam Mohammad Zakaria’s first death anniversary was observed at Dhaka University Registrar Building. At the programme, Bangla Academy Director General Shamsuzzaman Khan and DU Vice Chancellor Professor AAMS Arefin Siddique, among others, discussed the unprecedented role Zakaria played in exploring the archaeological sites of Bangladesh.

Zakaria was a writer, historian, researcher, archaeologist and anthropologist.

He dedicated his whole life to digging out the true history of this land, through research, archaeological exploration and writing. He died at the age of 97 and almost every day of his adult life was spent either reading or writing about the history of this land. He was working on several books at the time of his death.

Born in 1918 in the village of Dariakandi , Brahmanbaria, Zakaria completed his graduation in English literature from Dhaka University. He began his career as a teacher at Government Azizul Haque College, Bogra. Two years later, he became a civil servant but his thirst for the archaeological treasures embedded in the soil of Bangladesh only increased. He searched for places of archeological importance wherever his responsibilities as a civil servant took him to. He helmed the project of excavating the Sintakote Bihar site from the 5th century in Dinajpur.

He was the first secretary of state for culture, education and sports that further fueled his interest in the cultural heritage of our country. As a result, he devoted himself in exposing the gems ingrained in ancient era. Throughout his term, he formed twenty one sports federation across the country. He aimed at enriching the sports sector and fostering new talents. He opined sports to be a crucial part of culture.

He served as the head of Bangladesh Asiatic Society, a composite body of experienced and fresh talents dedicated to preserve the Sultani, Mughal, Nawabi and British monuments in Dhaka. The Society members toiled hard to discover and figure out the meaning of ancient scriptures and translate them into Bangla. His energy and enthusiasm at work always served as a perennial source of inspiration for young people.

His contribution to the translation of Persian and Nath literature into Bengali is immense. He translated quite a few Persian literary masterpieces, including Tabaqat -i-Nasiri authored by Minhaz-e–Shiraz who had accompanied Bakhtiyar Khilji to Bengal hundreds of years ago. He edited and translated some of the most important pieces of Middle Age literature into Bengali. Gupi Chondrer Sonyas, Gazi Kalu o Chompaboti and Bangladesher Nritotyo are a few to be named. Till his last breath, he was devoted to the documentation and translation of ancient scriptures. He left a goldmine of historical and archaeological material to be explored by upcoming generations.

He won the Ekushey Padak in 2015 and the Bangla Academy Award in 2006.

He was also awarded with the Asiatic Society Man of the Year Gold Medal.

The speakers at the memorial programme duly noted that all his written works must be published and preserved because in them he not only analysed rare archaeological and anthropological artefacts but also established a scientific itinerary of the Bengalis’ progress from non-Aryan civilisations to the present era.l

The Xaverian priest who published at least 200 books on Christian saints and theology in Bengali died on January 18, 2017 “Words are fleeting, books remain“ was his motto in life.

With an endearing smile that came most naturally to him, the Xaverian priest was a missionary in Bangladesh for almost 40 years. He dedicated himself to producing Bengali-language Christian literature in Bangladesh since 1989. Till his death he published at least 200 books and booklets for priests, children, students, and general readers.

Born in the city of Valdagno, Italy in the year 1938, he received his secondary education from the missionary institute in Vicenza and a degree in classical studies (Italian, Latin and Greek) from Desio of Milan. Then he studied English in the city of London, UK. In 1970 he set out for what was then East Pakistan. After witnessing the devastation wrought by the cyclone on November 12, and the atrocities and the genocide campaign launched by Pakistan army, he interacted with common people and became fond of Bangladesh and its people. He shared his experience during the nine-month-long war in a few books that he wrote in Italian and published in Italy. He found a second home in the soil of this country.

In 1974, Father Garello returned to Italy for further studies at the Gregoriana University in Rome. He finished his studies with a thesis on teacher-disciple relationship in inter-religious context. On his return to Bangladesh in 1980, he served as the rector of the St Francis Xavier Minor Seminary in Khulna town and, at the same time, did pastoral work in the local parish church.

From 1989 to 1996, he was at the Xaverian House in Dhaka editing the Mongolbarta (Good News), a bimonthly in Bengali, and publishing Catholic books in Bengali. In 1996, Father Garello was away to Jerusalem for a year on a Bible Study sojourn. From 2002 onwards he based himself in Dhaka and dedicated himself solely to translating into Bengali Catholic religious and spiritual books and booklets on behalf of the National Social and Catechetical Social Training Centre of Jessore. He also helped significantly in coordinating and bringing out the Second Vatican Council Documents, Catechism of the Catholic Church and some papal encyclicals in Bengali.

Some of his most important books include Bangladesher Teen Bondhu (Three friends of Bangladesh), Christo Mondolir Itihashey Nari (Women in the Church History), Esiar Sadhu Sadhi ( Saints of Asia ), Mondolir Itihash Porichiti (Introduction to the Church History). His books were warmly welcomed by people of all religion.

In recent times, when communalism is threatening the most fundamental secular face of this country, his death came as a blow to people seeking out a common cultural ground for different faiths. What gives us hope is the fact that he will live on in his works which remind us that every faith -- whether Islam, Hinduism or Christianity -- should reach out to the people in their own language and that promoting Bengali can be the best way to carve the common ground which binds us together as a nation. l (In preparing this article, information culled from the websites of Bangladesh Canada and Beyond, and Asianews has been made use of )

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Event

New translations of Nazrul’s novels launched

Shakil and his poetic persona n Rifat Munim I never met Mahbubul Haq Shakil but he was ever familiar to me.

I used to hear stories about him from his younger brother, a senior ex-colleague who became a friend through our works in the central desk of an English-language daily. Our friendship grew because we both kept a low profile, and loved to get nostalgic about the books we had read while in school. I shared how I had grown up with Sheba and Prajapati books, and the Russian and the Bangla classics. It soon turned out he had almost a similar story to tell; his only difference was that he had an elder brother to share all his reading fun with. This was how Shakil’s name came up as a voracious reader and lover of literature, not as the prime minister’s special assistant. Shakil was a poet and short story writer too, one who wrote out of passion and spontaneity.

It came as a little bit of a shock when this part of Shakil’s identity was somewhat lost in the news items that followed his untimely death.

In this age when narcissism is a celebrated phenomenon on social networking sites, many questioned whether Shakil was really a poet or a writer. Yes, it is true he didn’t fulfil some conditions of being a poet, the most basic of which is apparently to jump on the self-promotion bandwagon on Facebook. Nor did he approach media like his fellow writers do because he was resisted by the feeling that gossip-mongers might think he was using his position to get rave reviews.

I received the first collection of his poems sometime in 2015 but there was no mention of his position. I was only requested to review it if I considered it worth my while. Now I regret not having reviewed it, because as I’m reading more and more of his poems, I’m finding his crafts truly engaging and appealing: They touch upon the emotions but they do so without clutching at the maudlin. The storyteller in his short stories would strike one much differently: Mature and having perfect control over the storyline.

The evaluation of Shakil’s political persona should be left to political analysts. Literary and cultural journalists, meanwhile, should shed some light on his contribution to bringing the state closer to the literary world, to making politicians realise that a country’s progressive politics cannot go forward without its poets, writers and artistes.

Shakil’s love for literature and his rare, articulate ability to engage people in lively conversations about everything from politics to history to poetry to life did pay off. After he died on December 6, 2016, Facebook saw an explosion of posts from his numerous friends and well-wishers who shared his poems, stories and many of their memories with him.

Shakil’s third book, Jole Khunji Dhatob Mudra, was launched posthumously on February 6 at Bangla Academy. I hope literature supplements will keep his memories alive through comprehensive evaluations of his life and works. l

n Arts & Letters Desk One would have expected a much bigger crowd at a programme that saw the launch of two of Kazi Nazrul Islam’s novels in English translation through a rich discussion at Dhaka Club on February 17.

Mrityukshudha, Islam’s most famous novel, has been translated by Niaz Zaman under the title, Love and Death in Krishnanagar, while Kuhelika has been translated jointly by Niaz Zaman and MA Quayum under the title, The Revolutionary. The books were published by Nymphea Publication, an enterprise which aims at promoting Bangladesh’s rich literary and cultural heritage.

For someone keen on the steady growth of the body of Bangla literature in English translation, the event was exciting for quite a few reasons.

To begin with, all of the discussants who made up the panel are themselves big writers and translators -- Syed Manzoorul Islam, Kaiser Haq, Fakrul Alam and Razia Sultana Khan. It is to the immense contribution of Islam, Haq and Alam that we owe a great deal of the significant progress we’ve made in the translation of Bangla literary classics. Hearing them speak on the occasion of another translation breakthrough was a real pleasure.

Khilkhil Kazi, Nazrul’s granddaughter, was chief guest at the programme.

Expressing her joy at the initiative, she said Nazrul “deserves to be a part of world literature” and “good translation of his work is the only way to introduce him to the world.”

Kazi Nazrul Islam is one of our biggest poets, song-lyricists and music composers. His achievement in prose is no less important. It is very unfortunate that he is one of the most poorly translated writers among his contemporaries. Thanks to the creative collaboration between Niaz Zaman and Karunangshu Barua, the proprietor of Nymphea, all three of Nazrul’s novels are now translated (the translation of Badhonhara came out in 2012).

His poems and songs and essays, which constitute some of his most important literary contributions to Bangla literature, now remain to be translated. It came as a refreshing bit of news when Niaz Zaman, during a short speech at the beginning of the programme, declared that works for translating all of Nazrul’s writing would soon be underway.

Terming Niaz Zaman one of Bangladesh’s finest translators, Fakrul Alam briefly talked about Nazrul’s prose fiction, focusing on Mrityukshudha. Razia Sultana Khan elaborated on the plot and characterisation of Kuhelika. Kaiser Haq began by congratulating Niaz Zaman for taking up this grand translation project. He reminded the audience that Zaman’s contribution to Bangladeshi English writing is multifarious: She is a fiction writer, a brilliant essayist, an excellent translator, and also, a publisher who has brought out some of the very important English titles of Bangladeshi writing. He then elaborated on how the neo-liberal face of today’s capitalism is thriving on communalism and widening the rich-poor gap, and how Nazrul addresses these issues in his novels as well as his poetry and songs. Syed Manzoorul Islam reflected on the character of Jahangir in Kuhelika and stressed that the philosophical debates in the novel, surrounding communalism and revolutionary ideals, are relevant to this day. He concluded by saying these new translations would serve as Nazrul’s gateway to an international audience. l

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ARTS & LETTERS

Painting exhibition

Beyond geographical boundaries n Takir Hossain Flame Arts, an art promotional organisation, arranged a group exhibition featuring the works of five Nepalese and twelve Bangladeshi artists. The fourday exhibition ended on February 18 at Zainul Gallery, Faculty of Fine Arts, University of Dhaka.

The vibrant colours were what made the artworks stand out. Most images had a very aesthetically pleasant look.

S M Ehsan

The Bangladeshi painters

Rashed Kamal Russell, founder and coordinator of Flame Arts who took the initiative to assemble the artists from the two countries, emerged as a painter in the 1990s. He is regarded as one of our most talented water-colour artists.

His works portray alluring nature, private life, riverine life and a panoramic view of rural Bangla. Arifur Rahman Topu, too, has a passion for meticulously

Jyoti Prakash

Takir Hossain

is a senior journalist who reports on arts and culture.

Arifur Rahman Topu

Bipana Maharjan

The Nepalese painters

Ajaya Deshar’s bold strokes and vibrant colours give a different dimension to his works. He assembles many things and there is a simplicity, romanticism and realism in his works. Kishor Nakarmi has tried to depict Buddha’s contemplative and spiritual image. His Buddha is meditating but varied, amorphous and scattered forms are seen in the background of his paintings, implying perhaps the worsening political situation in Nepal. Bipana Maharjan’s image is soulful and evocative. A Buddhist temple, painted mostly in red, is the focal point of one of her paintings. She is interested in the interplay of light and shadow, and she superbly merges blue and red. Jyoti Prakash is considered an abstract expressionist. His painting seeks to capture a cosmic world where we live with its balance shaken. Seetu Maskey paints tiny cottages on the green mountains.

Rashed Kamal Russell

portraying the riverine life and rural ambiance with vivacious shades. The medium’s (Oil) thickness offers him a liberty to give his imagination a free rein. Abdus Sattar Toufiq set out as a landscape painter but eventually has moved to surrealism. He frequently uses local motifs or elements in his paintings but his style and approach are very close to surrealism. Urmila Sukla superbly exposes fallen leaves on sheets of cloth. As an experimental painter, she concentrates on the use of simple materials and uneven textures.

Shibananada Adhikary Biplob, though he has a tendency to paint the seasonal cycle, his acrylic exhibits are more about a symbolic presentation of the political and social disorder. Some of his works evoke childhood dreams and memories. SM Ehsan’s etchings depict the relationship between humans and nature. Sanjib Kanti Das’s works can be considered as abstract expressionism where a skeleton figure depicts the harsh reality of the society.

Mingling uneven texture with bright hue, he makes his paintings vibrant as well as giving them a cerebral look.

The other Bangladeshi painters whose works were exhibited are Rania Alam, Mehedi Hasan and Vadreshu Rita.

The group exhibition provided the painters with an opportunity to exchange artistic ideas and celebrate diverse styles, themes, techniques and experiences. Such collaborative efforts bode really well for a healthy cultural scene in which artists of one country can find their kindred spirits in those of the other. l

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Books

New titles at Ekushey Book Fair 2017

Shreshtho Probondho Ahmed Sharif Publisher: Kathaprokash Price: TK 300

Duar Hote Dure (Autobiography)

By Hasan Azizul Haq Publisher: Ittadi

Bataser Boitha (Poetry)

By Kazi Rozi Publisher: Ittadi

Adivasi Jummo Jatir Bhabishyat

By Swagatam Chakma Publisher: Bateswar Barnan Price: TK 450 Page Number: 248

Nirantar Ghantadhoni

By Selina Hossain Publisher: Ittadi

Nirbachito Golpo

By Zakir Talukdar Publisher: Kobi Prokashoni Price: TK 450

Attoporichoy

By Binoy Majumder Publisher: Kobi Prokashoni Price: TK 100 Page Number: 48

Bagerhater Sangskritir Chalchitra Edited by Nazmul Ahsan Publisher: Srabon

Nirbachita Golpo Junaidul Haq Publisher: Pathak Samabesh Page Number: 141 Price: Tk 325

Dhushor Jibanananda

By Binoy Majumder Publisher: Kobi Prokashoni Price: TK 130 Page Number: 64

E Kon Bangladeshi Shomaj

By Ahmed Rafiq Publisher: Anindya Prokash Price: TK 400 Page Number: 216

Silent Noise Writer: Jackie Kabir Publisher: Shamabesh Price: TK 450 Page Number: 101

Kishor Shomogro

By Akhtaruzzaman Ilias Publisher: Mowla Brothers Price: TK 175 Page Number: 120

Mohammad Rafiq: Kobitar Otol Vashan

By Shuvashish Sinha Publisher: Oitijjhya Price: TK 180

Hajar Bochorer Bangla Kobita

By Asrukumar Shikdar Publisher: Kobi Prokashoni Price: TK 350 Page Number: 200

13 DHAKA TRIBUNE

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ARTS & LETTERS

Books

Monishar Mukhrekha (Prabandha)

By Pias Majid Publisher: Mawla Brothers Price: TK 250 Page Number: 144

Gendered Lives, Livelihood and Transformation: The Bangladesh Context Edited by Meghna Guhathakurta & Ayesha Banu Publisher: University Press Limited Price: BDT 760 Page Number: 198

Pouranik Bagdhara

By Nabeel Onusurjo Publisher: Abosar Prokashana Sangstha Price: TK 350 Page Number: 231

Who Even Cares Who Cares

By Rafee Shams Publisher: Bengal Publications Price: TK 500 Page Number: 136

Shunyotar Circle (Poetry)

By Badol Dhara Publisher: Zebracrossing Page Number: 70 Price: TK 120

Dugdugir Asor (Uponyas)

By Prasanta Mridha Publisher: Kothaprakash Price: TK 200

Ayna (Golpograntha)

By Faizul Alam Publisher: Pearl Publications Page Number: 154 Price: TK 250

Smritisattar Syed Haq

By Pias Majid Publisher: Anyoprakash Page Number: 110 Price: TK 225

Rokte Jege Othe (Muktijuddher Anchalik Itihash: Sirajganj)

By Imtiar Shamim Publisher: Samagra Prakashan

Srestho Prabandha

By Shamsuzzaman Khan Publisher: Anyoprakash

Battery Chalito Ichchha (Poetry)

By Zahid Sohag Publisher: Choto Kobita Price: TK 135

Akkhar Purush O Onyanyo Golpo (Golpograntha) Hamim Kamrul Haq Publisher: Granthakutir Page Number: 190 Price: TK 300

Abul Mansur Ahmed er Shrestho Golpo Edited by Dr Nurul Amin Publisher: Daily Star Books

1971

By Tarashankar Bandyopadhyay Publisher: Daily Star Books

Bigganer Rajjey: 9 Dozon Prashno

By Abdul Qayyum Publisher: University Press Limited Price: BDT 290 Page Number: 120

14 ARTS & LETTERS

DHAKA TRIBUNE

THURSDAY, MARCH 2, 2017

Shreshtho Probondho

By Hasan Azizul Haque Publisher: Kathaprakash Price: TK 300 Page Number: 320

Manob Podaboli

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Patachurna Ure Zabar Sathe Sathe

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Hater Taray Biswa Khele (Translation of The World In My Hands)

By Kazi Anis Ahmed Publisher: Kagoj Prakashan Price: TK 400

Kamalaksher Okal Bodhon (Golpograntha)

By Audity Falguni Publisher: Agamai Prakashan Price: TK 230 Page Number: 120

Samudragupta: The making of an Emperor

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Kazi Nazrul Islam: Jibon O Srijon

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Aphorisms of Humayun Azad Publisher: Agamee Prakashani Cover: Shibu Kumer Shill Price: TK 150

Gupichandrer Sonyas Written by Shukur Mahmood Edited by Abul Kalam Mohammad Zakaria Publisher: Ramon Publishers Page Number: 650 Price: TK 950

Letters of Blood, A Novel

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On My Birthday and Other Poems in Translation (poetry)

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15 DHAKA TRIBUNE

THURSDAY, MARCH 2, 2017

ARTS & LETTERS

Literary essay

On time You ran into adolescence with sneakers as bright as the future. You carved time out of your teens because your pockets were empty of money and responsibilities dates, months, birthdays. Waited for a bank balance that would allow you to fly. Waited for a girl with an incomplete face. Waited for a job, a promotion, an increment, a different cubicle, a bigger office. Waited for nine to nines to become nine to fives. Waited for the weekend. Waited for the postgrad. Waited for time to skip.

Occasionally, time did you a favour. The more you had it, the quicker it seemed to whiz by. Pushing, pushing, pushing, so hard that the tick-tocks could barely be heard, hunched over some desk in the middle of the night.

You occasionally went out for dinner and bumped into a one-night-stand that turned into so-many-nights that you had to pop the question.

Photo: Bigstock

n SN Rasul

SN Rasul is a Sub-Editor at Dhaka Tribune.

16

Remember when you had time?

You had so much of it that it blew your life up like a balloon, filling it up with empty spaces and overcrowded places. Your mornings, crammed with half-asleep journeys to school and half-remembered tests which you barely passed, tightened like a noose around your imagination. Choking on your dreams, you threw up education on to your notebooks, colouring it with the greys of what you were expected to become.

Your afternoons were deserts of hours, stretching out into the oasis of the evening, when the neighbourhood would come alive with the sound of friends you would remember only the nicknames of. You found yourself lying on your parents’ gigantic bed, watching the fan slice through the heavy air of a day indulging in pre-evening semi-slumber, restless, torn, impatient.

And then, when the evenings came, spring was in the air, and in your step. You huddled with your friends in the middle of a narrow street, the sun beating down on your careless back. You became borof and pani, you were the captain of the greatest cricketing team in the universe, your hair grew long like Ronaldinho’s, you were a blind bride groping around in the hot darkness.

Your voice swelled as the evening contracted. You wore a watch on your right hand even though you still couldn’t say 1:30 properly and barely noticed as the dial hand sped across the landscape of your childhood.

The neighbours complained that you were yelling too loud but you were a rebel with a cause, invincible. You ran and ran, painting sweat and spit across the jagged streets of a dead end blanketed with red construction dust, interrupted, finally, by the maghrib call for prayers.

You ran into adolescence with sneakers as bright as the future. You carved time out of your teens because your pockets were empty of money and responsibilities. Jangling coins in the loose palm of your hand, you sprinkled it across the well of your teens, wishing for freedom and a place of your own.

Time, the great beast, stood between you and adulthood. Ever defiant, you slashed at the multi-yeared hydra, one test at a time, one college application at a time. You poked at it with the sword of your dreams, cut off each year so that it lay at your feet.

You had so much time, remember? So much of it between you as you were and you as you wanted to be. Because it wouldn’t die. It resurrected with its wings spanning across the oceans, full of lovers and leavers. It shrunk when you were with them, expanded when they broke your heart.

And you waited. Waited at doorsteps, waited with flowers. Waited for

Before you knew it, you were pretending to be happy.

In-laws and children ruled your life. You went by a music store and wondered why you hadn’t picked up the guitar. You looked at your wife’s sleeping face and struggled to find the beauty inside the safety she provided. You were looking down the barrel of your thirties and you couldn’t quite figure out where all the time went.

You tucked your kids in to sleep. You goodnight-kissed your wife. You laid one of your parents to a permanently sweet unrest. You recalled all the little nuggets of time squeezed in between all the things you were too busy doing.

Where did the time go?

And your weekends? You only remember half-forgotten nights on rooftops with weed and alcohol and girls, trying to get laid but barely succeeding. Then it was dropping kids off, finding schools, maybe? Finding a house even? An apartment? Somewhere to, finally, rest?

You were out again. Drinking with old school friends. There was that girl you had that crush in high school maybe, sometimes maybe you called her the love of your life. Once in front of your wife or girlfriend and that didn’t go down too well. She looked the same but you not so much. You had all this money now, even though sometimes you felt like you were hemorrhaging in spirit and finances, but at least you could buy a pint of beer, afford a holiday abroad, could go all the way to Indonesia without even needing to plan.

It’s so much different when you talked to her that you hit it off. But then, she was with someone else, and now you’re with someone else, but you couldn’t help but almost feel like your destiny was within your reach, that, after all this time, this was exactly where you were supposed to be.

You guys all had to go back to your lives. Before she left, before she got on the rickshaw, you couldn’t help but smile at her and she couldn’t help but smile back, and your friend was saying, “Hey, bud, are you even listening?”

And you were blushing, you were 30-something and you were blushing.

You wanted to ask: why weren’t you here in time, darling? Where were you all those years? You went home, unable to forget her, and saw in her eyes, yourself, in your neighbourhood, in the feel of her skin you remembered pushing her down on the street during kana-machhi-bou-bou and when you heard her voice, you were reminded of the lazy afternoons in that suffocating, sleeping bedroom, staring at the ceiling, wishing time would shrink into a tiny balloon you could pop and the future would behold you.

And you looked into your future and saw the best, brightest version of yourself; you looked into your past, and you saw the best, brightest version of yourself there too.

You were biding your time, waiting for that perfect instance when every puzzle piece made up of the moments in your life would fall into place. You wept tears of anger and self-pity when your head struck the bicycle handle of the girl you grew to love and you were just biding your time for the right time.

Where did all the right times go? Remember, when you had so much time, and all of it was right? But you were too busy to notice. Too busy to just breathe in a moment, gurgle it in your mouth, let the taste linger. You were too busy just running running running until all you could do was run out of time. l

ARTS & LETTERS

DHAKA TRIBUNE

THURSDAY, MARCH 2, 2017