Sylhet Diary (6)

May 2
One. A lovely morning in Sunamganj. Dewy roads, the surrounding landscape. Trees, people, birds shrouded in clouds. Rain is bound to fall! We're heading to see Tanguar Haor. There's something in literature called personification. From what I've learned about Tanguar Haor, it seems one could personify it and write volumes.

Yesterday I went from Hason Raja's house to Narayantala. You won't find Narayantala if you search Google. Of all the places I've seen in Sylhet so far, none comes even close to its beauty. I'll share photos, but I can bet you won't understand even ten percent of that beauty from pictures, nor will you be able to imagine it. I will write about it, though with my limited knowledge I won't be able to capture any of that ethereal beauty. The most beautiful things cannot be described. Even the most beautiful words in the world fail to do justice to beauty. To write even a quarter of what Narayantala deserves, I'd need to stay there for two days. Have you read "A Mother in Manville"? If Rawlings hadn't stayed in that cottage on the mountain at that time, would we have gotten such vivid descriptions? I see the same shadow in "Postmaster" too. What Rabindranath wrote sitting on his boat on the Padma—there too the role of setting is clear. When I'm traveling, I observe my surroundings and write about them. Reading my writing, don't you take free virtual trips to wherever I am? Later, when I try to write, neither that feeling nor that emotion comes back in the same way. Still, I'll write, when I find time. Not writing about Narayantala would be nothing short of a crime. If necessary, I'll write looking at the photos I took there, recreating the memories. How can it be that there's nothing online about such a place? That our country has such dreamlike beautiful places—making this known to everyone falls within our responsibilities. Right beside it lies a cemetery and memorial for 48 great martyrs. It's called Dolua Memorial. When you're traveling on a packed schedule, forget writing—you don't even get time to upload photos properly.
I'm staying at the Roads and Highways resthouse in Sunamganj (they call it Inspection Bungalow or IB). Rain has started. Going to Tanguar Haor in this rain would be a bit risky. Like other places of unearthly natural beauty in the world, getting there isn't easy either. I returned to the bungalow soaked in rain. My gain since morning has been walking through this rain-drenched town and the hot rotis, dal, fried eggs and tea from a roadside restaurant called Al-Sala-Diya-Dhaka! Wonderful! I'm writing this status while waiting for a sliver of sunshine.
The resthouse caretaker asked, "Sir, what work has brought you here?" I said, "No work, I've come to explore." He raised his eyebrows and said, "Sir, what are you saying! There's nothing here but water and hills!" The caretaker is a man of limited education. Let me leave his words aside. I've seen this attitude among many highly educated people too. Take a waterfall, for instance. Oh, a waterfall! Meaning water falls from above. That's it? So what if you don't see that water? Water is falling, let it fall! Let it be. Then the same people complain with grievance, "Life has become so boring! There's no fun!" What is happiness in life really? Must we necessarily travel many miles spending much money visiting many countries to find it? In my favorite poet Rilke's words, let me share my thought: If you think your life is not beautiful enough to be beautifully described, then I'd say you lack beautiful imagination.
Look at all the play of beauty in life-weary Keats's poetry. Read "Lust for Life." Looking at van Gogh's portraits, how much could you really grasp about his life's tragedy? Countless other people could be mentioned. Read Mobasher Ali's "Shilpir Tragedy" in one breath. Truly, looking at your own life, you'll think—well, I'm doing quite well! Thank God!
There are no clouds outside. All clouds clear eventually. Cloud-broken sunshine is peeking through. I'll head out. On the way to Tanguar Haor... giving writing a break for now!
Two. Set sail from Saheb Bari Ghat by boat toward Tanguar Haor. It'll take 5-6 hours. The boat is huge, a barge. At least 200 passengers could easily travel on it dancing. And we are just 4 people in total. There's a gentleman I know, I told him, "Brother, get a big boat so we don't sink." He did get a big one. But this big! Bravo!!
Dear brothers and sisters! Those of you who wish to join us to Tanguar Haor, come join in groups, in processions! Quota available! Quota available! Only 50 taka for quota holders! 50 taka!! First come, first served! If you bring a DSLR, you'll get 50 taka instead. Unlimited food and drink free!
May 3
One. Rakti River, Jadukata River, Barikka Hill, Tahirpur, Kinshi River, Baulai River, Ansar Camp, the hijal forest of Golabari village and the watch tower—having seen all this, now heading toward Tekerghat and Barochora in the magnificent environment of Tanguar Haor...
I've been with water since yesterday. What I've seen over the past two days cannot be explained in writing. These places are purely for experiencing. Just as it's impossible to answer what fire is like, it's exactly the same here. Here my Sony Xperia Z's camera seems utterly childish compared to the eye. I truly learned what "fathomless water" means by coming here. Strange and wondrous trees, vast grasslands, countless heart-lifting birds, various types of villages, people's curious ways of life, boat-dwelling, rivers changing color, bullock carts, haystacks, grain-threshing, fishing, countless cattle grazing, mystical hills, sun in clouds, all kinds of green—I can't even remember everything else I've seen. Some places surpass even New Zealand. I never dreamed I'd see such scenes face-to-face, beyond wallpapers or Google images. I felt the absence of a DSLR and binoculars every moment. Bearing such beauty is truly difficult! Writing about all this is genuinely arduous! Still, I'll find time to write, I must write, however difficult it may be. I'll have to write looking at the mobile camera photos. During this long boat journey I tried to write, but later realized this story cannot be told hastily. Besides, there's no point stopping the viewing of this incredible beauty to write. Sunamganj is truly unique! O Lord, in my next life, send me to be born from some mother's womb in Sunamganj.
Two. Buitto!!
The plan was to go from Tanguar Haor to Tekerghat and Barochora by river. I was going too. In conversation, I told the boatman I'd finish exploring today and return from Sunamganj via Sylhet to Bianibazar. He suggested getting off at Tahirpur by boat, then taking a bike to Tekerghat and back to Sunamganj by bike would save at least 5-6 hours. Thinking I could spend more time exploring around Tekerghat, I got off at Tahirpur. This benefited the boatman—he got the full fare and tip without going most of the way.
After eating, I arranged a bike. I hired a young man wearing "black sunglasses on a fair face" (later learned he's an elderly boy with youthful appearance. An SSC humanities candidate. Between studies, he drives bikes to earn money for his education). People in this area travel by rental bikes. Road conditions are terrible, bikes are the only option. There are two roads from Tahirpur to Tekerghat. One can't really be called a road. You have to break through mud and water through villages completely. Less road, less petrol needed. This premature boy took that route. Every little while we had to get off and walk through mud. Great suffering! After going quite some distance—knee-deep mud. Getting off the bike, I started watching what the village people were doing. I saw two children who had caught a dragonfly and were making it jump around by holding its wings. I told them to let it go. They did. I told the bike-boy, "Brother, you can't ride this road. Let's take the other road, charge extra if needed."
Meanwhile, I saw that while crossing a pond, he'd lost one sandal. He was searching for the sandal fishing-style. I saw he found another pair of sandals. I said, forget it. Just wear those. He said, no sir, if I lose this, someone will be angry. With great effort, he found it. Ah! Love's name is sorrow! You want to love comfortably, but how does that work? ... No, enough poetry. Back to Buitto. I started chatting with those kids while that poor fellow was frantically searching for his sandal in muddy water, and my mood was getting worse. I wanted to know which class each kid was in. You have to ask them, do you go to school? One small one said, seventh. Looking at his size, I couldn't believe it. My experience says these kids are generally great fibbers. They lie a lot and fool people. Definitely bluffing. Didn't believe it. I said, you're in first or second. Then an over-clever kid who studies in fifth piped up, "No sir, he really is in seventh. He's actually buitto." I didn't understand. What was the kid saying? I saw that kid covering his mouth and pulling him away. The others were giggling with hands over their mouths. My curiosity grew. Asking them repeatedly, I learned that buitto means short compared to age, a shortened form of "bura baitta" (old shorty). I laughed and laughed until I was done!
Going by the other road and writing this status. Alas! This is supposedly a road too! Then why isn't a cockroach a bird? Crossing seven seas and thirteen rivers. Through field boundaries, across haors and wetlands. Often having to get down and push the bike through sandy water. Crossing this pulserat to see beauty. But the scenery around the journey is utterly ethereal!
Arrived. Mind-boggling scenes. Limestone hills, magnificent mounds. The surrounding structures are somewhat different in style. Trees, fields, bushes, sheep herds grazing. Wonderful! Remembering buitto...
Three. Behind us, the Meghalaya hills. The mountain is of stone. Scattered bushes here and there. A little distance away, a mountain stream. Water comes down the hillside with gurgling sounds. In front, several mounds. You want to touch them just looking at them. Like green bedsheets exactly. Some white sheep graze on them. Right below the mounds, pastureland. Calves jumping joyfully. Nearby, old train engines, cannons, tanks. The soft light of late afternoon on haystacks creates what a wonderful golden glow, spreading and spreading. Amidst all this, the lake. The clear water of the lake is blue in places, green in others. Sitting by the lake, grandfathers with snow-white hair have cast their fishing lines. On the hill, a shepherd boy sits playing his flute.
Sitting on a bench in the shade of a tree with delicate, drooping leaves—whose name I don't know—by the lake's edge, watching white swans glide by, I'm filled with such wonder that I can't help but think: how joyful it is to be alive! How extraordinary!
The lake is called Kuari. Named so because it's deep as a well. It looks breathtakingly beautiful! I couldn't describe even a quarter of its splendor. Then I saw the house of a Khasi king. On his grave are written words about Bengal's independence—those very words were his last before death. His name was U Wickliffe Syiem. He studied at Cambridge University. I've grown quite fond of the Khasis. They're very courteous people.
Earlier, I wandered through Lakmaichhara. A mountain stream. Crystal-clear water playing over stones and sand below. The Meghalaya hills. These hills are a marketplace of stones. Leaning against those massive rocks and taking colorful photos would easily get you a hundred likes! Assam lies in that direction. Border areas are naturally beautiful like this. Both heart and eyes find solace. Truly worth seeing. Every so often, pastures like those in New Zealand appear. The Barochhara area is exceptionally beautiful. Beautiful like the soft golden light of late afternoon. The Phanatithi River—its banks seem to speak like a painting! Right beside it are Joynal Chairman's silk cotton and lemon groves. A vast area of strangely soothing, peaceful gardens. The trees are planted with great care in neat squares. You could make the journey here just to take a few photographs. I'll bet that wherever you look in this garden, it'll take quite a while before you can turn your eyes away. Another delightful thing is that no matter where you stand, at whichever corner of the garden, the exquisite arrangement of silk cotton trees on both sides can be perfectly framed in your camera lens. The garden sits on slightly elevated ground. Below it, a little distance away, lies the enchanting sandy shore of the Phanatithi River. Wherever your gaze falls, endless white sand—much like the sandy banks of the Jadukanta River. Spending a moonlit night here would surely leave you moon-struck! You wouldn't even need your beloved to spend one of life's finest evenings in this silk cotton grove. I'm telling you the truth!
Today's weather was absolutely splendid all day long. Perfect for wandering about. I just kept roaming and roaming like a spinning wheel. And Srikanta kept humming in my ear, singing, "I'm feeling good, I'm feeling good; I can't say why..." We're riding the bike back to Sunamganj from Tekerughat. Fields of crops on both sides. Bamboo groves and peanut gardens. This area produces quite a lot of peanuts. Peanuts are spread out to dry on the roads everywhere. So many peanuts scattered all around! Peanut-eating lovers could easily spend several lifetimes making love here. Ah! Just to sit holding someone's hand and eat these peanuts would be reason enough to fall in love!
Well, enough about peanuts. Now for lemons. The bike races against the evening breeze. Every so often, the gentle fragrance of lemons. As if the cool air carries it away completely. That's not the point though. The point is, what can you say about lemons? Chewing lemons while making love doesn't look very appealing. Alright, let me just say it! For the sake of eating such wonderfully fragrant lemon juice mixed with crunchy green chilies and hot rice fresh as newly bloomed flowers, and to ask someone to cook lentils with tender coriander leaves and tomatoes—even for that, one could bring home a bright young wife!
The evening's silence is being violently pierced by the harsh light of headlights and the sound of horns. Damn unromantic insects are flying into my eyes and mouth. Alas! Those envious bugs wouldn't let me enhance my romantic mood any further. On such a moonlit night, these bastards seem determined to make me wear sunglasses! Wait! I'll show you what's what! I'll fall in love and marry a girl who can cook delicious insect soup!
I asked to stop the bike. I want to sit by Shanir Haor and watch the moonlight. Someone a little distance away is singing an unfamiliar local folk song through their nose. Walking along the field boundaries, I'm bathing myself in moonlight and singing... "The dam of the moon's laughter has burst..." The bike has started up. We need to set off again right now. Otherwise we'll miss the bus back to Sylhet.