Each corner of Bangladesh excels in its own way. Every place has its own unique characteristics and diversity that make it feel different from the rest. Take, for instance, what we mean by an organized city—Rajshahi is the best by that measure. Or if you think in terms of natural beauty, Chittagong is the first that comes to mind. Mountains, forests, even the sea! You could spend this entire small snippet of life with just these three! Only Sylhet can come close to Chittagong's beauty, stand right beside it, and dare to say, "I'm just like that too!" Being born in Bangladesh and dying without seeing Sylhet makes no sense at all. Any of us could join the ranks of the 'no longer here' at any moment. Just take today's earthquake! If I had woken up this morning to find myself dead, what would that have been like? What's the point of living by calculations anyway? Nothing but hot air. Some calculating fools live floating around with a heap of regrets like cotton candy in the wind. Living this way, calculating survival after survival, at some point you meet a terribly miscalculated death. That's it! What if, before dying, you think, "Damn it all! Everything's over? I never really lived at all!" Then what?
A dialogue from Braveheart comes to mind right now: Every man dies, not every man really lives. These words aren't for those who live by careful calculations. When I see the fuss-making careerists, I feel a quiet pity for them. They sit there with ten-year plans laid out, yet have no idea how to spend the next ten minutes. I'm very fond of something the Buddhist monks of Tibet say: Tomorrow or the next life—which comes first, we never know. I've decided I won't join that rat race. I don't want to be anyone's competitor. I learned from my father that defeating someone who competes with no one is the world's most difficult task. I'll keep winning by losing for as long as I live!
Another thing. I wrote the entries in this Sylhet diary on my Nokia C2 handset. During travels or sitting in some office, I posted them on Facebook, along with my laptop when I had it with me.
April 14
Woke up to the phone ringing; Mother's call.
Heard, said, received, gave some more "Happy New Year" greetings.
At Roads & Highways' invitation, I had panta rice with mashed potato, mashed eggplant, dried fish curry. When the food is good, the world is good!
Then went to Scholars Home School & College. The children performed so beautifully! Those little darlings are so cute! I wanted to pinch their cheeks till they went all loose!
Now I'm on MC College campus. All around me is nothing but celebration, joy, and love. Everyone is colorful!
In a little while I'll go to Sanskrit College. Then to SUST. Along with some super-cool younger brothers and sisters, friends, fans, followers.
What's happening is that so many people are coming and hugging me. So many people know me!! In all this love, the creases in my panjabi are getting ruined. Ah! Love is such a beautiful thing! The problem is, not everyone ruins the panjabi's creases. The ones whose crease-ruining would feel good—there's no sign of them! What was the point of ironing this panjabi with such care? Is this the love I had asked for?
April 20
# Happiness is... being invited as a special guest to a program where Jafor Iqbal Sir is the chief guest. I'm sitting beside Sir at BRAC Bank's New Year celebration. They say they'll let me speak too. Am I dreaming? Is it even possible to say anything in this situation? Everything feels so strange!
# Tonight from 8 PM, just for Sylhet friends, I'll be speaking on FM-105 at the invitation of Bangladesh Betar, Sylhet Center. I feel like calling it a mini career chat. I'll tell the story of going from nobody to somebody. Jannat and Shubho will host. If anyone has questions for me, you can post them on the 105 fm Facebook page, or send messages too.
April 21
Jafor Sir bent his head down and began properly arranging the long sheet that had been spread on the floor for everyone to sit on. The sofas we were supposed to sit on needed to be moved back. Everyone was waiting for someone from the staff to come and move them. Jafor Sir got up and started moving them himself. After that, you can't just sit with your hands folded. Great people don't embarrass you, yet their greatness makes you feel ashamed. I told Anupda, "Dada, I feel so out of place next to Jafor Sir. I really won't be able to say anything. Let me go sit with the audience instead." I was shrinking into such embarrassment. Then Dada introduced me to Jafor Sir, Yasmin Madam, Kamal Sir, and several other distinguished people from Sylhet. Sir is the chief guest at the program, and we are special guests. Among the special guests, I'm the youngest—the others are almost twice my age.
Jafor Sir's humility is enchanting. He speaks to people with tremendous respect—I had no right to receive even a fraction of that from him. A cake was cut at BRAC Bank's New Year program. Children see cake and think, birthday cake. Why break such a beautiful, innocent, happy mistake? Sir didn't break it either. He cut the cake with the children saying "Happy Birthday," fed cake to everyone, ate some himself.
While giving his speech, Sir was saying, "The other day on Pahela Baishakh, one of my students said, 'Sir, all these people saying "Happy New Year, Happy New Year"—ask them what year it is in Bengali, many won't be able to tell you.'" Sir said, "We don't use Bengali dates that much, so not knowing this isn't really a fault. Like, if you think about how August feels, nothing comes to mind. But if Bhadro month comes to mind, I immediately feel that sticky heat. That doesn't mean I've never experienced August." I was mesmerized listening! This is the attitude! Great people don't mind small, unnecessary things—they don't have time for all that. Sir said, "There's a difference between the English New Year and ours. I've seen theirs comes with a kind of frenzy, while ours comes through a peaceful, sacred atmosphere. However, this year was the first exception. This is very unfortunate. Our mutual respect is diminishing. Our girls also need to be more aware. When such unwanted incidents happen, instead of hiding it, we must seek remedy."
Jafor Sir's wife, Yasmin Madam, said in conversation, "You invited Sir to your bank's program, but he doesn't understand anything about banking. I have to handle all that." Ah! I felt so good knowing this. Why should I have to know everything in the world? Things that don't interest me, or that I can get by without knowing—I won't know them, won't listen to them. I had planned to say many things, but after standing up, I couldn't say much. Perhaps you can't say that much standing before great people. Yesterday's program was very well organized. Everyone at BRAC Bank was taking great care with everything. Seeing all this reminded me of Jafor Sir's "Shanta Poribar." I mentioned that when giving my speech. Kamal Sir also speaks wonderfully. Shawon-da was anchoring. Dada, I'm asking you: how did you learn to speak to people with such respect? Dada, learning this art is so difficult! Then there was eating and drinking, conversation with Jafor Sir. I didn't even dare to say, "Sir, I'd like to take a picture with you." Jafor Sir and Yasmin Madam suggested it themselves: "Come, let's take a picture." I was once again enchanted and embarrassed by this humility.
The clock was approaching eight. The music was about to start. We came downstairs. I had to leave right after hearing the first song. I was supposed to speak on a program at Bangladesh Betar, Sylhet Center at eight. I was running late.
I went to radio, spoke live. Countless posts and messages were coming to the FM-105 Facebook page and the mobile number that was given. Jannat and Shubho were hosting. They said yesterday's posts and messages were far more than any other time. I felt so good seeing Sylhet friends' enthusiasm. It wasn't possible to answer everyone's questions—I tried to say as much as I could. There were countless good wishes, thank you messages. I spoke from eight-twenty to nine, quarter to ten to almost quarter to nine. Mini career chat, some life stories. Beautiful songs in between—my favorites, listeners' favorites; there was playful banter too, I sang a little. Assistant Director Prodip-da of the radio stayed till the end. Gias and many others came to visit. They sat through the whole time too. Getting heart-warming words from listeners, everyone's hospitality at the radio, and telling the magical story of being alive—yesterday's radio moment was dreamlike in all this enchanting spell. The radio car dropped me home at night. The program was recorded. I'll upload the audio clip when I get it.
Yesterday the bus stopped in Sylhet at eight in the morning. I returned to my room, freshened up, and went to the office. After lunch, I met two friends. Without giving any prior notice, I went to their bank and surprised them. We chatted over yogurt, coffee, and biscuits. Then I met two more friends at Polar Ice Cream in Madhubon. Then back to the office. Anup-da sent a car at five. I finished office at five-thirty, got in the car, the BRAC Bank program was at six. I went. The respect I received—I'm not worthy of that much at all. After the radio program at night, I returned to my room. I talked a lot, listened a lot. Lots of photo-taking happened too. In almost every picture I look completely like a gentleman. For no reason at all, I went to office yesterday morning looking like Mofiz. A line from Phantom comics comes to mind: Even God envies our extraordinary good fortune.
April 22
Brother, why are you eating so many invitations? Eat less, dry out a bit. If you get too fat, you'll look all bloated. You don't need to reduce eating too much. If you get too thin, the manly vibe will disappear.
Also, try to get a bit darker. Such a fair boy looks girlish. You could do another thing. No need to get darker—just keep a light beard, don't shave, just trim it, and a killer vibe will emerge.
What do girls actually want???
April 23
At Dining Bus- Spice N Ice
I came, I sat.
Waiter: Sir, is madam coming?
Me: I don't know that, brother. Why, can't I eat without madam?
The poet said, if no one comes when you call, then eat alone! (Though I didn't call anyone!)
This restaurant is like a bus, or the bus is like this restaurant.
April 24
Green carpets on both sides. The night rain's impression doesn't easily fade from tea gardens. Just looking at the morning's sparkling blue sky makes the heart feel good.
I remember Nilaohit: the sky never grows old. . . . In ‘Sudur Jharnaar Jale’ the young man wished for someone to exist, someone to whom he could write at least one letter. I too feel like writing a letter, a sweet letter, with all of myself woven into it. I would send it in a blue envelope, even if it never reaches its destination . . . but alas! To whom would I write?! . . . The other side is an expanse of fields that makes me want to lose myself in them at first glance. This side of town awakens a little late. Gentle sunlight caresses the distant hills, pushing aside the shadows of clouds. There, green life stands suspended. Walking along this Bholaganj-Gowainghat road, I find myself remembering more and more the beautiful paved road of Lakkatura and Malinichara that we left behind a little while ago. This stretch is quite rough and uneven. As if some enormous one-eyed giant had walked this path just moments before. This is a kingdom of stone, a stone palace. Fragments and heaps of stone scattered everywhere. The businesses that have grown up around here are all about stone. Breaking stone, exchanging stone, selling stone. The stone trade has flourished, with stony people moving about everywhere. In the brick kilns, bricks are burning, human labor is burning. Noah bounces along beside the Shari river. From the speakers bounce Sunny Leone, Atif, Arijit, Shreya. How beautifully they bounce! Sun, Fox, and Mum—not hunger, but the desire to eat being satisfied.
On both sides, rows of serene trees with bowed heads, their robust white-and-black bodies. In the distance, that little ink-stained village under tree shadows, wrapped in clouds. Right behind the village rise the green-grey hills. That’s where the clouds nest. I feel a tremendous urge to rush there, and the more I look, the stronger the urge grows. Scattered here and there, handfuls of silvery happiness. Across the green fields, red-white-black cattle graze, like a pastoral scene. It reminds me of that scene from ‘The Sound of Music’ where the girl danced and sang across such a green field, swaying in the wind to the tune of flutes. Or Wordsworth’s solitary reaper. In the canal on this side, two siblings are sieving small fish through a cloth. White ducks beat their wings, and water droplets merge into the body of sunlight. In the courtyard of the farmer’s house, golden rice dries on mats. Stopping the car repeatedly, click click with borrowed colors and styles! Old grandmothers look toward the fields at a group of mischievous naked boys and laugh with toothless grins. With what tremendous joy they dance, some settling their life’s debt to that football. Our little river winds its way… from that river, a village woman returns with a pitcher under her arm. Seeing all this, I think, just to witness such a day, one could live!
On the way to Bichanakandi . . . drawn by the stony river . . .
A quiz for friends: Rabindranath’s ‘our little river’ in ‘Amader Chhoto Nadi’ is indeed one of our rivers. Can you tell which river it is?
April 26
One. Biyanibajar? Or Biranibajar? Doesn’t it seem confusing? This place is the birthplace of our beloved philosopher G.C. Dev. He was killed on the night of March 25th. He was a simple, humble man with a great heart, non-communal in spirit. His collected works have been published by Bangla Academy. Reading them, one realizes that if the Pakistani brutes hadn’t killed this man that day, he could have taken the philosophy of this subcontinent to another height altogether. His creations are comparable to those of the greatest Western philosophers. Our misfortune—many of our dreams were murdered. The place where G.C. Dev was born cannot be called just any name. Let it become a story, shall we?
This happened long ago. At that time the zamindari system was in full swing. Krishna Kishor Pal Chaudhuri, son of Harekrishna Roy Chaudhuri, the first Roy Bahadur of the Sylhet region, established a market for the convenience of the local people. Wild animals often frequented that market. But it was somewhat safer in the early morning. So people would finish their market shopping early in the morning. Gradually the market became known as the morning market. In the local language, very early morning is called ‘bihan’. Since the market operated at ‘bihan’, it became known as Bihanibazar. Through common usage, ‘Bihani’ changed to ‘Biyani’. Thus today’s Biyanibajar.
I’m going to Biyanibajar for two weeks, as part of my training. I’ve heard it’s the most aristocratic area of Sylhet, where the wealthiest people live. Friends! Who among you is there? Raise your hands. We’ll meet, chat, wander around, have such fun!
The road to Biyanibajar is extraordinarily beautiful! Green on both sides, a gleaming road in the middle. Every so often we encounter vast undulating terrain—some parts cultivated fields, some wetlands, some wasteland. I wonder, do they become haors during the rainy season? Oriental classics play in the car. The silvery wings of morning sunlight gently touch my eyes and drift away . . .
Two. I visited the Sheola-Sutarkandi border. The surroundings are quite lovely for spending an afternoon. Mujtaba’s customs officer is also there; mostly coal comes through this way. Rows of trucks wait, either to go that way or come this way. Welcome to India, zero kilometers, here Bangladesh border ends, stop, checkpoint . . . seeing these makes me want to stand and click photos. On both sides, nature’s unearthly play. The single line of barbed wire structure reminds me of Felani. I feel like thinking, oh! If the whole world were just one country! When you visit border areas, the first thought that comes to mind is: what would happen if I crossed the border?—this human tendency is eternal. Well, what does it feel like to break rules? Let me break them just a little and see! Reading Hobbes and Thoreau, I learn that this aspect of humanity, thousands of years old, hasn’t changed yet; it never will.
Now I’ve come to Basudev Temple. Quite an old temple. The mark of antiquity is everywhere. It would take time to describe the entire atmosphere. I’ll only say this much—century-old structures are truly wonderful for spending a morning or an evening! Such an atmosphere around can suddenly come alive, whether there’s someone to talk to or not, one can still talk!
Three. Sitting on the stone steps by the pond at Baropal, one can spend a lovely twilight hour! This soft light is so sweet, so sweet! The play of light reminds me of so many things! Does it make me forget too, perhaps? In the late afternoon light, the leaves of trees somehow draw me closer! Looking at the trees by the pond, I keep feeling I know them, I know them! Whose reflection is that in the pond water? Could it be hers, lost so long ago?