Sylhet Diary (5)

April 27
Today I wandered through 3-4 houses in the Mathiura and Mollapur unions of Bianibazar upazila in Sylhet. Each house a sight to behold! What don't they have? A lake in front, a bridge over it. Deer enclosures inside the house, vast courtyards, crop fields, fruit orchards, flower gardens, regal roads winding up hills to reach the homes, with strategically placed locked barricades along these roads to keep unwanted vehicles from entering. These magnificent dollar-overflowing homes built like royal palaces. These houses, constructed with the most modern and tasteful design, rarely have their owners present; they spend most of their time abroad. Perhaps once or twice a year they visit. The houses sit empty most of the time, though of course there are caretakers. Most people from Sylhet live in London, America, and Europe. Each one owns tremendous wealth. They all have a house back home, along with hotel businesses. They've transformed the very face of Sylhet's villages. This trend strikes me as quite positive.

Here in Bishnath upazila, once a cup of tea sold for 10,000 taka in a bidding war. The competition was over who would get the tea first. If the government allocates 10 taka for building 1 kilometer of road, they add another 10 taka from their own pockets and build 2 kilometers instead. The Department of Social Services can't find poor people to distribute government money to. These aren't made-up stories—they're true.
Today as I was looking at houses in Mathiura and Mollapur unions, I was thinking that even if Mumtaz Mahal had been alive, Shah Jahan could have easily built at least one Taj Mahal if he had gone to London just once. Reading Golam Murshid's 'The Beckoning of Black Waters: History of Bengalis in Britain,' I learned how Bengalis have gone to Britain in pursuit of knowledge through the ages. Coming to Sylhet, I understood how stark the difference is between knowledge-seeking Bengalis who returned from Britain and the wealthy Sylhetis. Looking at a house called 'Malikmahal' made me feel like a complete pauper on the road. I was thinking, while there's still time, let me take up a begging bowl! Now's the time! In this country, when people have lots of money, they build temples and mosques, showy buildings for display; abroad they build educational institutions. Understand the difference!
April 28
One. Going to philosopher G.C. Deb's house, I saw a little child urinating. There's no philosophical explanation for this. The only explanation is that when you need to pee, you pee, whether in public or in hiding. That's not the point. The point is that this world-renowned philosopher's house lying in such neglect is unfortunate for us as a nation. That house no longer exists; now it's someone else's house, occupied by others. There's nothing there to indicate that this great soul was born here.
Right next to it is a primary school. I spent some heartwarming moments with the school children there. Their school uniforms are green. Seeing them, I said, "Except for those without uniforms, the rest of you come take pictures with us." Children love taking pictures. Those without uniforms began making various excuses. Someone's uniform was being washed, someone's was torn. Many such things. Later I took pictures with everyone. How happy they all were! Running around us, jumping as they pleased. These cheerful faces of children are among the most beautiful sights in the world. I found myself laughing loudly without realizing it. The headmaster was also with us. A very gentle, good man.
Going to Kalachand Temple, it's hard to understand that Bianibazar's cultural practice began centered around this temple. This community temple once hosted plays and folk performances. Now there's nothing like that anymore. There's the temple and some simple people who look after it. When we arrived, a very beautiful girl opened the broken wooden and bamboo gate outside the temple. Inside there's an old banyan tree. You can sit on the chariot lying on one side and take pictures. After we finished wandering inside, when we were leaving and thanked the girl, how sweetly she smiled! Such a sweet smile—one could spend this entire brief life just to witness such moments of gratitude.
The Basudev Temple is 500 years old. The Basudev idol made of black stone is still there. The marks of antiquity are clear on the temple walls. The walls remind one of the frescoes of Ajanta-Ellora. Spending a dawn or a fading afternoon in this serene, contemplative environment could be a transcendent, blissful experience. Sitting by the Thakur Dighi pond, I wanted to return to that time centuries ago when scholars of the Pathak community practiced knowledge here. The priest's wife served us bananas as hospitality. I talked with her for a long time. The lady's simplicity was enchanting.
I don't know the history of the Bahadurpur zamindar house. But looking at the surroundings, one can tell that compared to the new London-returned landlords of this area, this zamindar's grandeur was no less. The view of the litchi orchard is worth remembering. The house doesn't have much royal ambience, but still, one could spend a hot Baishakhi afternoon quite comfortably in the shade of the fruit gardens.
I wanted to write more, but I have to stop. No, the mobile hasn't run out of charge. LankaBangla Finance's office car has reached its destination. While writing this wretched piece, I couldn't give much time to the gentleman officer sent for me.
Two. Going from Bianibazar to Sylhet at LankaBangla Finance's invitation to speak as the main speaker at a motivational seminar. The seminar will start at 5 PM at the company's Sylhet office. The officers who missed the BRAC Bank seminar will also be there today. How professionals love to hear life stories! They share their stories too. One learns so much. Sharing is fun!!
April 29
One. The sky is thinking whether to cry or not. No one feels good in such a state. Neither does the sky. Sometimes it does cry a little. That gentle touch of tears makes the morning different. The place where I'm staying is on a hilltop. The area around the Roads and Highways rest house is beautiful. Just stepping out of the room onto the balcony—bougainvillea. Ravi Tagore gave it such a lovely name. Nearby is jasmine. That's the evening queen, whose reign begins after dusk. On cloudy mornings, date palms look so beautiful—I never noticed before. Beneath my feet, on the soft grass, crystal-clear water drops have gathered. I want to touch them, but I don't. Below the hill is a vast field. Some school children are playing there. Catch-catch with a tennis ball, bomb-fight, danguli, and who knows what else. Between the field and hill runs a road. A little girl with purple dress and bright red lipstick, tugging at her mother's sari pallu, walks by with magical eyes. Her eyes hold both fear and wonder.
Going to Borolekha. Will see Madhobkunda waterfall. Along with some palace, Madhobkunda Eco Park, temple, Khwaja Mosque, Mathiura T-State, and of course Hakaluki Haor. On such a tender morning that you can touch, going far into nature's lap feels very joyful. Sylhet's weather is rather unique. Like a girl's mood, it changes every moment. Now drizzling rain, now blazing sun! Blazing sun—didn't that become quite an oxymoron? So be it! What harm is there in making the sun a little more sunny? Let it be blazing, still! Even Sylhet's sun is very sweet.
Went in front of the upazila parishad. The UNO sir has arranged a bus for us. We were supposed to start at 7 AM Bangladesh time—meaning we started at 8 AM. This actually had some benefit. I saw 20-25 monkeys walking through the parishad premises. They climbed a tree, got on the roof, and went somewhere. Monkeys go places. One or two joint families. The monkey family made faces at me. I made faces back. Ah, kinship! Some distance away, white sheep are grazing on the hill. Their babies look so cute! Just seeing them makes you want to pick them up, take a selfie, and upload it to Facebook. All children in the world are beautiful to look at. Whether human or other animals. While blowing on my tea cup and sending away the misty morning with warm steam, waiting for colleagues, I was watching two dogs fight. Most likely a love quarrel.
The car is moving. Along with it, Hindi songs from the '80s are also playing. Calm river, green fields of crops, ponds with water hyacinth, trees like friends, a calf's mouth at its mother's udder with tender affection, piles of hay... the car rushes past. Seeing all this makes the desire to stay in this life grow more intense. I'm thinking and smiling to myself. Suddenly the driver stopped the music. A funeral procession. On one side our joy of returning to life, on the other side the sorrow of departing from life. Life alongside death. Peaceful coexistence. Reminded me—that's the final destination!
I receive at least 150 messages daily. I read them all, but can't reply. It's not possible either. Let me share today's one. A boy wrote: Brother, both my girlfriend and I are huge fans of yours. Tomorrow is her birthday. I promised her that on her birthday I'd lovingly give her a new name that only I would call her by. But I still haven't been able to decide on a name. Could you kindly choose a name for me? . . . I still haven't replied. I can't quite figure out whether it's right to 'lovingly' choose a name for another man's girlfriend! I don't feel like being affectionate toward anyone else's beloved (even at his request)! What should I reply to that simple-hearted fool lover, I'm wondering.
Uff! Why is the road to Madhobkunda so magnificent? Just seeing it makes you want to die of joy!!
Two. Rain! Rain!! The car is rushing toward Mathiura tea garden, passing by Hakaluki Haor. Green everywhere, just green. I want to chew up and swallow all that green! Instrumental music playing in the car! Slow, then super fast! Dancing like mad! Life is beautiful! I feel like going crazy! Uff!!
April 30
One. Going to Sunamganj this evening. I've long wanted to explore Sunamganj. Three pillars of Bengali folk song were born here. Hason Raja, Abdul Karim, Radharaman. We received some of Bengali music's greatest treasures from these three great souls. All from Sunamganj. I'm curious about the secret behind this! I also want to write something about this when I find time.
I'll be there tomorrow, the day after, and the day after that. Well, what places are there to see, to wander around in Sunamganj and its surroundings? Those among my well-wishers, friends, followers, and fans who are in that area can call me at *********** number. We'll meet, chat, and explore together.
Two. I spent some wonderfully beautiful moments at SUST's 'Speakers Club' program. One could live just for such moments. The most joyful thing about being born human is that every person is born with infinite capacity to love. Sometimes even tremendous love makes the heart sad. The strange kind of love and sincerity I received from everyone today—I don't have even a fraction of the worthiness for it. Why does everyone think so well of me?
This only adds to the torment. The torment of being unable to be bad is the greatest torment of all. People's fierce love makes me feel guilty. This guilt — the guilt of not being able to love that deeply in return. The pain of being unable to reciprocate love is vaster than the sky itself. Even hatred cannot cause such anguish.
May 1
An enchanted river. Slender boats. In the half-droplets of a little rain, what does the river's language seem to say? Green fields along the riverbank. Herds of cattle grazing. A cow tenderly nursing her calf. A gentle green drizzle! On the nearby hill, a flock of good-natured white sheep taste life's sweetness in the green sap. Some lambs hop and bound here and there. On the far side of the river, in the crop fields, Rabindranath's tribe of Photiks play football in the rain-soaked sunlight. In the small pond that hasn't yet managed to rival the river, ducks float like white cloud-rafts. In the distance, along the curves of that slender, nameless river's body lies the intoxicating eternal mystery of a woman's form. Along its banks, the color of tender leaves soft with gentle sunlight creates an intoxication in the eyes. A shepherd boy sits on the field's edge, playing pastoral melodies on his flute with carefree rhythm. That tune blends beyond the cloud-covered village nearby, into the enchantment of the hills behind. The radiance of the peasant daughters mingles with the fragrance of golden grain, composing new verses of poetry in the cloudy sun-soaked fields. Against the hill's edge, on a bamboo platform, a robust farmer in his seventies wipes his sweat with a wet towel, while his beloved granddaughter opens a container of jaggery and puffed rice nearby. Across the sky, flocks of kites with golden wings spread wide revel in stories of life, enchanted by the sun. Tree stumps wait by the riverbank to become timber, basking in the sun.
Time's clock ticks along like a farmer's head-count in the fields. With triangular nets, small boys and girls search busily for water's children. Beside their fathers, peasant sons run with kites in hand, shouting. Today is their holiday. Gray finches perched on electric poles bathe in the sun with the bearing of sages, in some profound, thunderous significance. Right beside the road, in a field like a dry courtyard, parallel to the golden threshing floor, rings the victory song of life. An agricultural officer with an umbrella overhead gathers some farmers, explaining something or other. Here and there lie scattered heaps of straw. Around these, herds of cattle graze. Peasant men and women collect rice, threshing it. The neighboring field has ripened to a yellowish green. What a magnificently beautiful sight! A country path runs straight ahead, making the water in two parallel canals different colors. Along that path walks a muscular young peasant with a plow on his shoulder, whistling as he goes. The gentle yellowish-green leaves of the delicate trees sway like Urvashi's flowing hair. In the middle of the marshland, meditative herons search for small fish around the roots of purple water spinach flowers.
Right through the center of all this, our car races toward Sunamganj. With me are some younger brothers born with the infinite capacity to love intensely. A pair of headphones, intoxicating wind, getting lost in country songs and instrumentals while speeding down roads between rows of trees, and the love of some good people. Ah! Even just being alive — how much one ends up receiving!