Translated from Bengali by Jahanara Tariq
Dhaka in 1991: the whole city waited for an election with a bated breath. Time stood still under military boots and people were hesitant to inaugurate novelty in any way, fleeing away from changes in all forms. The green which defined this land even a decade ago, had long gone and mechanism, machinism had replaced it.
On the flipside however, anarchy ran loose in the city with protests: gatherings and slogans filling up the streets and gullies. When I saw the faces of people passing by, I felt as if they had thought the national election would change their personal lives for the better, or perhaps grant them a new clean slate altogether. To me these riots appeared to be stealthy winds of change; like sprouts creeping up from an unknown place deep within the concrete and disorientation.
In these times of terrible unrest, I found myself besotted with colors. My intermediate exams had ended and I would spend my days painting. I expressed the desire to study Fine Arts at Charukala in Dhaka University. My mother disagreed sharply. And obediently I saw myself moving on to the next, life changing, life affirming idea.
I had an inclination towards providing acts of service, head bowed or at least slightly tilted forward; and so I reached out to my mother, timidly, almost like a sacrificial lamb, saying that I had wanted to be a nurse.
“No.”
My mother once again disagreed.
I could not blame my mother. Though she was an exceptionally graceful woman, my father’s passing, along with our move from the comforts of the government quarters of Azimpur Colony to the tenements of less prestigious streets, had irreversibly caused something to crush within her. It seemed an obvious choice for her to look out for her dear daughter: to build a future free from anxieties.
The election came and went suddenly, seemingly changing things a lot but the long awaited “shift” in the fabric of life and subconscious of people, did not take place. People continued with their days as usual: joyless, on the whims of tedium and rituals, somehow becoming even less acceptable to change.
I felt aloof, often dejected. This was not particularly because I could not pursue my interests, in fact I feared I had no specific ambition which I wanted to chase after, only this thirst to escape. I knew I did not want to settle down into an arranged marriage and Friday Matinee shows after Jummah prayers. Nor did I want to learn how to do so. I did not want to make a place for myself in the rat race too. I longed to bid farewell to Dhaka. I looked for an exit, within and without.
Even though I had gathered a few friends from this path of life, who provided respite and ananda in my vegetative existence, I knew, with conviction, that the city held nothing more for me. I did not know where to go or how to get there, I knew I had to get out of the constraints of urbana. Frolicking around dawaats with my face plastered with paint—a crumpled up masochistic life, I knew I had to discard at any and all costs.
When I was young and friendless, I had to resort to making books my most loyal companions. We had a long, never ending bookshelf at our home, and after everyone would fall into an afternoon nap, I would sit for hours, with universes balancing on my crossed legs. Books were always there, deep within my being. Looking back, it surprises me a tad bit; how did I possibly get the courage to envision an “escape” from the blueprint of life which had been laid out for me? I neither had magnanimous wealth nor exemplary merit. I understand now how the courage seeped from the many, many stories I devoured. Books metaphorically helped me escape and the idea of gliding from madding crowds to fairyland prairies as getaways seemed possible because of literature. Reading the depictions of nature in the Bibhutibhushan Bandyopadhyay classics also opened up a realm of dreams for me. I wanted a space as such, Aranyak, to me appeared to be such a poetic word.
Yet, no matter how much I harbored the desire to escape in my heart, life strided over and I could feel it clash with my reality through and through. My mother’s sudden passing on top of these altered my existence altogether and overnight I had grown older, felt heavier.
At this point in life, I got myself admitted into a graduate program and started working as a school teacher. My school wassituated at Lalbagh, the heart of Puran Dhaka and my university at Indira Road, I was out and about, on foot, local buses and rickshaws all day. On top of this, I worked as a private tutor and by the time I got back home, I was exhausted beyond belief.
Some days, when I would cross red-bricked Charukala, I felt a deep seated sigh escape my lips. I kept quietly wondering and desperately hoping that some avenue might open up, a different trajectory might take shape, to make my life—devoid of beauty and symmetry—fill with a sense of sree.
Amidst all the gloom, however, with a new job came a newfound sense of independence. I would often go to Nilkhet after getting paid. Old books would evoke a different strand of joy. I would also often visit TSC for a cup of chaa during the weekends. By that point, I had made some new friends, who studied at Dhaka University and were not yet immersed in the dull drudgery of work. Their lives, the certain careless joy they carried made me wonder.
Among and through them, one day, I met Tariq. Tall and dark with waist length hair, there was a swish of intelligence across his youthful features which made him stand apart from the rest, from everything. He asked me who my favorite poet was. I answered loyally, “Tagore”. This made him smirk. I caught a glimpse of a poetry collection by Abul Hasan in his hands. That day I learnt that he voted for the party I detested from the core of my being, during the 91 election; that he enjoyed making lasagna and watching Mrinal Sen films and that he would never entertain someone who did not worship Pink Floyd’s utter brilliance. I had never heard of the dish “Lasagna” and fell asleep during the intro sequence to “Time”.
Tariq detested the monotony of ordinary life, much like I. Despite being a finance major and an excellent one at that, he was nearly otherworldly: not a part of any kind of competition which made everyone weary. He remained untouched from the widespread necessity of proving himself. Among long hours of conversations and the verdancy of the Dhaka University campus, my days got significantly better.
One such fine morning, Tariq and I met at Chandrima Uddan, the park on the outskirts of the parliament building, Shangshad Bhabhan. The wide boulevards, lined with vibrant Krishnochura stirred something within me. Louis Kahn’s magnum opus, erect and angular, though majestic, felt oppressive. I wanted something softer.
I told him about my gnawing desire to leave everything behind at Dhaka. I told him how I strived for a better place, a more meditative life, among the trees, within the sod. I also let him know that I have no means—neither the wealth, security nor the kind of comprehensive planning required to manifest this wish into reality.
He, with a laughter as light as light, let me know that he had inherited some land. He then proceeded to ask, with grace, whether I would go away with him. That afternoon, we dreamt of a dignified, joyous and laborious life without thinking of how it would translate into reality. However, I did know that this was not a desire, which I would keep cooped up in a corner of my heart. I knew I had to find a way to make it all come true.
Our life together started with a single room on a second storey house and a wide terrace, on the other side of the city at Uttara. I filled up the terrace with ferns and herbs. Our doors, in the style of huge French wooden windows, were literally open to all and our home often hosted a great number of people.
We did not have any refrigerator, television or any air conditioners at our humble abode. Quite often, our clocks, be the watches on our wrists or the ones hung at the walls, would often stop working. We took it as a sign from nature or time itself to steer clear of any devices.
I opened my eyes everyday to two bright yellow ceramic mugs. Tariq made the perfect cup of tea for me, not boiling the tea leaves to death but placing it conservatively and adding ample teaspoons of sugar. Eggs, similarly sunny, would soon follow suit. He was fond of the process.
I would then rush off to catch the bus to work. The commute was difficult as it took me almost an hour and a half to reach Lalbagh. But I had grown fond of the colors the place offered: the crimson of the Lalbagh Kella, the flaky bakarkhanis during tiffin breaks, the happy crowd and their welcoming nature. The pay too was scanty, but we needed the money. Despite passing his Masters in finance with distinction, Tariq did not pursue a career in the corporate sector. He worked instead as an entrepreneur while I worked as a teacher.
Life went on on its own impulse. We had raucous all night adda sessions at our home, where our friends and us would read together, and spend the night in shrill arguments and debates. Here, I had seen the minds of my generation going awry with these escapist literary addas and the glitzy fancies that Dhaka provided. They too sought for a more stable and sustainable existence, instead of one which was closer to earth. Some gave up meat and fish overnight and their crisp corpo shirts for tie dye fatuas, others actively took part in pro-environment movements, choosing to shoot SMS’ at one go to all of their peers every midnight “Gach Lagan, Poribesh Bachan”. I too was a part of this crew; whether or not my participation was ironic, was not a question I was particularly keen on answering or exploring.
Some days were reserved for just Tariq and myself. We would put our work at halt and walk around our terrace for long hours, admiring the trees surrounding our house. We were both brought up on a healthy diet of communist books and Romantic talks of communal change but as we and our peers grew up and witnessed the fall of many things, walls and ideologies alike—somewhere a nonchalant cynicism had settled into the very fabric of our existences. We dared not to dream of the complete red purging of the old rituals and customs but for more pragmatic, alternative methods of changes: ones which were more small-scale and subdued.
I spent my days here obsessively planting trees, building sustenance from scratch and vehemently cutting off the use of any plastic from my space, speaking against consumerism vocally and becoming a cooky environmentalist of sorts. I attempted to design the interior of our house with inexpensive but beautiful decorations. During spare hours, I would roam around the suburban streets of Uttara with dirt under my fingernails and a moderately large pair of scissors. I found joy in cutting weeds and wildflowers, which I would bring back home for dining table centerpieces; sometimes I would bring back peculiarly shaped boles and trunks of deceased trees too, often covered in velvety moss. These added just the right amount of edge and somberness I needed in my new space. I remember once Tariq found me preparing a bouquet of Alamandas, wroughting it with coarse brown sheets. As I surgically stripped off all the dead leaves, Tariq amusingly told me how he thought I had no remorse. I did not, I never did have any space for static concepts in my life.
Even though we were not earning much, our lives went by fairly comfortably. But many people around us raised concerns about this somewhat bohemian style of our living, our topobon existence. Many of my relatives, colleagues and even unknown faces would randomly, curiously hover over, creating a cloud of agitation and anxiety, while interrogating how exactly we were running things. They would ask an array of questions upon each visit. Some came from a place of ignorance and curiosity, such as: Why was our monthly income so meager? Why did Tariq take up the responsibility of cooking for the household when it was clearly supposed to be a feminine task? Others were frankly bizarre: How is it that our home does not cater to any expensive, bulky furniture? The questions were thrown randomly, often in unkind and shrewd manners. I found myself to be more annoyed than angry. The most oppressive of all appeared to be the looming question of dawaats why did I host days long addas with unending cups of chaa instead of elegant dinner parties in blue china sets? I could brush these comments and questions off with a certain amount of ease because somewhere in me, I knew that I would not have to stay here for too long, soon I will be able to look at these uncomfortable conversations with these well wishers of mine with fondness, maybe a laugh of relief.
All of these delights and lack thereof, were morphing their own limb in my consciousness and although I felt happy, I was not content. Somewhere inside I craved a bigger playground. In my mind, I was living a similar life but not cooped up in an urban space, I was putting my labor to use, near the soil, at my Utopia. My beautiful terrace in the silver glow of the moon was lovely. Nevertheless I knew my hunger was quite too big for being satiated by this only. It was only a matter of time that I would bid adieu. I was aware that a literal displacement was needed, I sought novelty, I had a desire to unearth something alien and pure, a radical life near the wild. It was not as simple perhaps as going back to one’s ancestral roots. I did not believe in such “vision quests” into the pastoral, but I did believe in voyages to a primordial realm. Tariq and I would talk about building a community which would be self-sustainable. We thought, even if a few people could be involved with the project, that would be the start of a radical new endeavor, a joyous plant-like existence.
Often I would hold my breath.
Lost in reveries, the months turned to years in minutes. I saw Tariq for the first time as a diligent and carefree father to two of our daughters. My daughters, as exuberant as they were, found themselves getting mildly curious about the stark differences in the way they were growing up in comparison to the way their cousins and friends were. The environment they were a part of in a quaint English medium school in our neighborhood was also growing questionable, at least to me. Tari, however, was less worried.
Despite being a full-time school teacher and Tariq an entrepreneur, we would try to give as much time as possible to our children. I enjoy our painting and reading sessions. Their curious insights on grand ideas of life and nature and on odd specimens like the Bermuda Triangle and Yetis added multitudinous textures to my life. Sometimes I feared that they were slowly but surely getting accustomed to the metropolitan existence of Dhaka; maybe a flight to the West, they would be able to adjust to, but one to the middle of nowhere? I suppose they proved me wrong. I remember our long weekly bus rides to Nillkhet from Uttara, and how aptly they listened to our reasons for wanting to get out of the city. Somehow, maybe because of being avid readers or of our coaching, they were aware of ideas such as “following one’s dreams” and their encouraging demeanor in turn, fuelled our desires to execute our plans as soon as possible.
We, as expected perhaps, were trying to make ends meet. Financial troubles kept creeping up. Tariq was affiliated with the RMG industry at that time and often the paychecks would come in late. Loved ones got afflicted with heart-shattering illnesses, and I could see my dream getting deferred one crisis or distraction after another. Dhaka too has morphed into even more monstrous. Suddenly it seemed, life was becoming unbearable, I could not afford those long languid hours of respite anymore. On the other hand, I was perhaps even getting used to the monotony of it all, I found myself to be less swayed, answering in sighs to the bizarre questions my relatives would raise, instead of crisp answers in defiant tones. Somewhere I had started lacking motivation, my spirit, I feared, had fizzed away.
I saw many of my friends, writers, journalists and artists, people like me who grew up in Dhaka were bidding farewell to the city for greener pastures and taller skyscrapers. I told them about our plan as well, how we were hoping to escape, set up a farm, and surround ourselves with greenery.
“Where?” they would ask.
We told them about the land Tariq’s father bought at Rajabari, Rajshahi and how we had planned on buying a few more patches. No one from the family had lived there before.
“The Lands are wavy there and they are red.” I would say.
The idea of migrating from Dhaka to a mofussil without any tangible relation of blood, seemed odd to many. We did not even want to exist in the provincial suburbs but into the heart of the wild. Even these friends of ours, bohemians as they were, raised some valid questions: What would happen to our daughters? Would they get the right taste of education? However, having these conversations with like minded people made us think of our journey in more tangible terms. We started constructing the budgets, reading up on agricultural endeavors and taking frequent trips to Rajabari. Simultaneously we started pouring in money from our funds and earnings to the farm every month. This was difficult for us.
It was 2005. Political restlessness was all the rage. I noticed how the millennium made little to no difference to the people around me. The angst within me bubbled continually and the people seemed to be the same: the ones who were debating agitatedly on which colleges to attend, which sectors to set their careers in,; or where to migrate to were similarly scratching their heads, about new-found anxieties, such as–where should they send their kids for school? Where should they buy their shiny new apartment? The sense of competition grew more and more rigid, lulling me to a deep state of suffocation.
Dhaka was growing new teeth, the prices of basic amenities grew higher, the roads tingled more with brain numbing brightness and fraudulence was haywire, spilling all over. I could not help but grow pessimistic, asking questions like: Why indeed do people accept all of these? Why are they so sterile? Why do they think that the change of a political party could ignite change? How do they accept such injustices?
While my home filled up with roaring debates regarding the shift of power and politics, I, being a school teacher at a public school, found myself under the pressure of working on making the voter’s list. Given the responsibility to teachers of public schools, I, alongside my colleagues, spent day and night working on this. Being a witness to the blatant corruption while being on this mission, opened my eyes to a different variation of cynicism. I grew even more restless, completely giving up the idea of liberation of the mind, soul and body under the oppressive regime. I sought peace, a pilgrimage.
I realized that we had not gotten a lot of work done. We had visited a handful of times, but nothing beyond that had materialized. Almost instantaneously, one evening Tariq and I decided that we would christen our journey by selling off a plot of land which I inherited from my mother. We got two lacs out of that. An additional five thousand taka, I retrieved out of checking some extra set of copies of the yearly matriculation board examinations. I knew at that moment that there was no going back.
The first time Tariq planted a seed at Rajabari, I was not present. My leave was not granted. That moment, the beginning, existed on the precipice of reality and dreams. During his short stay, a small hut made of burnt clay was erected on the arid red soil of Barendra. It was windowless and the walls and floors had not been patted down with dung just yet, causing leaves and sprouts to stay as they were, as companions to the residents inside the hut. The play was in motion.
After that we stayed in Dhaka for three more years, tying the ends of several affairs, sometimes financial, and at others–familial. Tariq and I would go visit whenever we could. Tariq, more than myself.
I remember once in the heart of an adda with our cultured companions, a young artist, a rising star, in our midst spoke with a sense of nonchalance. His gaze was all cool, comfortably distant: “Trust me it won’t be a nice scene, Joyee Munia (my daughters) will pick up that long, ridiculously sycophantic accent of North Bengal and soon you lot will be scrambling your way back to Dhaka.”
After the night ended and Tariq had prepared our bedtime tea, I asked with a sure heart. “Let us go then, you and I?”
After a few weeks, a dramatic and stormy night found us on the way to Rajshahi. We were off leaving all these memories, sweet and bitter, at our wake.
