Dr Mizanur Rahman Shelley has seen life up close through different lenses — as a student politician, as a bureaucrat, as an academic and as a technocrat minister. As a writer, he has tried different genres of writing, poetry included, and done so successfully. In ‘The symphony of our times’, his memoir in progress which will be serialised in My Blog (He is one of my close friends and has given his permission), starting from today, Dr Shelley leads the readers down memory lane... 

The symphony of our times

PART II

THE recollection of travelling to Dhaka with father still lingers in my mind. The train from Shialdaha station started at midnight. Wake-up hour came at a station, perhaps Rana ghat. The platform was alive with shouts from vendors: ‘Hot tea, hot tea’. Father extended his arm across the window of our compartment and received earthen pots full of tea and plates with vegetable and unleavened bread. The train raced in declining Sun. Then, it reached crowded Goalundo ghat, a transport-break point. There in the river stood the huge steamer. Its sides were fitted with big-sized wooden wheels with paddles which helped propel the vessel along the silvery waters of mighty Padma. It headed towards its destination, Narayanganj. We sheltered in a first class cabin on the second story of the ship. There was an open deck on the front; it was covered by iron rails. Cool river breeze splashed against us like restless children. Lunch of unparalleled flavour and taste arrived soon. It consisted of fine rice, fresh and delicious pieces of hilsha fish and spicy chicken curry. After lunch, father said, ‘Let us go down and see how the steamer is propelled.’ In the interior whirred the noisy engine.  Heated coal angrily burnt in the huge boiler, sailors in blue uniforms worked ceaselessly with their spades to fill the steaming boiler with fresh supply of coal. Like the arms of a giant, silvery, metallic pistons moved to and fro with loud noise. As a result, the side wheels churned the waters and the steamer moved speedily ahead. 

After whistle-stops at Bikrampur’s Vaggakul and Tarpasha the vessel at last reached Narayanganj in late afternoon. 
The final journey towards Dhaka began there, in a smaller, meter-gauge train. This brief ride ended at Fulbaria station just before dusk. It felt like a poor and rickety relative of Kolkata’s impressive Shialdaha or Howrah stations. We had to take a horse drawn carriage, once a mark of Dhaka, driven by skilful coachman called garowan, inhabitants of old Dhaka. They had a unique style and accent of Dhakaiya Bangla with a mix of colloquial Urdu and intersperse by the seemingly abusive but actually endearing term hala (younger brother of one’s wife).

Just before the night descended, our carriage reached the abode of our grandparents in Dhaka 10 Mahuttuli, Armanitola. It was a big two-storied building located on the road leading towards the Armanitola High School and Ground. There were all tolled 14 rooms in the house. A wide, open and long balcony and a terrace adorned the inside of the second story. An old banyan tree in the adjacent house spread some of its branches over the terrace. A spacious courtyard featured the ground floor. It was skirted by carefully maintained garden with colourful flowers.

Grandma, Lal Buji, embraced me with great affection. Grandfather, usually reserved and solemn, beamed with smile. Aunts Zeenat Ara Bulbul and Shawkat Ara Dulu joined uncles Abdul Quyuum Dalim and Abdul Monayem Paltu in welcoming us cheerfully. Even before, we could finish our tea and snacks the domestic help energetically came forth with mosquito-repellent herbs and put them alight in various nooks and corners of the house. We were amazed to learn that in those days these formed essential elements of Dhaka’s stout defence against deadly mosquitoes, who invaded in hordes at twilight. The residents of Dhaka in that period could not think of safely sleeping in the night without mosquito curtain and indigenous repellence. We didn’t have such an experience in Kolkata. The days in Dhaka were adorned by many sweet memories: delicious and tasty dishes bearing the skilful touch of Lal Buji’s cooking, lying by her side in the moonlit terrace listening to her masterly narration of fairy tales of princes Lal Komol and Nil Komol churned out of the compendium, Thakurmar Jhuli (granny’s bag of fairy tales).

The story of the huge and frightening giant thrilled us, the giant who had his soul in the incarnation of a golden bee encased in a silver cylinder buried in mud at the bottom of a deep pond. Then came the brave and handsome prince who smothered the bee and thus killed the giant and rescued the imprisoned princess. They lived happily ever after with the bliss of delightful, joyous and innocent childhood.

Those days in Kolkata were full of joy and restlessness, yet replete with peace and tranquillity. Generous love and affection of the parents made the time rich beyond imagination. Younger brother Prince (Khokon) and I were not in the best of health. Various ailments hounded ourfootsteps. Mother had to tackle all the hassle alone with immense patience and composer. She used to nurse us and see that we were fully recovered. I had frequent fights with my immediate elder sister Regina as was usually the case between siblings. Enduring mutual love and affection, however, submerged the bitterness of our quarrels and fights. Kith and kin often came visiting. Cousin sister Putu Buji with her husband Nurul Islam ‘the tall’ came from Dhaka. The other cousin Ranu Buji came from our village home Kushumpur. Their delicious cooking tasted wonderful.

Memory of eldest maternal uncle Abdur Rahim’s love and affection is inseparable from the recollections of childhood in Kolkata. He was then a probationer in the Income Tax Department of undivided India under the British. His training centre was in the northern Indian city ofLucknow, the heartland of Muslim-dominated art and culture of north India and the Urdu language. I remember uncle Rahim, usually called gari mama or uncle with car, busy leafing through colourful Urdu booklets. He used to learn Urdu with the help of these elementary books. He was a jolly man who loved children’s company. Mother was his elder sister and there was, therefore, a natural camaraderie. Mother was older and so, uncle Rahim jokingly called her briddha — the old one. He used to give humorous and strange title to us brothers, sisters and cousins. Thus, cousin Shafiqul Islam Lenin got the Title munda (‘the lad’ in Urdu) my fourth brother Raskin, Monzurur Rahman was named maura (a Urdu- or Hindi-speaking person).

Bablu’da, a distant cousin who served in Kolkata, often came to see us. Ma told us that father fought hard to get him a government job as he had a slight limp. In the end Bablu’da got a job in father’s directorate. His Madraji boss was not pleased. In consequence, he faced some difficulties in the workplace. Courageous, confident and generous as he was, this did not dampen him.

It was still a time when in British India, the Hindus, especially of Bengal, were far in advance of their Muslim counterparts in education and wealth. As a result, the Muslim Bengalis could not usually succeed in competition. It was in this perspective that father like some other Muslim officials tried to help their co-religionists who were reasonably qualified to get into government jobs. We came to realise later that their attitude was neither created nor propelled by communal sentiments. Their main aim and objective was achievement of justice. They considered securing the rights of backward, underprivileged, neglected but educated Muslim Bengali youth of that period a humanitarian responsibility. Despite the stiff resistance of the British colonial rulers and advanced, influential and resource-rich sections of the high-caste Hindus, these silent brave men undauntedly carried on their humanitarian mission.

We did not know then, that all around our tranquil and delightful childhood days, the stage was being set for a titanic conflict: this clash was at once social, economic and political. In consequence of this conflict when the British colonial rulers departed in August 1947, the subcontinent was partitioned into new states of India and Pakistan, principally on religious lines. In undivided British Bengal, the majority Muslims were economically, educationally and socially backward compared with their Hindu counterparts. Against this backdrop, the Muslim Bengali middle class could not have its desired expansion and development. During the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, this class was relatively weak and small in united Bengal. In consequence they could not fully share the predominantly Hindu and Kolkata-centric early Bengali Nationalist and Indian Independence movements against the British rulers. 

Meanwhile, on the all India level, the Indian National Congress led by Gandhi was struggling for Indian independence. Gandhi transformed the Congress into a mass organisation. A cardinal canon of his programme for mass mobilisation was appeal to Hindu cult and civilisation. This served to sharpen the edge of Muslim separatism in India. The Muslim separatist movement humbly began in 1906 under the leadership of the All India Muslim League. It gained tremendous momentum by the 1940s. The failure of the Congress to convince the Muslims of its secular credential led to the emergence of what has been called ‘Muslim Nationalism’ and the Muslims wanted self-assertion. In the last days of the British Raj, the struggle was three-sided and the creation of Pakistan was its most extraordinary result.
To be continued