D H A KA T R I B U N E S U N DAY, M AY 5 , 2 0 1 3
OUTBOX
I
am pleased to be bringing out the Arts & Letters of the Dhaka Tribune. It is a rare chance for me personally to get back in the saddle, and an undeserved honor to serve its readers.
Acting Editor Zafar Sobhan Editor Arts & Letters Khademul Islam Assistant Editor Tamoha Siddiqui Artist Shazzad H Khan
The Trib is emphatically about change. Change that is also necessary and overdue in creative writing in English in Bangladesh. “Writing that is just…‘writing,’” to quote a line by James Wood, is no longer credible and persuasive. English creative writing, especially in its popular newspaper incarnations, is largely stuck in a time warp here. Too ‘writerly’, too much straining after literary effects, too much crap about moonlit, rainstreaked, lovelorn angst. The world has long moved on. Today ‘beauty’ raises a belly laugh, and ‘truth’ empties a room like a gangsta’. Literature with a strangling capital ‘L’ is now history, and a new thesis has been nailed to the mosque door. As in Vanessa Place’s poem ‘No More’: No more lines on the luminescence of light, of whatever variation. No more elegies of youth or age, no polyglottal ventriloquism. No more songs of raw emotion, forever overcooked. No more the wisdom of banality, which should stay overlooked. No more verbs of embroidery. No more unintentional phallacy. No more metaphor, no more simile. Let the thing be, concretely. It is time to clear the tables in Bangladesh too. That is what Arts & Letters will attempt to do – fly higher, bowl a jaffa or two. In pursuit of which – ushering in the new deconstructive idiom – sometimes we may go into a tailspin or overstep the line. We beg your indulgence in advance. To not do so is not an option at the Tribune. It is in this spirit that we also cast aside the tired ‘literature’ broadsheet page format. Why not, we thought, a monthly issue with writing on the arts too, on movies, drama, dance, gallery shows, etc with plenty of room for future expansion. The beginning step is what you hold in your hands right now. Do let us know what you think at editor.lit@dhakatribune.com. Concretely, please! The Editor
Poetry Kabaddi with Death
Kaiser Haq – poet, essayist, translator, professor of English (Dhaka University/ ULAB) – is the author of Published in the Streets of Dhaka: Collected Poems (UPL).
2
They’ve got him… No, he’s got away… The chase is on again… There’s desperation in those gentle eyes… It could be a game of kabaddi Such as young men might play If cricket things aren’t handy On a holiday or hartal day— But for the sinister grey curves of metal Like cobras rearing for the kill Nodding, hissing, striking… When he’s down Do we gasp, sigh or just abandon The damaged body on the road Like everyone else Or when a man in lungi picks him up And sits him on his rickshaw and sets off— No question of a fare here— Do we trot out a tired cliché Like “Angel of Mercy” And when other “human interest” details come— That he was a cricket-loving tailor Who had stayed up cheering Bangladesh And was on his way to open shop Defying the strike call Just like the strike-busters who set upon him Do we come up with a pukka cliché – “It’s not cricket” And when we hear that in hospital He could barely give out his name Which means “world conqueror” — Irony no rhetor would relish— Before those eyes glazed over for good And lies from high places rain down like confetti To swaddle his body on cremation ground Do we just lapse into pathetic silence What happens to the ash From burnt young flesh Disinfected of politics
Kaiser Haq
Is it not in the air we breathe
i.m. Bishwajit Das (d.9/12/2012)
Does it bring any elusive missive From beyond funeral pyres
Is this another face we will forget Another face joining millions of faces To make an identikit of Everyman As victim, History’s stooge, elided Into anonymity in statistical footnotes
Can it be other than a curse
A face we know too well to remark upon Consumed in print, on TV, online— The bitter pill of everyday horrors Swallowed between a flirtatious phrase and a joke A face whether young, old, bloated or shriveled In battle or famine zone or camp for the displaced All stamped with the same dark look Of hapless incomprehension, a face that haunts you If only in the helpless lines of a poem We were the camera closing in Between the “late coffee and oranges” —in A manner of speaking—on a young man With gentle eyes, in good health, Lithe of figure, dodging other young men Intent on cornering him
But those eyes Such gentle eyes We imagine Can only beam A blessing And if Let us say That is the case Could we ever raise ourselves Painfully Bit by bit Till we deserved it But we can spare ourselves the embarrassment Of pondering the question: it’ll soon Be time for a commercial break—only don’t Be sure Breaking News won’t Come creeping across the bottom of the screen Hauling fresh horrors into the living room
ARTS & LETTERS
D H A K A T R I B U N E S U N DAY, M AY 5 , 2 0 1 3
Non fiction
An Afternoon With Shakti Chattopadhyay
M
y work in Kolkata was almost at an end. In between I had also finished checking the documents at the Victoria Memorial and Asiatic Society. Now it was time to return. All I had to do was go to the office of the Indian Airlines and post the date on my return ticket. On one such afternoon, I came out of Calcutta University and stood at the intersection of College Street and Mahatma Gandhi Road, looking for a taxi, and chasing after any empty ones that happened to go by. On spotting an empty taxi, no sooner had I grabbed the handle on the left door and was about to open it when somebody else opened the door from the other side, jumped in, and immediately said to me, “Get in.” I stared at him in total surprise – it was Shakti Chattopadhyay! We knew each other slightly; who knew if he had recognized me and therefore entreated me to join him. When he invited me in a second time, I lost no time in getting into the taxi. The taxi kept going along College Street. At Shakti Chattopadhyay’s feet there was something wrapped in a newspaper. The moment the taxi left the university area, he grabbed it and lifting it to his mouth said, “If the boys and girls see me riding by in a taxi drinking away, what will they say, so I thought it best to wait a little.” Then he took a long swig and asked, “Where are you going?” I answered, “Indian Airlines – you can drop me off at the corner.” Shakti said, “That will not do at all. I’ll go with you there.” Then he pointed at the bottle and said, “But this has to be finished before that.” Another swig and then the question, “Why are you going there?” I said, “I have to endorse the return dates on my ticket.” “Oh, that’s nothing at all,” Shakti said, returning to his previous act. The taxi reached the Indian Airlines office. Shakti tried in vain to make the taxi driver wait and in vain I tried to pay the taxi fare. I had planned to go to the ticket counter on the ground floor. Shakti instead took me up to the first floor, to Kalyan Majumdar, the public relations manager. He introduced me to Kalyan, saying, “He is a renowned professor of Bangladesh. So, give us some coffee and help him with what needs to be done.” After the ticket was endorsed, I thanked Kalyan Majumdar and we went down the stairs. Shakti asked me where I was headed next. I gave him the address of the guesthouse I was staying at. He said, “You can go there later. Come with me now. And please—I don’t like all this formal ‘Apni’ business with you. You address me as ‘Tumi’ and I’ll address you as ‘Tumi’ as well.” The taxi stopped in front of a restaurant-cum-bar at Chittaranjan Avenue. It was closed. We got out of the taxi. Soon, after some clamoring, the restaurant’s doors were made to open. Shakti now occupied a table on the ground floor and ordered drinks, adding to the waiter, “And, dear fellow, don’t forget to bring some snacks with it!” The waiter said, “Sir, today is the ‘dry day’.” Shakti, in a reproachful tone, replied, “Ah! I’ve brought my Bangladeshi friend here to buy him a drink. Are you going to humiliate me in front of him like this?” The waiter replied, “What can I do, sir? The manager is not here either—”. Shakti said, “Call your manager up.” I tried to stop him but in vain. Shakti said on phone, “I’ve an esteemed guest from Bangladesh with me – I don’t want to listen to your ‘dry-day’ rubbish – don’t you care for my honour!” The telephone receiv-
D H A K A T R I B U N E S U N DAY, M AY 5 , 2 0 1 3
ARTS & LETTERS
Dr Anisuzzaman
Translated from Bangla by Sabreena Ahmed
er went to the waiter. We could hear him say, “Yes, sir; yes, sir,” Then he took us to a room with the name plate ‘Private Office’ on the door. The waiter then hastened out to bring the provisions. I said to Shakti, “It’s far too early for me.” He replied, “Aray, how can there be any early or late hour for drinks!” He leaned back comfortably on one of the twin chairs; it was only now that he seemed to unwind and relax. He said, “I like poet Al-Mahmud’s poems a lot. I like them more than Shamsur Rahman’s poems.” After spending some time there we came out. There was a fair going on somewhere on the Maidan. Shakti was supposed to be there. But when I wanted to take his leave, Shakti said, “Why are you acting like this? Are you that bored with my company?” I replied hurriedly, “No, no, it’s not that. It seems you have some work to do here, and I need to head back as well.” He said, “We’ll go there and then I’ll drop you off before going home.”
There were innumerable boys and girls at the fair who pressed eagerly to get close to Shakti. Though he did not have any formal event to attend at the fair, yet it seemed as if he had asked around twenty to twenty-five people to come and meet him there. He introduced me to all of them in an elaborately courteous way, but they were far more interested in Shakti Chattopadhyay. Though a few of them politely talked with me, yet it was eminently clear that it was Shakti Chattopadhyay who was the center of their attention. I enjoyed looking at them—people expressing such selfless love for a poet! They recited Shakti’s poems; they wanted to talk about them. Shakti said, “I write only verses—it is Sunil who is the real poet. If you read his poems seriously, there’s a lot you will get out of them.” From time to time I would drop hints to Shakti to get a move on, but not with much urgency. He said, “Once we get out of here, can we sit somewhere for a while?” Now I became alarmed. I said, “If that is your intention, I am afraid you will have to go by yourself…”
Dr Anisuzzaman is Professor Emeritus, Department of Bengali, Dhaka University. Sabreena Ahmed teaches English at BRAC University.
This article was published in Bengal Lights, Spring 2013 issue – see review on p. 4. Shakti Chattopadhyay (1933-1995) was one of West Bengal’s leading poets.
After coming out of the fair, we took a taxi. Shakti had changed his mind by then. He said, “Would it be a trouble for you to drop me off first and then return to the guesthouse?” I agreed to do that. Shakti said, “My wife is a sweetheart. I give her a lot of heartache.” Then he was silent for some time.
3
MacK the Knife Jane and me are tight
Events between Mack and the editor did not transpire as written here. Mack is the ultimate unreliable narrator, which in A&L may have its advantages. - Ed
It came out of the blue, this column gig. A bit like being on a bus. One moment you’re in a window seat out of the sardine crush, next minute your seat’s on hartal cocktail fire! Then it’s Lady Macbeth time: Out, damned arse, out the door I say… That’s how I felt when the editor unrolled the idea. Except I couldn’t bail. See, we is chums from a long way back, the ed and I, back from when I was at American Uni Washington DC. Yeah, the Chum and me! So there I was in my lungi and vest reading when Chum dropped by. “Yo, homey, how’s it hangin’?” I said by way of good cheer. “Twelve o’clock, two o’clock?” “Listen,” Chum replied. “There’s a new paper coming out – the Dhaka Tribune. I am the lit ed. I want you to write a column for me.” “I want some, too.” “What?” “Whatever you are smoking and drinking. I want some, too.” “Seriously, you listening?” “Yeah. Why me all of a sudden?” “Because I don’t want the usual stuff. Plus you read.” “So? Just cuz I read don’t… doesn’t mean shit. Besides I fucking hate writers.” “Whaaaat?” Chum lost his grin. He sat down, but only after closely inspecting the sofa. Okay, so maybe bits of last night’s dinner could have been there. Get off my case, man. I am divorced and I live alone, okay? And I am trying to lose weight, which is disorienting. So maybe the old apartment can sometimes get a little yeasty. But that’s only, ahem!, symptomatic of the LNP (Larger National Problem), which is that household cleaning help ain’t worth diddlysquat nowadays, the whole work ethic in the country is fuckall shot to hell – unions and NGOs, ruined it all! And don’t even bloody get me started on civil society…maybe more later. “Writers!” I snort. “Such insights into the human condition. And such lousy human beings. Hate the bastards. There’s this ‘senior writer’ I know…” “Stop it. Who’s asking you to write about writers? Write about their
Review A laudable step Bengal Lights Autumn 2012 and Spring 2013 Issues Publisher: K Anis Ahmed, University of Liberal Arts (ULAB), Bangladesh
Rudra Ghosh is in IT. By choice
4
Bengal Lights is a literary journal whose Autumn 2012 issue debuted last November at the Hay Festival in Dhaka. The second issue, Spring 2013, came out in sync with the 2013 Ekushey Boi Mela. For a literary journal being published out of Dhaka, both issues have a lot of bandwidth at 240 and 232 pages respectively. The publication, according to its website (www.bengallights.com), is one that, while focusing and encouraging Bangladeshi writers and writing in English, does not want to be confined to it. It proclaimed that, “(Bangladeshi) writing, distinct as it is, must nonetheless be on the same page as that of works from other countries in the region and exist within a common framework.” In the first volume there were writers from not only Bangladesh, India, Nepal and Pakistan but also from UK and the USA. In the second volume, this expands to include an Uighur poet, and writings from Malaysia, Myanmar and Sri Lanka. The first issue of the journal was acknowledged by all to be an impressive debut. What is super attractive about the second volume is the special translation section, since “an ‘Ekushey edition’” must be mindful of the fact that “our different languages ought not to divide us, but bring
books. Write about the Hay festival.” “Didn’t go to the Hay.” “Why not?” “Hate bottled water.” Chum looked defeated. Then a little bulb switched on above my noggin – maybe this wouldn’t be such a dead end after all. So I coughed out a “This column. What’s the shit got to be about?” “Books. Writing. That sort of thing.” “Okay,” I said, feigning reluctance. “I’ll do it.” But I was dissembling, of course. Like Hamlet throwing that chickenshit Polonius off the trail. What I would do was pretend to write about books and writers, but get going on real topics, things that really matter to people. I live in Dhaka, I need to get things off my chest. Like, for example, what is up with that BBC Hard Talk bullshit… anyway, more later. At this point Chum looked at the book I had been reading. “What’s this?” It was Emma. “Jane Austen? You? Reading Jane?” Chum looked like he had been hit on the head with the Collected Works of Screw Your Sir Title Rabindranath Ahem! Tagore. Chum’s incredulous tone sealed the deal for me. I mean, come on! So maybe I don’t look the Austen type: long-nosed, upper-class twit – I am fat, balding, and I cuss – but that don’t… doesn’t mean I don’t get Jane’s Regency BLTs. Jane and me are tight. See, Isabella, who is Emma’s sister, deep into the story complains that nobody understands how gruel should be, “smooth, thin, but not too thin.” To me, though, she’s not talking about English oatmeal in hot water, she’s really talking about daal. Old Izzy is a Bong woman, and she wants her daal just so. I get it. In fact, I can go better: Pride and Prejudice is actually an allegory about the evils of arranged marriage among the zamindars of Bengal, and Jane was in truth a marxist lashkar woman who jumped ship to deep-six in Bangla Town… okay, more later. Chum stared at me for a long time after I fed him this. Then said, “You know, you just might be right for what I want in this column.” “On two conditions, chief.” “Eh?” “Mack the Knife, that’s who I am. Always wanted to be Mack. And I write anyway I please. No censoring.” “Done.” And so, ladies and lads, here I am. If this gets published as I wrote it, tune in next month. Ciao!
about unity and amity.” The general level of the translations are of a high standard (see reprint on p.3). The pieces by Sabyn Javed-Jillani and Abeer Hoque, written originally in English, are outstanding. As is the enjoyable graphic work by Matt Leibel – that is also a first for a Bangladeshi English publication. Shishir Bhattacharya’s artwork hopefully through this journal will receive due exposure abroad. The production values of Bengal Lights are very high. The journal has re-set the bar for such publications from Bangladesh. One has to thank ULAB for funding this worthwhile project. The journal is on sale at various Dhaka bookstores. Rudra Ghosh
ARTS & LETTERS
D H A K A T R I B U N E S U N DAY, M AY 5 , 2 0 1 3
Guest Critic’s Corner Mullah Omar on ‘Argo’
A
ssalamu Alaikum to my brothers and sisters in Bangladesh. It may come as a surprise that I assented to say something on a film made in the land of The Great Satan, but I am persuaded by the argument that one should know one’s enemy. We have a Pashtun saying: Know well who you bugger today, for tomorrow he may return the favour. Today propaganda is a more powerful weapon than Stingers. I have fought many a trooper of The Great Satan but I have not studied their mind much. This was a chance. Also I have some time to kill before the start of our Spring Offensive. Many of you may be unbelieving that I am possessed of a DVD player, but contrary to popular belief I am not living in a Tora Bora cave. I am housed in a comfortable guesthouse courtesy of the ISI not very far from…what? Oh, I take it back! My stenographer Mullah Zaeef, who is taking down my dictation, and Mullah John, the latest American recruit to the Taliban and English translator, cried out in horror. Apparently our cover story… what? Oh, I misspoke! I am in a deep cave where the DVD came with a solar-powered player. The movie is all lies. Zionist imperialist lies. Nothing of this sort happened, though the film makes claims to the contrary. However, there are enjoyable moments: I am particularly fond of the scene where the lights go out in the Great Satan’s embassy. That had us three clutching our sides
Protest art Shahbagh Tibetan exiles in Dharamsala, India last year spread 20 tons of Tibetan earth on a basketball court as monks chanted. It was Art protesting the Chinese occupation of Tibetan land. Palestinian Resistance has its own art, on display last year at a protest festival held in Qalandiya, an intersection of three dominant currents of the Israeli occupation of the West Bank: a massive concrete wall, a border crossing and Israeli checkpost, and a refugee slum. Occupy Wall Street had its own art springing from the slogan, ‘The Revolution Will Not Be Privatized’. So too Shahbagh’s paintings. It is art that is immediate and rooted in public discourse, is not confined to a museum, or framed by the Art Establishment. It exists exhilaratingly in open air, charges no money, plays games of chance with the elements. Artist/s are individually unknown, which lends it its communal, collective propulsive force. Its purpose is didactic, provocative and in the service of a cause. Its lines therefore are bold and direct, without ambiguity, its colors vivid in order to underline the social and political message. It occupies symbolic public spheres, physically and psychically. It is pure adrenaline. Yet at Shahbagh the drawings were also highly stylized, with their own conventions. The artists were caffeined students of the art institute, products of a longstanding political protest culture, familiar with the old tropes of horns, teeth, beards and reds and blacks, gristled backs, murderous eyes, hauling to the surface old monsters of the deep sheltered beneath the green banners blazoned with Moorish crescent moons. They fade away, the paintings, under the combined assault of air, water and dirt. But the brushes and the fingers are always there, ready to paint again, ready to join the fray, to cover walls with their silent shouts.
Professional reviewers can burn out, turn stale. So we will occasionally invite person/s outside of the usual reviewing frame to give his/her opinion on a movie, book, art show, etc. Arts & Letters proudly presents its first guest contributor. It was a bitch to get to MO, but we have our ways.
Photos: Aminul Rajiv
Art
and rolling on the floor! The Satan’s women in the movie were disappointing. Not one scored more than 2 on my personal Houri Scale of 1 to 10. I admit that the Great Satan’s film possessed high production quality. Some of you might be aware that we post videos – beheadings and blowing up Bamian idols, etc. – online. I have long been disappointed in their quality: poor lighting, jumpbacks, grainy and jerky. We need to improve them – recruitment is down! After seeing the film I see that our joint venture video division AQ-T LopHeads, Inc. needs some advanced training. We also slow-mo’ed the credits. There were quite a few Muslim names. The names have been entered into our Black Book. They have become Persons of Interest to us. We assure them of a warm greeting if they decide to visit this part of the world. I wish to take this opportunity to clear up a widespread misconception. I state once and for all that Osama (May the Lord of All Time grant him a place in Paradise) was not a Liverpool fan. He was always an Arsenal man. I myself lean towards Man City since they are owned by Muslims. I hope that is the last I hear about this lie. Now you have to excuse me. I have to go check out the new anti-drone clothing being developed in the UK (http://ahprojects.com/projects/ stealth-wear). They want to market a Mullah Omar line of shalwar kameez – eyepatch optional – with the same technology. Some Infidels I can do business with. Da khoday pa aman!
Simi Rahman studies art in London.
Simi Rahman
5 D H A K A T R I B U N E S U N DAY, M AY 5 , 2 0 1 3
ARTS & LETTERS
Letter from America Mahmud Rahman
the prior chapter. As the novel builds toward revelation, we learn who committed the murder and discover Amedeo’s identity. The book probes Amedeo’s identity through both his wails and his reflection in others’ eyes. Readers are challenged on who and what is Italian in today’s world. The book is a commentary on immigration and multicultural Rome. It’s also about a man who’s burned his memories, a meditation on how one deals with loss while making a new life. In the background lies the Algerian civil war of the 90s that forced the author to move to Italy. He puts it this way: “I was sick and tired of waiting for my murderers.” The book has been made into a film. I’m not sure Iqbal made it into the film. He wasn’t central to the plot. The story would fit well in any of the world’s immigrant destination cities. As an imaginative exercise I try to adapt the setting to Dhaka. Dhaka has apartment buildings – with elevators. There’s a start.
T
Detour to Rome
A Mahmud Rahman is the author of Killing the Water and Black Ice.
few years back I made several road trips across the United States. One afternoon I was leaving a small town in Massachusetts when I stopped at a roadside store. It was run by a Bangali couple who had come on lottery visas. Not finding work elsewhere, they had agreed to manage this store owned by another Bangali. They looked miserable. Now and then, I hear of Bangladeshis in remote places. In Mali, on the edge of the Sahara. In the Amazon, waiting to cross a border. Meanwhile in countries like the U.S. and even in Japan and Italy, there are now settled communities. Bangladeshis abroad are also showing up as fictional characters – not just in narratives created by our own émigrés but by outsiders too. In some, they are major characters, as in the Korean film Bandhobi, Zadie Smith’s novel White Teeth, or Nell Freudenberger’s The Newlyweds. Recently I was transported to Rome in a novel originally written in Italian by an immigrant from Algeria. Amara Lakhous’s Clash of Civilizations Over an Elevator in Piazza Vittorio has a cover with six hand-drawn characters. They include Iqbal Amar Allah from Bangladesh. I’m not sure why
Recently I was transported to Rome in a novel originally written in Italian by an immigrant from Algeria. Amara Lakhous’s Clash of Civilizations Over an Elevator in Piazza Vittorio has a cover with six hand-drawn characters. They include Iqbal Amar Allah from Bangladesh.
6
Lakhous spelled his name this way; we’d know him as Iqbal Amirullah. The novel is set among residents of an apartment building in Rome’s Piazza Vittorio, the same plaza featured in De Sica’s film Bicycle Thieves. Other characters work nearby: Iqbal runs a grocery store, Sandro operates a bar, and Abdallah sells fish. The plot revolves around a man found murdered in the elevator and the disappearance of Amedeo who becomes the prime suspect. The story is told in the voices of the different people, alternating with notes from Amedeo – ‘wails’, he calls them – where he comments on
he concierge Benedetta from Naples could be replaced by a caretaker. Unlikely to be a woman, so a man from Noakhali? The other longtime Italians could be matched with Bangladeshis of varied backgrounds. Marini, the snobbish professor from Milan, could easily be played by a retired ambassador. Maria Cristina, the Peruvian caretaker of an elderly resident, could become a nurse from Kolkata. Johan Van Marten, the Dutch film student, could play himself. Iqbal could also play himself; tired of being called a Pakistani by Benedetta or having his Muslimness questioned by Abdallah, he returns from Italy to open a pizza joint. What about Amedeo? Where do we find a refugee with tragedy trailing him, a man who learns to speak Bangla better than many Bangalis, who is helpful to everyone, someone who neighbors think is one of them? Bangladesh is not hospitable to refugees, as we’ve seen with Rohingyas. We’ll have to stretch our story. A second-generation returnee maybe? This being Dhaka, we’d have to add an army of servants and guards. And when there’s a murder, you can bet that suspicion will fall not on a resident but servants or darwans. Told in today’s Dhaka, the story might become less about migration and identity and more about class divisions and lack of trust among ourselves. The elevator could continue to play a central role. Don’t we have elevators barred to servants? Couldn’t Marini fit well here as described by Amedeo: “He never stops repeating that the elevator is civilization and that the fundamental difference between the civilized and the barbarians, lies, first of all, in safeguarding the elevator”? If you get a chance, read Lakhous. He’s also funny. I’ll be looking for another of his books: Divorce Islamic Style.
The Line - 8 People 8 Stories: Submissions Wanted Two Bangladeshi writers, Sharbari Ahmed and Ikhtesad Ahmed, are partnering with Target Theatre, an innovative drama company in the UK, on a project called ‘The Line’. The project has drawn the interest of the Royal Theatre. Submissions are invited from Bangladeshi writers centering on short stories about waiting in the visa line – the setting – outside the American embassy in Dhaka, Bangladesh. The line is the physical or metaphorical setting that can reveal a human condition dictated both by despair and hope. Both Sharbari and Ikhtesad will develop selected stories into a script for a play, assisted every step of the way by the creative team at Target. An anthology will also be published. The last date for submissions is 15th May 2013. For more information about submitting to The Line, please send an e-mail to theline.play.bd@gmail.com or follow them on twitter (@TheLinePlay, www.twitter.com/thelineplay) and on Facebook (https://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Line-ThePlay/435018366583511?ref=hl).
ARTS & LETTERS
D H A K A T R I B U N E S U N DAY, M AY 5 , 2 0 1 3
Anti-travel
Encounters Hastings at the Dhaka Hay Khademul Islam
Sick of all those fantasy travel pieces, those licit confections of liquid sunsets and swaying palm trees? We are. Time to talk ‘bout real life. Time for stories about losing a leg or getting stomach-washed in a foreign city, getting ripped off by cabbie mafias, getting deep-fried by the hotel hair dryer. A punch up with a street vendor? A human finger in your food? Slipping and breaking your nose in an ancient temple with bells chiming in the east wind? The worse the better. Send us your worst travel/tour experiences. Mail it to editor.lit@dhakatribune. com.
Cox’s Bazar ‘76: Crappin’ on the beach David D’Costa
I
n late 1976, before we immigrated to Canada, my three cousins, Eddie, Ricky, Leslie and I decided to have some last fun. Dhaka was a grim place after the coup-murder-jail-killings of 1975, so we decided to get out of town and go to Cox’s Bazar. Or Hiram’s Bazar, as my dad called it, after Hiram Cox, who it is named after. We took an old army-issue tent to camp out on the beach. In those days buses were horrible, broken-down vehicles, but we were so stoned we survived the trip. Cox’s Bazar then was a deserted town, with nobody on the beach. We got a room at the Parjatan motel so that we could use the bathroom for number two. The tent was too complicated to put up, so we stuck a center pole in the middle and it worked for us. We were stoned the whole time; it was happy times. There were a couple of rum bottles my father had ‘donated’ and that helped. The first night we were lying looking at the stars when we suddenly realized that the tent was on fire. Somebody got careless with a joint. There was quite a to-do as we pulled the flaming tarpaulin into the sea and doused the flames. The locals gathered and watched, but soon drifted away. Eddie had very long hair which got badly singed and smelled terrible for a few days. Our dope stash got wet in the fire-fighting effort, and so we took it back to the motel to dry it out. The wind blew some of it away on the verandah and in trying to save it Ricky nearly fell off the balcony. Nights were gorgeous on the beach. We would crash out the whole night on the burnt tent, by the sea. Leslie, who had a fine voice, sang his heart out. We ate at the motel but we didn’t need much food. Nobody disturbed us. The day before we were to leave, we went for dinner at a roadside shack. I remember we had rice, lentils and shutki (dried fish), and chicken. After we got back to the beach very soon all of us began to feel sick. Within the next hour, we were vomiting and had severe diarrhea. It was a silvery moonlit night, but we had no time to appreciate that since we just sat at the edge of the water and let loose into the sea. There just was no way we could run back and forth between the motel and the beach. In fact, sick as we were, it felt better that night to just be naked and sit like slum children bums out at the edge of the sea and just crap away! It was the worse night of my life. The next morning we dragged our severely dehydrated, stinky bodies, with vomit smell in our mouths, back to the motel, where a doctor came and hooked us all up to improvised saline lines. That day we spent a lot of time queuing up for the toilet. The afternoon of the day after we staggered to the bus stand for a nightmarish journey back home. We definitely were not lighting up on the trip back to Dhaka. Today in Toronto, Ricky and I laugh when we talk about it. I have never touched shutki again, but Hiram’s beach I wouldn’t mind seeing again. David D’Costa is a retired engineer in Toronto, Canada.
D H A K A T R I B U N E S U N DAY, M AY 5 , 2 0 1 3
ARTS & LETTERS
I
had an encounter with Dr Shamsuzzaman Khan, the present Director-General of Bangla Academy, way before I actually met him. It happened back when I opened his edited Folklore of Bangladesh (1987). In the very first para of the Preface, were the words, “… the historical root of the folkloric investigation in (Bengal)…” was in “a letter written” by Dr Samuel Johnson to Warren Hastings, the first Governor General of British India. I was astonished. Was Dr Johnson the godfather of folklore study in India? I opened my Boswell, and yes, there was the letter. But how in the world had a dozen sentences by Dr Johnson kick-started folklore in Bengal? It led me on a chase, which eventually led me to the memoirs of Warren Hastings (that conflicted liberal and empire builder), and the life and times of Ernest Jones, the founder of the Asiatic Society. These two men laid the foundations of historical research and intellectual life in Bengal and India, yet they are hardly remembered now. Except I guess by our folklorists. It was at the 2007 SAARC folklore conference in Delhi that I actually met Dr Shamsuzzaman Khan. An unassuming, soft-spoken academic who seems to the folklorist’s life born. Yet, as this warm-hearted festchrift informs me, Dr Khan came to folklore by accident. In 1981, having incurred the displeasure of the-then Zia regime, he was ‘demoted’ from the Cultural department of the Bangla Academy to its Folklore department. However, in the words of Dr Firoz Mahmud the editor, this “actually came as a blessing to him”… since Dr Khan “discovered the richness of folklore in Bangladesh.” It is a richness that he has tirelessly promoted over a long professional life, by bringing modern methods to folklore study and research in Bangladesh, by writing on the subject at both the academic and popular levels, and by tirelessly organizing seminars, conferences and workshops that connected Bangladeshi folklorists as never before with the global folklore circuit. This volume is a vivid testament to his deep and abiding commitment to Bangladesh folklore, where a number of the essays are of a high order by distinguished writers. Last November the Hay Festival was held in Dhaka. Dr Shamsuzzaman Khan, ever the forward-thinker, generously allowed the grounds of the Bangla Academy to be used for the three-day mela of writers, books, readings, dances, music and discussions. Those of us who write in English in Bangladesh are particularly appreciative of this act. And, looking down from above at the Hay, so too must have been Warren Hastings – he who wrote “Every accumulation of knowledge… attracts and conciliates distant affections.” (To order your copy, visit UPL website: www.uplbooks.com)
Khademul Islam is editor, Arts & Letters.
7
This is the first instalment of what is a first for Dhaka, the serialized story written in English. While Awrup S gave us the opening lines, we aim to bring in other writers too. We will also be asking for readers’ installments to Samira’s story – we will hold a contest to choose them. Sam is in for a ride. – Editor.
Awrup Sanyal is an ex-advertising professional and a fiction writer
Serialized Story
Samira - Part 1 Coming Home Awrup Sanyal
A
few years back I made several road trips across the United States. “It’s time, Sam!” Brian’s voice cut into her reverie. Samira stood by the window of her loft apartment overlooking the still empty neighborhood street in Red Hook, Brooklyn. This was it—her very last day in America. Six years of undergrad and master’s in Econ and Business; then Craigslist-ing and two weeks of hectic campus interviews at UNC Greensboro; finally, a management trainee position for six months at a Madison Avenue advertising agency seemed to go up in wisps of blue smoke under New York’s clean blue skies, in a doleful denouement. She looked around the empty room, stripped clean, and ready to nest someone else’s dreams.
n
A month back when her phone had buzzed on her bedside table at 3 a.m. she had ignored it and turned on her side, but the noise had bored through her sleep. Annoyed, she had picked up the handset: “Hello…” Her mother’s voice interrupted her in midsentence, “Samira, you have come back to Dhaka. I am afraid your father…” When the conversation ended the golden dawn was peeking through
the cracks in the dark sky. The dolor in her mother’s voice was heartbreaking. Life seemed to have taken an unexpected turn. The thought of her father, the rush of memories about him, the impending loss, made her curl up in a fetal position. Her tears wet the pillow. Through her neural highway crisscrossed a million thoughts: what would happen to Brian and her? Would she able to make it in Dhaka? And what if Baba… she couldn’t bear to think anymore. Her body convulsed as she silently cried herself back to sleep. Later that morning, at Starbucks, she put on a brave face with Brian. Though her world felt as if it was crumbling like the cookie that she was crushing to dust, she forced a smile on her face. Her hazelnut latte was untouched. “Come with me to Dhaka?” “Sam, what will I ever do there? And my research? I have to go to Austin and finish my post doc. I won’t get a better mentor. Please understand. Convince your parents. Stay.” “There must be a way out, Brian. I have to go back. My parents are all I have, and my father…” Samira trailed off. Brian took her hand in his, “Take a deep breath, Sam. Things will work out. You have always come out a winner. Take care of them and then come back and stay with me at Austin.” Samira was silent for a long minute. Then she said, “That’s not happening anymore, Brian. Things have changed, my future is going to be in Dhaka. I have to be there. I want to be there.” “Baby, but we are meant for each other…” “If we are then love will find a way, anywhere we go. Maybe this won’t be the end of things. Come to Dhaka, stay a while, see what it’s like, and come back when your session starts. We’ll visit each other, go on vacations during your breaks. Once you are done, you can start something in Dhaka.” She managed a brittle smile, “Haven’t you heard? Asia is where it’s all happening!” “But your parents don’t even know about me!” “Well, they will now!” “You know I can’t afford any distractions now.” “I guess our stories will have different endings then.” A finger doodled in the cookie dust on the table. “Sam, give this time, go back and convince them. Let’s not snuff out our dreams.” Samira stopped crushing the cookie, of which almost nothing was left, and looked up. A tsunami of emotion threatened to rise up but she fought it down, “You know what Brian? I believe there’s a reason for all of this. My future is Dhaka. I can’t avoid it. I wish you would be a part of it. But…” and here Samira came to a stop. Brian looked away from her. After some time, she said, “And if you can’t I will understand. It’s not fair on you and it’s not fair on me, but that’s where we are. If you change your mind, you should know that I am going to be there.” With that, Samira stood up. Only then she became aware of the din around her. Brian felt that there was finality in the hug. After she left he sat there with the debris of cookie dust, stale coffee, and shards of broken dreams.
n
She took a cab to the airport. She didn’t want Brian to see her off; she felt it would only add to the misery. When the plane finally lifted up from the tarmac she couldn’t bear to look down below, at the city, at New York which was now fast disappearing behind the cloud curtain. She opened the book to where she was reading. It was The Sense of an Ending by Julian Barnes.
n n n
8 ARTS & LETTERS
D H A K A T R I B U N E S U N DAY, M AY 5 , 2 0 1 3