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... 

WHATEVER that maybe I recollect faintly the first public meeting that I attended. In the context of that time, 10-15-thousand strong crowds could be considered a very large gathering. We could see the sherwani-clad prime minister Liaquat Ali Khan with his distinctive cap from a distance. However, most of his speech, which was in Urdu, was beyond our understanding. After the meeting there was a shower and we took shelter in the outer veranda of a house. As darkness slowly descended, Enamul took me by the hand and we walked back to Mahuttuli. Enamul was a cautious friend and good athlete, tall even at that early age. He wanted to saveour shoes from rainwater and mud and took them in his left hand and steered me by holding my right hand, because I was shorter in stature and a ‘new boy’ in the school. He said, ‘Our parents worked hard to earn money and make many sacrifices for buying our clothes and shoes. We should not abuse and waste them. We must ensure that the shoes endure at least for one year.’ Hence, we walked back bare feet to Mahuttuli on rain drenched roads.
Our life revolved around Armanitola school and 10 Mahuttuli from August 1947 to the beginning of 1950. Those days were an exciting mosaicof fabled ‘52 bazaars and 53 lanes’ of old Dhaka. Relations with 10 Mahuttuli continued in later years also. Nana and Lalbuji and uncles and aunties continued to reside there until 1957 when they moved to their own house the newly constructed ‘Mannan Monzil’ in Green Road. 
The Mahuttuli residence remained rented to them for a few more years. The Warsi Book centre and a small press continued to be housed there. Youngest uncle Abdul Monayem alias Paltu lived alone in the building most of the time. Later, when father was transferred to Dhaka from Gaibandha in 1959, we lived for a while in that house until father was allotted a new quarter in the Azimpur estate. Earlier, even after moving to Azimpur in 1950, we retained links with 10 Mahuttuli frequently visiting that abode of grandparents, uncles and aunties.
Varied and sweet were the childhood days of Mahuttuli. At this long distance from childhood, scattered events jog down the memory lane, seen as ‘through a glass darkly’. Uncle Paltu at that time was an infinite source of affection and colourful joy. He was not an outstanding student but his extracurricular knowledge was vast and amazing, gathered from poems, stories, essays and novels that were not among the textbooks. He had a large and varied circle of friends. Jyoti Mama, Qamrul Hassan, Motiur Mama, guitarist, music lover used to frequent 10 Mahuttuli to be in the company of their bosom friend, Paltu Mama. Among his loyal followers was an original inhabitant of old Dhaka, popularly referred to as ‘Khan Bahadur’. His other title was potok or potka. Like uncle Paltu and his friends, ‘Khan Bahadur’ was also a frank and jolly fellow. Uncle sent ‘Khan Bahadur’ to places like Chawk Bazaar, Lalbagh and Badamtali to bring legendary and testy old Dhaka dishes of tehari, nehari, morag polao, bakarkhani and dalpuri. These used to satisfy our palates.
Paltu mama had a rare and attractive possession, a large gramophone typical of yesteryears. It was placed in his small room at a corner ofthe first floor. It was a clockwork affair and had to be activated by pumping with the hand. The whole of our childhood in Dhaka was filled with the thrilling sound of music and memory of the popular historical play Sirajuddoula flowing out of records played on that wonderful machine. The pins had to be frequently changed for the records to ensure fidelity of sound. The shiny silvery pins were contained in cute little boxes. They look like silver coloured precious gems. Our eyes filled with tears as we listen to the tragic play. The incomparable courage of Nawab Sirajuddowla and the conspiracy and betrayal of leaders of East India Company and their native allies and the consequent defeat of Bengalis led by Sirajuddowla in the battle of Plassey and subsequent loss of independence of the entire sub-continent flashed before our eyes as if in montage.
To be continued.