Spectator's Notes

Skills Development: A High Priority for Economic Progress

2010-11-23T02:15:00.000-08:00

The economy is feeling the pinch of the worldwide financial meltdown, with the GDP growth rate sliding from 6.6 per cent in 2005-2006 to 6.4 per cent in 2006-07, 6.2 per cent in 2007-08, and 5.9 per cent in 2008-09. The decelerating economic growth has been attributed by the Asian Development Bank to a 'slowdown in the export-based industry and a decline in remittance as the financial crisis is panning out across the world'. The industrial growth rate has nosedived from a spectacular peak of 9.7 per cent in 2005-06 to 5.9 in 2008-09 and the remittance growth rate has plummeted from 32.4 per cent in 2007-08 to a mere 22.4 per cent.

Besides the worldwide recession, one of the key reasons for this dismal scenario identified by the country's chambers and leading trade bodies, industry stakeholders, think-tanks, donors as well as policymakers is an acute dearth of skilled labour resulting in low productivity and inadequate export of skilled manpower, which would have seen a much higher remittance inflow. In other words, there is a considerable gap between the number and mix of skilled manpower required by local and foreign employers and that delivered by the country's educational system. There are few people in the country's labour market with appropriate technical/vocational qualifications. The 2002-03 Labour Force Survey (LFS) estimated only 53,000 such men and 5,000 such women. For every single person in the labour force with a technical/vocational qualification there were more than 104 others who had completed SSC or HSC and 34 others who had gone onto a university degree or higher. Besides, the LFS reported 34 per cent of the labour force as underemployed.

Similarly, over 50 lakh Bangladeshis are working abroad remitting nearly USD$ 6 to 7 billion annually and making a significant contribution to the country's revenues and GNP growth. But the skill composition of workers overseas has become skewed towards semi-skilled and unskilled workers over time. About 48 per cent of the workforce leaving for the overseas market between 1976 and 2007 was unskilled, semiskilled workers accounted for 15 per cent, skilled workers 33 per cent, and professionals 4 per cent. This may be due to employers in foreign countries feeling that Bangladeshi workers lack appropriate skills. While new opportunities for export of skilled and unskilled human resources are opening up all over the world, Bangladesh is ill-equipped to capitalise on these opportunities and their positive development effects unless the appropriate skills development efforts are mounted.

Aside from the global language and digital divide, Bangladesh also suffers from a rural-urban education divide and a male-dominated labour force, creating a segmented society. According to the LFS 2005-06, the labour force in the country comprises 6.03 crore people of which 62 per cent is male and 38 per cent female, with a huge number of 3.51 crore people (57 lakh male and as many as 2.94 crore female) of the 15+ age group remaining outside the force. About 5.81 crore (96.3 per cent) of the labour force is engaged in income generating activities while 22 lakh (3.7 per cent) is unemployed. The number of employed people aged 15+ under professional and technical category is only 22 lakh. Moreover, working children are of a major concern as they account for almost 10 per cent of the national workforce but have no access to quality skills development programmes.

According to the Ministry of Education, there are a total of 2,728 (180 public and 2,548 private) institutions in the country offering technical and vocational education and training (TVET) to 241,336 students a year. Yet, for a quiet long time now, private sector employers at various forums have been finding the country's TVET system not that responsive to the demand side, meaning not really customised for the jobs available in economic sectors. A World Bank assessment says, formal providers of TVET 'do not have strong linkages with the private sector employers that drive the changing patterns of labour demand, nor do they have proper incentives to build those connections, which would ensure that skill development courses are relevant and useful to both graduates and employers.' There are also a number of NGOs and donor-funded projects/programmes/institutions like BRAC, Katalyst, PRICE, UCEP, CAMPE, ASHRAI, etc that are working to generate skilled workers suitable for job placement at various industries, but their efforts are not large or comprehensive enough to make that much of a difference at the national level.

PROGRESS, a joint programme of the Bangladesh Ministry of Commerce and the German Federal Ministry of Economic Cooperation and Development, implemented by Deutsche Gesellschaft für Technische Zusammenarbeit (German Technical Cooperation) or GTZ, that assists partners, especially Bangladesh Garment Manufacturers' and Exporters' Association (BGMEA) and Bangladesh Knitwear Manufacturers' and Exporters' Association (BKMEA), in productivity improvement and skill development, notes, 'In a highly competitive global market, the lack of suitably qualified workers and mid-level managers is a key constraint to the growth and diversification of Bangladesh’s export-oriented readymade garment (RMG) sector. The industry-desired shift from simpler to more sophisticated and high value products cannot be accomplished without up-skilling the labour force. Moreover, shortage of skills holds back productivity and respectively, workers’ incomes.' BGMEA has already set up the BGMEA Institute of Fashion & Technology, which is now running in top gear, to address the sector's need for highly skilled manpower, especially at managerial level.

The stakeholders of another vital industrial sector—leather—at a workshop hosted by the International Labour Organization (ILO) in Dhaka on June 11, 2009 in a 'Future Forecasting of Employment and Skill Requirement' put the estimated number of skilled workers required by the leather sector at 430,000 in 2008-09 with a projected demand for 721,800 workers in 2012-13. In a SWOT analysis the workshop identified lack of skilled manpower/training facilities and lack of industry-based training facilities as two of the major weaknesses faced by all the three subsectors – leather, leather goods and footwear. Each of the subsectors is suffering from a minimum of 10 per cent shortage of skilled workers and, so, the workshop adopted an action plan attaching top priority to industry-based training for generating skilled manpower for the sector.
The scenario of demand and supply of skills is more or less same as above across the private sector that led the ILO to initiate the Technical and Vocational Education and Training (TVET) Reform Project in cooperation with the Government of Bangladesh and funded by the European Commission. The project is aimed at reducing poverty through reforms to the TVET system that would 'enable more people to acquire employable skills and thus generate income through wage-earning jobs or self-employment. The target groups of the project, the first of its nature in Bangladesh, include the GoB, the Department of Technical Education, Bangladesh Technical Education Board, public TVET institutions, polytechnic institutions, private technical schools and centres, and NGOs delivering training. The final beneficiaries are the employers, the under-privileged, regular TVET students and graduates, and trade unions.
The expected outcomes of the project are:
• New national TVET policy that will allow the TVET system to function more effectively at the central and decentralised levels
• New national qualifications framework for TVET
• New skill standards and curriculum in priority occupations
• New quality assurance arrangements for training organisations
• Enhanced links between industry and TVET
• Strengthened TVET institutions through improved knowledge and skills of managers and teachers
• Improved skills development resulting in enhanced productivity and competitiveness in key growth and export-oriented industries in the formal industrial sector and
• Increasing access of underprivileged groups to TVET
To start with, the TVET Reform Project has selected the following sectors and occupations to facilitate skill generation for:
1. Agro-Food Processing: food technician, packaging technician, and baker
2. Transport Equipment (ship building and bicycle): welder, electrician, and fitter
3. Leather & Leather Products: supervisor, machine maintenance, technician, and machine operator
4. Information Technology: graphic designer, web developer, IT support technician, and software testing technician
The project, in association with a local policy consultative group, has also prepared a draft National Skills Development Policy, especially as there appears to be a consensus among the economic analysts and stakeholders of the private sector that if Bangladesh wants to retain, let alone enhance, its competitiveness in the world market, it should go for an action plan for skill development and make budgetary allocations for implementing it. The Bangladesh Better Business Forum voices this consensus thus: 'a Human Resource Development Policy that focuses on would-be migrant workers, on companies and their workforce and in particular women, will enable Bangladesh to attain increases in workers productivity, efficiency, value-added operations, competitiveness and ultimately innovation, both in the domestic and international markets.' The issue is of a high priority also because Bangladesh's competitors in export markets, including giants like India and China, have already adopted such policies and plans and are way ahead in implementing them.

Café of Male Weeping

2010-11-23T02:02:00.000-08:00

Ebadur Rahman

Read, and show me how well can you read. – Swami Vibekananda

Translator’s Note:
This short story is unique in a number of ways including its form and content. The writer has experimented heavily with the Bangla syntax, breaking away from many norms, especially those related to punctuation by omitting the marks where they are customarily used and putting them where not. In Bangla this does not hamper the readability as much as it does in English. So, in a number of instances I had to insert them for the sake of readers’ comprehension and readability. Although I did try my best to remain faithful to the original linguistic style, I was also compelled in some sentences to mention the subjects, which were missing in the Bangla text, but all the while keeping the flow and flavour of the ‘Pung Kannar Café’ intact. In fact, I had to invent a narrative style in English to construct a near identical English twin of Ebadur’s offbeat Bangla write-up that is one of a kind and infuses a fresh though somewhat delinquent and wild blood into the contemporary Bangla prose. Finally, I request the readers to keep in mind, while reading this story, what Chateaubriand, a famous 19th century French politician, diplomat, and writer, said, ‘An original writer is not one who imitates nobody, but one whom nobody can imitate,’ and so be merciful if you find any lapse in the translated text. - Azfar Aziz

Introduction
Sis and I are basically fun-loving. There are real elephants in our elephant shed. When we lived in New York, we had horses in the stable. We rode in the Central Park at dawn. But, when our plane was about to take off, I was chewing a gum to shake off the nervousness. My dental filling came apart. I realise then and there I am on the rocks. The life of milk and honey, of overindulgence we have been living is over and done with. Has anyone ever been tormented like this, in this world? What pains! Darkness envelops me from all sides.
It pains even to talk. I moan—ah-ah, uh-unh—in a low voice trying to catch Finney’s attention. We are travelling in G class. The seats are set far apart. Plus, Finney is listening to some French hip-hop with her ears plugged with earphones. Totally spaced out.
A handsome boy is there at the other end of the aisle. At first Finney did not pay any attention to him, him being a Bengali. But, since the evening, I find her flirting with him. Says, what do you know? He is Sheikh Rehana’s son, studying at Yale.
I hold out my hand with much pain; and poke at Finney’s ribs. It gives her a jolt. She wields a heavy bottle of Perrier to strike me down. Says you dolt! How dare you. Will you stop or must I stop you once and for all?
I say, sis… I can’t bear the toothache any more. Don’t you know how sensitive I am… look at me; see how awfully my jaws have swollen.
Finney has an unprecedented rapport with the cabin crew. Every few minutes, I see one or other is coming to her and sharing Swiss Colony Baklava, macadamia nuts, ice tea.
I say please call in the hostess for a moment. That blond one, with grey eyes. They surely have some nitrous oxide here. Please do make some special request for me. I don’t have the nerve to ask for it myself. You know mu shyness. Please Finney…
Finney says die, drop dead; why don’t you? All through life, you keep bitching and moaning… I! I! I! My pains! My sorrows! Everyone in the world has to sympathise with you, hah? All have to suffer along with you. How anyone can be so selfish! My ears have rotten from hearing your incessant whining… can’t stand it any more.
A German man asks Finney how many languages she knows. He has heard our talks and has already heard Finney speaking in three lingoes. The man and his daughter have fun talking to Finney; they bubble with laughter.
Finney is in seventh heaven; has gained some attention—says, wait man, wait for a while… I’m completely at ease with French and Spanish vernaculars. I know some German, Dutch, and Greek, also Arabic, Hindi, Urdu, and Punjabi. I have graduated from high school only at 15. Received the mayor’s award, under which I stayed in Italy for eight months. That was the time when I picked up the Italian, too.
When Finney smiles, a dimple appears in her left cheek only. Her large eyes are sparkling. Everyone is completely devastated.
I think, now!
I tilt my head to one side. I heave. Slowly I throw up all the food I have eaten since the morning. My new Armani shirt is ruined. The floor is flooded with the vomit. I keep on groaning.
From my conversations with the blond hostess, we discover I had met her sister. The girl used to study at Juilliard. We took lessons in violin together, from Avrafim Schwartz.
The hostess tells me her sister has abandoned music. She has bagged the leading role in a new film of Larry Clark.
I say don’t be upset. It’s bound to happen to anyone living in New York for too long. At least, she has not taken to drugs. Don’t take it otherwise, but to the Euro trash Junk Frank is now all the rage.
The hostess girl grabs my hand in alarm. I console her. She brings a warm wet towel. Brings cologne, and sponges my body, washes my face with care, gives me a painkiller, and even feeds me hot soup with a spoon.
I discuss modern painting with the German man. I quote Walter Benjamin. He highly praises my accent. He is going to Dhaka to work, at a food aid project of the USAID. Brita is his daughter’s pet name. She is real smart. She tells me her name; then, with a flirtatious look, says: Und mit wem habi’ch die ehre? And to whom have I the honour of talking? She is studying at the King’s College. But she is still very young. To her Oxford is groovy. But every summer, she must travel abroad with her father, only the third world. Because, she admits, we have a fascination for the third world scenarios. The self-generated revolutionary inside my humble self becomes appeased at that—I give her a collection of post-modern poems to read. She is highly impressed. Lovely girl!
God knows how the two and a half days pass. The KLM plane, flying via Amsterdam, may be Bahrain and such places, finally lands in Dhaka. I have survived by seeping diet Pepsi and soups with straws. But I am feeling happy.
I ask Finney to arrange a wheelchair for me, trained medical personnel to carry me. What’s the use of walking in the crowd? There is no meaning in brushing my ass with that of the public without any reason.
Finney turns furious, is about to explode. She bites her nails, bids farewell to all with a smile. A lot of telephone numbers are being exchanged, profusely, with tearful eyes. I hand over my heavy cabin luggage to her. Let her carry it. After all, she is my elder sister. She retorts, dick wad! Let me get off this plane; then we have things to settle. You’ve gone too far… so, are you going home empty-handed? Should I call the blond hostess? Wouldn’t you give her a farewell kiss? It seems she has taken to you pretty well!
I say what are you talking; ain’t she much older than me?
You think everyone is like you?
She says, shut up. I understand. I know all about your balls. You even mumble ‘mom, mom’ thrice just to ask for a painkiller. Better, let me call the fat German girl. That’s your right calibre. You’ve nothing better than that for you, in this life. She’s rich though. Have you noticed? The Rolex on her wrist: Oyster Perpetual, 17 jewels, white gold. The new Donna Karan snickers? The price is at least 350 dollars.
I look around. No one probably has come to the airport to pick us up.
Finney herself collects my Luis Vuitton suitcase from the conveyer belt.
We then see chhoto ma and our driver Amir bhai in the airport compound. Fine.
I have an impulse to run to chhoto ma and hug her. But I don’t. Finney avoids her straightaway, looking in another direction. She whispers this sinister woman has appeared even here. Why? Where’s abbi?
Amir bhai says, sir couldn’t make it today. Bank meeting. Hassles. After dropping you home, I’ll have to rush again to Motijheel.
Chhoto ma wets my face with too many kisses. I smell hard candy lipstick on her. Her hair is untied. She is wearing a shalwar-kamis bought from Dressy Dale, a pair of Taver thong sandals, and glittering pink nail polish.
Amir bhai brings a trolley. Finney is holding the cabin luggage with both the hands. While placing it in the trolley, she drops it on chhoto ma’s feet, bruising the little toe. It bleeds a little.
O Lord! I see a new Toyota Land Cruiser has been bought. Bottle green and very roomy.
A traffic jam is there even on the airport premises. Amir bhai kills the engine, pushes back his cap.
Finney says, hey Amir, turn up the AC. Finney is chain-smoking Marlborough lights. She continuously turns on and off her Zippo lighter, Air Corps—with the emblem of the 73rd Airborne Division on it.
Near Mohakhali, Finney opens the huge window of the vehicle, sticks out her head, and spits right in the body of a schoolgirl, for no reason at all, says ishsh, it seems Dhaka is losing its scenic attractions.
A brand new apartment, just eight months old. We had seen it before only in photos. Now we find it is so large that when we speak the sound reverberates.
As soon as I enter Taltal runs to me. She brushes her face against my belly, and wants to be fondled again and again. She smells sweet, of Johnson’s Baby Lotion.
I whisper in her ears, enough, don’t be too lovey-dovey. Now go to Finney, show her some love, too. She’s in a mood. She has never been without ma.
Fahad’s mother rings. How I’m. She misses me a lot. Fahad has gone to Ameen sir’s house to study economics. He would be able to contact me in the afternoon. Khuda Hafidj.
Finney lashes out at chhoto ma, how dare you shift my things to the guestroom? How dare you give my childhood bed to Taltal? Who has disarranged my book cabinet? Hah? You listen well; you’re nothing but a third person in this house. Don’t try politicking with me…
Finney opens the door of the fridge with a bang, which smashes against the cupboard. She says where is Yoo-hoo, chhoto ma? Don’t you know I eat cereal with chocolate milk? How am I going to survive now? Have you planned to starve us to death? Another thing, get some Snapple; what are these rubbish bread spreads you’ve stacked the racks with... throw these foul cheese-meese from Crafts away, we don’t eat generic food. Get some organic romaine lettuce from Whole Food, some fresh carrots, cucumbers, and tomatoes, frothed cheese, brie and such things, and also some fat-free blue cheese salad dressing from Thaozao Island. Also get some oil vinaigrette, Caesar dressing, sour French rye breads… how I wish to have some éclairs now!... We have some milk in the afternoon. Ma serves us scones with milk and honey. We’re used to that.
Taltal jumps up and down on the sofa. Chhoto ma scolds her. Says stop it… it seems the fever has remitted a bit.
Chhoto ma feels the temperature in her forehead. Taltal says, Noor! Noor! I’ve a fever. I had a math mock yesterday but I missed. Fever has become endemic everywhere. Season change. I’ve to eat lots of vitamin C.
Today Fahad introduces me to Robin. He is quite old, a third-batch student of the North-South. He is roaming with us. He plays guitar, keyboard, too. The newspapers, he claims, are making a big thing of their band’s album. Finney says the boy is very cute. She wants to know if he really is a state minister’s son. I say yes.
Amir bhai has given me daddy’s Lexus to drive around for a while. It’s real smooth to drive. In the morning, I find people sleeping in the median of Manik Mia Avenue. I have dyspepsia. Chhoto ma leaves a potpourri of wilted flowers in my bathroom. A heavy smell of pine oil pervades the air all the while. I weep for sometime sitting in the bathroom. I feel miserable.
Abbi wants to know when ma last took me to a dentist. Noor, he asks.
The last time abbi was in America on business, he had have a hi-fi hair plug done from Florida. Fifty dollars per hair. His teeth are capped with porcelain. They look ridiculous.
Early last month, a few days after my arrival in Boston, two of my teeth were worked on. A holistic dentist is there, a friend of ma.
No, I tell abbi, it has been quite a long time I visited any dentist. I put on a brace when I was in the third grade. That was the last time.
A wide-eyed Finney says what a bluff!
Abbi says Finney, why are you sitting so indecently? Ain’t you old enough? Put your legs down from the sofa and sit properly.
Abbi makes me open my mouth; asks me to show him the infected teeth with my tongue.
He says the gum is also swollen red… did your ma give you the cheque I sent by Rini for you last month?
I say which cheque? I can’t remember. What are you talking about…
Finney and I exchange looks.
The street in front of our complex is pockmarked with trenches. Chhoto ma’s car appears at the gate. I see abbi’s metallic grey Lexus goes out through the gate, stops for a moment; he gives some instructions to chhoto ma, and then speeds away leaving behind a trail of dust.
Like the olden houses, there is a large concrete compound illuminated with subtle lighting between the buildings at our housing complex. A fountain. A marble pool. In it numerous tiny, yellow, artificial ducks are floating on the water. The four sides of the pool are covered with synthetic matting.
The swimming pool enclosed with wire netting is dry. A number of kids are practising skating on its sloping floor. Some girls are racing BMXs. They wave and say hi to chhoto ma.
The parents of Shamim uncle of the eighth floor are relaxing on a bench. Seba aunty and some other residents I don’t know, who were power-walking in the compound, come at the elevator door and talk to chhoto ma.
The complete resemblance between Taltal and me causes people’s eyebrows to rise. She says, Noor, have you brought the Golden Eye-3 I saw you have. She’s an RPG (role-playing game) freak, phoned me time and again to tell me what games I should bring for her. And she reminded me about them on one thousand nights.
I say which world are you living in? Does anyone play Golden Eye, nowadays? It’s totally extinct. The graphics are prehistoric. I’ve brought Half Life. Try it, you’ll be totally stunned.
Taltal asks, hey Noor, tell me is X-box better or Sony Play Station-2?
I say, X-box, what good is that? What a stupid question.
She says, shame, man, you’re totally frumpish. Everyone knows Play Station-2 is how very cool.
Grandma rings. Says, give me Shonima.
I tell her chhoto ma has gone out to work.
Grandma gives a wolfish laugh. How much she must care for you! Anyone can show affection in mere words. You come after so many days and she doesn’t even feel any necessity to take a leave.
I say we are all going together to Kolkata during the puja, may be not Abbi, but many of us are.
Grandma says that women can’t stop showing off.
I say, grandma, will you talk to Finney? She misses you very much.
Grandma says, shut up! Interrupting me while I’m talking!
Seba aunty has made some dalpuries. Hot, hot salsa. She puts in them bits of peach and real strawberry, Jell-O. They’re mouth-watering.
Finney says, enjoy, you son of a bum. What do you care if your father is in trouble? Your father is facing a lawsuit over a Shilpa Bank loan; he’s trying to sell off the condo at Upper East Side in Manhattan; but the market is not as before, ahead of the elections, no one is coming up with money how many things Bush can tackle; the project with the Japanese remains stuck at the midway; the lawyers are sponging him off like anything… those sons of the Jews! They emit some farts at the court and then come to claim money for that… let them, what do you care? The house at Baridhara and the mill at Savar, every thing mortgaged, the bank is going to put on auction; the newspapers have already picked up the story; the process has been stalled only by bribery and such other means… Your father’s going to have a heart attack.
What does all this mean to you? You keep on watching TV and relish dalpuries.
Finney spreads her arms in a gesture, of exasperation.
We live on the 13th floor. So, naturally many of the city areas can be seen from the balcony.
Finney goes to abbi to ask for some cigarettes.
Abbi says, Finney, please don’t give me a hard time. Your ma is yet to have any sense. I told her so many times, please spare me this time; don’t send them now, don’t… I’m going through a tough time…
The price of abbi’s satellite phone, set in a Gucci suitcase, is 22 lakh taka. Abbi calls abroad at 2 in the morning; works on his Mac G-3 power book making clunks.
Chhoto ma takes a blanket and a side-pillow and goes to sleep with Taltal. If only the men in this house had a little consideration! After all, she is not a call girl. After feeding the entire family breakfast in the morning, she has to go to office and deal with her professional tasks. No one spares her.
I have indigestion again and having a float, made of ice cream, diet Pepsi, and indigenous seedy bananas. Z-English is airing a good movie. I watch it with rapt attention. I talk to Fahad over cell phone.
Tonima’s uncle has died. Abbi is unable to go, so, chhoto ma has to. Finney has disappeared with Robin. They are well in with each other, sexually. I feel disgusted. They move always hand in hand. Honey, honey. Hold me darling. Lift me up.
I am playing a video game with Fahad at Sports Zone. But, after playing for some time at a stretch, I have a waist pain. I stretch in front of a mirror. Fahad goes to take a lick. I see Koushik and Tumpa standing.
Tumpa says, hey sailor, long time no see; how come you hit this obsolete joint today?
Koushik says I heard you’ve been in town for some weeks now. What prevented you from giving me a ring? We mean nothing to you, is it? Are we all tin sheets of relief, hah?
Fahad says what’s the use of wasting time with these nobodies? Let’s get out.
I give him a sharp look. I say what has happened to you today? You need some more ass-whipping, what?
Koushik says are you still kids? You’ve yet to learn the adults’ games. Quit it guys. Let’s go home. I’ve some excellent, real, saki of Okinawa. I’ll open it tonight in your honour. Let’s go to my home, now.
Tumpa pipes in, yes, let’s do that, sugar, I’ve been feeling bored the whole evening.
Tumpa was serving warm saki, in jars. I feel nothing by drinking it. But, after a while, it suddenly hits right at my head, hard. I become utterly drunk. Koushik is laughing derisively at my condition: What happened man, all of a sudden, nothing used to make you flushed.
Fahad says let’s move and go to my house. You better go home after sobering up a bit. It’s not yet that late in the night.
Meghla, Fahad’s sister, is lying on a sofa in the living room. She is reading Sherlock Holmes, The Sign of Four. The TV is on. She does not even glance at us. Fahad says I see London, I see France… I see your underpants.
Her panty is red, of linen. Meghla adjusts her dress. She is now staring at me. Her look is hard. What’ve I done! Go for your brother. But, no, you won’t do that. Public!
I am lying on Fahad’s bed. Fahad has gone to get some food. My head is spinning. I feel nausea. If I vomit on the bed, Fahad will kill me. I run out to the bathroom. I enter it and switch on the light only to I find I have entered a different room, Meghla’s. There are a reading table, many books, a dressing table, bed, a chest of drawers etc. I feel the bed. Meghla sleeps here. The smell is distinct. I touch her make-up materials. My heart is beating so fast as if it will burst out of the chest any moment. Meghla and Fahad are talking. Their voices are approaching me. I should get out of this room. But I can’t. I slowly go to the chest of drawers and open it. I feel the dresses, take an item from the lowermost drawer and pocket it. Then, without telling anything to anyone, I leave the house.
The entire duplex is engulfed darkness. I switch the living room light on. Finney is lying on a sofa, with her arm resting on the forehead. Her clothes are dishevelled. She does not care that I am looking at her. She is weeping.
What happened, I ask.
I’ve a terrible headache, put out the light, she says.
I go upstairs. I am taking my shoes off. From my bathroom, Taltal calls, Noor, o Noor, come here. Please, get me out. I’m not feeling well.
The door is locked from the outside. I open it. She is sitting on the floor amid a flood of her vomit. I lift her up. She holds onto me, wrapping her hands around my neck. Her body is really hot, at least 102 to 103.
She says in English, I’ve dirtied your bathroom, Noor. I’m very ashamed and sorry.
I say, apu, what’s happened to you? Did no body come… it’s so late in the night…
She says in a whisper, Noor, Finney beat me up real hard.
Taltal is shaking slightly. She is lying with me under a blanket. She speaks to herself with a mournful expression on her face. I listen to Black Sabbath in low volume. Chhoto ma calls, says she’ll come home late. Seba aunty has gone to the bereaved house so heavily spruced up as if she’s attending a marriage ceremony—jewelleries, make-up, the whole nine yards, chhoto ma reports.
Finney talks to Tonima aunty over telephone. She says Nima wants you.
Hello, I say.
Brother, she says, don’t you ever think of me. Not a single mail or phone call—love has really departed this world. May I meet you on Friday? Will you come or not?
No, I say.
What do you do all the day sitting at home? Don’t you feel bored, she says, look how much Finney is enjoying…
You won’t understand, I reply.
I am relishing the music of Leonard Cohen. The face of Meghla floats in my mind. I am thinking about her, sitting alone, and I feel sad. Without any reason, I am squeezing the baize colour underwear I stole from her room.
Seba aunty says, Noor, I’ve invited Fahads to spend the Friday with us. Joys are also coming. Shelley’s returning to Windsor at the end of this month. I’ve not had a chance to meet her. You better come early. I’ll be preparing cramp chops and butter Scotch pudding. It’s been quite a while I’ve fed you well… Did your ma call? Where’s she? Still in Dallas?
I say, ma is participating in a seminar, in Japan, probably in Tokyo. After that, she’ll go to Sao Paulo with Junaid uncle, on vacation. We’re considering settling down permanently in Boston. Finney has already seen through the formalities to get enrolled in the BEU this fall… Junaid uncle is Boston-based. The only problem is the work schedule of ma… I’m not sure though. Would you like to talk to Finney?
I go to Fahad’s home. Meghla is not there. I knew. I send Fahad upstairs to bring down his game system. He has agreed to connect it up with the 58-inch Magnavox HD TV and play. I take the chance to enter Meghla’s room. My hands are shaking from agitation. I bring out the stolen bra from my pocket and put it back in the drawer. I should leave now but I can’t. I take another bra and pocket it. It’s more enchanting, with the upper half made of flowery lace, Victoria’s Secret. I think deeply about the part of her body this piece of clothing touches.
Fahad says, hey Noor, tell me is X-box better or Sony Play Station-2?
I say what kind of a question is that. What good is X-box?
He says, fie, guy, you’re a real dowdy. Play Station is the king. There’s only one thing cooler than that in this world. That is ganja. Understand? Store this info well in your head. Play Station is the Elvis, Mohammed Ali, Bill Gates of the gaming world… the real leader…
I can’t concentrate in the game. For the first time in my life, I lose to Fahad. Fahad feels cramp in the waist. He gets up and stretches before the living room mirror.
I feel impatient. I say will you play or should I go home?
He gives me an oblique look, says what happened, you want more ass-whipping or what?
Robin is kissing Finney in front of the landing. Are they human or something else! I hem and say are you finished? You may not have any concern about honour and respectability but I do have a social reputation to keep. What’ve you started, and in broad daylight?
Fahad’s father works at the finance ministry. After spending one and a half years at Cornell University of the USA on a government scholarship, he has returned to Dhaka. I’ve a fruitful discussion with him about the country’s future. He said Elvin Toffler is the best-ever political thinker the world has seen. Marx, tarx all have become outdated. What option do the poor countries have but to follow the Toffler Way? Nothing. He’s a sage. He’s the one to understand my ideas. I’ve given him my poems to read.
Abbi has had no time to rest for some days. The tension has peaked, so has the hectic running from place to place. The Gulshan Club is holding its election. The campaign is on. He did not come home last night, just called chhoto ma to tell her he would need the Lexus. Chhoto ma should go to the marriage ceremony of Debu uncle at Sena Kunja in the other car. When Finney was going out on her round, she was told to come home a little earlier that day, by the afternoon, as there was a shortage of cars.
Chhoto ma went in Tonima apus’ car to get her hair done. That car has left to bring Tonima apu from the Pundits. Chhoto ma, dressed and all made-up and painted for the function, has been waiting for an eternity. But there is no sign of Finney. How many times one can ask for other people’s car? After all, it concerns one’s prestige. At last, the queen arrives at 8 o’clock. Chhoto ma and Finney get engaged in a loud quarrel right in the landing. The residents of the complex come out to witness the scene. Even all the drivers, guards, and janitors are relishing the drama.
It takes three men to bring Finney upstairs by force. Chhoto ma hits her in the head with an ash tray. Finney crashes the bone china crockery set. One by one, she breaks chhoto ma’s favourite CDs and LPs.
I come and try to hold Finney still. She is shaking, soaked in sweat. She throws up all over my body.
She says, in English, what a shame, what am I, Noor! I’m very ashamed and sorry.
I say, apu, nothing happened. Come, sleep with me tonight.
Finney whispers, Noor, I’ve very obnoxious doubts about life. I feel so tired, all the time. I’ve nothing to look forward to. I’ve no desire left to go on living…
As soon as I lay her on the bed, she falls asleep. She sobs in her sleep. I cover her with a blanket, put on PJ Harvey in low volume, and say, sweetie pie, wait a few more days, okay, I’ll take you abroad.
Throughout the night she sleeps embracing me in a gross way, while I keep on tossing and turning. At one point, I doze off, see some broken dreams, about Meghla; my member becomes engorged with blood. Waking up in the morning, I find my body wet with sweat. I feel suffocated, and also a sense of guilt. I am unable to look at Finney.
The entire day I spend at Meghla’s house. But I don’t get any chance to creep into her room. My head feels like bursting from a headache. It needs a little bit of courage to do. Whatever happens, now or never, I tell myself. And I intrude. My heart is pounding so fast that I may collapse any moment in a faint. The house is full of people, talks, and sounds of their movement. I shudder from fright repeatedly. I open the drawer. In the semi-darkness, I put my hand inside and get alarmed again. What’s this? It’s empty. The whole drawer is empty. There’s no bra, no panty, nothing. I search all the drawers one by one. I feel empty-headed. It also reels a bit.
She surely has realised. Otherwise, why should she empty the chest? Has she told anyone, her parents, Fahad, about it? I’ll have to die.
The first thought I have is that I must escape from this room, right now. My head spins again. I slump on the floor.
Gradually, I regain some stability. My desire returns. I think, no, she surely is rearranging her clothes or may have sent them to laundry. If she had realised, would she allow me to enter the house? At least, she would have locked the room.
Suddenly a thought strikes me. May be she has shifted the underwear to the bathroom closet. I enter the attached bathroom. The shower stall is enclosed with a plastic curtain. I draw it aside. Ha, ha, ha. Some worn clothes are dangling from the long shower pipe. The long, snakelike, pipe of the nozzle is lying in the tub. The white, well-worn, bra is hanging from the water tap. It has yellow stains at the armpits. I take it up, bring it to my nose, and sniff. The door opens with a click. Meghla is standing there, looking straight at me with piercing eyes.
I, too, look at her. I can’t think anything. Like a blind man I advance towards her. I touch her cheeks with the tips of my fingers. She calmly pushes back my hands and says in a suppressed voice, get out. Get out right now, you pervert. How disgusting you are! Else, I’ll scream and call in people.
Rini aunty rings, says where’s your father? Give me him.
I say he’s not in. What’s the news? Tell me.
She says your mother has been hospitalised again. She had not been taking her medication for some weeks, stopped taking lithium totally. So, suddenly she suffered yet another breakdown… tonight, no matter how late it is, your father must call me… here it’s only afternoon now… tell him to call me at my office number…
Tumpa calls, says, hey, what are you doing all by yourself at home… don’t you feel bored… why don’t you come on up at my place… I’m feeling so horny… I’ve a bottle of tequila, Cuervo; come on, let’s finish it together…
Tumpa’s mother is a Lebanese. She is playing tennis with a young boy. They have three gardeners, who smoke ganja all day long at the servants’ quarters. But today I find one of them cutting the grass around the hard court with a lawn mower.
Tumpa rubs a piece of lemon on the soft surface between my thumb and index finger, sprinkles some salt there. She then sucks on it, keeping her eyes locked with mine, and drinks up tequila from a short glass in a single gulp.
I say, where’s Koushik, ain’t he coming?
Tumpa says, why, ain’t I good enough for you? Do you want him too? His exams are on. He won’t be coming.
I say, I see! You’ve called in only me… Hey woman! What’s in your mind? You know I’m a totally innocent boy…
I lay her on the glass-top table, kneel down between he legs, and roll up her T-shirt.
She says, Noor, don’t try anything knave.
I say I’m showing you how to have body shots… in Mexico they drink tequila this way.
I am amazed at the well-shaped muscles of Tumpa’s belly. She surely works out. I pour tequila in her deep navel. Her body pulsates; goose flesh appears all over her body. Her almost invisible, tiny, belly hairs bristle.
I touch the rim of her belly button with my tongue, very softly, and lap up the tequila. The linear sequence of time, with its inherent self-contradiction, starts manifesting itself.
I feel an urge to phone Fahad. We are going to Boomers today. He is supposed to pick me up. I have a date to play pool game with him.
But Finney is sitting in front of the upstairs telephone set, expecting a call from Robin. She doesn’t allow anyone to approach it.
Taltal is shaving her legs with Finney’s Venus razor. She grins, showing her mouth with some teeth missing, like an old woman. A half-grown incisor shows.
I can’t go downstairs. Abbi has gone down to the living room and switched on the TV. He has a long face. Hangover. He takes two Tylenols with orange juice in an empty stomach.
He has split the screen of the 58-inch Magnavox HD TV and is watching CNN and BBC at the same time. Standing in front of the dining table, he puts eight loaves in the dual toaster.
The Hewlett Packard digital fax-phone rings. Chhoto ma comes stomping. She is still wearing her night dress, a kimono. But she has already bathed, tied her hair up, and the make-up on her face is fresh.
Abbi spreads Just Like butter and marmalade on some toasts for chhoto ma, too; says, Shoni, where’s my soy-milk? He puts his head inside the fridge, looking for it.
It rings four times and a fax arrives. Chhoto ma goes through it. With bloodshot eyes, she asks, Rini bubu is asking you for some money … for what? Why’ve you given our home number to this shameless bitch?
Abbi becomes irritated; says, what’re you saying? He has found the soy-milk.
Then what’s this, chhoto ma asks and throws the fax at abbi’s face. She shouts this time you put up with Rini bubu in Texas, right?... After all those incidents… don’t you’ve any shame… you went and lived in that house again!
Abbi says, speak civilly. What’ve you started at this early morning? The kids are listening… have you no sense! You’ll turn me insane, too… and what sort of soy-milk is this you’ve bought? Twenty-eight gram sugar per serving… haven’t I told you so many times to buy the Australian one?
Chhoto ma pounces on him. Abbi checks her with both hands but his Gucci limited edition Crawford-framed spectacles go flying.
Chhoto ma says, shut up, you scoundrel! I’ll shout it right in the street… the children already know… now the whole world should know about their father’s misdeeds… you fraud of a gentleman!... Didn’t I request you, holding your hands? How many times have I told you don’t get involved in any dealings with Rini bubu, please! please! don’t stay at her Austin home… a characterless woman… how many times have you been insulted… your family may not have any social standing but I’ve some prestige… you’ve two grown-up daughters… unthinkable…
Abbi tries to stand up. He is shaking from anger. His silk socks slip on the marble and he collapse on the floor with a thud. He spits out the words: shut up! If you make another sound, I’ll strangle you to death… get out, of my house, out!
Chhoto ma runs like a mad woman, sits on the floor with a bump. The kohl diluted in her tears has flown down on her cheeks. She picks up the Gucci Loafer shoes in her hands and with them strikes at her forehead and face vehemently, saying, kill, kill, yes, kill me! I never found even a tiny bit of love or kindness… I’ve just been a mute slave. Only I know how I maintain this household on such a small amount of money… while every time you go to America, you squander money like anything… money that belongs to my innocent daughter’s kismet… I’ve said nothing till now, have borne all silently… you think I don’t know? Who pays for the studies of Finney and Noor? Why they had to be schooled at Saint Paul? Ain’t you unable to pay back your bank loan!... the houses and property, all are going to be auctioned… who’s going to pay for Finney’s college education?... how long will I go on shouldering this burden? Tell me, answer me! How different my life could have been… what right do you’ve to play fast and loose with my life… even all that did I accept, for the sake of my girl, but I won’t tolerate any chiding of this whore of a woman…
Abbi kicks chhoto ma in the face, holds on to her hair, and drags her to their bedroom. He is about to close the door but the servants come running. They fall at abbi’s feet… speak incoherently, lament aloud. The parents of Shamim uncle are ringing the door bell; Moni aunties of the next door, too.
Robin has given Finney the slip. After getting tired from waiting, Finney is talking to Meghla.
Meghla is Fahad’s sister. She is 5’10”. She sat half the exams on economics and English in January. The rest of the papers she will complete this June. A-level. Her only occupation is visiting the tutors. She studies day and night. When she feels bored, she prepares exotic dishes. She surely will chat with Finney.
I say, hey, Finney, ask her to tell Fahad to pick me up; now.
Finney says she wants to talk to you. Take it.
I say no, no, no. How dangerous!
Finney says she’s saying today she’s making some strudels—pulipithas made of dough, pure ghee, Sabri banana, and raspberry jam. She’s especially inviting you to visit their home. Take it. Talk yourself. What’re you afraid of?
I say, Finney, it seems everyone has gone nuts today. Ain’t I saying that I won’t talk? I’ve to take a shower and get ready. I’ve no time for chit-chatting.
Finney smirks; says, yah, I know about your balls.
Tonima apu takes us to dine out at Little Italy. I find Robin sitting with Meghla there, with Koushik and Tumpa.
Robin stands up; says, come, come…. sit with us… do you know one another? I know this boy through Finney… see, there’s no scope to have a date, to open up my heart, even at so far away from the city; that’s my problem. Everyone knows me. You see, how we’re going on meeting acquaintances…
Meghla looks at me. I avert my eyes. She is wearing a sari, a tip, eardrops etc. In the slight breeze, her hairs are playing on her face.
I feel very nervous but ignore the pounding in my chest. I lift my left feet from the floor and take off the shoe and the sock. Then I place the feet in Meghla’s lap, between her thighs.
She is startled. Her face turns crimson. She says where had you been in the morning? I phoned you… how’re you doing?
Her voice is shaking.
I stare at her coldly. I feel sad. Once I took her to be a good girl. Grand feelings had been developing inside me for her. Boo, all vain. Vain, vain, all are vain.
We are human. We toil and sweat under the sun. Tell me what good is all the toiling and sweating for? Thousands of generations came, and they all died. Many more generations followed; but annihilation is eternal. Derangement and diseases are our companions. There’s no remedy, no sphere of light, not even the hope of a remedy. It’s tiresome to discourse on these subjects.
I make eyes at Meghla. O God Almighty! What a mistake I had been making. Shame! I say, Meghla, how’re you? I hope you’re fine, physically. You shouldn’t talk much to me, okay? Well, I’m leaving; I shouldn’t hang out here any more.
Robin says, Meghla, do you know my band’s mulling over a proposal of a New York-based label to bring out a CD? Dad’s in seventh heaven. He has ordered a Mercedes CLK-240 for me. Just think about that! I thought, as I’ve become so successful at such an early age, now I should do something creative. I’m having a dialogue with Hasib of Cryptic Faith and Shawn of Phulmoni’s Saroj… I may do some solos soon…
I stand up. Looking at her bored face, I feel sympathy for Tonima apu. She goes out to bring the car in the front.
Meghla follows me; says the weather’s still rough… how’ll you go?
I say, that’s nothing, ours’ is a Nissan Patrol; 4-wheel drive; V-6 engine; it’s a pet thing of Tonima apu’s father, who bought it with the money stolen from foreign aid. God will take care of us… may it be rain or flood…
She holds my hand. A flirt!
Why are you fleeing, she whispers, why you are not staying?
I suppress a laugh, and say, don’t you understand? Must I explain everything to you? I ain’t as bright as you. I ain’t in the habit of personalising everything so easily like you… I’m a boy of a broken family… I ain’t accustomed to being loved… I ain’t smart… whenever I see you, I become nervous. You girl, you have… I mean… a real personality…
She kisses me. I keep my lips close shut so that she may not insert her tongue into my mouth. Go slow, let some more time pass. I have still a few more weeks to return home. Time does not pass by itself, it has to be passed.
I have come to the dry swimming pool in the compound. I am trying out the new roller blade.
It’s 1PM. The sun is too hot. I am thinking about taking off the T-shirt. The woman of the second floor, 306-B is reading Sananda, with spectacles, sitting on a cement bench. A housemaid is caressing her hair. She looks up at me. I look at her, too, and take off the shirt.
Hey! Hey, Finney…
My name is Noor, I say, going near her. I stare at her eyes. Even this hag of a woman blushes and looks away, and coyly drops the sari from her chest in happiness.
She says do you know Tonima? I’m her aunty.
I say, salam, Finney is my sister. She is watching TV wearing an Uptan facemask. She may, don’t you think, at such a hot midday?
She says, no, no, it’s alright. In fact, my daughter wants very much to meet you two… she is a little retarded… I don’t let her go out of door… she stays alone all day… it’s because she hears about you a lot… so she wants to meet you…
I say, is it? I like retarded girls, too; a lot. They say groovy things. Don’t we feel superior when we watch them? Self-satisfaction? How old is your daughter?
The woman becomes astonished; pleased, too. Young boy; yet how many things he has already realised; so understanding. She blesses me, raising her hands; says thirty-four. My daughter is 34. She is still fertile.

Ashropa
I seemed somehow to know her face, and to know it in connection with some dreamy fear…
- Bram Stoker, Dracula
What do we need?
We need a process of consuming the complex whole in stead of grammar
Plunge into the title you will cross a grammatical bridge a line of thirst is drawn far afield a full pond, sandalwoods are in the distance and along with them there may be their possible opposites ignorance foreign language if you go beyond this illusion and the formalist environ of bubbly sounds you will suddenly find we don’t address one another, don’t speak directly to anyone, rather one’s mind is expressed by someone else
O Mother, do awaken me the Virgilian adventurer-like echoes of echoes are the examples of the illusions and forms of translations of how many faces how many conscious acts O Mother leaning on the poisonous arrowheads follow us under this pile of innumerable signature letters in this most-underlined bloody area O Mother awaken our interlocking topography interwoven verbal noumenon
The dark golden-purple intricate sky near the second bridge is fragmented does it indicate that dawn has disjoined from our vision? Is this the temporal phenomenon in the Husserlian sense shut up! witling has started to ferment in your head shut you up! I am telling this today for your own good break up the questions—in our orbit are palaces burnt time and again to death these all these are my thoughts of memorised sights
Look! The betrothed queens who have exchanged rings are jogging while uttering summons the acrid odour of octane a few silence-based feelings… are not these thoughts, too?
For countless nights I have not slept. There is a throbbing inside my head. Blood oozes out of my eyes. (This is a symbolic statement, striking at the consciousness. The intention was to hunt down the shadows of mythic association)
Look a bouquet is beside your head sleep finish your sleeping
A piece of thick woollen carpet you are sitting wearing a rough silk sari I hold my hands together in supplication lower my head going to prostrate before you but you say chhi! what are you doing darling, one should not prostrate before a sick person bare body you have not put on a blouse I look from the corner of my eyes I can see it all and you have spread the wet hair on the back a silver betel case is standing nearby tobacco is ready in a water pipe mashallah it smells real nice you say O ma, you are here why didn’t you wake me up you have grown up much I never thought you would turn into so handsome a man I won’t smoke tobacco in front of you I am feeling shy
I say, lady, solve a riddle; let me see how witty you are. Tell me in which country there really is no country—which is just an indication-centrality of an interim unity consideration of broken narratives and a fable, there is no flow of male weeping. No living terror of separation is in the folds of words and the unspeakable is still produced in the speeches… please
I will but first you come near me hey boy why are you still so afraid do you have anyone nearer than me in the world and swear first swear by touching my head that you will never abandon me look now I am connecting the umbilical cord… my last rites I entrust to you… what had I been saying… all your humiliations end today… I will put an end to all your pains; it is my responsibility… all right? Now come and rest your head on your mother’s chest you will find how very peaceful it is…
I kiss her with ferocious intensity feel her like a blind man bite her boobs… I tear out an artery from deep inside the flesh blood spurts I eagerly drink up the blood, dark green like pudina leaves, I suck at her tits breathlessly
The elders of the family say, explain the programme again, quickly… you will flash light twice, right?
Two lamps will be used as recognition lights… come up following the clear-cut map… this love is for them who can sing… because, male humans, simple male humans have become extinct… the birds sound: ha re re, ga ga, ma ma… when will these studies, adventurism, crying, and hubbubs end… please keep our affairs secret when you return to your nests… we did not set up any home, we have been sold out in the black market after the looting of the museum…
The sun will set in the land of rising sorrow. In long shadows of the moon, dancing humans will say: where is he, the teacher who is no more… once you said there is plastic in the afterlife, pollution too is there…
Alas, our remedy has died. No one is there to bring us back to sense.

Epilogue
It had happened a few days before chooto ma died.
Taltal phones from Jersey. Asks have you arranged the money for me? Bring it when you come to the city today.
I say, no hi, no hello, let alone adab-salam… at least you can ask how I am once in a while. Only money and money. Where do I get so much money?
She says don’t talk rubbish… what has happened to the money from the sale of ma’s house?… If it’s not arranged today I’ll be in deep trouble.
I say, no money is coming. The money that came from selling the house has been invested in mutual fund, in insurance; some blue chip shares have also been bought; all for the sake of your future… Why do you do things that lead to trouble? It’s not that you are not getting enough dough… the tuition for this semester has already been paid. The dorm rent, boarding fees, books all have been paid. Junaid uncle gives you enough pocket money. I’m paying all your credit card bills. After all these, what do you need so much cash for? We don’t have the ability to give more than that. If you can’t do with that then you better think about earning some money yourself. May be then you’ll realise money is not so easy to come by. It has to be earned by hard labour.
She slams down the phone.
The Lincoln Navigator of Junaid uncle crosses the Williamsburg Bridge and enters Manhattan. It moves towards Harold Square. We look for a parking space, he along one side of the street, I the other.
I say where will you find a parking space in midtown on a Friday morning… plus… what is the date today?... Right! There sure is a parade today… look at the number plates… the city is full of outsiders…
Let’s put it in a garage then, what, says Junaid uncle.
I say, will you spend so much? In this part, they charge 28 dollars an hour. What’s so urgent now? We could have parked it in front of my house in the uptown and come here in a train; it would have taken half an hour to 45 minutes…
Junaid uncle smiles, says, oh, no, it’s already too late… I’ve not told you as I wanted to give you a surprise; your chhoto ma is coming today… I’ve come to pick her up… we’re going to spend the whole day together… who knows when we’ll meet again… he sighs.
I look in astonishment at this dolt. My mood turns sour. I say that woman is coming on her own purpose; why have you towed me in with you? You probably have forgotten that I spent half of my life with her. I’ve no itch to see her afresh… hey! Drop me here…
Junaid uncle says cut it off! Why are you being so mulish… during such a crisis! Ain’t you supposed to shoulder all the responsibilities… does Taltal have any other guardian except you? Don’t you understand?
I seldom meet chhoto ma. She lives in Edison, New Jersey. Taltal lives nearby. She is a bright student, going to Princeton. Every weekend she comes to Manhattan. Clubbing, bar-hopping etc… I don’t know. I’ve no desire to know either.
Chhoto ma has been ringing frequently for some days now. It seems she has suddenly turned hyper. I’m informed by Junaid uncle that she is going back home. The fast-spreading cancer in her lungs has spread to the brain. Metastasis. The doctors have told her she won’t live more than a few months. Chhoto ma wants to die at home.
Seventh Avenue. Madison Square Garden Station. Chhoto ma disembarks from a New Jersey transit train. She is dressed in a Shalwar-Kamis. I bought her it, from Silk & Gold at Jackson Heights. She is wearing soft-leather Roman sandals. A very expensive Hermes scarf is tied around her head.
She has become so skinny, with dark patches under her eyes.
Junaid uncle runs to her, says you have travelled so far all by yourself. Was there any problem? If I had known… what so important work Taltal is busy with that she could not accompany you? She doesn’t have any classes on Fridays… I should have gone to bring you… From here Edison is but the next block!
Chhoto ma says, please, don’t fuss!
She looks at me with her large grey eyes. I don’t know how, despite the morphine-induced stupor, she does recognise me from that far. She says, so, Junaid could really bring you, I can’t still believe it.
She becomes exhausted after walking only a little distance, wheezes, and says, why do you look so pale, darling… didn’t you eat anything in the morning… Junaid has dragged you straight from the bed, right?
She kisses a finger and touches me with it. Flirt!
I push away her hand and ask why have you come to the city all of a sudden? Have you any appointment at Sloan-Katering?
She says, no, no, they have stopped the radiation.
I don’t have to go to Sloan-Katering any more. It’s because I’m going home… I’ll buy a wig from Macys… all my hairs have fallen off, it looks so ugly. Everyone will see me like this… I feel bad… thinking about it
She smiles shyly; says I’ve been dying to see you; for the last few days…
I scold her, and say why is this sudden upsurge of love? Please, cut down on the play-acting…. And why have you come to Manhattan in Salwar-Kamis? Do you intend to put us all in danger?... How many times have I told you these are bad days… don’t go out in any such typical Muslim dress. Have you become senile or don’t you understand me, what?
Thirty-fourth, Broadway. We walk towards Macys. We take the back lift on the ground floor. Chhoto ma is unsteady. Junaid uncle supports her, walking slowly; asks which floor, Shoni?
Chhoto ma says third.
The department of swimming costumes is vast and covers almost the entire third level. The wig department is adjacent to it. The wigs are kept in some closed glass cabinets and on the heads of some faceless mannequins.
A young black woman greets us. I say hello and stand away from chhoto ma and Junaid uncle so that no one may realise I’m with them.
Which one should I buy, chhoto ma asks me. At first I don’t get what she is saying. Her tongue is swollen and sometimes her words become slurred.
A teenage boy has put on a pink wig. He stands in front of a mirror. The price tag is hanging behind. He tells me, nice wig, ain’t it? I’ve two more at home… this might be my third. It becomes me.
Chhoto ma removes the scarf. I look away. She takes up a blond wig and puts it on standing before a mirror. She looks at herself from various angles. It looks okay. She tries another wig but doesn’t like it. She takes yet another. She goes on changing. The black girl is a real tout. Instead of stopping her, she eggs her on, making remarks now and then.
I tell Junaid uncle, the day is lost, it’s gone. We’ve to spend the entire day here… I can’t stand it any more. I’m feeling too hungry, let chhoto ma be here; let’s go and have lunch.
At long last, chhoto ma finds the wig of her choice. The black girl is very glad. Chhoto ma inspects every inch of herself in the 360-degree bust mirror from every corner. I look at her in amazement. The wig is exactly like the hair she had many years ago, when she was living in Dhaka. Chhoto ma looks like her old self. The hair of the wig, however, is a little shorter, and the do is in the current fashion.
Chhoto ma combs the hair with a soft brush.
The black girl says it fits perfectly. Will you buy only this, nothing else? Okay, give it to me; let me pack it for you.
Chhoto ma keeps on touching the hair with infinite love. She doesn’t want to take the wig off. She smiles.
I feel like crying. I have a lump in my throat. I pay the price with my Master Card and tell chhoto ma enough, that’s enough, don’t you carry on like this any more; let’s move…
Reader, I salute you.

Bauliana

2010-08-25T21:06:00.000-07:00

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hZ¶Y _v‡K `g, fyj bv †mB IB K_vUv|

Cgvb K‡i e‡m _vK, meyi ci‡nR ivL,

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Ic‡ii Mv‡b evDj‡`i †h ÔRxq‡š— givÕ ZË¡ e¨³, we‡kl K‡i †h ¸i“ev`, Zv Av‡iv †mv”Pv‡i ej‡Qb Ñ

Ô¸i“ KíZi“g~‡j-

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ev‡R g~jvavi, evR mnmªvi, eûiƒcx Zvq Avb‡›` bv‡P|Õ

g~jvavi I mnmªvi G `y'†Uv KzjKzÊwjbxi h_vµ‡g ïi“ I †kl| †h cvVK G wel‡q wKQzB wKQzB Rv‡bb bv Zvi myweav‡_© GLv‡b ms‡¶‡c wKQz ejwQ| wcÊeªþvÊgvM©B lU&PµgvM©| g~jvavi, ¯^vwaôvb, gwYcyi, AbvnZ, weï× I (å“ga¨¯’) AvÁv Ñ †gi“`‡Êi ga¨¯’ I Z`yaŸ©¯’ mylygœvq M„w_Z GB Qq PµB D³ gvM©| G‡Z KzÊwjbx bv‡gi EaŸ©Mvwgbx †R¨vwZg©qx aviv aviYv K‡i GK GK P‡µ DV‡Z nq| mnmªv‡i ev g¯—‡Ki Dcwi¯’‡j Aew¯’Z mßg P‡µ mZ¨‡jvK ev eªþ‡jvK, Avevi Zš¿g‡Z D³ Qq P‡µ kw³i bvbv iƒc Avi mnmªv‡i wke ev cig cyi“‡li Awaôvb| (wPÎ -1)

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KgjKzwjk Nv‡›U Kiû weAvjx \

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†Lcûu †RvBwb †jcb RvB|

gwbg~‡j ewnAv IwoAv‡b mgvB \

mvmy N‡iu Nvwj †KvÂv Zvj|

Pv›`m~R †ewY cvLv dvj\

dYB ¸Êix Avgy‡n Kz›`y‡i exiv|

biA bvix gv‡S Ewfj Pxiv\Õ

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Avevi Kvb&ûcv e‡j‡Qb,

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†`n bAix weniB GKv‡i\

Avwj Kvwj N›Uv †bDi Pi‡Y|

iwe kkx KzÊj wKD Avfi‡Y\

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cig †gvL jfB gywËnvi\

gvwi mvmy bb›` N‡i mvjx|

gvA gvwi Kvý fBA Kevjx\Õ

gyn¤§` Ave`yj nvB I Av‡bvqvi cvkvi g‡Z Gi fvev_© n‡”Q Ñ ÔewÎk bvwoi g‡a¨ cÖavb †h weigvb›`iƒcv Aea~wZKv Zv‡K mvabv Øviv gwYg~j †_‡K EaŸ©vwfgyLx Kiv n‡q‡Q Ges gw¯—®‹-‡`‡k cÖfv¯^i k~b¨Zvq Zv‡K `„pfv‡e Ave× K‡i Kvb&ûcv †hvMvPv‡i cÖweó n‡q‡Qb| k~b¨Zviƒc Wgi“ evR‡Q, Kvb&ûcv ¯^”Q‡›` †`n-bMix‡Z weivR Ki‡Qb, A_©vr Kvqv-mvabvq gMœ Av‡Qb|

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wK, Lye mnR g‡b n‡”Q? mnwRqv nIqv mnR Zvi R‡b¨ †h ¯^fveZ mnR| g‡bv‡gvnb ZvB e‡jb -

Ôeuvkx evwR‡j Kx n‡e

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euvkx ïay Zv‡i Wv‡K,

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me‡k‡l, †cÖg cÖm‡½ cvVK‡`i ivgK…‡òi Revwb‡Z wKQz K_v bv Rvwb‡q cviwQ bv Ñ Ô†Zvgiv Òc¨vg& c¨vg&Ó Ki, wKš‘ †cÖg wK mvgvb¨ wRwbm Mv? ˆPZb¨‡`‡ei Ò†cÖgÓ n‡qwQj| †cÖ‡gi `yÕwU j¶Y| cÖ_g Ñ RMr fyj n‡q hv‡e| GZ Ck¦‡ii fvjevmv †h evn¨k~b¨| ... wØZxq j¶Y Ñ wb‡Ri †`n †h GZ wcÖq wRwbm, Gi DciI ggZv _vK‡e bv, †`nvZ¥‡eva G‡Kev‡i P‡j hv‡e| Ck¦i`k©Y bv n‡j †cÖg nq bv|...Õ AZGe, evey-weweiv mveavb, Kvg‡K †cÖg †f‡e Av‡iv wbgœMvgx n‡eb bv|

evDwjqvbv

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Ñ gmbwf, gvIjvbv RvjvjywÏb i“wg

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cÖm½

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m½xZ †hvM

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G cÖm‡½ evDj‡`i Ici †h `yÕe¨w³i e¨vcK cÖfve Zv‡`i m½xZPP©vi LvwbK D‡jL evûj¨ n‡e bv| ˆPZb¨ m¤ú‡K© myKzgvi †mb ev½vjv mvwn‡Z¨i BwZnvm eB-G ej‡Qb, ÔAa¨vZ¥fvebvq ˆPZb¨ wQ‡jb Abyiv‡Mi c‡_i (ivMgvM©-Gi) cw_K| Ck¦‡ii m‡½ Rx‡ei †h wbZ¨‡cÖgm¤^Ü, †mB m¤^ÜB cig mZ¨| †mB †cÖg wP‡Ë DØy× Kiv Ges DØy× n‡j Zvnv RvMi“K ivLvB cig mvabv|Õ Ges ÔAvgiv GLb †h A‡_© cÖPvi K_vwU e¨envi Kwi †m A‡_© ˆPZb¨ cÖPviK wQ‡jb bv Ges wZwb KL‡bv †Kvb ag© cÖPvi K‡ib bvB| evj¨Kvj nB‡Z wZwb KweZv I m½xZwcÖq wQ‡jb Ges †kv‡Ki I Mv‡bi ga¨ w`qv fMercÖm½ Zuvnvi wPË‡K DZjv KwiZ| GB m~‡Î Zuvnvi ü`‡q fw³fv‡ei D‡b¥l| fMev‡bi bvg ïwb‡j Zuvnvi Acvi cÖxwZ nBZ Ges fMev‡bi bvg bv‡Pi m‡½ Mvb Kwiqv wZwb iv‡Zi ci ivZ KvUvBqv w`‡Zb|Õ

Gevi wØZxq gnvRb, LvRv gvCbyÏxb wPkwZ mvÄvwii m½x‡Zvcmbvi GKUz weeiY †`B| LvRv mv‡ne cÖvq iv‡ZB kvnwMi`&‡`i wb‡q †jvKvjq †_‡K `~‡i wbR©‡b wM‡q Mvb I wRwKi ev bvgRc Ki‡Zb| Zvj I myii¶vq e¨envi Ki‡Zb GKwU GKZš¿x exYv ev GKZviv| GB †hvMvPv‡i †h dj jvf nq Zv‡K mywdiv e‡jb RR&ev ev fv‡evb¥ËZv| Aa¨vZ¥mvabvi c‡_ GB RR&evi nv‡j hviv _v‡Kb Zv‡`i ejv nq g¾ye ev fv‡evb¥Ë| Giv mviv¶YB Ck¦‡ii a¨v‡b wbgw¾Z _v‡Kb, ZvB, Gi cwiYwZ‡Z Av‡m dvbv ev mgvwa|

mgvwa m¤ú‡K© cZÄwj Zvi †hvM`k©‡b e‡j‡Qb, Ômgvwawmw×ixk¦icÖwYavbrÕ (2/49) A_©vr Ck¦i cÖwYavb n‡Z mgvwa wm× nq| nwinivb›` AviY¨ GB m~‡Îi UxKvq ej‡Qb, ÔCk¦i-cÖwYavb wbqgiƒ‡c AvPwiZ nB‡j ZØviv my‡L mgvwawmw× nq| Ab¨vb¨ hg-wbqg Ab¨vb¨ cÖKv‡i mgvwai mnvq nq, wKš‘ Ck¦i cÖwYavb mv¶vr mgvwai mnvq nq, KviY Zvnv mgvwai AbyK‚j fvebv-¯^iƒcÕ| LvRv mv‡ne G c‡_iB cw_K| Zvi wkl¨ ci¤úivq KzZze DÏxb eLwZqvi KvKx, dwi`DÏxb kKiMÄ, †kL wbRvgyÏxb mevB GB m½xZ †hv‡M wm×| evev dwi‡`i †`vnv †Zv wn›`y I wkL m¤cÖ`v‡qI mgvb RbwcÖq, kª‡×q|

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PwiÎ ms‡kvab K‡i Aa¨vZ¥mvabvq mywdiv †gvUv `v‡M `y'†Uv ZwiKv ev gvM© Aej¤^b K‡ib Ñ Zwi‡K myjyK I Zwi‡K RR&ev| cÖ_g c_wU ˆbwZK kxjvPv‡ii gv_¨‡g PwiÎ‡K †`vl-Î“wUgy³ K‡i ax‡i ax‡i AvwZ¥K DbœwZ NUvq| GwU wbivc` I ¯’vqx, wKš‘ `xN© mgqmv‡c¶| Avi Zwi‡K RR&evq mvaK †cÖg‡eva‡K Aej¤^b K‡i AMÖmi nq| GB †jLvi ïi“‡Z i“wgi gmbwf †_‡K D×„Z As‡k Zvi PvwiÎ¨ wKQzUv D‡b¥vwPZ| GwU LyeB `ª“ZMwZm¤úbœ wKš‘ wec¾bK c_| m½xZ Zwi‡K RR&evi cÖvq Acwinvh© GK Abyl½|

G cÖm‡½ evDj `yÏy kvn& †M‡q‡Qb Ñ

Ôbexi AvBb gvwdK ZdviK ZwiK

kwiqZ Avi gvid‡Z|

mv‡jwK g¾ywe nq `yB ivnvi †f`

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bvgvR hvKv‡Z‡Z

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bexwRi nvw`‡m‡Z\

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g¾ywei ZwiK‡Z\

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†h‡nZz m½xZ `ª“Z I mn‡R dvbv ev mgvwa G‡b †`q ZvB A‡bK a‡g©B Gi eûj cÖPjb eZ©gvb| dvbv Kx? dvbvi Av¶wiK A_© aŸsm nIqv, wejxb n‡q hvIqv| e¨w³ hLb mgwó‡Z, cig m‡Z¨ wb‡R‡K wbgw¾Z K‡i, nvwi‡q †d‡j, hLb Zvi †`nvZ¥‡eva _v‡K bv, †m Ae¯’v ev nvj‡K e‡j dvbvwdjvn| i“wgi fvlvq, e¨w³ ZLb Avi ÔAvwgÕ _v‡K bv, ÔZzwgÕ†Z iƒcvš—wiZ nq| A_©vr KZ©v I Kg©, `k©K I `„k¨, †kªvZv I kÖ“Z, mªóv I m„ó, wbi‡c¶ I mv‡c¶, Avavi I Av‡aq, fMevb I f³, cigvZ¥v I RxevZ¥v, cyi“l I cÖK…wZ, Ck¦i I DcvmK, ie I Avã-Gi g‡a¨ dvivK _v‡K bv| Zviv nq IZ‡cÖvZ| e¨w³ ev wewkó gvbe AvKei ev eªþvq wejxb n‡q hvq|

cZÄwj e‡j‡Qb, ÔhgwbqgvmbcÖYvqvgcÖZ¨vnvi aviYva¨vbmgva‡qvnóve½vwbÕ (2/29) A_©vr hg, wbqg, Avmb, cÖYvqvg, cÖZ¨vnvi, aviYv, a¨vb I mgvwa Ñ †hv‡Mi GB AvUwU A½| Gi P~ovš— A½ mgvwa m¤ú‡K© wZwb e‡j‡Qb, Ôme©v_©‰ZKvMÖZ‡qvt ¶‡qv`‡qŠ wPËm¨ mgvwacwiYvgtÕ (3/11)| (wP‡Ëi) me©v_©Zvi ¶q I GKvMÖZvi D`q (-iƒc †h Ae¯’vš—i Zv) wP‡Ëi mgvwa-cwiYvg| me©v_©Zv n‡”Q Aby¶Y me welq‡K wbwe©Pv‡i MÖnY Kiv A_©vr wew¶ßZv| wPË †h Bw›`ªq¸‡jvi gva¨‡g AbeiZ kã, ¯úk©, iƒc, im I MÜ MÖnY K‡i Ges AZxZ I fwel¨‡Zi bvbv wPš—vq e¨¯— _v‡K Zv-B me©v_©Zv ev me©welqwfgyLZv| Avi wecix‡Z, GKvMÖZv n‡”Q GK wel‡q w¯’wZkxjZv ev mnRvZ GK wel‡q †j‡M _vKv| me©v_©Zv-a‡g©i ¶q ev Awffe Ges GKvMÖZv-a‡g©i D`q I weea©gvb nIqvi †h cwiYvg Zv-B wPËag©xi mgvwa-cwiYvg|

cÖm½Z ej‡Z B‡”Q n‡”Q, KziAv‡b Beªvwng‡K AvL¨vwqZ Kiv n‡q‡Q ÔnvwbdvÕ ev GKvMÖ e‡j Ges ewb Av`g ev gvbe RvwZ‡K Beªvwn‡gi g‡Zv GKvMÖ nIqvi ZvwM` †`qv n‡q‡Q|

GB †h mgvwa, Gi `y'†Uv cÖavb cÖKvi Ñ mweKí I wbwe©Kí| mweKí mgvwa mwµq a¨v‡bi dj| G‡¶‡Î wP‡Ëi GKvMÖ a¨v‡bi cvkvcvwk †`n †h †Kv‡bv Kv‡R e¨¯— _v‡K| Avi wbwe©Kí mgvwa m¤ú~Y© wbw®Œq Ae¯’v| G e¨vcv‡i †hvMvPvh©‡`i g‡a¨ †Kv‡bv wØgZ †bB †h m½xZ mweKí mgvwa jv‡fi AwZ Dc‡hvMx GK cš’v| wewfbœ ag© I ag©-m¤cÖ`v‡q †m R‡b¨B m½x‡Zi Ggb e¨vcK cÖPjb I ¸i“Z¡|[1]

†`nZË¡

hw` ejv nq mvjvZ ev bvgvRI GK ai‡bi mwµq a¨vb Ges Gi P~ovš— cwiYvg n‡”Q mweKí mgvwa Z‡e A‡b‡KB bv ey‡S ev fyj ey‡S bv‡Lvk n‡Z cv‡ib| wKš‘ gyn¤§` †h e‡jb ÔmvjvZ gyÕwg‡bi Rb¨ Avjvni mv‡_ wgivR (mv¶vr/wgjb) ¯^iƒcÕ Zvi A_© GB `„wó‡KvY †_‡KB me‡P‡q fv‡jv †evSv hvq| Avjvni a¨v‡b GKvMÖ n‡q mgvwa¯’ nIqvB mvjv‡Zi D‡Ïk¨| G welqwU bv ey‡S wbQK Wb-‰eVK I gyL¯— bvgZv D”Pvi‡Yi g‡Zv KziAv‡bi AvqvZ AvIwo‡q †h Kg©wU Kiv nq †m m¤ú‡K© bexwR e‡j‡Qb, ÔKv‡iv Kv‡iv mvjvZ ïay IVem Kivi Kó Qvov Avi †Kv‡bv djB †`q bv|Õ wZwb GgbwK G-I e‡j‡Qb, Ô†Kv‡bv †Kv‡bv mvjvZ gvby‡li Rb¨ MR‡ei [A_©vr, cÖwZcvj‡Ki †µv‡ai] KviY nq|Õ cÖK…Z c‡¶, bvgv‡Ri cÖwZwU ˆ`wnK Ae¯’v ev fw½ G‡KKwU †hvMvmb I cÖZxKx Zvrch©m¤úbœ| ZvB †hv‡Mi Avmb¸‡jvi g‡ZvB bvgv‡Ri ˆ`wnK fw½¸wji mg‡qi mgZv i¶v Kivi Dc‡`k w`‡Zb wZwb, A_©vr wKqvg, i“Kz, wmR`v BZ¨vw` cÖwZwU Ae¯’v‡b mgvb mgq e¨q Ki‡Z ej‡Zb| mvjv‡Z KziAv‡bi AvqvZ Ave„wË ïay bq, Zvi A_© a¨vb Ki‡Z nq| Afv‡eB †hvMx‡kªô nhiZ Avjx wmR`vi Avm‡b Ggbfv‡e mgvwa¯’ n‡q co‡Zb †h, GKevi wZwb hLb wmR`vq ZLb Zvi cv‡q we× GKwU Zxi KLb Ly‡j †djv nq Zv wZwb †UiI cvbwb| A_P, Gi Av‡M, IB Zx‡i nvZ jvMv‡bv gvÎ wZwb Zxeª hš¿Yvq KwK‡q DV‡Zb, wKQz‡ZB Zv †U‡b †ei Ki‡Z †`bwb| GB Ph©vi wecix‡Z, hviv ˆ`wnK Kmir wn‡m‡e bvgv‡Ri AvPvi cvjb K‡ib Zv‡`i Rb¨ cÖ‡hvR¨ Av‡iKwU nvw`m n‡”Q, Ôgy‡L©i Dcvmbvi †P‡q Ávbxi wb`ªv DËg|Õ

hv‡`i g‡b n‡”Q Avgiv cÖm½ †_‡K `~‡i m‡i †MwQ Zv‡`i eje, bv| Avgiv Avm‡j cÖm‡½i †ewl Mfx‡i P‡j hvw”Q| wKš‘ Zv wewea Kvi‡Y wec¾bK| ZvB, Pjyb evDj‡`i m½xZ Ph©vq Av‡jvPbv wdwi‡q wb‡q hvB|

†h wbLv` evDj †m mgvwacv` ev dvbvi gvKv‡g †cuŠQz‡bvi mvabcš’v wn‡m‡e m½x‡Zi e¨envi K‡i| evD‡ji †h ÔAvwgÕ †m Mv‡bi my‡i I K_vi Av‡e‡k Ôg‡bi gvby‡liÕ R‡b¨ AvKzj fv‡jvevmvq mgMÖ Aw¯—Z¡ wbgw¾Z K‡i a¨vb¯’ nq, fv‡ev‡b¥v`bvq bv‡P, KLbI ev mgvwa¯’I nq eBwK| GK_vB jvj‡bi wkl¨ `yÏy kvn e‡j‡Qb GB Mv‡b Ñ

Ôjv Bjvnv Bjvjvn †R‡Ki gvIjvi Ki

`g †e`‡g‡Z|

`‡g‡Z K‡i †jnvR[2], AvKewi nR

n‡e Z‡e †`j Kvev‡Z\

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†jwL‡jb †ejv‡q‡Z[3]\

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†gvkv‡n`v[6] K‡i nvmj nq †m Kv‡gj[7]

nv‡Ri _v‡K ûRy‡i‡Z[8]\

Ômv‡`wK[9] Gk&K n‡j †b¯— nv‡j[10]

¸g n‡q hvq b~‡ii mv‡_[11]|

cvwb evZvm †Rqmv †g‡j †Zqmv

bvwd[12] nq Gmev‡Z‡Z[13]\

ÔKv‡gj gywk©` hvi nq †mB Rvb‡Z cvq

AvBbvj nK[14] dzKv‡i Rv‡Z|

jvjb muvB `i‡e‡ki PiY nq wbiƒcY

`yÏy bv Wyewj Zv‡Z\Õ

`yÏy bv Wyewj Zv‡Z| †Kvb b`x‡Z? `yÏy e‡jb Ñ

ÔwKev i‡mi †mB b`x

ewn‡Q DRvb wbiewa[15]|

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a‡g©i N‡i †`q nvbv

wPiKvj Avbv‡Mvbv eªþvÊ †fw`|

Ô†mB b`x‡Z w`‡q †Lqv

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n‡q hv‡e QbœQvov

Avcb Ni w`‡q fvov, `yÏyi †mB MwZ|Õ

wPÎ 1: mœvqy Zš¿ I mœvqy †K›`ªmg~‡ni Ae¯’vb - Gray's Anatomy

`yÏy Avevi ej‡Qb Ñ

Ôgvey` gIRy` Avjvn GB †`‡n iq

Zvi m‡½ bvB †`Lv‡kvbv †_‡K GK RvqMvq \

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Kx e¯‘ Kx AvKvi Zvnvi, Ki Zvi wbY©q\

ÔcÖgvY Kvjvgyjvn‡Z

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Av‡Q ev›`vi Kj‡e‡Z Avik †Lv`vi|

e¯‘ nv‡mj n‡j c‡i

AvKewi nR Kq Zvnv‡i

mv¶vr iƒ‡c †mR`v K‡i e‡›`wM Av`vq|

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wPwb eIqv ej‡`i b¨vq

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`yÏy kvn GLv‡b Mv‡b Mv‡b Zvi †h ag©Ph©vi K_v ej‡Qb Zv †`nZvwË¡K Ph©v ev Kvqvmvabv| m½x‡Zi m‡½ Kvqvmvabvi m¤úK© GB Dcgnv‡`‡k A‡bK cyi‡bv Kv‡jB wbiƒwcZ | †hvMkv¯¿g‡Z gvbe‡`‡n cÖvq 72,000 bvwo (astral tubes or channels) eZ©gvb | Gi g‡a¨ cÖavbZg bvwo mylygœv, hvi GKw`‡K Bov ev P›`ª bvwo I Ab¨w`‡K wc½jv ev m~h© bvwo|

KzjKzÊwjbx ev wke I kw³i (ev cyi“l I cÖK…wZ ev RxevZ¥v I cigvZ¥v ev bdm I n‡Ki) g‡a¨ †h mœvqweK †hvMv‡hvM Zv cÖavbZ GB wZb g~j bvwo Ñ Bov, wc½jv I mylygœvi gva¨‡g cÖwZwôZ| mvaviY gvby‡li g‡a¨ GB wZb bvwo w`‡qB KzjKzÊwjbxi kxl©‡`k †_‡K wb‡Pi w`‡K ev g~jvav‡ii w`‡K mœvqweK kw³ Avweivg e‡q P‡j‡Q| †`nZË¡ mvaKiv GB wbgœgyLx kw³aviv‡K wÎ‡eYxi NvU ev GB wZb bvwoi wgjbwe›`y‡Z msnZ K‡i Zv ga¨eZx© bvwo mylygœvi ga¨ w`‡q DaŸ©gy‡L, ev DRv‡b ev D‡ëvi‡_, mnmªvi w`‡K cÖevwnZ K‡i|

"These Chakras are known as Alam or Latifa in Islam and in Sufism respectively.

wPÎ 2: mywd‡`i GKwU ZwiKvq Pµ/jwZdv¸‡jvi Ae¯’vb I bvg

One of the names of Allah is Al-Latif, which means the subtle one or the one who knows all subtleties.

Hence the word for Chakras used is Latifa which means subtle centre.

Chakras are indeed subtle centres which when awakened give a person his self-realisation."

· Mooladhara Chakra / Alam-e-Fa'ani / Latifa Kalabiyah

· Swadhistana Chakra / Alam-e-Masout / Latifa Nafsiyah

· Nabhi Chakra / Alam-e-Lahoot / Latifa Kalhbiyah

· Anahata Chakra / Alam-e-Sahoot / Latifa Sirriyah

· Vishuddhi Chakra / Alam-e-Malkoot / Latifa Ruhiyah

· Agnya Chakra / Alam-e-Jabroot / Latifa Khafiyah

· Sahasrara Chakra / Alam-e-Lahoot / Latifa Haqqiyah[16]

loFZz I Qq iv‡Mi †`nms¯’vb b›`Kzgv‡ii GKwU k¨vgvm½x‡Z Zv Gfv‡e wea„Z Ñ

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Ôkªxb›`Kzgvi Kq ZË¡ bv wbðq nq

Ze ZË¡ ¸YÎq KvKxgyL Av”Qvw`bx\Õ

GLv‡b cÖvPxb fvi‡Zi nbygš— gZvbyhvqx loFZz I Qq iv‡Mi †`nms¯’vb D‡jwLZ| KzjKzÊwjbx kw³ ev bd‡mi DrmgyL g~jvav‡i ‰fie ev fvq‡iv ivM, lo`j cÙ ev ¯^vaxôvb P‡µ kªx ivM, gwYcyi Pµ ev bvwf‡Z gjvi, ü`q ev AbvnZ P‡µ emš—, weï× Pµ ev KÉ‡`‡k wn‡›`vj, Avi AvÁvcyi ev å“g‡a¨ KY©vUK ev Kvbvov iv‡Mi Awaôvb| nbygš— g‡Z †h P‡µ †h iv‡Mi Awaôvb Zvi ï× MxZ ev ev`¨ †mB Pµ‡K DÏxß K‡i, D¾xweZ K‡i| Avi Kvqvmvabvi g~j j¶¨B n‡”Q †gi“`‡Êi wbP †_‡K kw³‡K Dci w`‡K PvwjZ K‡i G‡Ki ci GK mœvqyPµ¸‡jv‡K D¾xweZ K‡i I †f` K‡i me‡kl Pµ AvÁvcyi †cwi‡q Zv‡K mnmªv‡i (ev mnmª`j c‡Ù) wb‡q wke/cyi“l/cigvZ¥v/†Lv`vi mv‡_ mshy³ Kiv|

G cÖm‡½ `yÏy kvn e‡jb Ñ

Ômnmª `‡ji 'c‡i †`L bv bRi K‡i

wbivKv‡i we›`yiƒ‡c †mB RbB fv‡m †i|

Zvnv‡i Rvwb‡j †i gb Avjvn †Pbv hv‡e ZLb

ZviB Kz`iwZ KiY f‡ei 'c‡i\Õ

evDjiv Rv‡b euvkxi Qq wQ‡`ª †hgb 12 myi, 22 ev Z‡ZvwaK kÖ“wZ ev‡R, c„ôes‡ki mvZ P‡µI †Zgb Av‡iK euvwk ev‡R, hv wb‡Pi wP‡Î †`Lv‡bv n‡jv|[17]

wPÎ 3

Avevi Mv‡bi ev R‡ci K_vi †h A¶i ZviI †hŠwMK-‰`wnK Awaôvb †¶Î Av‡Q ˆewK| KziAv‡bi 29wU myivi m~Pbvq GK ev GKvwaK A¶‡ii Ae¯’vb Avgiv †`L‡Z cvB hv‡`i †KvbI e¨vL¨v IB MÖ‡š’ †bB| G¸‡jv‡K ejv nq gyKvËvqvZ A_©vr we‡kl A_©hy³ msw¶ß kã ev GKv¶i-wewkó kã| Giv ¯^qswm×| KziAv‡b e¨eüZ Ggb ni‡di msL¨v `kwU Ñ Avwjd, jvg, wgg, nv, byb, †mvqv`, K¡vd, Bqv, mxb Ges †Zvqv|

Aviwe fvlvq wZbwU ¯^ieY© I wZwikwU ÔmwnÕ A¶i ev e¨ÄbeY© i‡q‡Q| G cÖm‡½ jvjb kvn e‡j‡Qb Ñ

ÔwePvi bv Rvwb‡j †Kg‡b †Kvivb eyS‡e|

†`‡ni gv‡S Av‡Q nid KqRb Zv †`L‡e|

wÎk ni‡d †Kvivb wjLv †i †K Zvnv ey‡S‡Q|

I Zvi ni‡di gv‡b eyS‡j c„w_exi †f` cv‡e\

ÔH wÎk ni‡d Ahy` Lvov †i †K Zvnv ey‡S‡Q&

I Zvi GK nid bv _vwK‡j Ahy` LyuZv n‡e\

ÔAaxb jvjb e‡j wmivR muvB‡qi Av‡k

Avi `k nid wejv‡q‡Z Av‡Q, Pwjk nid n‡e Zv‡Z\Õ

Ahy` A_© m„ó RMZ| Avi †h `k nid wejv‡q‡Z Av‡Q A_©vr †h `k ni‡di A_© Avjvni IwjivB ïay Rvb‡Z cvb †m `kwUB IB gyKvËvqvZ nid|

Gi mv‡_ Zzjbv Kiv P‡j ivgcÖmv‡`i GKwU Mv‡b KzjKzÊwjbxi Pµ¸‡jv‡Z ms¯‹…Z eY©ms¯’vb †hfv‡e D‡jL Kiv n‡q‡Q Ñ

1. g~jvavi P‡µi PZz`©j c‡Ù Ñ e, k, l Ges m eY©|

2. ¯^vwaôvb P‡µi lo`j c‡Ù Ñ e, f, g, h, i Ges j eY©|

3. gwbcyi P‡µi `k`j c‡Ù Ñ W, X, Y, Z, _, `, a, b, c Ges d eY©|

4. AbvnZ P‡µi Øv`k`j c‡Ù Ñ K, L, M, N, O, P, Q, R, S, T, U Ges V eY©|

5. weï× P‡µi †lvok`j c‡Ù Ñ A, Av, B, C, D, E, F, 9, G, H, I, J, s, t, Ges Ju GB †lvjwU ¯^ieY©|

6. AvÁv P‡µi wØ`j c‡Ù Ae¯’vb n Ges ¶ e‡Y©i|

D‡jL¨, A¶‡ii GKwU A_© n‡”Q hvi ¶q †bB A_©vr Ck¦i|

Dc‡i ivM I e‡Y©i Pµms¯’vb D×„Z Kivi D‡Ïk¨ ïay GB †h R‡c, g‡š¿, KxZ©‡b, Mx‡Z I ev‡`¨ e¨eüZ myi I evYxi ïay A_© I e¨ÄbvB bq, Zv‡`i Ici †h †`nZvwË¡K Zvrch©I Av‡ivc K‡i‡Qb Zvwš¿K, †hvMx I mywdiv Ges Aek¨B evDjiv Zv cÖZxqgvb Kiv| GB m~‡ÎB ev GB Pvwe w`‡qB †Kej Z‡š¿i bvbv eB †hgb PÊx‡Z D‡jwLZ AvcvZt A_©nxb exRgš¿¸‡jvi A_© D×vi Kiv m¤¢e| GB Av‡jv‡Z †`L‡j Avi †m¸‡jv‡K iex›`ªbv‡_i g‡Zv wnswUsQU g‡b n‡e bv| †evSv hv‡e jvjb Kx ej‡Z †P‡q‡Qb hLb wZwb Mvb Ñ

ÔAvwjd jvg wgg Avnv` b~ix

wZb ni‡di M¤^y fvix\

ÔAvwj‡d nq Avjvn nv`x

wg‡g b~i gyn¤§w`

jv‡gi gv‡b †KD Ki‡j bv

by³v eywS n‡jv Pzwi\

ÔbeŸyB nvRvi Kjgv Rvwi

bexi m‡½ w`‡jb evix,

wZwik nvRvi kwiq‡Z Rvwi

lvU nvRvi eySvB‡Z bvwi\

ÔwmivR muvB e‡j, †i jvjb,

by³vi Av‡M Ki wbiƒcY|

by³v wbwiL n‡e hLb

_vK‡e bv †Zv †KvU-KvPvwi\Õ

Avwjd I wg‡gi gv‡b †Zv ej‡jb jvjb| jv‡gi gv‡b Kx? †mwUB Bw½‡Z e‡j‡Qb MvbwUi evwK As‡k| jv‡gi gv‡b †KD Ki‡j bv, by³v eywS n‡jv Pzwi| jv‡gi eowk AvK…wZ‡K byb A¶‡ii m‡½ Zzjbv K‡i ej‡Qb, †hb by‡bi by³v ev we›`y Pzwi n‡q GwU jvg AvK…wZ aviY K‡i‡Q| by‡bi Aa©e„ËwU n‡”Q †`n Ges by³vwU n‡”Q AvZ¥vi cÖZxK| †h AvZ¥¯’ †m byb| Avevi Aviwe‡Z byb A_© gvQ ev gxb| evDj‡`i Mv‡b GB gx‡bi eûj e¨envi †`Lv hvq, hv wm×vPvh© gxbbv_ Z_v bv_ a‡g©i mv‡_ evDj a‡g©i DËim~wiZvi GKwU Bw½Z| hvB †nvK, †mvRv K_vq, jv‡gi gv‡b `uvovq AvZ¥Ávbnxb gvbe| †m cÖKv‡k¨ Rvwi wZwik nvRvi K‡jgv Rv‡b, wKš‘ evwK lvU nvRvi Rv‡b bv| Zv Rvb‡Z n‡j Av‡M by³v wbiƒcY Kiv `iKvi| by³v wbiƒwcZ n‡j A_©vr AvZ¥Ávb n‡j †KvU©-KvPvwi ev kwiq‡Zi †eovRvj _vK‡e bv, mZ¨ AveiY QvovB cÖKvwkZ n‡e, jvg cwiYZ n‡e by‡b| byb I wgg, Dfq‡KB evDjiv gxb ev gvQ wn‡m‡e Kíbv K‡i‡Qb| Z‡e, byb n‡”Q Aí R‡ji gvQ Avi wgg n‡”Q A_B R‡ji|

G †hb mywd‡`i Ab¨Zg c~e©m~ix RvjvjyÏxb i“wgi e‡q‡ZiB evsjv cÖwZaŸwb| i“wg e‡jb Ñ

Ônvi‡K Ryh& gvnx †h Av-evk mvqi ï`

nvi‡K †e-‡ivwh¯— †ivhvk `vqi ï`|Õ

hviv gxb (A_©vr Avjvn-‡cÖ‡gi) ¸Ynxb Zviv Aí R‡j Z…ß|

G c‡_ hviv RxweKvnxb (A_©vr G‡Kev‡i ewÂZ) Zv‡`i Rxeb AKv‡R bó n‡q †Mj|

dviwm‡Z gvnx gv‡b gvQ| Ryh& gvnx gv‡b hvi g‡a¨ gv‡Qi ¸Y †bB| Zviv mvgvb¨ Áv‡bB Z…ß| wKš‘ hviv Avmj grm¨¸Y m¤úbœ Zviv Avjvni †cÖ‡g KL‡bvB Z…ß nb bv, Aa¨vZ¥mvabvi Mfxi †_‡K MfxiZi R‡j wbgw¾Z nb| Avi Ô†e-‡ivwh¯—Õ ZvivB hviv Gk‡K Bjvwn ev fMer-‡cÖ‡gi wKQzB cvq wb| _v‡`i Rxeb, i“wgi g‡Z, evDj‡`i g‡Z, GK`gB wedj|

[1] Avevi G R‡b¨B gyL¨Z m½xZwfwËK ag©-m¤cÖ`vqI i‡q‡Q, †hgb evsjvi evDj, hviv Avm‡j G‡`‡ki cÖvPxbZg †jvKvqZ a‡g©i Abymvix, aviK Ges evnK| Avgiv Ph©vc‡` †h wm×vPh©‡`i ag©, A_©vr bv_ ag©, m¤ú‡K© Rvb‡Z cvB Zv-B Kvjvbyµ‡g Zš¿ I †hv‡Mi mv‡_ †eŠ× I ˆeòe mnwRqv ag© Ges mywdev‡`i cÖvmw½K `k©b I AvPvi AvZ¥xKiY K‡i AvR‡Ki evDj a‡g© iƒcvš—wiZ n‡q‡Q| G cÖm‡½ Ab¨Î wek` Av‡jvPbv Kivi B”Qv Av‡Q|

[2] †jnvR : wkóvPvi; Av`e-Kvq`v| —e¨envwiK esjv Awfavb, evsjv GKv‡Wgx, c„ôv 1061

[3] †ejv‡qZ : Avjvni wcÖqcvÎ nIqvi Ae¯’v ev c_|

[4] `k : mywd‡`i GK Nivbvi †`nZ‡Ë¡ †h `k jwZdv ev Pµ (nerve plexuses) mvabvi gva¨‡g DÏxwcZ I RvMÖZ Kiv nq|

[5] †gvivKvev ev gyivKvev : a¨vb, Mfxi wPš—v, Awfwb‡ek mnKv‡i wPš—b (†nivi ¸nvq †gvivKvevjxb †Luv‡R †h mZ¨ †cÖg-iwOb); mywd ev mvay m¤cÖ`v‡qi g‡a¨ cÖPwjZ we‡kl GK Zb¥qZv ev mgvwnZ Ae¯’v| —e¨envwiK evsjv Awfavb, evsjv GKv‡Wgx, c„ôv 1000

[6] †gvkv‡n`v = cÖZ¨¶ `k©Y|

[7] Kv‡gj = c~Y©Zv AR©bKvix e¨w³|

[8] ûRyiZ : `„wó-mgy‡L, `iev‡i, `„wó-†MvP‡i, mvgbv mvgwb (in presence)|

[9] mv‡`wK = eÜzZ¡c~Y©|

[10] †b¯— nv‡j = Aw¯—Z¡ †bB Ggb Ae¯’vq|

[11] ¸g n‡q hvq b~‡ii mv‡_ = (Avjvni) b~‡ii g‡a¨ nvwi‡q hvq|

[12] bvwd nq = wejyß nq|

[13] GmevZ = (Avjvni) Aw¯—Z¡|

[14] AvBbvj nK = AvwgB mZ¨|

[15] GB n‡”Q †mB b`x hv †hvM `k©b I Z‡š¿ KzjKzÊwjbx bv‡g Rx‡ei g~jvavi P‡µ ïi“ n‡q †gi“`‡Êi ga¨ w`‡q e‡q gw¯—‡®‹i Ic‡ii As‡k mnmªvi P‡µ †kl n‡q‡Q|

[16] Javed Khan, Islam Enlightened (New Delhi: Ritana Books, 1998), p63

[17] Chakras are 7 (Seven) psychosomatic centers on the spinal cord. They are the store house of the prana or vital energy. They do not have a concrete presence biologically but have corresponding nerve plexus.

My Résumé

2010-08-25T20:57:00.001-07:00

RÉSUMÉ

AKM AZFAR AZIZ

Consultant, CREA, 1/14, Iqbal Road,

Mohammadpur, Dhaka 1207, Bangladesh

Phone: 88-02-8115887;

cell-phone: 01556569464

Email: ;

Blog: http://spectatorsnotes.blogspot.com/

EXPERTISE

§ News report, feature, column, editorial, post-editorial and opinion writing, editing and rewriting

§ Newspaper, magazine, newsletter and book editing and layout

§ Journalism trainer

§ Planning and conducting media monitoring and research, and preparing study report

§ Poetry, essay, short story, lyric and book review writing

§ Writing/developing content of online/print publications

§ Writing press briefing/summary

§ Radio/audio programme editing and production

§ Translation from English to Bangla and vice versa

§ Designing development project concepts and proposals, project implementation progress/completion reports, and seminar/conference papers

§ Development project coordination

§ Seminar/conference/workshop rapporteur

§ Printing and publication

§ Violin playing and music composition

1. PROFESSIONAL TRACK IN JOURNALISM, MEDIA, AND MEDIA DEVELOPMENT

A. NEWSPAPERS

1. 18 Dec 2009 to 21 August 21, 2010: Senior Sub-editor in charge of a planned English version of Prothom Alo Online, 100 Kazi Nazrul Islam Avenue, Karwan Bazar, Dhaka 1215, Bangladesh; Tel: 8110081, 8115307-10; Ext: 1339 (Work); 01719397355 (Home); Website:http://www.prothom-alo.com

Responsibilities:

· Designing and conceptualising the content and the team required to host (slated for Feb 1, 2010) the planned English version of the Prothom Alo Online

· Search, assess and help the management recruit the team members required to publish the English version

· Shift-in-Charge of New Media (8am to 3pm)

· Translating international news, assigning other staffers international news for translation

· Editing/rewriting translated international news

· Editing/rewriting local news including those on business/economy and entertainment before hosting

· Ensure smooth running of SMS and breaking news services

· Mentor junior colleagues

2. June 2006-March 2009: Senior Sub-editor (Grade-1), Central News Desk and then in-charge of Business Fold, the daily New Age

30 Tejgaon Industrial Area, Dhaka, Bangladesh; Tel: 88-02-8153034-39 (PABX), Fax: 88-02-8112247

Responsibilities:

· Planning the business fold of the daily

· Assigning reporters, screening staff and wire service copies and photos, making up the business fold by the deadline

· Editing/rewriting news stories/features/commentaries

· Giving headlines and writing photo captions

· Assisting the news editor in news and photo treatment and laying out the front and back pages and pages 2, 3 and 11 of the daily

· Work as a gatekeeper for other pages of the newspaper

· Contributing post-editorials and features

3. July 2007-March 2009: Part-time Copy Editor, the weekly Holiday

30, Tejgaon Industrial Area, Dhaka 1208. Phone: 9122950, 9110886, 9128117, 8124593; Fax: 9127927; Email: <holiday@global-bd.net>

Responsibility:

· Editing front- and pack-page news, articles, columns, and other contents on Thursday, the day before publication of the weekly

4. December 2003 to May 2006: Senior Sub-editor, Central News Desk, The Daily Star

19 Karwan Bazar, Dhaka 1215, Bangladesh, Tel: 88-02-8124944, 8124955, 8124966, Ext-144;

Fax: 88-02-8126154; Email: <dsreport@gononet.com>; Website: www.thedailystar.net

Responsibilities:

· Editing and rewriting reports, features, news commentaries

· Writing headlines and writing photo captions

· Assisting the news editors in page make-up and deciding news treatment

· Monitoring the newspaper for mistakes and shortcomings

· Training job-seekers and mentoring new recruits

· Carrying out special assignments given by the editor

· Contributing features, essays, views, opinion pieces, and book reviews to The Daily Star's Literature Page, Weekend Magazine, Op-ed Page, and supplements on a regular basis

5. June 2002 to November 2003: News Consultant and then Senior Sub-Editor in charge of Corporate and Stock Pages, The Financial Express

28/1 Toynbee Circular Road, Dhaka 1000, Bangladesh; Tel: 88-02-9553550-1; Fax: 9567049; Email: <fe@gononet.com>, <tfe@bangla.net>

Responsibilities:

· Edit the copies, plan the lay out of five pages including two on stock market and three on private sector company news

· Decide news treatment, select photographs and graphics to be used

· Make-up the pages by the deadline

· Ensure word economy, excellence of business reports, language, and page get-up

· Propose improvements to the editor and implement the initiatives approved by him

· Co-edit the weekend magazine of the daily and write features, articles and opinion pieces in it as well as post-editorials and op-ed pieces for the daily

6. February 2001 to May 2002: Special Editor in-charge of Business Page, daily Ajker Kagoj

Mina House, 719/A Satmasjid Road, Dhanmondi, Dhaka 1205, Bangladesh; Tel: 9138245-52; Fax: 9139859-60

Responsibilities:

· Upgrade and computerise the business page

· Assign reporters and ensure submission of copies in time

· Supervise editing, rewriting and translation of reports/features

· Plan lay-out of the page, decide news treatment and photographs to be used and how

· Produce the page by deadline

7. 1979–1980: Shift-in-Charge, the Daily Rupashi Bangla, Comilla

Responsibilities:

· Being in charge of the day shift

· Source, select and edit news copies

· Write editorials/post-editorials

· Help the editor lay out, make up and print the daily

8. 1978–1979: Sub-editor, the Weekly Pathadhwani, Dhaka

Responsibilities:

· Edit news copies

· Write reports

· Help the editor lay out the weekly

B. MEDIA DEVELOPMENT ORGANIZATIONS

1. June 2002 to June 2006: Media and Programme Planning Consultant, Management and Resources Development Initiative (MRDI)

2/9 Sir Syed Road (3rd floor), Block A, Mohammadpur, Dhaka 1207; Tel: 9134717, 9137147, Fax: ext-111; Mobile: 01819200500; Email: <bmrdi@yahoo.com>; <info@mrdibd.org>; Web: www.mrdibd.org

Responsibilities:

· A part-time consultancy. I provided 16 hours a week to this NGO

· Designing programmes and projects

· Lending editorial support to publications, media releases, etc

· Conducting media researches and opinion polls

· Providing support in implementation of projects, activities and events

· Providing policy advice

· Playing the role of an overall mentor

MEDIA DEVELOPMENT PROJECTS DESIGNED BY ME FOR MRDI

1. Open Flow of Info on Trade and Economy (OFITE) funded by the European Commission

2. Advancing Business Journalism Education and Training (ABJET) funded by Katalyst

3. Pilot SME Media Project in Bogra (PSMPB) funded by Katalyst

4. Linking SME to Media (LSM) funded by Katalyst

5. Bridging Media and the Corporate Sector in Promoting Good Governance funded by the Manusher Jonno Fund

2. January 1999 to May 2002: Director/Executive Editor, Bangladesh Centre for Development, Journalism and Communication (BCDJC)

53 Central Road, Dhaka 1205; Tel: 88-02-8620539, 505776

Responsibilities:

· Participate in policymaking

· Edit and publish BCDJC publications

· Coordinate journalism training courses and also act as a trainer

· Supervise media monitoring, sending press freedom alerts and media projects

· Design and coordinate media interventions

· Conduct media researches and opinion surveys

· Write/edit the study reports

Highlights

a. February 1999 to August 1999: Facilitator and coordinator of 13 journalism training courses directed by Paul Ryder Ryan, a Knight Fellow

b. September 1999 to 2001: Coordinator of a one-month training course on radio programme production and Joint Producer, Amar Kotha Shono (Listen to Me), a 12-episode radio campaign produced under the ‘Health for Young People in Bangladesh’ project jointly implemented by the Thomson Foundation, UK, the BCDJC, and the Family Planning Association of Bangladesh (FPAB), with funding from the National Lottery Charities Board, UK

c. 1999-2000: Executive Editor, the Democracy Partnership News, a newsletter of the Bangladesh Democracy Partnership of BRAC, The Asia Foundation and the USAID.

MEDIA DEVELOPMENT PROJECTS I COORDINATED/PARTICIPATED WHILE AT BCDJC

A. Journalism Developments in 12 Towns of Bangladesh

This was a 3-year project starting from September 1999, funded by the Swedish International Development Agency (Sida). The goal of this project was to improve the quality of journalism in the project area. The main components of the project were thematic publication of books and a quarterly on Journalism and Communication; impart training for Journalism trainers, reporters, editors, managers, photo-journalists in 12 selected small towns of Bangladesh, develop local resource centres for the working journalists’ community, encourage and augment women participation and gender sensitivity in small town and community newspapers, help the marginalised and minority population find their voice in the mass media.

B. Enhancing the Role of Newspaper Gatekeepers in Election Reporting

This was a short-term project (July to December 2001), funded through The Asia Foundation, Bangladesh with the following objectives:

- Ensure the election reporting in accurate form

- Provide guidelines to media personnel on election reporting.

C. Strengthen Election Reporting by Journalists

This, too, was a time-bound project, funded through The Asia Foundation and implemented by BCDJC in collaboration with Bangladesh Manobadhikar Shangbadik Forum. The purpose of the project was to enhance the quality of long-term election monitoring (around the election day) and reporting by utilising the media professionals in the respective areas in Bangladesh for dissemination of accurate status to the people in this country and interested parties both in local and international arena.

D. Election 2001: In Bangladesh Newspapers

This was the first such long-term undertaking in Bangladesh in monitoring newspapers' coverage of the general elections.

E. Voters’ Expectation and Evaluation of the Electoral Process

This was a nation-wide survey conducted by a team of local level journalists with the main thrust to know the voters’ standpoint on the process or practices of election in the country. The objective of the survey was also to make voters as monitors of different electoral affairs, both at local and national level and aimed for developing an overall choice pattern of voters, side by side an evaluation of past activities and expectations from future actions of both the govt. and the opposition.

C. MEDIA CONSULTANCY FOR FOREIGN MISSIONS/ORGANIZATIONS

i. August 2001 to November 2001: Media Adviser’s Assistant, Core Team, European Union Election Observation Mission in Bangladesh 2001 (EU EOMB 2001) and Coordinator of Media Monitoring on Election Coverage

BRAC Centre Inn, Mohakhali, Dhaka, Bangladesh

Responsibilities:

· Assist and advise the Media Adviser of the EU EOMB 2001 in media relations

· Coordinate the monitoring of media coverage of election

· Analyse the data base and prepare specific findings

· Contribute in preparing the media monitoring report of the mission

· Participation in brainstorming sessions for developing intervention mechanism, strategy, and means

ii. January 2001 to May 2002: Weekly press briefing writer for the Delegation of the European Commission in Bangladesh

3. November to December 2005: Media Relations Consultant, Bangladesh Human Rights Advocacy Project (BHRAP) of the US-based Academy for Educational Development (AED)

Responsibilities:

· Develop slogans and texts for posters, banners, a booklet, leaflets, etc for observing World Human Rights Day

· Draft the annual report of BHRAP

· Rapporteuring of the Human Rights Fair held in Chittagong

· Prepare and disseminate media releases

D. CONSULTANCY/FREELANCE WORK FOR OTHER ORGANISATIONS

1. 21 August 2010 to date: Consultant, Project Development Unit, society for "Community-health Rehabilitation Education and Awareness (CREA)

1/14 Iqbal Road, Mohammadpur, Dhaka 1207, Bangladesh, Tel: 88-02-8115887; cell: 88-01556569464

Responsibilities:

· Designing project concepts and proposals

· Writing/editing reports and texts for website, calls, brochures, and other publications

· Help develop training materials

2. May 2009-17 Dec 2009: Consultant, Project Development Unit, society for "Community-health Rehabilitation Education and Awareness (CREA)

1/14 Iqbal Road, Mohammadpur, Dhaka 1207, Bangladesh, Tel: 88-02-8115887; cell: 88-01190877772;

Responsibilities:

· Designing project concepts and proposals

· Writing/editing reports and texts for website, calls, brochures, and other publications

· Help develop training materials

3. June 2002 to Date: Enlisted Editor/Translator (on call basis), Disha, a sister concern of Mitra and Associates

2/17 Iqbal Road, Mohammadpur, Dhaka 1207; Tel: 88-02-9115503, 818065; Fax: 9115503;

Email:

Responsibilities:

· Translation of texts from Bangla to English and vice versa

· Writing/editing/rewriting of reports, organisational profiles, project proposals, EOIs, etc

E. RAPPORTEURING & MEDIA RELATIONS MANAGEMENT

Chief Rapporteur: National Seminar on Food Security in Bangladesh organised by the WFP at the CIRDAP auditorium on May 11, 2006
Chief Rapporteur and Media Manager: A three-day Regional Conference on Rights to Information organised by the Manusher Jonno Fund in February 2006
Rapporteur: Cluster Development Workshops organised by the SouthAsia Enterprise Development Facility (SEDF) and the Bangladesh Knitwear Manufacturers and Exporters Association (BKMEA) on May 16 and 17, 2005 at Dhaka Sheraton Hotel
Rapporteur: Introduction to Cluster Development, a national seminar organised by the SEDF and the BKMEA on May 19, 2005 at Dhaka Sheraton Hotel Ballroom.
Chief Rapporteur: Private Sector Development (PSD) Learning Event, organised by the SEDF and the Foreign Investment Advisory Service (FIAS) of the World Bank Group with planning and co-ordination support from the Board of Investment (BoI) and Bangladesh Enterprise Institute (BEI) at Dhaka Sheraton Hotel Ballroom on April 2 to 3, 2005.
Rapporteur: Apparel Sourcing Practices and the Way Forward for the Bangladesh Knitwear Sector, a national seminar organised by the SEDF and Bangladesh Knitwear Manufacturers and Exporters Association (BKMEA) on April 18, 2005 at Dhaka Sheraton Hotel Ballroom.
Chief Rapporteur: South Asia Regional Workshop on Alternative Dispute Resolution organised by The British Council at the auditorium of its Dhaka Campus from March 7-9, 2004.

8. Chief Rapporteur and Media Manager: 20th Anniversary Celebrations of the ActionAid Bangladesh held at the CIRDAP auditorium on January 23 to 25, 2004.

9. Chief Rapporteur and Media Manager: South Asia Regional Forum on Women and Governance: Focus on Local Government, a 3-day international conference with delegates from the Saarc countries and Canada organised by the South Asia Partnership on 12-14 July 2004 at Dhaka Sheraton Hotel.

F. MUSIC

1. 1985-1987: Freelance violin player for film, radio, TV and stage shows.

2. NON-MEDIA PROFESSIONAL TRACK

1. September 1997–December 1998: Assistant Teacher in English and Assistant Headmaster-in-Charge, Momruzkandi Saptagram High School, Matlab, Chandpur.

Responsibilities

· Teach English language and literature

· Look after the management of the school as the Assistant Headmaster in-Charge

2. September 1990–June 1997: Proprietor, Wave, an electronics shop at Comilla Stadium Market, Onindya Uapahar, a handicraft shop in Comilla Zilla School Road, and two Dhaka-Comilla passenger buses.

Responsibilities

· Managing my family business in inter-district coach service

· Running a business in electronic goods and another in handicrafts and gift items in Comilla Town with a show room for electronic items named Wave at Comilla Stadium Market and another in Comilla Zilla School Road for handicraft and gift items

3. January 1989–June 1990: Area Secretary and Head of Unit Rate Basis Works, Tasharukiat Al Waddan for Oil Field Services, Zelten Field, Libya.

Responsibilities:

· In-charge of the company's camp in Zelten Oil Field

· Ensure smooth implementation of unit rate-basis works

· Liaising and negotiating on contracted works with the Planning Division of the oil field operator, Sirte Oil Company (formally Esso), as well as the supervisor of the departments under which fell the ongoing contracted jobs

· Supervising the record-keeping

· Documentation and other secretarial work at the Waddan camp

· Ensuring maintenance of construction and other equipment and vehicles, un-interrupted supply of fuel, food and other necessities to the 125-man camp

· Ensuring smooth kitchen services and other utilities

· Keeping the company headquarters, particularly its managing director, updated about the situation in Zelten area, etc.

4. June 1988-December 1988: Computer Operator, Purchasing Department, National Petrochemical Complex, Marsa El Brega, Libya.

Responsibilities:

· Data entry and data management

· Report writing

3. PUBLICATIONS

A. PUBLISHED BOOKS

1. Gonomadhyam Aeen (Media Law): August 2000: A compilation of all the laws and parts of laws and the constitution related to media, media professionals and media institutions; BCDJC with financial assistance from the Sida

2. Songiter Sashtriya Sangkat O Raga Lakshana (The Theoretical Crisis of Music and the Differentiae of Raga): An examination of Indian ethnomusicology, its demystification and scientific analyses and a treatise on how to link/orchestrate it with the western musical system without comprising its originality. In Bangla, Deepra Prakashoni, Dhaka, Oct 1987

3. Dhootoora: A collection of Bangla poems, Deepra Prakashoni, Dhaka, Oct 1987

4. Ajker Puthi Ajker Gaan: Compilation of the lyrics of a number of mass songs, Bangladesh Lekhok Shibir, 1983

B. RESEARCH WORK & EDITED BOOKS, JOURNALS ETC

1. June to August 2005: Research planner, coordinator, analyst and report writer: Newspaper Content Analysis on World Food Programme Issues for the WFP, Bangladesh

2. March to June 2005. Research planner, coordinator, analyst and report writer: Newspaper Content Analysis on Population Movement for the International Organisation on Migration, Bangladesh

3. November 2003: Opinion poll planner, coordinator, analyst and report writer: Voice of the Grassroots on Human Rights and Good Governance: A comprehensive book containing the outcomes of six divisional level workshops and a subsequent opinion poll conducted to gather the perspectives of stakeholders on existing human rights and governance situation in Bangladesh as well as the pros and cons in instituting those at local and national levels

4. May 2002: Editor: Voters’ Expectation and Evaluation of the Electoral Process, the final report of a survey by the MAEM on the voters’ attitude to elections, electioneering, political parties, candidates, expectations from the government, opposition, administration, political leader etc.

5. December 2001: Editor and contributor: Election 2001 in Bangladesh Newspapers: Report on a newspaper content analysis by BCDJC on election coverage by Bangladeshi print media during the 2001 general elections

6. November 2000: Dhakar Baire Sangbadikota: A collection of articles by local level journalists depicting the prevalent situation of journalism outside Dhaka

7. February 1993: Editor and contributor: Kamalanko: a little magazine.

8. February 1987: Editor and contributor: Dour, Volume 2, a little magazine

9. February 1979: Editor and contributor: Dour, Volume 1, a little magazine

10. February 1978: Editor and contributor: Bidroho, a little magazine

C. NOTABLE PUBLISHED WRITE-UPS

1. A large number of book reviews, features and articles published in various newspapers including The Daily Star, The Financial Express and Muktokantho and Ajker Kagoj

2. Baul Keno Gaan Gaye (Why the Bauls Sing): A treatise on the musico-yogic practices of the Bauls. (Subarno Rekha, the literary supplement of Ajker Kagoj, 31 January 2002)

3. Dayal Bauler Maina-tadanto (Postmortem of the Dayal Bauls): A critical dissection of the philosophic and religious outlook of a cult of Bauls of Brahmanbaria and Comilla named ‘Dayal’. (Ajker Kagoj, 21 June 2001)

4. Public Deliberation: One Way to Strengthen Democracy: An in-depth article on current political practices, problems and a possible way out, presented as the key-note paper in a discussion on Deliberative Democracy in Bangladesh on 20 Oct 1999 in Dhaka, attended by leading media experts, academicians and professionals, political and human rights activists, and prominent members of the civil society, with His Excellency Anders Johnson, Ambassador of Sweden to Bangladesh, as the chief guest. Later it was published in the Daily Star on 9 February 2000.

5. Translation into Bangla of The Dream of a Queer Fellow by F Dostoyevsky, published in Dour in 1987, in Kamalanko in 1993, and then in Khola Janala, the weekly literary supplement of daily Muktakantha, in four instalments in October and November 1999.

6. Natyakala: a weekly column on dramatics. (Dainik Desh in 1987 to 1988)

D. MUSIC ALBUM, STAGE & TV PERFORMANCE, MUSIC DIRECTION

1. 1992-1995: President of Comilla Janantic and lead vocalist of its musical troupe

2. Music direction of 'Titas Ekti Nadir Nam', a drama written by Shwantanu Kaisar based on a novel of the same name by Adwaita Malla-Barman. (Comilla in 1993)

3. May Dibosher Gaan (Songs of the May Day): An audio album of Bangla mass-songs. (Bangladesh Lekhok Shibir, May 1984

4. Performed as the lead vocalist of the Central Cultural Squad of Bangladesh Lekhok Shibir in numerous stage programmes in Dhaka, Dhaka University, Jahangirnagar University, Comilla, Pabna, Khulna, Jessore, Dumuria, Dashmina, Galachipa, Gachhani, Magura, Patuakhali, Barisal and so on between 1978 and 1983.

5. Co-play-write, music director and performer of 'Ajab Rajar Deshe', a drama produced by Bangladesh Lekhok Shibir in 1979.

6. Acted in a tele-film titled Duswapno first telecast by the erstwhile Ekushey Television in November 2001 and then again in 2003, besides a few stage dramas

7. Played solo violin in a number of stage programmes and also in orchestra for playback of songs for films and radio.

4. EDUCATION

Self-educated. However, for practical purposes I did obtain a first university degree.

Academic Track

1. Bachelor of Arts degree (Second Class) from the University of Chittagong in 1983.

2. Higher Secondary School Certificate from Humanities Group in First Division from Dhaka College in 1978.

3. Secondary School Certificate from Science Group in First Division from Comilla Zila School in 1976.

5. TRAINING

1. Thirty-hour upper-intermediate level in-service training in English imparted by the British Council, Dhaka Language Training Faculty from March to May 2004 while I had been working at The Daily Star, Dhaka.

2. Training in violin playing from the Bulbul Academy of Fine Arts (BAFA), Dhaka and the Dhir Ali Music Academy, Dhaka and privately by the late Ustad Ali Hossain Shikder, the late Ustad Torab Ali Bishwas and finally by Ustad Alauddin Miah.

3. Certificate courses in dbase 3+ and BASIC computer programming languages in 1984 to 1985.

4. Participated in a month-long Film Appreciation Course held in Dhaka in 1981 and conducted by Professor Shatish Bahadur of the Pune Film Institute, India.

5. Training in vocal music by Pintu Bhattacharya and the late Ustad Bedaruddin Ahmed, then the principal of BAFA.

6. INTERNATIONAL WORKSHOPS

1. Workshop on Community Radio in South Asia: Exploring the Way Forward, held in Kathmandu, Nepal, on 21-23 Feb 2002, organised by the `Media South Asia’ Project of the Institute of Development Studies, University of Sussex, UK, with support from the Ford Foundation. The workshop was followed by a three-day visit to some community radio stations of Nepal to gather a first hand introduction to their work.

2. Workshop titled Broadcasting and Development, held in Manikganj, Bangladesh on 1-3 March 2002, organised by `Media South Asia’ project of the Institute of Development Studies, University of Sussex, UK, with support from the Ford Foundation.

7. PREVIOUS ORGANISATIONAL ATTACHMENTS

1. 1999-2001: Press freedom monitor for the Committee to Protect Journalists (CPJ) in New York, and also the Reporters sans Frontier, Paris

2. 1992-1995: Founding President, Comilla Jonantik, a dramatic club

3. 1993: Chairman, Committee to Observe the Martyrs Day, Sammilito Sangskritik Jote (United Cultural Front), Comilla region

4. 1990-1993: Founding Member, The Outsiders, a musical band

5. 1978-1983: Founding Leader, Central Cultural Squad, Bangladesh Lekhok Shibir

6. 1979-1981: Asst. General Secretary, Central Committee, Bangladesh Lekhok Shibir

7. 1979-1981: Cultural Secretary, Central Committees of Bangladesh Krishok Federation, Bangladesh Jute Press and Bailing Shramik Federation and Bangladesh Pharmaceutical Shramik Federation

8. 1979: Founding Joint Coordinator, Somoy, a socio-cultural organisation

9. 1977-1978: Founding General Secretary, Bangladesh Lekhok Shibir, Dhaka College Branch

8. COMPUTER WORKING ENVIRONMENT

MS Office, Quark Express for page make-up, Adobe Photoshop and Illustrator for photo editing and graphics, Cool Edit Pro for sound editing, standard Internet browsers, and dbase 3+ for database management, among others.

9. LANGUAGE PROFICIENCY

Proficient in English and Bangla. Moderate knowledge in Quranic Arabic.

REFEREES

1. Tarun Kanti Gayen

Chief Executive

society for Community-health Rehabilitation, Education and Awareness (CREA)

1/14 Iqbal Road, Mohammadpur, Dhaka 1207, Bangladesh

Phone: 88-02-8115887; Mobile: 88-01711153197; E-mail:

2. Sohel Manzur

President

Centre for Media and Communication Studies (CMCS)

12/6 Iqbal Road (1st floor), Block A, Mohammadpur, Dhaka-1207

Phone: 880-2-9144389, 044-76403015

Cell: 01552422049; Email:

3. Khademul Islam

Former Literary Editor, The Daily Star

6 Gulshan Avenue, Suite D4 (B. Aristocrat), Dhaka 1212, Bangladesh

Cell: 01819-260040; Email: ; ; ;

(AKM Azfar Aziz)

August 21, 2010

Waking up to Reality

2007-09-12T04:37:00.004-07:00

Moniruzzaman, a farmer from Elaipur village in Rupsha upazila, and his wife were in for the greatest shock of their lives when they took their sick son to Khulna Shishu Hospital. Blood tests revealed that the infant was HIV positive. This prompted the doctors to get blood samples from the other family members. All of them - the father, mother and two other children were tested positive for HIV. A physician who knows the family, suspects that the mother may have been infected with the virus when she received six bags of blood 11 years ago during the complicated delivery of her first child.

This frightening tale gives a glimpse of the gravity of the problem. First, of the complete lack of awareness about HIV (Human Immunodeficiency Virus) and AIDS (Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome) and secondly that we have no idea about how fast and how widely it is spreading. While sexual intercourse is the most obvious way for the virus to be transmitted from one person to the other, needle sharing between drug users has been found to be the most common cause for the spread of the virus.

Last year, a survey detected a near HIV epidemic among injecting drug users (IDUs) in a pocket of central Bangladesh. The fifth round of HIV surveillance by the Centre for Health and Population Research of the ICDDR,B (International Centre for Diarrhoeal Disease Research, Bangladesh) reports, "The HIV epidemic in Bangladesh, from an epidemiological perspective, is evolving rapidly. While still a low prevalence country for overall HIV rates, a small pocket of IDUs under second generation surveillance, has shown an HIV prevalence increase from 1.4% to 4% to 8.9% (in one locality) in the past three years." The prevalence rate is what health experts consider a concentrated epidemic in a particular social section. It also means there is too high a risk of the epidemic fanning out for the society to remain complacent about.

But, Bangladesh continues to remain indifferent to the frightening report. Since the first case detected in 1989, only 465 cases of HIV infection were officially reported until December 2004. Of the infected, 87 have developed AIDS and 44 have died. On the other hand, even back in 2002, UNAIDS estimated that some 13,000 adults and children were HIV positive in the country, which by now should have increased at least three-fold, considering the upward trend detected in the ICDDR,B survey. Explaining the chasm between the government and the UN estimates, National AIDS/STD Program (NAP) states, "Significant underreporting of cases occurs because of the country's limited voluntary testing and counseling capacity. The social stigma attached to the disease is a further impediment."

When we consider the five unfortunate members of the farmer family, this is even more relevant. Many IDUs sell their blood to get money to buy drugs, increasing the risk of spreading the virus. As the NAP says, "Bangladesh relies on professional blood-sellers to meet most of the transfusion needs of its people" Referring to the jump of HIV prevalence among a section of IDUs from 1.4 percent to 8.9 percent over just three years time, NAP observes the virus can spread rapidly within the group, then through their sexual partners, many of them sexual workers and their clients into the general population.

There are lessons for us to learn from what happened in Vietnam and Nepal as a consequence of reluctance of the authorities to intervene quickly in similar situations. According to a November 2001 NAP document, "No drug injectors in the northern Vietnam city of Haipong were infected with HIV just two years ago. Now, HIV prevalence in this group has risen above 60 percent. Since new data confirm that drug injectors in Bangladesh share needles even more frequently than they do in Vietnam, similar rises are inevitable here at some point in the future, unless needle sharing falls drastically."

Even at that time, in 2001, when the third round of sero and behavioural surveillance on HIV infection found its prevalence among IDUs to be 1.7 percent, brothel-based sex workers 0.3 to 0.5 percent and floating sex workers 0.5 percent, NAP cautioned, "The information now available should set alarm bells ringing for Bangladesh."

Now, at the end of 2005, the alarm bells should be clamouring even louder. The latest Behavioural Surveillance Survey (BSS) data indicates an increase in risk behaviour such as sharing of needles and a decline in condom use in sexual encounters between IDUs and female sex workers. Around 70 percent of the IDUs routinely share needles. The BSS data also indicates that the IDU population is well integrated into the surrounding urban community, socially and sexually, thus raising a grave concern about the spread of HIV infection.

The fifth BSS shows a large proportion of the IDUs to have commercial and non-commercial female sex partners and condom use is infrequent. A significant number of IDUs - 4.3-6.7 percent - has also sold blood over the last year. Moreover, IDUs travel from other cities to the capital to inject drugs, increasing the chance of spreading the virus.

While passing by the Dhaka Medical College Hospital (DMCH) one cannot miss seeing a number of people looking like they have just come out of hell. Their skin ashen, with ill-health, they wear tattered dirty rags and sit around in scattered groups, sharing a syringe or two to get their daily 'fix'. A particularly dangerous practice of the IDUs is called 'shooting gallery', says Iqbal Faruk, a director of Crea, a pioneering rehabilitation service provider to drug addicts in Bangladesh. "In fear of getting caught red--handed by the police, they share a large syringe to inject drugs very quickly. This practice is particularly widespread in Rajshahi and also in some pockets of Dhaka," he elaborates.

Another alarming aspect is the very high prevalence of Hepatitis C (HCV) among the IDUs, which the NAP puts at 83 percent. NAP says, "This is comparable to levels in countries that are experiencing a concentrated and growing HIV epidemic." Hepatitis C causes damage to the liver and can lead to fatal diseases such as liver cirrhosis and liver cancer. The hepatitis C virus can be contracted through transmission of infected blood or body fluids by transfusions, needleshaving, sexual intercourse or from an infected mother to her baby.

The fifth sero survey also reveals that about 8 percent of heroin addicts often switch to injectable drugs as an alternative. Thus they too should be counted among those who share needles in shooting drugs.

Barely two months old, Modhu, a baby boy, lives in a rehabilitation centre for drug addicts at Lalbagh in Old Dhaka. He is actually lucky to be alive. His mother, an intravenous drug user resorted to prostitution to sustain her habit and was admitted at the centre in an advanced stage of pregnancy. If she were not here, Modhu might not have seen the light of life at all or might have ended up forsaken on a footpath. His mother certainly could not have borne the costs of a caesarean or the subsequent complications of a premature baby. She was also in no state to take care of a child, being preoccupied with how to get her next fix.

Modhu was born in the small hours of October 2. "His mother had been in labour since the previous evening," says Lavlu, Crea-Modhumita rehab centre-in-charge. "We took her first to Azimpur maternity centre. But when the hospital staff learnt about her drug addiction and her occuptaion, they refused to admit her. The same thing happened when we went to Bangladesh Medical College and Hospital. At last we managed to get her admitted to Ibne Sina Hospital."

"The amniotic sac was ruptured, and it was a pre-mature delivery at only seven and a half months of pregnancy. The birth weight was low, too only 1.9 kg," pitches in Dr. Baquirul Islam Khan, who left his prestigious job as programme manager of Grameen Kalyan to manage the Crea-FHI HIV Prevention Project. "So, we had to go for a caesarean section and keep the child in an incubator for several days. Then he caught bronchopneumonia and we had to transfer him to Shishu Hospital," he adds.

When the woman returned to the rehab centre with the baby, the 30 plus inmates including 11 women and the 25 staff members felt a sudden shift in the environment. Two months into its launching, the centre seems more like a home than a detention camp. They decided to name the boy Modhu and if any girl-child is born here in future to name her Mita.

Modhu-Mita has become the brand name of a range of HIV/AIDS prevention services such as the needle exchange programme, drop-in and crisis support centres for drug addicts, medical facilities for sex workers etc. These services are provided under the IMPACT project of Family Health International (FHI). IMPACT works with government and non-governmental organisations (NGOs) at the community level to strengthen the care and support systems, to prevent HIV transmission and to promote behavioural change among the high-risk groups.

The fifth Behavioural Surveillance Survey found virtually no change in the behavioural patterns of the most high-risk groups between 1997 and 2004. This has shaken up all the agents associated with HIV/AIDS, prevention and control. The FHI and its partners including the government, CARE, Marie Stopes and USAID have realised the urgency of a new and more comprehensive approach to combat the menace.

Formerly most of the government, NGO-run and private sector clinical facilities used to offer short-term, usually 14-day, detoxification services to drug addicts including the IDUs, leaving out a crucial follow up rehabilitation. Detoxified patients, without having psychological therapy, social and financial rehabilitation, and counselling, went back to their addiction, particularly those who had lost their means of livelihood. Considering the new findings, IMPACT early this year, decided to launch a completely free and comprehensive package of physical, social and financial rehabilitation for the drug addicts. This initiative offered for the first time an opportunity for the dirt-poor addicts to return to the social mainstream.

IMPACT has contracted three renowned organisations Apon, Crea and Ahsania Mission working with the rehabilitation of drug addicts, to provide this service in Dhaka, which is the most high-risk zone in terms of an HIV epidemic. Preference is given to the destitute, IDUs and women. The government, too, is going to expand its 40-bed central treatment centre for drug addicts to a 250-bed one, of which 100 beds will be for patients seeking detoxification and 150 beds for rehabilitation. Of the three IMPACT partners working with the Modhumita brand, Apon will launch a rehab centre exclusively for female drug addicts and Ahsania Mission for males only. They are in the process of setting up the centres.

Crea has already opened its centre at Lalbagh that tends to both male and female patients. The patients are referred by CARE drop-in centres but can also seek treatment voluntarily, by themselves, Crea Executive Director Tarun Kanti Gayen, a psychologist working for around two decades in this field.

The basic rehab process takes six months, followed by support services, said Gayen. Of the six months, 14 days are for detoxification, then three months for various rehab therapies and training, and the rest are for day-care services, followed by after-care. Again, the detox service is available in three categories: in-house, home and community detoxification. The last two categories are particularly novel. Home detoxification is most suitable for certain categories of addicts such as women, elderly people and service-holders, to whom taking admission to a rehab centre poses the risk of getting stigmatised by society. However, in home detox, the family members of the patient have to be intensely involved in caring for the patient. The patients also are required to go through the rest of the programme at the centre, with leave to stay at home only overnight.

In community detoxification, on the other hand, the entire community becomes involved by providing the accommodation for a detox camp, volunteer staff, etc. The Crea-Modhumita has already carried out a community detox programme at Hazaribagh in the city, says Dr. Khan. The October 14-27 programme held at the local community centre started with 24 patients. The local city corporation ward commissioner, Mujibur Rahman, played a key role in arranging the venue, while a local youth club came up with the volunteer staff. Of the initial 24 patients, one had to be transferred to the DMCH as his condition became medically critical and one was expelled for violent behaviour. The remaining 22 successfully completed the course.

Gayen says the community detoxification method has proved to be highly successful and sustainable in India, particularly in the southern states. It is because, after detoxification, the patients are helped to get a job and more importantly are treated with compassion and understanding by community members. Thus it also helps eradicate the stigma and segregation attached to drug addiction. This approach, Gayen noted, has the potential to revolutionise the drug addiction and HIV scenarios in Bangladesh, where the government, NGO and private-sector interventions are either too meagre or too ineffectual to make any real difference.

Elaborating on the difference between the previously available interventions and that of Crea-Modhumita, Dr Khan says, "They did not link other essential psycho-social services for relapse prevention, for changing behavioural pattern and mindset, and for increasing self-efficacy with detoxification, which we are doing. After admission to the centre, we screen the patients for sexually transmitted infection (STI) and provide abscess management, bio-safety, counselling to the patients and their family members, as well as vocational training."

At present, patients get in-house training in block printing, tailoring, embroidery and carpentry. Dr Khan says the range of training area will be widened gradually. Those who already have some kind of vocational skills will be referred to higher training institutes. "We will get the patients graduating the course to form self-help groups and are trying to get funds to provide them with micro-credit to set up small businesses or enterprises so that they can survive financially. We are also considering launching a sort of recovery home for the women who have no shelter or family or have lost it to drug addiction, to help them stay clean," Khan adds.

As of end-October, 38 patients including 11 women joined the Modhumita course, says Tuheen, a staff member of the centre, against the target of treating 475 in-house patients a year. Half of them, he says, are IDUs. The identity of patients who know they are HIV positive as well as those who are found so in tests are kept strictly confidential. They are completely free to decide whether to get treatment and/or counselling or not. The HIV/AIDS services are provided by Jagori of the ICDDR,B while Marie Stopes helps treat the STI cases.

Mariam (not her real name) a patient, says that she has not been taunted or harassed by the male-in-mates of the centre. She was referred to this centre by a CARE drop-in centre in September. After the 14-day detoxification, she went home for a day and relapsed when she heard her husband had married again. For two days she lived her former life of addiction, but then realised her mistake and returned to the centre to start recovering once again.

Mariam was introduced to drugs at a very young age. "I was married at the age of 17. My husband used to drink, smoke ganja and take other stuff. We lived in City Palli. I started to smoke pot with him. After two/three years I began to drink Phensidyl and then started taking heroin." To feed her addiction, she started to steal from her mother and relatives' homes. Every day, she needed at least 300 taka and sometimes spent up to 1,000 taka on drugs. Eventually, she fell into prostitution and injecting drugs with others in the profession.

Mariam has a nine-year-old boy who does not live with her. Only her mother may give her shelter now on the condition that she stays off addiction and returns to normal life. "I want to be good again, so that nobody can blame me anymore. Then I will bring my son to me." She is learning embroidery and tailoring, and hopes to make a living from it someday.

Under the IMPACT-Modhumita drive, Apon, Crea and Ahsania Mission together aim at rehabilitating at least 3,000 drug addicts in three years from now. But, considering the huge number of drug addicts of around 4,600,000 in the country according to FHI estimates (including some 25 to 30 thousand IDUs), 3,000 is just a drop in the bucket. The intervention appears even more inadequate as a recent baseline survey by CARE in 20 districts reports the tendency of drug injecting to be rising rather than falling.

The government must acknowledge the extent of the threat of the spread of HIV. While the prevalence is higher among marginal groups such as IDUs and sex workers; it is from these groups that the virus will reach the general populace because of lack of knowledge about the risks of needle-sharing, unprotected sex and transfusion of untested blood. Along with state interventions, communities must take responsibility to educate its members about HIV and take care of them when they are sick.

Published in Star Weekend Magazine on 25 November 2005

Ego Blocks the Muse

2007-09-12T04:35:00.001-07:00

Of all character flaws, ego emits the foulest odour that immediately offends and overpowers others' sensory and extra-sensory perceptions. That's one of the lesser reasons why ascetics, mystics and sages of almost all faiths and schools considered it a cardinal vice, if not the primary one.
In contrast, the fact that René Descartes, the so-called father of modern philosophy, had to base the method of his philosophic enquiries on the 'famous' premise -- 'Cogito, ergo sum,' (I think, therefore, I am) -- has always amused me. And that amusement turns into amazement when US journalist Ambrose Bierce proposes to 'improve' the dictum, 'Cogito cogito ergo cogito sum' ( I think that I think, therefore, I think that I am), claiming it to be as close an approach to certainty as any philosopher has yet made. But, luckily, most of the world is still unaware of the claim, as, otherwise, the percentage of schizophrenics would surely witness a boost.
To a man of common sense, constructing such syllogistic formulae merely to 'prove' that one exists would seem childish and a revealing example of the speculative quagmires in which ego-centrists tend to fall, wallow and, finally, drown.
Ordinary people, whom the pundits derogate as common, vulgar, ignorant etc for not obsessively groping like them for absolutes or static points in the ever-changing flux called reality, are actually more intelligent and natural than the eccentric 'truth-hunters'. In most cases, their 'love for truth' is just disguised 'self love' and symptoms of paranoia. It also explains why the greatest world religions were founded by non-pundit ordinary but wise and meditative men; especially those who cultivated humility, selflessness and socially accepted moral virtues. They and their true disciples considered themselves as nothing more than flitting shadows, geometric points, the tiniest ripples in the ocean of life, forever tending to zero, continuously decimated by the omnipresent, all-encompassing mortality. Some Buddhist, Zen and Natha schools even teach one's self as emptiness and one's ego as a delusion that causes most of the sufferings and woes in life.
Even if we put aside such nihilistic thinking, the common sense of an adult, derived from experiences, clearly shows that ego makes one blind and deaf in social interactions. It insulates people's perception and sensitivity. The higher the egotism the more insensitive a person is and, as a result, more detached from reality. In its extreme form, egotism produces megalomaniacs, imbeciles who as George Eliot wrote become 'like a cock who thought the sun had risen to hear him crow.'
Of all professions, media professionals tend to get their egos progressively inflated as they proceed in their careers and, in some cases, success. And perhaps, after the film and music studios, the odour of ego pervades the newsrooms more than any other factory of mass communications. Tom Stoppard, a Czech-born British playwright, produced a brilliant sketch of the situation, describing a foreign correspondent thus: "He's someone who flies around from hotel to hotel and thinks the most interesting thing about any story is the fact that he has arrived to cover it."
Among the newspersons we find too many who consider themselves as the cream of the elite, in terms of learning, knowledge and intelligence. But, perhaps, what they take as knowledge is nothing more than a huge mass of unrelated information. And their levels of intelligence really don't differ much in quality from those of a craftsman having adequate skills acquired through experience and training. Moreover, due to the so-called information super highway, the quantity and speed of information-flow have reached such a stage where it would not be unjust or incorrect to term it as 'information pollution.' In fact, a major bulk of the information that a newsroom deals with every day is either garbage or useless, sometimes even harmful to its recipients.
To be frank, during the best phase of my not-so-long life, when I experienced the most peace and serenity, a newspaper was of no more use to my psychological and physical well-being than, for example, a roll of toilet paper. I had the same feelings about electronic news broadcasts. Most of those appeared to be too superficial or unnecessary for a soul involved at every moment in the wonders and mysteries of life and the cosmos.
But, since I have opted for joining this egotistic bunch, I recommend the following observation by US actor and comedian Robin Williams to my peers as a nice antidote to egoistic tensions: "You're best when you're not in charge. [Because,] The ego locks the Muse." Newspersons do serve the Muse and Muse favours those most that are humble and not too self-conscious.

An Absurd Noon

2007-09-12T04:33:00.002-07:00

Ridoan is in a trauma, and in a trance, staring in horror-fused fascination at the copper-brown heap in front—the skeletal body of a teenage girl squatting naked in the Indian shitting posture right in the middle of the road, without the slightest sign of shame and totally oblivious, may be defiant, to the posh Gulshan surroundings. The nudity of the girl—whom he thinks as a thing, not a person, without knowing exactly why—is obviously not in imitation of the sky-clad Jainas, but probably because she has nothing to wear or does not give a damn about it, as her mind, her whole existence is in the grip of the almost visible pain radiating from her rectum, exposed, jutting inside out in a large cone-shaped lump, a giant polyp, from the look of it. What mesmerises him the most is her face, an ashen mask frozen in bottomless pain and despair, which is more eloquent in its impassivity than any facial expression could be, which can only be likened to those one sees in the sick, medieval, paintings of sinners frying in Dante’s purgatory. Both her legs from the toes halfway through the knees are swollen, pockmarked with numerous broils oozing a yellowish green viscous liquid.

Even from some 20 feet away, from the entrance to the office building where his wife works, Ridoan can make out the telltale features that mark out a street urchin turned nymphet living on hooking and drugs. But, she clearly had sunk too deep, to the lowest underworld of Rasatal, hit the rock bottom and bounced back to the surface and out, landing on an alien life of a Kafkaesque insect, bewildered, sick, and as lonely as the pre-creation God. Being a poet, though sans the palest halo of acclaim, Ridoan can intuit the wormlike existence she has fallen into. She is human no more. He realises it with a chill running down the spine and spreading deep into the marrow; and he also knows that she knows it too but has surrendered, like a fly caught in a spiderweb, to a pain-induced stupor, awaiting death to come and devour in mercy, wiping out the misery called life or the universe.

So, mute and immobile, the emaciated creature remains crouched in the sultry August noon on the swanky suburban street, unaware of its absurdity. On her left, behind the obscure poet, is a scowling NGO tower and on right a greenhouse-like apartment block. People here rarely walk, unless prescribed by doctors, for they feel it beneath their station to breathe unconditioned air. These devotees of Capital are all for conditioning. From air-conditioned homes they commute in air-conditioned cars to work in air-conditioned offices, shop in air-conditioned stores or dine in air-conditioned restaurants, doing everything in conditioned reflex. So, they pass by the statue of misery, a freak they are not conditioned to deal with.

To Ridoan it seems as if some cruel cynic has conjured her up out of nowhere and planted there to mock democracy, equality, civilisation, human rights, globalisation, CSR, development, gender parity, and such buzzwords uttered, typed, written, printed and read thousand times a day in the buildings around by displaying a personification of the extreme debasement man has accepted for many in exchange of magnificence for a few. Mad and mute, to Ridoan she symbolises the depravity the children of Adam have fallen into to curry favour with their new god, the Capital. But, what disturbs him the most is the symbol being not inanimate but alive.

And then he sees, as if responding to a telepathic message of his angst, her head suddenly turns towards him with a mechanical motion like a searchlight. A pair of dazed, innocent eyes screams for mercy, for an end to it all. The haunted dark wells of her eyes describe more eloquently than any poet could the hell of black, lightless flames she is in, built with pieces of poverty, lust, fear, greed, treachery, slums, beatings, rapes, fatwa, addiction, prostitution, and multitudes of similar wastes of Capital.

A challenge also enters the look, lighting it up with a tiny flicker of intelligence, returning to the insect its human self for a few milliseconds. The challenge is for Ridoan to shake off the instinctive wish to help. Legally, he, the motorists, the residents of the buildings around, or the occasional passers-by, none knows or owes her anything. But, the child in everyone knows her as well as one’s own self, as a co-limb of the same body, and owes her everything to release her from pain and give her ease and peace. Yet, the urgency to keep an appointment with his doctor snuffs out an sudden impulse in a retired colonel to take her to some shelter home, while a rickshaw-puller stops, moves towards her, halts, ponders a while, shrugs, and then turns around and paddles away down the road.

Everyone, it appears, is too busy to help the girl, to help one’s own bloody self, Ridoan swears in silence. He becomes angry — with the girl, with everyone, everything, the entire lousy world, but most vehemently at himself. The one thing he has always boasted of is of being a maverick, a born rebel, a through-and-through outsider. That claim now faces a challenge. The thing on the road by its mere existence challenges him to either justify or relinquish that pride of being different, an individual, not one of the near-identical corporate products differentiated by names alone.

He re-enters the building, takes the elevator to the floor where his wife Amrina is.

‘Give me some clothes for the girl, quick,’ he bursts into the room and whispers in an urgent falsetto to Amrina, who whispers back, but adding a hiss, ‘What girl is that?’

He takes hold of her arm and almost drags her to the window, ‘That one, you see, on the road, that lousy miserable girl.’

Ridoan looks for some indication of Amrina’s mind in her face. Finding none, he goes on, pausing after every sentence, ‘She needs a doctor… She must go to a hospital… But, I have to cover her with some clothes first… Don’t you have any old clothe, a sari, bed sheets, anything in this office?’

‘Of all men, why must it be you, the most worthless of them all, to help her? He who can’t even help himself wants to become a saviour! Ha!’ Amrina has a way of making words so caustic and abrasive that it really hurts, when she wants to.

Ridoan winces as the words jab him at his core. But he continues to stand beside the window, glaring at his wife in defiance. Ambrina on her own looks through the Venetian blinds down at the girl and then moves back to her desk. She rings a calling bell and an elderly orderly appears. ‘Bashir chacha, go, bring a saree, from those for zakat, you know, from the storeroom. Tell Amin, I will fill up the requisition slip later. It is urgent. Go bring it in five minutes. Okay?’

‘Thanks,’ says Ridoan, which he rarely does, and approaches her as if to hug, but halts in the midway in astonishment He sees her blush, after how many years he doesn’t know. He stares at her face in amazement and realises, also after a long time, how comely she really is, a little weary from work, stress, dissatisfaction and boredom but her body language is still as dignified as her virgin days. And all of a sudden, memories of their brief courtship during a film appreciation course rush back to his mind.

The sari arrives. Taking it from Bashir, Amrina says, ‘Let’s go.’

‘Are you going, too? I never thought you would,’ astonished, Ridoan actually stammers.

She smiles in mock derision, ‘How do you expect me to trust you alone with such a task? It’s enough that you at least could decide to do something good, at last. But, do you believe you can mange taking so sick and crazy a girl to a hospital all by yourself? And arrange for her treatment?’ Those are not questions, but statements. But they don’t hurt him anymore.

‘Now, don’t stand there like a fool. Let’s move,’ her hand feels soft and caressing on his arm, leading him towards the elevator.

The elevator descends, while the two souls mate again in silence and fly again in pair in a more sublime joy than they used to do years ago.

A Revealing Hunt for Books

2007-09-12T04:28:00.000-07:00

Book Review of

Mukti Juddho Rachanasangraha

By Hasan Azizul Huq

Prologue: A Revealing Hunt for Books
March 18 Sunday. I am on a hunt, for books, only three; their titles, authors’ and publishers’ names are written on a piece of paper that has already become dirty from touches of too many hands including my own. All the three books are on Liberation War published in last month’s annual book fair. Now at 5:05pm, it seems I have been walking for miles looking for them. From noon in the hot spring sun I have been going in and out of bookstore to bookstore asking for them. I asked all the booksellers in New Market and then in Aziz Super Market. No one, including the attendant at a shop which belongs to the company that published one of the three said, ‘Sorry, you have to wait five to seven days more to get them’. Why, I wonder, has the history of Liberation War become so obsolete for market that they were locked up in some museum? And, you know, I have guessed right. I shopkeeper becomes sympathetic and advises me to go to the Liberation War Museum if I want to buy them. And I again take to the street. When I turn up in front of the museum, I find its wrought iron main gate padlocked, manned by a guard. He tells me Sunday is weekend for the place, unlike other offices, institutes, etc in the country. The only consolation the kindhearted guard tells me they are having an exhibition on Liberation War open from March 22 and so they have brought many new books for display and sale, and that if I come tomorrow I may find what I am looking for. After six hours of hectic search, I head for home empty handed and with a heavy heart, for the bookshelves I found full of popular fictions published this February but not the ones that deal with the Liberation War, except a 4-volume history of the war by Afsan Chowdhury and a collection of short stories by Hasan Azizul Huq in only one shop, in a month when this nation proclaimed its independence. It seems to be a callous act on the part of our publishers and booksellers, and may be readers too, because, after all, demand is supposed to drive the supply in an open economy. On my way home, I lament the extent to which we have neglected and are ignoring our past, the history of our emergence as an independent nation.

1. Mukti Juddho Rachanasangraha
By Hasan Azizul Huq
Edited with a preface by Abul Hasnat
Cover by Quayum Chowdhury
Charulipi Prokashan, Dhaka
First Edition February 2007, Page 215
Price: Tk 200, ISBN 984 598 100 3

Hasan Azizul Huq is a man who in physical stature may be slightly shorter than the average Bangali but his genius as a littérateur would dwarf any high-rise any race or nation could ever built. That is a fact which Abul Hasanat, the editor of the book, Mukti Juddho Rachanasangraha, reminds us by compiling 14 of Hasan’s write-ups on the Liberation War in it, of which the first 11 are pure short stories, the 12th is the writer’s memoir of 1971, the 13th is Hasan’s own introduction to his stories that the editor would have done better by placing after his own introduction instead of as an annex, and the last number is an epitaph to a Saontal freedom fighter as well as an eulogy of this aborigine people who fought hard for the country’s independence but since has been suffering the oppressions of the majority population.

Except Bangladesh: Paliye Bedai Dristi Edai, Hasan’s introduction to his stories, all the entries including Ekattor (Karotoley Chhinnomatha), or 71 (the severed head in my hands), the account of the his own experience of those traumatic yet glorifying nine months of the war, are not merely literary works, they are far, far, more than that; they are 13 sharp, sagacious, beautiful, truthful, and vibrant aspects of the very dynamic and colourful life. As a whole they are an epic portrait of the very womb, the Earth, which creates, sustains, and devours the life. His characters -- really actors, since, like a true maestro, Hasan remains a void in his short stories that leaves no medium between the readers and the characters -- are the very black, fertile, warm soil of Bangladesh which takes on the shapes of mostly ‘anarya’, ‘a-shushil’, simple peasants, who carry the multidimensional souls of this land. The stories are literary sculptures of the rustic people moulded out of this black mud, who relentlessly toil on the black soil to feed themselves and the people. The book reveals these peasant souls of the south-western Bangladesh who fought for the soil, for the family, the people, and of course themselves in 1971 and also the disillusionment they face on returning home or the fury born out of frustration and desperation at the ways things turned out within a few months, a few years.

How harsh can be the disillusionment of Alef, the freedom fighter who has just but returned to his poverty-stricken home from the war, we realise when we read in the second story Fera (return): Alef answers his mother’s enquire about why was he going to a nearby village thus: ‘There was a lad with us. Bullet hit him in the thigh. They tore off his leg in hospital. Within three days the boy died with his flesh turning gangrenous and fetid. His mother needs to hear the news.’
Alef’s mother asks breathlessly, ‘Did the lad get the soil.’
‘You throw it on the soil and it turns into soil,’ Alef says.”

Incidentally, the 10th story Keu Aseni (none came), is really the predecessor of Fera, in which Alef takes on the name Gafur and the lad is named Asaf Ali, and which narrates how Asaf Ali wounded in the thigh, loses his leg and than life to gangrene. The editor would have done better if he placed the two stories in sequence. We also find a small part of Ekattor (Karotoley Chhinnomatha) in the story Matir Tolar Mati (the earth under the ground), which however is a complete story by its own right.

The artistry of Hasan is apparent everywhere, but the dispassionate view with which he looks at life, at terrible events, sometimes terrorises the mind, sometimes takes it to magic reality. Such is a seen, when in the story Namheen Gotraheen, a nameless, identity-less, and apparently schizophrenic man at the end of a long somnambulistic search digs and finds the bones of his or may be someone else’s wife, Mamata, and his or may be someone else’s child, Shovan. When he finds the white, eye-ear-nose-less, and smiling skull of the woman, he looks at it intently and says ‘Mamata’, which means empathy as well as sympathy: Here Hasan’s strokes are that of a master painter. A reader sees mamata turned into skull; he realises the skull is but an idol of mamata which is now dead and has turned ugly and cruel. The man puts it down beside him and ‘starts digging the ground afresh. He will tear out the innards with the intestines of the earth’ are the finishing words of the story -- forceful, furious, stinging, and mesmerizing words.

The entries of the book, each of which is like a painted wall or a floor or a part of a ceiling, when joined together bring into reality a three-dimensional monument of the Liberation War this nation once built with the cement made of lives, rapes, bloods, and miseries of the uprooted and hunted masses. But Hasan also indicates how crumbling or tilting perhaps the walls, floor and ceiling have become now from lack of nourishment and access of abuse, especially in Fera, Ghar Gerasthi, Amra Opekkha Korchhi (We Are Waiting), Bangladesh: Paliye Bedai Dristi Edai, and the epitaph for Lada Hembrom, the Saontal martyr. In these pieces, he shows that though the war from March to December 1971 achieved independence from Pakistan as a state but ultimately failed to liberate the masses from the millenniums of indignity, insult, slavery, and, above all, inhuman poverty. The characters in the post-1971 period although feel cheated but are too feeble and friendless to start another fight to recapture the victory they achieved, rise again to the height they reached in 71, except in Amra Opekkha Korchhi, in which two communist freedom fighter continue the war to gain that liberation and, after eight years, one of them gets hit with bullet and both are captured by the soldiers of their own country. The title of the story comes from the last words the two comrades think, surrounded by soldiers and about to be captured: ‘The air is chilly. The ground is cold. This place has no river. Wind blows through the fields, freezing. We are waiting.’

A must read for every Bangladeshi who wants to learn about his or her roots.

An example of amateurish editing

2007-09-12T04:25:00.000-07:00

Book Review of

Religion, Power and Violence: Expression of Politics in Contemporary Times
Sage Publications, New Delhi, 2005, 332 pages, Paperback price Rs 380, ISBN 0-7619-3338-7

The symptoms are clear—of decay and disease in the reigning global order, an aristocratic oligarchy, mostly in the guise of representative democracies with citizens’ voting right made into a merchandise, while in some lands like China, North Korea and Pakistan appearing in the garb of civil-military bureaucracies, and in a few others like the UK and Japan as constitutional monarchies. These are the sugar-coatings the owners of capital, the real sovereigns, use to dupe the masses and mobilise their support to their rule, whether direct like the Bushes and Cheney or by proxy, to sanctify, validate and thus perpetuate their almost absolute control over the affairs of state by installing their cohorts in the pulpit of democratic equality, where ‘all animals are equal but some animals are more equal than others’.

After the fall of Berlin Wall, symbolising the defeat of communism as a state system and far more as a world order, a new global political polarisation began between the so-called secular democracy and religious communalism. But, unlike its one-time role against the Papal-Khilafat-feudal powers, the present-day secular democracy with the USA as its self-appointed champion and, as President Bush the Junior said, its bulk exporter, is no longer acting as a progressive, generative force but as one fighting tooth and nail to conserve the interests of the classes that are benefiting the most from the existing political-economic state, while worldwide more and more people—marginalized, deprived, oppressed, discriminated against, and disgruntled—have been falling back to religious and communal identities as rallying points for expressing their socio-political interests and aspirations, and for mobilising forces to fight and break the status quo.

So, there really are two opposite sides of the coin of religion-based politics. The powerful camp spearheaded by the USA launched a new offensive in the oil-rich zone, where Islam is the dominant religion, expressly to export democracy there, in juxtaposition to the 'backward Islam', demonised by ‘democratic’ intelligentsia and capital-controlled mass media. A theory of Clash of Civilisations was concocted by pundits like Samuel Huntington to cover up the oil-related interests of the oligarchs of the US and its cohorts. This theory counter-poses the ‘advanced’ Western civilisation against the ‘backward’ Islamic one, where the Western civilisation is not Christian but the Middle and Near East Muslims are portrayed as fanatics and frenzied bigots. It presents the wars launched by the USA on the people of Afghanistan and Iraq as a logical means to set right the wrongs of backward Muslims.

In a parallel but much more long-standing process, a politics of Hindutva has arisen in the secular democracy of India, also in antagonism to the minority religions, especially Islam, the country’s largest religious minority. This Hindutva ideology is a politics based on the Brahminical stream of Hinduism, which earlier had the declining classes of landlords and clergy as its adherents but now flourishes amongst the new middle class thrown up by the so-called development process. This affluent middle class, the core of 'Shining India' has gained immensely from the process of industrialisation and globalisation since the 1980s. It is this middle class, which sustains a new breed of religious people, in saffron or any other colour, who sooths its existential tensions. These gurus are peddling the ancient and feudal values of caste and gender hierarchies in a new language, laced with modernity, so to say.

The above, in general, is the context and the subject of the book, or actually the readable part of it, under review—Religion, Power and Violence: Expression of Politics in Contemporary Times—a collection of 16 essays edited by Ram Puniyani, a former professor of biomedical engineering at the Indian Institute of Technology, now the secretary of the Centre for the Study of Society and Secularism and a member of EKTA, the Committee for Communal Amity, all based in Mumbai. Other than the editor, the mixed bunch of contributors include sociologists Thomas Sebastian, JJ Roy Burman, Prakash Louis, Ranu Jain, Uday Mehta, Rowena Robinson, and D Parthasarathy, political scientists Shamsul Islam and Manjari Katju, freelance journalists V Krishna Ananth and Sarto Esteves, economist Bibhuti Patel, physician Jawaid Quddus, management professional Anand Teltumbde, and lawyer and women’s rights activist Flavia Agnes.

Among them, it is really hard to understand the merits and justifications of including two articles of Jawaid Quddus dealing with elementary information about the advent of Islam in India and its teachings, and also the first entry of the volume by the editor, headlined after the Marxist cliché ‘Religion: Opium of the Masses or…’, a largely superficial and commonplace outline of religion, after his introduction to the book, which incidentally is lucid enough. He should have stuck to that introduction and gave more emphasis on his editorial tasks than coming up with such high-school-grade stuff on religion, which makes the book seem to be targeted to school-students—it is harsh but a reviewer is compelled to say, especially considering the ups and downs in quality that follow through to the end of the volume.

An unusually large number of publications have been noticed after the 9/11 on the topics of religion-based politics, communalism and skyrocketing violence, in most cases making boring repetitions of same opinions and information like a broken LP disk. It appears beside the genuine authorities, greenhorns and wiseacres also want to have a go at it and are going at it, as long the going is good, with the publishers finding the topics much in the vogue and, more importantly, saleable. This volume is a good example of such lopsided assortment of real authorities with amateurs that includes the editor himself.

The few contributions that are worth reading and provide new ideas and angles to the subjects under discussion include the second entry on the relationship between globalisation and communalism by Krishna Ananth and that between terrorism and imperialism by Thomas Sebastian. The 10th number by Bibhuti Patel on Fundamentalism, Communalism and Gender Justice and the 12th by Flavia Agnes on The Supreme Court, Media and Uniform Civil Code Debate, both dealing with gender issues, are really analytic and offer distinct perspectives. The 14th article on ‘Violence against the Cross’, i.e., the Christian minority, is another good reading, so is the last, titled ‘After Gujarat…’: Making Sense of reports on the Post-Godhra Violence and Its Aftermath, co-written by Robinson and Parthasarathy. These articles alone, to my view, make a recommendation to the readers for purchasing the book justified.

Review of Swadhinata: Prothom Khando

2007-09-12T04:23:00.002-07:00

Swadhinata: Prothom Khando
Edited by retired Major Kamrul Hasan Bhuiyan
Centre for Bangladesh Liberation War Studies (CBLWS)
February 2007
ISBN 984 70008 0000 8
144 Pages, Price Tk 135

It is the first of a series of books containing firsthand accounts of freedom fighters the CBLWS plans to bring out. Twelve of our Liberation War heroes have contributed to this first issue of the initiative. In 10 of the write-ups they describes numerous guerrilla and conventional military operations and encounters they either led or took part in, besides their day-to-day activities, relationships with various socio-political and military quarters, as well as their beliefs, spirit, emotions etc during the nine months of the war for independence.

Of the remaining two entries, ‘26 March Chhilo Juddhe Namar Din’ (26 March Was the Day to Launch War by retired Col Mohammad Abdus Salam Bir Pratik then a undergrad freshman and a student leader of Zinnah College, which was later renamed Titumir College, in Dhaka, is limited to a description of how a chain of events culminating in the March-25 Pakistani crackdown on Bangalis prompted Salam and his associates, who, as per a party directive, were then at Sylhet, Salam’s hometown, to mobilise on their own a band of about 200 people including 150 workers of the nearby tea gardens which confronted a contingent of the occupational forces right in a square of the town the next morning. After a number of the resistance fighters had been injured in the skirmish, the rest escaped the scene, realising the futility of such unplanned and ill-equipped fights. After lying low at a hideout for two days, Salam and three others headed for Teliapara on March 28 to join the mainstream freedom fighters. Here ends the write-up, making it very much uni-focal and narrow in scope.

The other entry, ‘From Operation Blitz to Operation Searchlight’ contributed by the editor, is the last but one entry in the book, although it would be the best to place in at the very beginning, because in it Maj Bhuiyan gives a very detailed socio-political and military background of the war. It covers the major events following the fall of the regime of Field Marshall Ayub Khan including the 1970 general elections with Gen Yahiya Khan occupying the presidential chair, schemes hatched by Julfiqar Ali Bhutto and Pakistani military bigwigs to deprive the Awami League from coming to power despite its winning of majority seats in the federal parliament, the clandestine planning of Operation Blitz to reinstate marshal law if the AL did not give in to the demands and diktats of the West Pakistani civil and military elite, of Operation Great Fly-In to build up the West Pakistan’s war muscles in the east wing of the state by flying and shipping in forces and arms, and of Operation Searchlight to silence the Bangalis by sheer brutality using the military forces. Besides, Bhuiyan also provides historically significant statistics on the various troops and war equipment of West Pakistan as well as Bangali military, paramilitary and police personnel present here when the war broke out. Undoubtedly, these elaborate background information of the Liberation War, if placed first, would have facilitated the readers more in understanding the following accounts of battles, skirmishes, raids etc in their proper perspectives. So, what kept the major from putting his piece in the right place? Was it a feeling that putting his write-up before others’ accounts would look like self-promotion or overreaching himself? Only Major Bhuiyan knows. Whatever is the case, we cannot but observe that by doing this he has failed to some extent as an editor in making the book more readable and easier for the readers to understand the other numbers in the book better by knowing about the context and the contenders of the Liberation War first.

We, however, can overlook this shortcoming, as Kamrul compensates for it by beginning with the best-written piece, Titor Swadhinata, or Tito’s liberation, written by Nasir Uddin Yusuf, who is now more famous as a theatre guru than the commander of the guerrilla force assigned in late August 1971 to decimate the Pak occupational forces in the Dhaka North (Savar-Dhaka) zone. He fought in Sector 2 commanded by Khaled Mosharraf, then a major. While describing the military operations, Yusuf also gradually introduces a boy of 13 to 14 named Tito to the readers. We find Tito first when Mosharraf brings him to Yusuf’s camp one night after the guerrillas have taken a hard beating that day in the hand of the Pakis, the name ascribed to Pakistani soldiers by the Bangali masses. The boy’s eyes sparkle with fervour, when next morning, to arouse the spirit of the soldiers, Mosharraf tells them, ‘Remember -- the people of a liberated country don’t love live freedom fighters. A liberated country loves them dead. The people of a liberated land want dead, not live, guerrillas.’ Tito wants to fight, is always insisting to fight. But his appeals are consistently denied, considering his age and also to protect this untrained teenager from any harm of the bloodthirsty war. Frustrated and furious, Tito once shouts back, ‘You will die. But why should I live on? My brother has been killed. And I have come to fight. I, too, must die.’ Fate grants him his wish; he does die one day during a guerrilla ambush in Savar on Pak forces falling back on Dhaka from Mymensingh and Tangail. The last words he repeats before death takes over him are, ‘I want to see liberation. Liberation, liberation, liberation…’ The remains of this brown teenage boy are now lying in a grave near the entrance to Savar Dairy Farm.

The rest of the contributors to the book are retired Major Hafiz Uddin Ahmad Bir Bikram, Mahbub Alam, retired Maj Gen Amin Ahmed Chowdhury Bir Bikram, Mahbub Elahi Ranju Bir Pratik, retired Col Mohammad Safiq Ullah Bir Pratik, Nizamuddin Laskar, Haider Anowar Khan Juno, Dr Ziauddin Ahmad, and Akhtaruzzaman Mandal.

Hafiz, then a captain in the 1st Battalion of East Bengal Regiment stationed in Jessore Cantonment, rebelled along with 200 other Bangali soldiers against the Pakistani army command and left the cantonment on March 30. By enlisting 500 civilians and giving the recruits 2-month training, he soon developed a 700-strong battalion. After formation of the Z Force, he commanded its Bravo Company and took part in the famous attack on the Kamalpur border outpost (BOP), a Pakistani stronghold. In October, the commander in chief of Bangladesh Armed Forces, Col Osmani, ordered him to move to Sylhet area, where Pak forces were witnessing little resistance. His descriptions of various battles, raids and guerrilla operations end with the Pakistani forces in Sylhet surrendering and the liberation of Sylhet from their occupation on December 15.

‘Ei Bangla, Banglar Mukh’ by Mahbub Alam is another account of the war that is also almost as good in literary quality as the piece written by Yusuf. He fought in the north-west, under Squadron Leader Sadruddin, commander of 6/A Sub-sector of Sector 6. The write-ups contributed by Yusuf, Alam, Col Safiq Ullah (a teacher field commissioned in 1971), Laskar and other civilians-turned-freedom fighters demonstrate more humane, non-technical, and literary merits than those written by military academy-trained commissioned officers like Maj Ahmad and Maj Gen Chowdhury. The accounts of the war presented by latter group are primarily and often solely focussed on war strategy, planning and operational details as well as their prose is often blemished by military jargons. On the other hand, the war accounts of Amin Ahmed Chowdhury, particularly the detailed and methodical description of the Bangladesh army’s attacks on Kamalpur BOP, Bahadurabad Ghat, and Nakshi BOP is really rich and of much historiographic importance.

The initiative of the CBLWS to publish first-hand accounts of the Liberation War is a praiseworthy one, although its firstborn has some minor printing mistakes and the selection of write-ups does not indicate any definite plan or criterion, like presenting a complete overview of the war in one or more specific sectors. We hope the next volumes will be organised considering such aspects, like compiling writings on sectors or forces or services such as medical, signal, intelligence, logistics, liaison with Indian troops and Mujib Nagar government etc, which will help readers acquire clearer pictures and insight about the multifarious aspects of our glorious war of independence, instead of reading a collection of unrelated war accounts like the present one.

Ekushey Boi Mela - 1

2007-09-12T04:18:00.002-07:00

Pop Literature for Mass Entertainment

Prologue
When my editor asked me to review two bestsellers, preferably novels, at this year’s Ekushey Book Fair, I was at a loss, for by no means am I a devoted reader of contemporary Bangladeshi fiction. In fact, after Akhtaruzzaman Iliyas, I have read only a few novels of Bangladeshi writers published in the recent years and that, too, by chance or at some people’s requests.

Anyway, a command is a command and so one day I marched to the fair and asked around about which titles were selling the most. The unanimous answer was the books by Humayun Ahmed were at the very top, followed by those of his younger brother Mohammed Zafar Iqbal and next were those of Anisul Haque. So, I bought a copy of Humayun’s Kichhu Shoishob and one of Zafar’s Jalmanob. Reading them was as entertaining as watching a well-made Hollywood film. But if you ask me about their impressions on me, I must say there were not many and the few that I had had little intensity. A major one of them is, like the movies made as commercial products and those made as works of art, literature, too, is of two basic categories —the popular and mass-consumed that has recreational merits and the literary art that demands some erudition and acquirements to enjoy and understand, reading which usually is an experience that is obsessive and invariably influences the mind in various ways and to various degrees. For example, in the first category fall writers like Harold Robins and Sydney Sheldon and in the second Garcia Marquez and Gunter Grass.

Here, I also must say, while I found Humayun a fully commercial, professional, and expert producer of literary entertainment, Zafar appeared less of a pro and to be endeavouring to achieve some sort of aesthetic quality in his work, which leaves him standing in a kind of no man’s land.

The rest of my impressions about the books include the following.

Kichhu Shoishob
By Humayun Ahmed
Anyaprokash
Ekushey Book Fair 2007
ISBN: 9848684166
Price: Tk 120

I remember the time more than 30 years ago when after reading Humayun’s Shangkhanil Karagar and Nandito Narakey we thought they heralded a new genius in Bangla literature. But, over the years, that impression became more and more corroded by the acid of disillusionment and at one point we realised that promising writer had turned into a mere expert and successful storyteller.

At this year’s book fair, he came up with 12 books, which is a real feat for any novelist in the world. There is nothing wrong with writing a great many books only if the books are distinct in content and colour. I have sampled quite a few novels of Humayun, most of which seemed just variations of a single theme, not unlike a series of cartoon films where a fixed set of characters plays out some new acts to make a new episode. In Sartre’s terms, setting out as a potential intellectual Humayun has gradually degraded himself to a mere writer, a mass-entertainer.

But that does not mean he does not have any skills or talents or merits. I fact, he has a lot of them; otherwise he would not have become the most-read and of a very few professional fiction writers of the country. His language is lucid and very readable. He never delves into any complex issue of any sort, which is ideal for the purpose of entertainment, although not for any involvement of the intellect. He is a grandmaster of the storey tellers, who tells the tale impassively for a while and then makes a sudden twist in the narrative that thrills or charms or invokes some other emotion in the reader and thus retains his or her attention in the story. He never judges his characters but simply and merely accepts everyone as he or she is — another of his excellent techniques.

For example, Kicchu Shoishob, in which he reminisces about his early childhood in Sylhet, can be compared with a photographic landscape, with some figures producing mirth, some sympathy, some nostalgia and so on, and that is all. It does not give rise to any question or goes deep into any event, psyche, trend, idea—nothing. Everything is superficial and there is nothing to bother or worry the reader about. It tells about some events of a man’s childhood, makes a pleasant reading, and after finishing it one simply forgets and with a satisfied yawn can go to sleep, like after having any other refreshing recreation.

In a nutshell, this book, like most of his other works, has very good entertainment value for the simple minds. And entertainment obviously is in great demand in this society, and also across the world, which is why Humayun has been a bestseller for quite a long time now. He knows exactly what sort of stories the masses like to eat and he serves them well.

Jalmanob
By Muhammed Zafar Iqbal
Somoy Prakashan
Ekushey Book Fair 2007
ISBN: 9844585724
Price: Tk 125

Jalmanob is a science fiction. There is no debate about the fact that Muhammed Zafar Iqbal is the author who contributed the most in carving out a prestigious niche for this genre of literature. With this one he has added yet another stone to the temple of Bangladeshi science fiction.

Five books of Zafar have hit this year’s February book fair. The number is less than half of what his brother has produced but Zafar’s excellence lies not in quantity but the quality and the variety of his books, and in that his imagination and intellect are free of monotony and captivity of fixations, always treading on new ground in every new work.

Jalmanob, or water-man, takes the reader to an imaginary future, where most of the land on Earth has become submerged in water as the sea level rose drastically due to severe greenhouse effect or other abuse of nature. The people who lived on higher grounds survived the calamity and most of the rest perished, with a few colonies managing to continue living on artificial islands or floats. The people living on the land continue to progress in technology and have reached a stage where they no longer need to work; computers and robots do that for them. They need not to think; a super computer does that for them. Their society in fact has come under the total control of that super computer. They know not what to do with their time and so pass it in trances produced by intoxicating substances, immerged in virtual reality, or hunting one or two water-men whom they have come to treat and hate as an alien species. And when they lose interest in everything, driven by black depression, they commit suicide, particularly the young people.

The Jalmanobs, on the other hand, are technologically poorer but closer to nature, more living. They have learned to communicate with dolphins, who have become their friends. The most important difference between the two branches of this post-deluge humanity is that the people living in water love one-another and cherish all life forms while their counterparts on land are full of negative psychological traits like hatred, cynicism, lethargy, and lack of purpose.

The book actually presents two hypothetical projected futures of humanity—one alienated from nature and dependent on machines and the other returned to the fold of nature and at peace with it. Of course, events happen in the book like any other fiction, which ends in one of the policymakers of the land-man realising their pitiful situation and trying to reverse the destructive trend, and his daughter falling in love with a young water-man and finally deserting her people to go and live with her lover and his people whom she once thought to be inferior like apes but later came to realise as far superior than her own ghostlike, perverted folks.

The language is smooth, free of cliché and scientific jargons. In reality, the book is as much a science fiction as a depiction of what will happen if humanity continues to travel away from its earthly roots, becomes slave of the machines and systems of its own creation, and carries on the rat race for material gratification and seeking psychic high from drugs, delusions and fantasy.

The catch line: Jalmanob is a science fiction and also a warning for those who have the ear to heed about the danger of damaging the nature.

Ekushey Boi Mela - 2

2007-09-12T04:10:00.001-07:00

Review of books published by

Anisul Hoque and Dr Mohit Kamal

I seem to have got entangled in a mess of an assignment that forces me to express some unpleasant views, besides the pleasant ones, about some of the leading contemporary popular Bangladeshi writers. But a task is a task under the ongoing countrywide regimentation and I see no way out but carrying it out.

According to booksellers’ opinions, besides Humayun Ahmed and Mohammad Jafar Iqbal, one each of whose books I have already reviewed, in this year’s February book fest at Bangla Academy journalist-writer Anisul Hoque’s titles were on the top bestselling list and so were a couple by Mohit Kamal, a psychiatrist. Six titles by Anisul Hoque and two by Mohit Kamal hit this year’s Boi Mela. I choose Anisul’s novel Alo-Aondhakarey Jai and Mohit’s short story collection Chandmukh for this review.

1. Alo-Aondhakarey Jai
A novel by Anisul Hoque
Somoy Prakashan
200 pages, Price Tk 200
ISBN 984-458-573-2

The story revolves around Abul Kalam Azad, in short Azad, who loses his eyesight at the age of 10 initially thought by his kin and neighbours to a severe bout of typhoid and subsequent maltreatment by a quack kabiraj. He is the only brother of four sisters, two of whom are also blind, or, in more genteel term, visually impaired, like him. But, eye specialist doctors later said the visual impairment of the siblings had more to do with a genetic cause resulting from inbreeding as their parents were first cousins than to typhoid.

After living many long days in a black world with a hopeless future, Azad’s mother’s determination to put his son on a strong footing in life sees his enrolment in a Salvation Army school in Dhaka for the visually impaired, where he has to start his primary schooling all over again using the brail system. After completing primary schooling there, he takes admission in a secondary school in Brahmanbaria, which is one of the few in the country that admits visually impaired students. During his stay here, he encounters his first traumatic obstacle from the education system which bars him for sitting the junior scholarship exams as the district education office has no arrangement for that yet, although the boy is the first boy in his class. Azad has to suffer many more such disappointments in his life. After finishing the secondary schooling, his ambition and determination see him enrolled in the Notre Dame College in Dhaka.

As the novel unfolds it incorporates a number of burning issues of this time, particularly the neglect of the society to help and facilitate the physically and mentally handicapped to grow up as other children and lead a normal social life, and the closure of Adamjee Jute Mills that sees thousands of families including Azad’s losing their sources of livelihood. Azad’s father was a butcher and used to run a thriving meat-supplying business in the factory complex, where he also bought a house for his family to live. The sudden closure of the mills turns the family, like many others, suddenly penniless, homeless and uprooted from the locality where their children were born and spent their golden childhoods. The catastrophe turns Azad’s father half-mad.

After graduating from the Notre Dame College, Azad first takes admission at social science department of Dhaka University and then on his family’s insistence migrates to English department. Adamjee Jute Mills and his father’s business are still in operation and their family is quiet well-off. It was during his first years at the university, in 2002, the government closes down the mills, in writer’s words, according to prescriptions of the IMF and World Bank, and Azad along with his family faces a bleak financial future.

The novel also derails grossly at this point. From a practical track it has ran on so far, it gradually takes to a populist romantic road. It starts depicting Azad as a very handsome young man who attracts girls of his age, younger and even older ones like a burning lamp does to moths.

A few farcical love affairs follows, in which the girls run after a reluctant Azad who sometimes even tries to hide from them, like crazy heroines trying to grab the super hero, the James Bond 007. The story finally ends with an episode where Azad at last settles down with a singer, who is visually impaired, too, though a little less.

Well, all is well that ends well. After the sentimental charades, at last Anisul Hoque managed to make an ending that encourages the deprived people like Azad and his fiancé to continue the fight to establish their due rights. So, if you can ignore the populist romancing that may be endearing to the naïve, reading the novel will be worthwhile for the socio-economic issues it puts forward.

2. Chandmukh
A collection of short stories by Dr. Mohit Kamal
Bidya Prakash
264 pages, Price Tk 300
ISBN 984-422-221-5

Apart from Mayaboti, which the writer terms a ‘psychological’ novel, a new genre invented by him, this February Mohit Kamal also came up with Chandmukh, a collection of 25 short stories. Frankly, claiming a number of these stories as literature is simply audacious and an insult to the tradition of two centuries of Bangla fiction. Even the lowest-grade story writers of the 19th and 20th century would surely turn over in their earthen or ashen graves from shame and frustration if they knew that these sort of crap is nowadays being considered as popular Bangla literature. It also amazes one how this doctor-turned-infantile story writer pompously calls his fiction psychological as he can hardly go beyond describing the glamour of his heroines or the handsomeness of his heroes, narrating some stupid events including calf loves culminating in sex, luckily without any graphic description, some pain stricken behaviour of jilted or cheated lovers, and cheating on spouses. Nowhere has he demonstrated the quality of psychology he boasts of — of going deep into the minds of the characters and analysing them. Either he is naïve or not initiated into true literature.

Except only a few numbers, the lone theme of Mohit’s stories is love and sexual affairs and resulting complications. And this theme also he illustrates mainly using unmarried young boys and girls ranging from teenagers to those in their twenties. There, though, are a few stories about young married couples. He also made attempts to write two abortions of science fictions. I am also at a loss how to categorise the 21st number in the collection named Chokhachokhi, or meeting of eyes. I have never encountered any dumber piece of prose in print in my life.

The story Chandmukh, after which the book is named after, does not deserve the distinction, too. One is forced to presume the name probably was chosen as it seemed more attractive than the rest of the story titles, because, to be truthful there are at least four pieces in the book that somehow achieved some sort of literary quality. Those are 1.) Chaarpash Jaukhan Bhangte Thakey (when everything around starts to collapse), which depicts an old school teacher in an island who finds like the water around that has been devouring his households, the land he have passed his life on, his son’s marriage to a upper class girl of another district is also drifting apart, drowning his ties with his inheritors; 2.) Bish, or poison, in which a schoolgirl suspects, gets verification from a doctor, and begins a journey to revenge the murder of his father by her mother and her secret sex partner, who bleed the man to death by shredding his thighs and legs by blades in the name of curing him of an imaginary snakebite; 3.) Kandale Tumi Morey (you have made me weep), which is a three-part story almost of a size of a novelette, too long a story to give its summary here; and 4.) Jyotsna Ratey Baariechhi Haat (I am offering you my hand in this moonlit night), in which a young girl accidentally finds out the licentiousness of his rich businessman father. To avenge the wrong done by her father to her innocent loving mother, she whimsically marries a poor cousin coming from their ancestral village home to the city in search of a job on the condition that he must never touch her body. But, the young man falls in love with her and feels carnal desire for her too, to satisfy which he makes the girl drink a glass of sedative-mixed milk and then consummates the marriage. The girl finds out the scheme in the morning and abandons the husband, whom she has been considering as nothing more than a tool to hit back at her father. But she has conceived and the child in her womb changes her attitude towards life, about the natural bond between man and woman, and one day she returns to her husband to share the life with him.

Other than those four stories and another named Lottery, as I have already said, the remaining ones have love and sex affairs and their psycho-social snags as their lone subject. Yet, why did the book became so popular, especially among the young readers? The answer to that perhaps lies in the fact that the traditional values, norms and patterns of relationships between men and women in our society have been changing gradually but radically for quite some time and perhaps Bangladeshi writers have not have explored adequately the woes, pains, sufferings, traumas, social and inter and intra-personal complications this new situation has been, and is, generating. And that is why, despite its literary inferiority, the case stories told in a short-story form succeeded to attract so many readers as to make it one of the bestsellers of this Ekushey Boi Mela.

Reliving the Roots of Indian Women’s Emancipation

2007-09-11T04:52:00.000-07:00

Book Review of

Women in the Indian National Movement: Unseen Faces and Unheard Voices, 1930–42
By Suruchi Thapar-Bjorkert
New Delhi, Sage Publications, 2006, 306 p., $36
ISBN 81-7829-546-6

The work is a little pedantic but reveals in spectacular details a facet of Indian nationalist movement -- the lives and experiences of ordinary middle-class Indian women who participated in the anti-colonial struggle and did play a significant role in shaping its character and direction -- which received little, almost no, exposition in the preceding history books. Despite her rather old-fashioned recovery approach to women’s history as reflected by the book’s subtitle -- Unseen Faces and Unheard Voices -- Thapar-Bjorkert’s research has yielded some fascinating evidence, including a more nuanced account of women’s activities in a variety of regional settings than has previously been available to scholars, at least in English. She thus pioneers the framing of a very important social dynamics that pervaded every domain of life and yet remained, as she says, ‘unseen’ and ‘unheard’, excepting the role of a few well-known elite women, or heroines, as individuals, such as Sarojini Naidu, Kamaladevi Chattapadhyay, Hansa Mehta, Sucheta Kripalini, Aruna Asaf Ali, and Vijayalakshmi Pandit, not as a class or social division.

Although women’s participation in the Congress-led nationalist movement and the Khilafat movement in Maharastra and Bengal beginning from the 1920s was documented by historians to some extent, the role of women of the Hindi-speaking heartland, Uttar Pradesh (UP), in the Indian national movement, Thapar-Bjorkert says, has hitherto been a relatively unexplored area. So, she has primarily focussed on the participation of ‘ordinary’ and ‘nameless’ middle-class women of UP in the anti-colonial, nationalist movements in the 1930s and 1940s, portraying how women's lives were affected and reshaped by their involvement in the freedom struggle and also how their involvement affected and changed the socio-political status quo. She explores and details it with interviews or ‘oral narratives’, archival materials, events and views recorded by popular magazines, and field studies, and adeptly details the process of gradual politicisation of women’s domestic sphere and the domestication of the public sphere of politics, paving the way for later movements for women's emancipation.

‘I am myself a product of that progress,’ she writes. ‘The opportunities that I have had are due to my grandmother’s efforts and her real, if limited, encouragement to my mother. My grandmother’s small changes in consciousness may not have altered her status in society, but they did lead to a change in the status of my mother and myself.’ The writer’s mother, by the way, is the renowned historian Romila Thapar.

Thus, by shifting the emphasis of history from individual women leaders to the women as a class and studying the small changes in women’s everyday life brought about by their direct and indirect involvement in the male-dominated socio-political movement, Thapar-Bjorkert creates a vast canvass that portrays the truth more truthfully and in its entirety in contrast to its fragmentary images reflected in individual symbols depicted by earlier historians. The book describes the ways in which women’s involvement in politics, initially inspired by Gandhi and the satyagraha he launched, eventually eroded the restrictive social practices of the time in UP, such as purdah, gender segregation and norms of respectability. It explores Gandhi's approach to the juxtaposition and demands of domestic obligation, public participation, and respectability and narrates the events, processes and dynamics of women making significant contribution to the areas including the salt march, prison experiences, songs, cotton spinning, and underground activities and even supporting the armed revolutionaries. It also informs us that women's participation in the nationalist movement in the Hindi belt was initiated by the Nehru household, who articulated a particular nationalist discourse to middle-class women, a discourse that facilitated the nationalist movement but sidelined the more pressing women's issues.

The book takes readers to the time when Raj Kumari Gupta of Kanpur played a key role in the Kakori dacoity. On being arrested, she was disowned by her in-laws and thrown out of the house. Readers see Basanti Devi, wife of Congress leader CR Das, mobilising women in picketing cloth shops and selling khaddar on the streets in defiance of the government ban on political activities and demonstrations. A significant aspect of women's public participation was to court arrest and be imprisoned. Women also performed clandestine activities such as writing smuggling literature in and out of prison, as they did within the domestic sphere.

The author however does not entirely sideline the contribution of elite women but also looks how both elite and ordinary women, although operating from two different social spheres, did share the same public spaces in street demonstrations, by picketing shops dealing in foreign cloth and selling khaddar on the streets, during imprisonment, and in running women’s organisations such as Rastriya Stree Sabha and its wing called Desh Sebika Sangh, Mahila Rashtriya Sangha, Nari Satyagraha Samiti etc.

There were also those women who broke the 'new' boundaries established by the feminised public politics and engaged in violence. Analysts have ambiguously referred to them as 'revolutionaries' or 'terrorists', but the author says from a more rational approach that ‘They differed in the means and process of achieving their political goals and challenged the effectiveness of non-violence as a strategy for political liberation.’
Thapar-Bjorkert also contradicts the widely accepted view that women stepped out in the public domain for the nationalist cause and stepped back into the private sphere in their roles as mothers, wives and sisters once the movement was over on two counts. First, she says, not all women went back to their homes after Independence. ‘Their involvement, though limited for the majority, created spaces where issues such as education, social reform and women’s public engagement were encouraged. More importantly, it carved out political niches for the younger generations. Second, many middle-class women did not step out in the public domain but continued to contribute and support the nationalist movement. For these women, the domestic sphere was a site of national activity, and they created a political space within the confines of its four walls.’ For these women, to bring up a new generation that was more articulate, more politically aware and more conscious of their rights as women -- that was their biggest nationalist act.

‘During the anti-colonial movement, home was not only a site of nationalist reform but also a site of political resistance,’ says the author, adding, ‘Women used the discourse of the “familial” to carve out a political niche inside the domestic domain.’ But, although the participation of thousands of women might not have led to an autonomous women's movement in the Hindi-speaking heartland or brought immediate changes for the purdah-bound women, it did generate an enhanced sense among women of their own strength.

That indeed brought about a sea change in the socio-political state of the Indian Subcontinent. We thank Suruchi for presenting us, especially the modern-day women, this valuable account of an important track of our historical roots.