The Blue Lotus issue 17, the Dhaka issue by martin bradley

Lotus

Issue 17 2019

The Blue

Arts Magazine

in this issue Bipasha Hayat Hashem Khan Jamal Ahmed Kanak Chanpa Chakma Mohammed Iqbal Monirul Islam Nazia Ahmed Omar Khalid Rumi Rafiqun Nabi Shahneoyaj Cacoly 1

The

Dhaka issue

inside.... 6 Editorial Thoughts on the current issue

by the Founding Editor

Dhaka Dreaming Musing on Dhaka

10 The Streets of Dhaka Roaming

24 The Faculty of Fine Art Dhaka University Insights into Dhaka's premiere Art School 34 Dhaka Studios 1 Artist Mohammed Iqbal 44 Short Story Identification by Anwara Azad 48 Niru Bespoke Accoutrement Art wear

60 Dhaka Studios 2 Artist Bipasha Hayat 68 Kanak Chanpa Chakma Picturing indigenousness

Front cover; Nazia Ahmed

Issue 17 2019

76 Dhaka Studios 3 Artist Jamal Ahmed 84 Shahneoyaj Cacoly Film maker 88 Dhaka Studios 4 Artist Hashem Khan 100 Gallery 21 With artist Halide Salam 112 Bangladesh's First Rock Band Rock Music 120 Dhaka Studios 5 Artist Monirul Islam 130 Nazia Ahmed Enigmatic Bangladesh artist 136 Rafiqun Nabi Senior artist

144 Going Down River Dhaka to Chandpur 158 Sweets for my Sweet Bangla Misti (Desserts)

Lotus Welcome to

The Blue Lotus (arts magazine) The Blue Lotus (as Dusun) was founded in 2011. Now eight this year, the magazine continues to reveal the histories of Asian art, and to act as a conduit for Modern and Contemporary Asian art and Literature. The Blue Lotus, this issue, visits the ancient city of Dhaka, in Bangladesh, its creative people and some of the things that makes that city so exciting. In contrast, Issue 17 also looks at another side of Bangladesh, down river from Dhaka. Here is shown the calmer, quieter life which many continue to enjoy away from the capital. This issue could not have been created without the kind assistance of Professor Dr. Farida Zaman, Shituma Zaman, Obaidur Rahman Faruqui, Nuruzzaman Kaiser and a whole host of wonderful people in Bangaldesh. My thanks goes to all of them. Now read on

Martin Bradley

(Founding Editor)

Dhaka D

by Martin Bangladesh’s Dhaka captivates the soul, in the way that the unknown and untried frequently does. Like so many cities, Dhaka presents itself gradually, coyly, like a be-veiled mistress stripping off her layers especially for you. She is intimate, fascinating, and never to be forgotten. Pigeons, reminders of a stately past, flock in the evening air, turn briefly roseate then silhouette, swirling against a gently setting sun. A distant azzan, calling the faithful to prayer, provides a lyrical sound track, as perfumed people provide the fragrance. Dhaka is an ancient city, layered with an ever encroaching modernity. Sprightly slim Rickshaw riders vie with Mercedes Benz, and are as ever present as the white Toyota Corollas which swim like sharks in the daily, dusty, congested city roads. If you are a traveller, a tourist with time on your hands, the slow progress of your chosen vehicle will provide treasured glimpses of city life, and a moment or two of mindful meditation. While third gender ‘ladies’, dressed to impress, might come a tap, tap, tapping at your car window, your driver inches forward, into the melee. Spring is the perfect time to visit in Dhaka. Mornings and evenings allow the traveller to ease himself into and out of the day’s warmth. The weather is neither too hot, nor too cold, but a pleasant medium heat. Trees, bare from the winter, begin to sprout green. It is a reawakening, a birthing of a new year, bringing sunshine to the traveller’s eye. Everywhere you go, city residents smile beguiling smiles, inquire of your origins with innocent enthusiasm and a genuine curiosity, for foreigners intrigue the people of Bangladesh. Men in long kurtas, with beards frequently bright with orange henna peer with keen, intelligent, eyes, exuding a patience honed by centuries of culture. Up-town, away from the old city, there are few tourists. White faces, unless belonging to those who trade in business, are seldom seen. It is a blessing. The traveller is therefore able to cling to his oriental fantasies, unhindered by intervening familiarity. While in other countries tea is ‘stretched’, and coffee scorched by burning embers, Dhaka presents its tea delight in terracotta receptacles, replete with the skin of boiled milk. Away from bustling, automobile filled, streets, roti bread is fried by conjurors of magical tasty morsels, and vendors of carrots proffer their wares to health conscious passersby. Elsewhere... in the room, the women come and go, but are not talking of Michelangelo, but returnees from the Americas with drawings and prints et al. It is where the cultural glitterati glide in elegant saris draped to listen to Sufi inspired art philosophy, and chat. Forever to chat. Dhaka needs to be seen to be believed. A traveller must immerse himself there, at least once in a lifetime. He must embrace the city’s vitality, experience this lotus floating on a plethora of rivers and return home to tell his tale of exotica.

Dreaming

n Bradley

Boiled milk skin tea in 'bhar pot '(Bengali tea)

The Streets of Dhaka by Martin Bradley It is 4 am in Dhaka, the capital of Bangladesh. The noise of construction has awoken me. I would say all is dark, but it isn’t. There are floodlights, and other lights coming from the construction of tower blocks all around the one I am still trying to rest in. But at least the night air is cool. There is no need for air-conditioning, or even a fan. But some mosquito netting might have been a nice idea, though. Bangladesh, being riverine, is plagued with mosquitos. 7.41am, Dhaka time. The day has brightened, and yet it is still hazy outside. I too am a little hazy, but my Malaysian time says it 9.41am, and it’s high time that I was up and about. So, up and about is what I am. After a sumptuous breakfast collated by mine host, I descend, via a lift filled with happy mosquitos, from the seventh to the ground floor. Yay! I am out and about in Dhaka. Nadeen, my friend’s driver, drives us. We are in a somewhat white, ageing, gas fuelled, Toyota Corolla. We drive out of this large, privately gated, community, aptly named a RA (Residential Area). There are other RA's but, seemingly, they are public housing. This is private, and mushrooming. Tall rectangles, some only inches apart, spring from lands reclaimed from ponds. This is the other side of Dhaka, not the Old Town, but a burgeoning newer town in the making. It is protected from the hoi polloi by large gates, and top-ranking security guards. Through those gates we have hit the narrow, dusty, streets the guide books had warned against. Looking through the side-windows of my friend’s car, I appear to be in the very midst of a rickshaw convention. I am surrounded by noise, and a very crowded South Asian humanity. However, on asking, I discover that this is simply daily life here. There are few taxis, hardly any Uber, no Grab, but rickshaws and Obhai auto rickshaws (elsewhere known as tuk tuks), which are, effectively, cages on three wheels. All these take up the transportation slack, and there are no shortage of customers. 12

Rickshaws are synonymous with Dhaka

Luchi (Bengali fried Bread)

Sringara, samosas, deep fried bean cakes

There are thousands of colourful rickshaws. They are pedalled by ‘lunghi’ (chequered sarong) dressed men, their headgear (‘gamcha’) tied to prevent sweat from hampering their progress. Those wiry, hardworking, and hard peddling men stretch their lean legs onto pedals, and push, twisting handlebars to avoid cars, trucks, the eponymous Asian tuk tuks, and pedestrians. At every turn, those brave men launch their metal and wood-framed vehicles forward along the harsh streets, dragging a variety of passengers onto their destinations. For us, in our antique Japanese car, It takes 5 mins to drive out of the RA into Dhaka proper. When I say Dhaka proper, I mean narrow lanes, which we weave through, passing the fixers of motor cars, sellers of all sorts of chromium to fix to your vehicle, fruit pedlars, ladies covered head to toe in loose black ‘burkas’. Everybody is weaving in and out, cars, 16

deep fried chicken pieces

Bangla Malai

motorcycles, tuk tuks, rickshaws, cycle riders wearing masks to keep out dust, car fumes, insects. Above us are makeshift bunting, proclaiming candidates to Dhaka’s mayoral election. Photocopied, black & white A4 and A3 papers constitute the ephemeral bunting, streaming past us as we pass through. Five more minutes and we are on the main road, and narrowly avoiding oncoming traffic. There are horns blaring….'I'm coming, I'm coming, watch out, watch out’. It seems that most cars are scraped. Many are bashed, with gouged metal and heavily scratched paint. Obviously, they are the ones which did not heed the beeping, blaring warnings, or did and were bashed anyway. Beside us are single decker buses, looking as if they have just returned from a war zone. And, in many respects, they have – the streets of Dhaka, one of the Earth’s most densely populated areas (pipped at the no.1 post by Manila, according to Google). Down side lanes, singlet and lunghi wearing men fry breads (Prathas or Bakarakhani) in large ‘kualis’ (woks) of oil, which are frequently served with kebabs (Kebobs). One small enterprise also sells ‘Jelebis’ (very sweet, orange, Indian sweets, made from maida flour batter, deep fried and soaked in sugar syrup). In other side road, at the ‘Pure Milk Centre’, in Mohammedpur, on Tajmahal Road, Kolkata Dewan-e Khas Chai (tea) comes served in small clay pots. As I drink, the lure of ‘Indian’ sweets is too much for me. Ras Malai (sweet/dessert consisting of spongy balls made of fresh paneer, soaked in thickened & sweetened milk) and Gulab Jamun (fried sweet balls made of dried milk and doused in rose/ cardamom syrup) beckoned, are sirens luring me to consume them. I have no power to resist. In more up-market areas, there are a plethora of coffee stalls, selling cold or hot coffee. One yellow vendor, Coffee Hut (It’s a Cup Full of Happiness), replete with Facebook site, proffers a variety of coffees. It’s possible to choose from chocolate cold coffee, caramel cold coffee, caramel chocolate cold coffee to the same, but hot. Should the customer prefer not to have coffee, then Kit Kat or Oreo shakes, are also available. Dhaka's roads collect cars. It is as if some giant toddler has lined their favourite modes of transport end to end, and left to have their breakfast roti and dhal. There are few places you can visit in Dhaka without being subjected to a crowded three-lane traffic jam. On the bright side, that does give the opportunity for entrepreneurial young men to stand, at the roadside, selling carrots, and cut melons. Healthy snacks. Meanwhile, the casual observer would notice that “Jack and Juky” sell Singer and Butterfly sewing machines, apparently, while ‘Ghua’ are Chinese dry cleaners and Fut Lian House, as a restaurant, resides on Ataturk avenue, Dhaka. Slim, older ladies, their harsh lives etched onto their craggy faces, clothe themselves in drab, street-stained saris, and tap at stationery car windows. Our faces are not engaging, so they move on, ever hopeful of a small hand out. Further along, near Four Points Sheraton, ‘Hijras’ (third gender ‘ladies’, or biological males who identify as women) demand from the car’s occupants, in English, their makeup a tad overdone. Nadeem slips one ‘lady’ a small note. There is a superstition that not to do so 17

is bad luck. All this, while opposite Mr Baker sells cakes, pastries, and Bangladeshi sweets. As the rickshaw riders ride on, the vehicular ‘Beep, beep, beep’ cacophony becomes a constant sound track to this over-packed city. Occasionally, a popular film song escapes from a car, but is bullied into submission by the constant, blatant, beeping. In the area designated as being Banani, ’Moumita Rokomari’ edges past, frame by car windscreen frame, as if in some jerky ancient celluloid film, while rickshaws form an orderly queue under the 'no rickshaws' sign, near the woman selling small packets of tissues. She is being passed

The eponymous Bajaj RE autorickshaw

Street coffee

by a silver Tata bus. And we are off again. A moment's respite of good travelling, and then, yet another jam. We have been vying with an ‘Ashok Leyland’ double decker bus, for a place in the queue. Its ‘red and green’ facade scrapes past us, flaunting its battle scars. Then it stops, and accepts passengers. Momentarily, losing its place in the road queue, somewhere near the Prime Minister's, extremely spacious, palace. We edge bravely on, heading towards one of our many destinations on that day, and on the many days of my stay, across the dusty, noisy, but nevertheless fascinating, city of Dhaka.

"Beep, beep, beepâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; cacophony becomes a constant soundtrack to this over-packed city."

Waste disposal

"We edge bravely on, heading towards one of our many destinations on that day, and on the many days of my stay, across the dusty, noisy, but nevertheless fascinating, city of Dhaka."

National Assembly Building in Dhaka, Bangladesh, architect Louis Kahn

Backstreets

Faculty of Fine Art, U

charu

University of Dhaka

ukala

Faculty of Fine Art, Dhaka University, as designed by architect Muzharul Islam

Faculty of Fine Art, U by Martin Bradley

On the sixth of March, this year, I had the great honour of being invited to give a talk at the Fine Arts Faculty, at the University of Dhaka, Bangladesh (fondly called Charukola). The ‘art school’ has a prestigious history, with beginnings hailing from the original founder Zainul Abedin (1914-1976). He had gone to study at the Government School of Art, Calcutta, in 1933, and graduated five years later. Shortly after India’s freedom from British rule (1757 to 1947), and the terrifyingly bloody ‘Partition’ of India and Pakistan, many Indian Muslim and East Bengal artists, studying or teaching at the prestigious Calcutta (now Kolkata) Art School, left and headed East, into what was to become East Pakistan, and eventually Bangladesh. Among those who travelled East were Zaiul Abedin, who returned to East Bengal, in 1948, taking with him Quamrul Hassan (1921-1988), who had been born in Calcutta and had graduated from the Calcutta Government School of Art in 1947, and Safiuddin Ahmed (19222012), who had also been born in Calcutta, and graduated the Calcutta Government School of Art in 1942. Together they were instrumental in the forming of a new art school in Dhaka (then Decca). It was no 26

Light airy spaces where

University of Dhaka

man and nature coexist

easy task, but, in 1948, the Government Institute of Art was created, effectively becoming the Dhaka Art School. The first art school in that region. The first exhibition was of the conquest of India by Muslims, culminating in the birth of Pakistan. It had intended to show an identity based upon religion. That first school of art had been heavily influenced by the school of Calcutta, as well as Abedin’s own views regarding art, modernity and the nuances of a ‘Folk’ art tradition. Further influences came from Adedin’s two years spent, during the early 1950s, at London’s famous Slade School of Fine Art, as well as the museums and galleries he had visited during that time, and his constant leaning towards the struggle for a national language and culture. Between 1953 and 1955 the ‘College of Arts and Craft’, which later became the ‘Institute of Fine Arts’ and finally the ‘Fine Arts Faculty, at the University of Dhaka’ was created along ‘Modernist’ lines, to distract from both Colonial architecture and from the traditional, by architect Muzharul Islam (1923 - 2012). The new buildings, housing the school of art, were displayed amidst trees in a style which has become known as 27

Space enough for students and teachers to contemplate and create

‘Bagan Bari’ or house in the garden style. To quote from the Muzharul Islam Archive, online…. ‘Muzharul Islam decided to come up with a design scheme that will retain all the trees on the site (as some of them were large beautiful trees that would have require many years to grow). His scheme was also climate responsive and had large continuous verandahs shading the inner walls and windows of the classrooms and studios. The design echoes the out house and inner house scheme of rural Bangladesh. It also transforms ‘Jalees’ (lattices) and ‘beras’ (perforated screens) into wonderful screens that separates and creates thresholds. One enters into the front pavilion, a wonderful structure that houses galleries on the ground floor and teachers and common rooms etc on the first. A wonderful sculptural stairs connects the two levels around a wonderful internal courtyard. Past the pavilion are the classrooms and studios and in the far end encircling the round depression are the print studios. A lotus pond and sitting area becomes the open heart of the whole institute. The ground on the south both is a relief and a place to gather.’ As time drew on, Bangladesh was created out of East Pakistan and, in 1983, the Institute of Fine Arts was added to the University of Dhaka. Before my talk, I had the pleasure to wander the buildings, some of the classrooms, and the grounds. My overall impression was of space and industry. The classrooms revealed past and present artworks and artists, with some of Bangladesh’s finest artists hailing from this faculty, including 30

Space for Art students to prime their canvases

Shahabuddin Amed, a former platoon leader during independence, and graduate of what was becoming the ‘Bangladesh College of Arts & Crafts’ (graduated 1974). The list of graduates and teachers at the Fine Arts Faculty, at the University of Dhaka, includes a plethora of famous Bangladeshi artists, including Hashem Khan (graduated 1961), Rafiqun Nabi (graduated 1964), Monirul Islam (graduated 1969) as well as the first female teacher, and first female ‘Director’ (Dean) of the arts faculty, Farida Zaman (graduated 1974), Jamal Amed (graduated 1978), Rokeya Sultana (graduated 1980), Mohammad Iqbal (graduated 1987) and many others. The grounds were cooling, shaded as by the faculty’s arbor. Professor Dr. Farida Zaman, former graduate and present Professor of the Fine Arts Faculty, explained the change of use of some of the buildings. She pointed out the building, passed the outdoor cafeteria selling Singara (or Shinghara - a variation of the ‘samosa’), which had been the first female student hostel, after she and other female students insisted on a separate accommodation from the males. Inside, I marvelled at the print-making studios, the sculpture, painting and drawing rooms. Then I finally understood Muzharul Islam’s concept, and how the interior gave space to the exterior and the inspiration that students continue to glean from that stimulating use of eco friendly architecture.

Then I finally understood Muzharul Islamâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s concept

and the inspiration that students continue to glean fr

pt, and how the interior gave space to the exterior

rom that stimulating use of eco-friendly architecture.

dhaka studios (one)

Born in Chuadanga, Bangladesh, in 1967, Mohammad Iqbal is, at the time of writing, an Associate Professor, in the Department of Drawing & painting, at the Faculty of Fine Art, of the University of Dhaka. He obtained his PhD in Fine Arts on Oil painting, at the Department of Oil Painting, within the Faculty of Fine Art, at Tokyo University of the Arts, Japan (2010), after completing an M. Phil, at the University of Dhaka. Bangladesh (2003), a ME (Master of Education) at the Department of Visual Arts, Aichi University of Education, Japan, an MFA from the Department of Drawing & painting, from the Faculty of Fine Art, University of Dhaka and his BFA from the same department and university. The artist has had over twenty-five major solo exhibitions, and numerous group and two man shows around the world, as well as workshops and art camps.

mohammed iqbal

New work awaiting completion

A selection of exhibition catalogues

Nomadic Faces - 8

Unknown Faces - 1

Gypsy - 1

Identification by Anwara Azad

Translated by Saokot Hossain With Sitara Jabeen and A. T. Siddique

The Sunday evening was just prelude to condense; the gusts of wind butts in like a bull darkening the sky. All the trees of Malapara village seem to be buffeting each other. Sirajuddin had gone to the market but marking the brewing storm, was hurrying back home. In the canvas bag he was carrying salt, sugar and some vegetables, he has wanted to buy some fishes also, but couldn’t, because of the imminent storm. The whooping roar of the storm was chasing him from behind. While passing by a narrow dirt track, he met Munshi uncle of the village, but couldn’t stop to parley. Munshi uncle was almost running, grabbing his lungi (a sarong-like garment wrapped around the waist and extending to the ankles) with one hand and his grandson with the other. Shirajuddin paused for a while under a banyan tree. A bright red fruit lying on the ground got smashed under his feet. The aerial roots reaching down were swaying against each other-almost getting tangled. Shifting his gaze to the distance to understand the situation, he saw lightning flashing up the silhouettes of lined up coconut palms in front of the School master’s house. They were bending down, as if in supplication and then standing up. Shirajuddin was startled, still also felt a little disappointment – had the distance been less he could have gathered two green coconuts. Nervous cattle calls came from the barns and he resumes walking covering eyes and nose with hands; it is hard to see anything due to whirling dust rising from the ground. Even managing the lungi was almost impossible. He put the bag between his thighs and gathered his wind-ruffled lungi up to his knees and tightly knotted it tightly. Then, picking up the bag he started off at a brisk pace to reach home just as it started drizzling. Mariam was waiting at the open door so he rushed in and she bolted it in no time. The next day-rain went waltzing back and forth till midday. After having breakfast with puffed rice with molasses there’s nothing to do but to wait for the preparation of midday meal. The area surrounding the straw thatched cooking space was sloppy with rain water. Mariam had covered the clay stove with a piece of tin because of the rain. Now she removes it as the rain ceased. Bely has gone to the tube well to wash clothes. She is a student of class ten. The younger boy was hovering around his mother. That meagre breakfast of puffed rice and molasses has been digested long ago! And the eldest–he has named him Shahjahan with a lot of fanciful desire but didn’t have the means to support his education after his Secondary Certificate exams. Even making ends meet was a struggle. Now Shahjahan works in Dhaka. The money sent by him has helped propping up the collapsing household with bamboo. Shahjahan wishes that his two siblings get established with education. He couldn’t have completed hid, for this he always thinks about them. He calls his 44

parents to give advice. He has bought his father an old mobile set at a cost of taka twelve hundred. Talking to him Shirajuddin finds some sort of strength inside. That’s why he could muster the courage to reject two marriage proposals that have came for Bely due to her more or less fair complexion. A poor man’s daughter going to school is a matter beyond tolerance of the village guys. Attempts at breaking the girl’s spirit get under-way. What has a girl to do with brains since all the intelligence she will ever need revolves round child bearing and catering to her husband’s desire? Her merit doesn’t count. This is the way it is with our society, as Shahjahan says, prejudice, like woodlice is gnawing away at the core of every household. `Times are changing, Baba. We can’t waste our time with ideas of bygone days. After my SSC, I’ll do some tuition to make it to college, you wouldn’t need to toil. It would not be hard get tuition if I can make good result in the SSC.’ Bely musters some courage to speak out, while stitching buttons on her brother’s shirt. Shahjahan had been home on leave. They were conversing about these issues over lunch the day before he was leaving. It was then she said it explicitly. `We have born in this family. We have duty to this family also, then why should I prepare just to bear the burden of someone else’s family?’ What outlandish ideas! It’s even sinful to think like this! Such wild talks surprise Shirajuddin, even frighten him. These are bad days; on slightest pretext, girls get acid attacked, raped. Shirajuddin was somewhat worried fearing this and tried to admonish his daughter not to utter such talks in front of outsiders. It took some time for him to get the idea as to what rape is. He had not ever attended school at all, how could he conceive? But now not only he, but the entire village know. And any such scandal and which father will have the courage to welcome her into his family. Who cares?-Bely was unperturbed about that. She soaps some clothes in an old blue bucket at the tube-well. Shahjahan has set that up six months back, saying it is very essential. Shirajuddin had collected some bricks and lay down around it; getting the area paved with cement hasn’t been possible yet. Also he would have to fence the area with matting. The girl has to hurry through the bath as the place is an open one. People passing by the house sometimes clear their throat to announce their presence; while the mischievous youths start singing songs in tune. Shirajuddin though understands these, but there’s nothing he can say about it. However the bamboo trees he has planted around the place allowed some privacy and a few more would make it complete. This girl 45

remains to be his only concern now. He has nothing to worry about his son. He has gone to the city, engaged in a job there, frequently converses on the mobile and also sends some money every month on a regular basis. During occasional visits, he brings knick-knacks from the city and also stories of latest events. `Hartals cause huge losses for the company, Baba, and we have to toil day and night to make up for that loss. Another strike is coming up. It’s over the demand of caretaker government before the elections. I wish I could stay two days more, Baba. I asked my boss, but he couldn’t grant the leave.’ `Oh, Shahjahan, I don’t get it-what is this caretaker thing'? 'I don’t either, Baba. I just heard it from people around. I only know that people are changing their lots at their own initiative; that’s why I ask Bely and Akbar to pursue their education. They’d have to avail whatever good in life by themselves.’ Shirajuddin loves hearing such words from Shahjahan. Such talks make him taking down his fishing net and go out. He gets thrilled if and when people ask him to catch fish from their canals and ditches, because in that case he is allowed to take a few fishes for himself even. A little fish curry with his rice–it warms up his heart. Even the limp and lackluster life gains vitality, his sexual desire aroused at night and consent of Bely’s mother comes easily. Sometimes he sits down to bind Akbar’s torn books, makes sure the lantern doesn’t run out of kerosene at night. He visits few families of the village like them and chats about matters involving caretaker government, strikes sometimes or goes to Bely’s school to sit there and talk with the Headmaster. Seeing him squatting in the School field, the Headmaster calls him. “Just wait and see, Shirajuddin. Bely is going to get excellent result in SSC. And then, don’t you stop her studies all of a sudden and marry her off. That’s the trouble with girls’ parents. The first prospective groom hangs around and you hang your girl on his neck. Aren’t the girls human beings?’ `No, Master Sahib, that’s not going to happen. Shahjahan has strictly said, we cannot marry Bely off now. The trouble is, Bely has learnt these over-smart talks, which we fear. It doesn’t suit us poor people, but the girl won’t understand.’ 'Don’t worry. Nothing will go wrong. You need courage and intelligence to utter such words and the girl has both, Shirajuddin. So, it seems your son is looking after you well. Does he get paid regularly? I often heard that the factories aren’t regular in matter of payments.’ `Yeah, he does get paid. Or he couldn’t have been sending money every month, could he, Master Sahib?’ 46

`That’s right. Anyway, don’t worry about Bely. I’ll see that she gets into a college after her results.’ Shirajuddin was reflecting these while tending the rain-beaten saplings of eggplants he had planted near the tube well and watching his daughter washing clothes. Fish cooked with eggplant is his favourite and if only you could add some tomatoes to it – wow, heavenly! Yes, those days of extreme penury have been alleviated a bit since his son has started earning. Now they are having curry with both meals. Yesterday, Shahjahan has called over phone on his return from bazaar. He couldn’t hear well because of the storm. The old mobile had weak connection, but at least heard that the boy is fine. Shirajuddin often waits midway between Bely’s journeys back and forth from school. Since rejecting those proposals, he has been doing so. You never know. There are always some evil ideas brewing in some brains, he knows. A daughter of day-laborer like him going school is almost an audacity and deserves punishment. It’s absurd that at this age she is wending her way to school carrying books instead of dipping them in dung-mud to plaster-coat someone else’s home. Some people nurture such mentality who particularly thinks that they can treat their daughter-in-law like girl slave for household errands. Bits of talks that catch the grooves of his thought keep nagging like thorns. Today the girl couldn’t attend the school because of yesterday’s rainstorm. The teachers also can’t attend school either in such stormy weather; all of them face some problems or other to manage at home – maybe a leaking thatch, a collapsed boundary fence to repair and then sometimes even the school shed is blown off. Someone passes by the tube-well whistling. Shirajuddin cranes his neck to see the face but can’t. Bely has finished her washing and now she is going to hang them up on the line, her face nonchalant. She keeps the wet clothes on her shoulder to tighten the loose line and resumes her hanging. Shirajuddin gets up to see the progress of Bely’s mother’s cooking. The aroma of black lentils is floating around. She got it from the Munshi household. They had called her to grind rice in their grinding pedal. He was about to ask her what else she would be adding to it when he hears the phone ringing. Leaving the clothes on the line Bely goes into the room to get the phone. She presses the green button and hands it over to him. 'Bhai is calling', she says and waits to hear what he says. Shirajuddin wipes his hand with his lungi and carefully puts the phone to his ear. 'Baba, I’m tying my green shirt round my hip. Identify me by it. Factory is burning! Gate is locked, can’t go out, Baba…!' The loud sizzling of the lentil being added to hot oil by Bely’s mother drowns the rest of the sounds of the world. 47

At Niru we present to you art in its most beautiful forms. Starting from Lithos, Etching, Aquatint,Tempera we have a great collection of work on saris too.

Inspired by the Bangladesh artist Rokeya Sultana

Part of our 'Carefully Curated' collection is this rickshaw beauty on silk from Manas

Officially Established in November 2018, Niru is all things art. The thought came to the mother-daughter duo Artists Rokeya Sultana and daughter Laura Haque around 2015 on reproducing art on wearable mediums. Laura’s love for saris and love for Rokeya’s Madonna series, led to the Madonna series 2018. Niru is Laura’s paternal grandmother. Laura had her ‘dadi’ only for four years of her tiny years but she feels a tremendous amount of love for her. Thus, the name Niru came about. To Laura, naming her passion and company after her grandmother is a tribute that will always keep her alive through their art. Niru is not just about creating and presenting bespoke wearable art. The venture is also about giving back. Niru aspires to give business to artists who look for work but do not necessarily succeed. The team is at present educating their

partners on business acumen and on ways to become profitable in their businesses. Laura is the designer of Niru, while Rokeya oversees the designs and manages the artists who work in Dhaka. The Niru family includes Mitul Haque, Lauraâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s husband, who supports her in graphics, logistics, and audio-visuals and obviously spiritually as well! Niru is blessed to have key stylist, Shoma, a friend who is an architect by profession and a stylist by passion. Finally, a friend and well-known photographer Hasib Zakaria, has been instrumental in inspiring the projects and making the photos what they are. Niru can be found at facebook.com/nirucouture.

Bonobibi, the

lady of the forest, also Bandevi, Bandurga and Byaghradevi is a guardian spirit of the forests venerated by both the Hindu and the Muslim residents of the Sundarbans

Sari prints taken from popular imagery abound in new collections

Pother Pachali by Manas

Anwara Azad

Identification and Other Stories Translated by Saokot Hossain

This volume is an anthology of twelve stories written by renowned author Anwara Azad. She has authored a good number of short stories over a period of more than a decade. Her stories, focussing on diversified sociocultural issues, have been published in different reputed Bangaldesh magazines. She has also written a number of novels which received acclaim from readers at home and abroad. The present collection is a selection of stories written during different times in her career. The title piece `identification' tells the story of Sirajuddin who lives in a village with his family, while his elder son Shajahan works in Dhaka. With the support of the money he sends, Sirajuddin dares to enrol his only daughter in school, defying the frowns of villagers. But would this promise of a better day prevail? In another story called `The Shoe Mender' Anwara Azad relates the wishful thinking of a cobbler which never come true. And in `Rudaba's Life' we see the efforts of an independent girl who defies the prejudice of society and tries to have her own way of life. Yet another, Mithila's Editing' takes us to the story of Mithila who was famous as an Editor of an anthology of short stories, while she witnessed curious things in her efforts. The rest of the stories are also based on aspects of society's daily life. 58

Anwara Azad

Anwara Azad was born in Dinajpur city, RÄ jshÄ hi, Bangladesh, on 21st June, and completed her post-graduate studies (in physics) from the University of Dhaka. Her first book was 'Moddhoprachcher Dinlipi'(2000). Her second book and first novel was 'Lona Jol Er Hrod' (2003). She has written seventeen books (including six novels, five collections of stories, a poetry collection and four books for children). 'Identification and Other Stories' is her latest collection, this time in English. She is also a known columnist.

dhaka studios (two)

Bipasha Hayat, born in 1971, Dhaka, Bangladesh, achieved her MFA from the Faculty of Fine Art, University of Dhaka, in 1999. Her art works have been displayed at a Miniature Painting Exhibition in Gallery Tone in Dhaka in 1996. In 1998, she had taken part in a group art exhibition at Divine Art Gallery in Pan Pacific Sonergaon Hotel. Later, she took part in Nine Contemporary Young Artists Exhibition at Zainul Gallery, FFA in 2002. Bipasha's sixth solo art exhibition was titled "Mindscape" and was held during January 2017, in Rome. That exhibition showcased 50 pieces of her work, which included acrylics, drawings and cardboard acrylic. Bipasha is interested in memory and ascemic writing, which she weaves into her current artworks.

bipasha hayat

Sketchbook with coffee stain and charcoal

Sketchbook with coffee stain and charcoal, close up

Talking memory and ephemerality in ascemic writing

Exploring memory and loss

Greek

vase

with

ascemic

kanak chanpa chakma Kanak was born in 1963, in the Rangamati Hill Tracts, in a small town named Tabal Chari, a remote hill area. She is a member of the Chakma people. Her father is a retired businessman and her mother is a textile designer and weaver who has twice won national awards for her work. She attended the School of Art, University of Dhaka in Bangladesh and received her Master of Fine Arts degree in 1986. Later she studied art at Pennsylvania State University in the United States from 1993 to 1994, where she received the MidAmerican Arts Alliance Fellowship. She returned to Bangladesh after successful completion of her course. In her solo exhibition, Life is Here, held in 2014 at Bengal Art Lounge in Dhaka, Bangladesh, Kanak paid tribute to her own community, the Chakmas, with 80 paintings.

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Out of bondage

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Portrait of a Tribe-1

Portrait of a Tribe-2

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dhaka studios (three)

Jamal Ahmed was born in 1955 in Dhaka, Bangladesh. He graduated from the Institute of Fine Arts, University of Dhaka, Bangladesh and received a M.F.A. degree from Tsukoba University, Japan. He is presently an Associate Professor of the Institute of Fine Arts, University of Dhaka, Bangladesh, and was a visiting teacher in the Art and Design Department at the North Carolina State University and a Visiting Artist in Residence, in the U.S.A. He has had 41 solo exhibitions both in Japan and U.S.A.

jamal ahmed

Unfinished work

Abandoned sketch

The River of Colours

Nodijon is a film based on the lifestyle of people living on the river banks,

where people strive to struggle and fight everyday

against nature's adversity

The Northern Symphony

Shahneoyaj Cacoly Shahneoyaj Cacoly was born in 1976, and is a renowned face within the Bangladesh film industry. She is a National award film maker known for films such as Uttarer Sur (The Northern Symphony) and Nodijon (The River of Colours). She is an artist brimming with self-confidence and imbued with dynamism, and the ability to work hard with positive thinking. The objective of her work is to reflect and promote the practice of art and culture by using her mother tongue language, love for her country and positive nationalistic thoughts. It is her conviction that positive thinking breeds success and the search for God lies in honest actions. Through centuries, humanity has decked up the world through its positive acts and that is how life's success have reached its zenith. Good, positive work is the bedrock of life. She achieved her Master of fine Arts (M.F.A) at the Department of Oriental Art, at the Faculty of Fine Arts, University of Dhaka and has won a variety of awards including.. National award for Best Film Uttarer Sur, 2012 (received 2014) National Award for Best Story Writer Best Actress Best Special Child Special Film Award Uttarer Sur Human Rights International film Festival , Nepal 2013 Best women Director, Bangladesh women federation 2010 Best tale film Direction, 2008 Bangladesh film & Journalism Association Best tale film Screenplay, 2008 Bangladesh film & Journalism Association Honourable woman filmmaker award , International Woman film festival, Dhaka 2014. Honourable woman filmmaker award, Muviyana film society and Bangladesh Shilpakola Academy. 2014

dhaka studios (four)

Hashem Khan is a prolific painter, who has made an immense contribution to the enrichment of Bangladeshi art. Khan was born in 1941 in Chandpur, Bangladesh. He graduated from Govt. Institute of Arts (now Faculty of Fine Arts, University of Dhaka) in 1961. He has held seven solo exhibitions and has participated in many group exhibitions at home and abroad. He taught at the Faculty of Fine Arts for 44 years and retired as professor in 2007. He was a research scholar in Ceramics, at the Government Institute of Arts, Dhaka, 1961-63; and did shortterm training on book-design & illustration from ACCU, Tokyo, Japan, 1979. He actively participated in the Liberation War and during the early and mid â&#x20AC;&#x2122;70s, made the war the subject of his works. Most of his paintings highlight rural panorama and life in the villages. He has made a major attempt to connect contemporary themes with the Liberation War. He is very cautious in his use of colors and creating texture. Awards: Ekushey Padak (Highest National Civilian Award for contribution in the field of Fine Arts) in 1992. Sadhinata Padak (Highest Bangladesh Govt Award for contribution in the field of culture and arts).

hashem khan

Wooden sculpture

A peep inside Hashem Khan's studio

Wooden sculpture

Collage

Studio scene

Collage

Wooden sculpture

Portrait of the artist with his work

with Halide Salam Gallery 21, Dhaka, has exhibited a number of works by Bangladeshi contemporary artists. Its debut exhibition featured prominent painter Syed Jahangir, female artist Fareha Zeba and owner Shameem Subrana herself. Other events have included a photographic exhibition commemorating the 88th anniversary of the birthday of Tajuddin Ahmed, the first Prime Minister of independent Bangladesh who died in 1975, curated by his daughter Simeen Hossain Rimi. Earlier this year Gallery 21 exhibited a fresh look at the American Bangladesh artist Halide Salam, with her 'Drawings and works on paper'. Halide received her Master of Art in Painting from New Mexico Highlands University, Las Vegas, New Mexico, and Ph. D, in Fine Arts, (Studio) from Texas Tech University and taught at Radford University, Radford, Virginia. She studied Sacred Geometry and Sacred Art Traditions under the famed Geometer, Keith Critchlow, Director of Kairos , Royal College of Art, London UK. She has been painting and exhibiting in national and international galleries and museums, winning numerous awards in painting and collage. She won the Open Call Award 2017 at the Athenaeum, Alexandria, Virginia for the exhibition GLOW. Her painting, 'Title Withheld No. 6' was chosen by the US Department of State, Art in Embassies Program to represent American Artistsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; work overseas.

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Before the launch of Halide Salam's exhibition

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Within the Firmament

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A very successful launch

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Halide Salam in deep conversation with Nuruzzaman Kaiser

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Writing on water

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The cream of Dhaka's society attended

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Bangladesh's f It was during 1972, one fine day, Rumi met Sazzad, they were across the wall, talking, unfolded a new chapter in the history of music in Bangladesh, soon followed by Rumi’s visit to Sazzad’s place and making music together. A few sessions together afterwards gave birth to a suggestion from Sazzad,-“ would you take me in your band, if you make one “? Surprised, Rumi said in reply,-“ Let’s just form a band”. The band was born. It was just as if out of the phoenix of the war a new dawn, a new band called Under Ground Peace Lovers came in to view, a new era was born. Five young guys came together and started to make music during the winter of 1972, the line up being Dastagir – Lead Vocal, Rumi –vocal and guitar, Szzad – vocal and guitar, Salahuddin –Bass and vocal and Shahedul – Drums and vocal. Concerted effort, in the beginning, from Rumi and Sazzad saw through the initial period, advent of Salahuddin with his beautiful “ Mosrite” guitar hastened everything, as with con amore, Rumi and Sazzad pounced upon Salahuddins Mosrite, finally giving him the bassist’s place. Upon a frantic search then for a lead singer in the band, ended up with Dastagir, following that up with another search for a drummer, Salahuddin, Sazzad and Rumi finally found Shahedul at his place. Shahedul agreed after a long discussion to be a part of the band, search complete, they finally settled down to have practice sessions at Sazzads’ place immediately afterwards. Search for instruments though, was much more tougher than they expected, two guitars and a long tall bass having an old radio to back it up and a Fender amp which came later to round up the rear, their destiny cried for more. Drums , later still, came as a managers’ investment, Joynal being the new manager, completed the picture rounding up with Salahuddin’s insistence though that “Underground Peace Lovers” should be the handle of the gang. Omar Khalid Rumi 112

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irst rock band

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The Band

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Meanwhile, they came across an unexpected personality in the h the famous singer-actor, became an instant friend, and a photo incident. 116

hotel, a name widely popular in the world , Sir Cliff Richard , ograph with him next morning in the Observer was a remarkable 117

Finally, after a long absence the UGPL got tog

the ever present crowd, along with some musician

hearts with their music, minus Sazzad, who could to catch the next show

Their aim this time around would not only b

recording sessions too, and ultimatel The idea of cutting an album popped up and launch the album on 7th January 2017

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gether again during the winter of 2009, showing

ns at the COSMO, that they could still rattle some

d not make it, and was waiting with confirmation during December 2011.

be just a concert, but to busy themselves with

ly to cut an album, their first ever. the band proceeded to do the recordings and at the Dhaka Club, Dhaka, Bangladesh.

Omar Khalid Rumi 119

dhaka studios (five)

Monirul Islam, aka Monir, was born in 1943, in Chandpur District, Bangladesh. He is a BangladeshiSpanish artist, awarded the prestigious Ekushey Padak (the highest National Award of Bangladesh), in 1999, by the Government of Bangladesh. He studied at the Faculty of Fine Arts, University of Dhaka from 1966-1969. He gained a scholarship in 'cultural relations', and graduated in mural paintings from Madrid Academy of Fine Arts. Since 1986, Monirul Islam has been an honourable International Jury Member. He has received many prestigious national and international awards including the International “Biennial of Graphics”, Ibiza, Spain (1972); “Palm of Gold”, Beaux-Arts; “International Art Guild”, Monte Carlo, Monaco (1975); “International Print and Drawing Exhibition Prize”, ROC, Taiwan (1983); “Saddam Merit Prize”, Baghdad International Art Festival (1986); “National Award of Prints” (1997)' “Ekushey Padak” (1999); “NRB National Award”, Scholars of Bangladesh (2007); “Berger Lifetime Achievement Award” (2016 120

monirul islam

Monirul Islam, aka Monir, in his Dhaka studio

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Textural collage

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The family on the beach

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Experimental mixed medium pages

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Always working, always creating

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nazia ahmed Nazia Ahmed is an enigmatic young artist who had previously studied 'Marketing' at the IU Bangladesh, class of 2009, in Dhaka, Bangladesh. Her whimsical watercolours reveal a leaning towards the philosophical and spiritual, a la Marc Chagall, with all the richness of Asian watercolours.

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I love living on my day drea

ams. It inspires me to create.

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The most commonly question everyone faces during their child hood is â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;what are you going do for your futureâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;? As for myself, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve tried for the longest possible time to avoid this question. I was not sure or pondered about this matter as well. I belong to that group or a kind of person who goes with the motions of life: facing and spending time as it comes. To be very precise till this day I am addled what I really want to be? But it was in my cognizance that the usual course of life; such as schooling, higher education, conjugal life and be part of family business has to be performed. It was probably at the age of 6 or 7, I was introduced to different facet of cultural activities to explore my creativity and talent. Amongst all singing stopped instantly. Colors fascinated me, grabbed my imagination, the little boxes of paints were awe inspiring and they became my companion, my soul mate till today and will remain so till I am hale and sane. In due course I have finished school and graduated with a business degree but have never veered away from paintings; in my opinion the best way of spending time and a source of meditation too. As an amateur it was beyond my imagination to have viewers for my paintings until one day an offer from a friend came to do so. Not being myopic, I took the offer and had my first exhibition. That became the wellspring for deep infatuation of painting and acknowledgement of me as an artist. Nazia Ahmed 134

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Rafiqun Nabi Rafiqun Nabi also known as Ranabi, was born in 1943, in the Nawabganj District in northwest Bangladesh. He graduated from Pogose School, Dhaka, and enrolled in the College of Arts and Crafts (later renamed Faculty of Fine Arts, University of Dhaka). There, he studied under the supervision of artists like Zainul Abedin and Quamrul Hassan. Nabi received a scholarship from the Asia Foundation between 1962-64, and after his graduation, he joined the institute as a faculty member. He went to Athens and studied art between 1973-1976 under a scholarship from the Government of Greece, and was awarded the highest art award Bangladesh has to give - the Ekushey Padak, in 1993. Rafiqun Nabi is a Bangladeshi artist and cartoonist. His most famous creation is Tokai, a character symbolizing the poor street boys of Dhaka who lives on picking things from dustbins or begging and having a knack of telling simple yet painful truths about current political and socio-economic situation of the country. Nabi has also written stories for the Bangladesh Prothom Alo newspaper.

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Story of a river

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going down river Dhaka to Chandpur

On a misty Bangladesh morning, with the sun barely glinting upon the expansive Buriganga river, we have arrived at the â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;launchâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; (ferry) docking area, in Sadarghat. It has taken some time, and some distance, threading through the morning mayhem of Dhaka city, but we have arrived and, while waiting for my friend to get the tickets for our trip, I watch as a turbaned man tars his slim, wooden, ferryboat, by hand. Two men behind him talk with expansive hand gestures. When the boatman is ready, he and a friend turn the boat right side up. One man rubs in tar, while the other uses a hammer to fix something. I have no idea what, or why. Beside them there are boats which appear freshly built and/or freshly tarred. As warmth is detected in the air, there is constant movement. Ferry boats alight and leave. Passengers squat on bamboo mats, laid for the purpose, leaving their shoes behind, or in front, but not on, the mat. 144

Sadarghat

Those wooden boats appear take (up to) seven passengers from one side to the other side of the river. Behind me, on the pathway, all manner of humanity moves, shuffles, eases their way along. Ladies, frequently with their faces covered, move behind men wearing chequered sarongs (lunghis), with children barely able to contain their excitement at the beginning of their journeys. Before me, down on the river, small wooden craft ferry people about. A single oarsman with a single, lengthy, oar stand like gondoliers at the stern of each craft, urging them forward. And, just for as second, I am transported to the set of ‘Da Vinci’s Demons’, a scene in Venice perhaps or, there again, perhaps a watery scene from ‘Assassin’s Creed”, only more tangible, especially the aroma. Down the pathway, large ferries (launches) accept multitudes of humanity. People become sardined between the metal walls, as greater 145

Ferries across the Buriganga river

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"Sellers of guava, loaves of thickly sliced, white, cut, bread, and peanuts"

and then greater numbers of people horde onto the launch. The launch is like ferries across the world, with the exception of the young bearded sellers of guava, loaves of thickly sliced, white, cut, bread, and peanuts, nevertheless children swing legs against a backdrop of shimmering waters. The otherness of our cultures separates us, as does the language punctuating the nigh claustrophobic atmosphere. I am assailed by mellow scents as the morning progresses. Our ferry has (numbered) open plan seating, with seats reminiscent of long distance coaches and, like coaches, many seats are the worse for wear, yet nevertheless serviceable. The sister launch, docked beside ours, has cabins. On that vessel a man in an orange T-shirt paces back and forth, brushing his teeth. Other men in white vests adjust their equally white sarongs while, on our ferry, passengers continue to stream. Before long, purveyors of fruits and bread board the sister launch, occasionally climbing aboard ours, proffering their wares while one young man dressed in purple displays a large rattan basket of bright red pomegranates. We wait an indeterminate wait. Then, after I have explored the launch top to bottom, climbing ladders to reach the second and third decks, we are, suddenly off. The boat is reversing out. I feel a thrill at that movement, the metallic vibration, and am excited as we begin to leave the dock and the others metal boats behind, to finally begin our journey. Outside of Dhaka, a few kilometres downstream, tall towers, like fingers, stretch into the calm, blue sky. Those chimneys and the adjacent 148

"19th C Hindu mansion, now in ruins"

brick-stacks mark the manufacture of necessity for the burgeoning building sites in and around Dhaka. I am so happy to be able to see outside. Rather than move out of the sun, there are those who prefer to shut the sun out, not just for themselves, but for others too. Life is compromise, only some have to compromise more than others. There is always a tension between our preferences. I practise patience. Sitting meditation helps. Two decks up, a clear river view brings sights of constant river traffic, large and small. Barges take sand, goods, while launches take hundreds of passengers beneath the sweltering sun. Standing aloft, on the top deck, the slightest of breezes ruffles my hair, strokes my arms, yet barely keeps the proud Bangladesh flag adrift. Passengers sprawl on all decks. Young families are squatting on the deck, feeding, sleeping allowing the slightest of passageways as I attempt to pass. It is National Language Day. Dhaka denizens, their families and goods are on the move for this three day holiday. Yet the people are patient. There are no harsh words, no unpleasantness, only resignation. This, the second biggest of Bangladesh’s rivers, stretches as far as the eye can see, in all directions. For me it is a much needed breathing space after the noise and clamour of Dhaka. Aside from the passenger murmuring, only the chugging of hard working waterborne engines breaks the calmness over the three plus hours, the journey takes. The azan sounds early in the morning. I open a bleary eye after a night of fitful sleep in a mosquito netted bed. Mine host is awake. He has performed ‘wudu’ and prays. After prayer I am encouraged to walk in the misty morning. The air is fresh, not cold. Partially observed coconut trees are ghostly, emerging only upon approach. We wander compacted mud lanes which pass rural dwellings, on to a freshly constructed mosque. My friend guides me beside fields of rice paddy, with green shoots reaching from the mud. Further, there are small ponds used as farms for fish. Farming fish is more lucrative than the intense labour needed for rice, as fish sell for more. Yet village life needs both, fish and rice to sustain the villagers. The early morning mist blurs edges, makes indistinct all but that before us, as we stroll. A tea shop is open. We have the strong Bangladesh tea. One elderly, bearded, man welcomes me enthusiastically. Tea here does not appear to come with fresh milk, but dried - like Coffeemate. Cups, or glasses, of tea are small. Minuscule in fact. Quite unlike the mugs I have become used to. I relish the opportunity to sit on a small plastic stall, accompanied by a small grouping of orange bearded gentlemen. I could drink more tea, should I be allowed. But time is pressing. In a rickshaw, we bump and jump on the uneven road, avoiding presenting potholes, dodging other traffic. Soon we approach a large lake, the further shore remains in mist, unseen. We pass a medical centre and hospital, travel down a track and reach a 19th C Hindu mansion, now in ruins. It is as if I have been transported into Kipling’s Jungle Book, and half expect Mowgli (little frog) and Bagheera (the black panther) to walk out and greet us. There is the distinct feeling that this perfect ruin is a film set. Everything is perfectly arranged. From the crumbling, moss covered brickwork, to the small ferns sprouting from between bricks, and the decaying archways revealing glimpses of misty jungle, it could not have been more romantic. I am overawed, and drink it all in like a fine wine. 149

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Closed Path

I thought that my voyage had come to its end

at the last limit of my power,â&#x20AC;&#x201D;that the path before me was closed, that provisions were exhausted

and the time come to take shelter in a silent obscurity. But I find that thy will knows no end in me. And when old words die out on the tongue, new melodies break forth from the heart; and where the old tracks are lost,

new country is revealed with its wonders Rabindranath Tagore

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Preparation for the fried bread called â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;lutiâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;

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Making chicken curry in a 'quali'

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‘Luti’ (a deep fried bread)

Back in the village, this incredible family, my new friends, have also arranged a fish netting in one of the medium sized ponds, especially for me to get a taste of village life. It would have happened, sooner or later anyway, but was brought forward, for me to witness. I was and am deeply grateful. After a freshly cooked breakfast, by the village chef, of ‘luti’ (a deep fried bread), fried eggs and the previous evening’s chicken curry under a canopy by the pond, we set about witnessing the netting of village fish. Two teams of svelte men, in lunghis and singlets, ease into the pond and grasp two different ends of a net already in place. Over time the men, still grasping the brown net, struggle to walk forward. It is a large expanse, but the villagers move patiently forward, taking the fish before them. Gradually the pond is trawled, the two ends of the net beginning to meet. As the net ends meet, those fish able too, jump the net to freedom, while the others are caught and gathered together against the pond’s bank. The silvery fish, thrashing the water, are trapped between the net and the bank. The net is tightened until there is little water and a writhing mass of fish. From there, it is easy for the fishermen to extract and triage the fish placing some in the back of a small truck, previously prepared with waterproof plastic and enough water (taken from the pond) to keep the fish fresh and alive. Those will be for sale, smaller fish are returned, to grow, while others are distributed amongst the village families. That night we travelled back to Dhaka. The road was lengthy, and tiring.

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Netting of fish from the village lake

Fish for the fishermen

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sweets for

From Sweet

Sweets on display from 'Sweets of Bengal' at the Art Cafe

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r my sweet

ts Of Bengal

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Mihidana Laddu

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Sweets have been an inseparable part of our culture for centuries, symbolic of the people's love for rich, decadent desserts and one that symbolize many emotions. Sweets Of Bengal specialises in producing and procuring exceptional and unseen sweetmeats from various Bangladeshi districts, through our traditional expertise craftsmanship and authentic trusted vendors respectively. Sweets Of Bengal is dedicatedly aiming towards spreading the message across the city about these delicacies while enabling consumers to devour various kinds of sweets under the same roof.

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Hafshi Shondesh

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Lachcha Bhog

Ilish Peti

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Gurer Roshogolla

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Sweets on display from 'Sweets of Bengal' at the Art Cafe

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Shon Papri

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Bangla Pancakes

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ART CAFE Gulshan Branch: 60 Gulshan Avenue, Gulshan 1, Dhaka www.bengalexpressbd.com +880 1874-050402 171

Dusun Publications The Blue Lotus Publications

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Books by Martin

Bradley 173

Books By Ma

Luo Qi and Calligraphyism (2019) China Academy of Art China One of a series of biographies concerning the Chinese artist Luo Qi, and his contemporary blend of the ancient art of Chinese calligraphy and Western concerns with 'Modernism' in art.

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The Journey and Beyo (2014) Caring Pharmacy Malaysia

A brief pictorial look at history of 'Community Ph in Malaysia, charting the community pharmacies an roots in Singapore and M

artin Bradley

ond

t the harmacy' rise of nd their Malaysia.

Uniquely Toro (2013) Walters Publishing House The Philippines A 'Retrospective' concerning 'Toro' an enigmatic artist from Manila in The Philippines, whose dynamic Pollack like paintings have captured the Asian imagination

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Books By Ma

Remembering Whiteness & Other Poems (2012) Bougainvillea Press (digital) Malaysia Martin's first collection of poetry concerning his life in South East Asia. Many in this collection have been read in performance across Asia and Europe.

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A Story of Colo (201 Everday Art Stu Mala

This is the jo Malaysian artist into working wit children's char and joy of giv and eventually education of Khm book is about the of learning alo volunte Profusely illust Honey Khor (K

artin Bradley

ors of Cambodia 12) udio & Educare aysia

Buffalo & Breadfruit (2012) Monsoon Books (digital) Malaysia

ourney of one t (Honey Khor) th a Cambodian rity, the beauty ving, teaching sponsoring the mer children. This e ups and downs ong the way to eering. trated by artist Khor Pei Yeou).

Martin unwittingly discovers, that there is nothing quite like uprooting yourself from your home of fifty-four years in suburban, temperate England and transplanting yourself into rural, equatorial Malaysia. with its trial and tribulations.

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Antho

The Best of Asian Short Stories (2018) Kitaab Singapore

Best of Southeast Asian Erotica (2010) Monsoon Books Singapore

New Malaysian Essays 2 (2009) Matahari Books Malaysia

Story - Bougainvillea

Story - Awakening

Story - Colourful Language

A sequel to Martin's 'The Good Lieutenant". Reggie Gold's younger son, John, pays his respects and discovers more than he bargained for in the process. It is a journey into John's past. A journey from John's comfort zone of Blicton-on-Sea, to equatorial Ipoh, and to emotions and cultures he did not know he was ready for.

In the heated atmosphere of an Indian Malaysian 'roti' shop, pubescent passions become inflamed. It is the awakening of young, innocent, desire and the complications which arise.

Not so much a story, as a light hearted essay about the difference between American English and British English, the notion of Malaysia's continuing Colonisation of the mind, and the effect of the West's materialism on Malaysian young minds.

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ologies

Urban Odysseys KL Stories (2009) MPH Publishing Malaysia

Silverfish New Writing 7 (2008) Silverfish Books Malaysia

Silverfish New Writing 5 (2005) Silverfish Books Malaysia

Story - Mat Rempit

Story - The Good Lieutenant

Story - The Orchid Wife

A Mat Rempit is a Malaysian term for "an individual who participates in immoral activities and public disturbance with a motorcycle as their main transport", usually involving underbone motorcycles. This is the story of one wannbe Mat Rempit, 'Abangah', and what happens to him in Kuala Lumpur.

The story of British Lieutenant Reggie Gold, working for the Federation of Malaya Police, and his family in England, during the days of Malaysia's 'Emergency'. This story underlines the sacrifices undertaken by British soldiers, in Perak, Malaya, during a very difficult time for Malaya.

This is, ultimately, the story of an Indian Malaysian couple, Devi and Chandran, living in Butterworth, near Penang. It is a story of the cruelties and abuses within marriage and how they become resolved.

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BANGLADESH

CAMBODIA

CHINA

WITH MARTIN BRADLEY

ITALY

MALAYSIA

PHILIPPINES

SPAIN 180