Salma A. Shafi writes from ground level at Noakhali
From Public Domain
The Greater Noakhali region of Bangladesh is experiencing one of the most severe flood and water-logging crises in recent memory, driven by persistent heavy rainfall since mid-August 2024. The flood affected more than 5 million people, submerging houses, roads, and marketplaces, and leaving large portions of the region inundated. A total of 71 people, including women and children, lost their lives in the flood affected areas. With water levels reaching alarming heights, the disaster has raised significant concerns about vulnerability of the region for future flooding.
Almost every year floods occur in Bangladesh, but the intensity and magnitude vary from year to year. Their nature causes and extent of destruction gives them various definitions such as river flood, rainfall flood, flash flood, tidal flood, storm surge flood. The term manmade flood is a recent phenomenon attributed to encroachment on vital water channels, such as canals and wetlands sometimes for construction of roads and bridges and frequently for fish cultivation, hatcheries and shrimp farming.
Context of recent flood in Bangladesh
Since August 20, 2024, Bangladesh has been facing severe flooding triggered by continuous heavy rainfall and, according to the Bangladesh Ministry of External Affairs, water releases from Dumbur Dam, upstream in Tripura, India[1], a claim that is denied by the Indian government. Tripura also suffered severe floods and landslides[2] from this August. The flood impacted several districts in Bangladesh, including Feni, Noakhali, Comilla, Lakshmipur, Brahmanbaria, Cox’s Bazar, Khagrachhari, Chattogram, Habiganj, and Moulvibazar. By August 23, 2024, the Ministry of Disaster Management and Relief reported that floods had affected 4.5 million people across 77 upazilas in 11 districts. Nearly 194,000 people, along with over 17,800 livestock sought refuge in 3,170 shelters as the crisis continued.
In addition to widespread displacement, the floods led to tragic fatalities, with deaths reported across multiple districts. Communication with key river stations, such as Muhuri[3] and Halda[4], were completely severed, hampering collection of vital data necessary for relief and rescue operations. The extensive flooding has caused significant damage to property, crops, and infrastructure, displacing thousands of families. The disruption to transportation and agriculture deepened the humanitarian crisis, demanding immediate action to mitigate long-term impacts of disaster on the affected communities.
The flood situation in Noakhali District worsened due to continuous heavy rainfall and rising water levels of the Muhuri River. The district Weather Office recorded 71 mm of rainfall within 24 hours, exacerbating the flooding. Approximately 2 million people were stranded as floodwaters submerged roads, agricultural fields, and fish ponds. Seven municipalities in the district went underwater, with widespread waterlogging affecting both rural and urban settlements.
Map provided by Salma A Shafi
On September 1, 2024, the Noakhali Meteorological Office reported a staggering 174 mm of rainfall within a 12-hour period, causing widespread flooding and waterlogging across low-lying areas. The worst-affected upazilas include Noakhali, Senbagh, Sonaimuri, Chatkhil, Begumganj, Kabirhat, Companiganj, and Subarnachar, where over 2.1 million people were stranded. Additionally, more than 264,000 individuals sought refuge in emergency shelters and school buildings. The prolonged water-logging devastated local economy, particularly the agricultural sector, where vast areas of farmland, including Aman rice seedbeds and vegetable fields, were submerged, jeopardizing livelihoods of farmers and disrupting essential food production for a prolonged period.
With 90% of Noakhali district’s population impacted by this flash flood, the region faced critical humanitarian and environmental emergency. An analysis of the causes and consequences of flood and waterlogging in Greater Noakhali reveals an interplay of meteorological, infrastructural, and environmental factors coupled with geographic location of Bangladesh and the geo morphology of the river systems of the region. Bangladesh and India share 54 rivers of which the Teesta, Ganges, Brahmaputra, Meghna forming the GBM basin are the most important. This river basin is one of the largest hydrological regions in the world and stretches across five countries Bangladesh, Bhutan, China, India and Nepal. This basin area is home to 47 percent of the Indian population and 80 percent of the Bangladeshi population. Food security, water supply, energy and environment of both countries are dependent on the water resource of the rivers.
Uncertainty and Challenges in Flood situation
During the monsoon periods development of a low-pressure system over northern Bangladesh can bring very heavy to extremely heavy rainfall in Assam, Meghalaya, and Tripura posing great threat to flood-prone areas in Bangladesh. These overlapping weather patterns and regional dynamics create highly uncertain and dangerous situation, making it difficult to coordinate an effective response and leave millions of people vulnerable to worsening flood conditions.
Map provided by Salma A Shafi
Flooding in Noakhali region resulted from heavy rainfall and floods in western Tripura in August and as per MEA[5] news broadcast that the Dumbur Dam, a hydro power project had been, “auto releasing”, water as a consequence of the rainfall. The Dumbur Dam in Tripura is located far from the border about 120km upstream of Bangladesh. It is a low height dam (30m) that generates power and feeds into a grid from which Bangladesh also draws 40MW power. There are three water level observation sites along the 120km river course. As per news from the monitoring agencies excess water from the Gumti reservoir was automatically released through the spillway once it crossed the 94m mark which is the reservoirs full capacity. It is a known fact there is no comprehensive regional mechanism for transboundary water governance or multilateral forum involving the five Asian nations. The lower riparian nations particularly India and Bangladesh are therefore the worst sufferers.
Key Impact Areas in Bangladesh:
The flood in the Noakhali region was caused by overflow of water from the large catchment areas downstream of the Dumbur Dam. While river channels were not deep enough to accommodate the excess water, unplanned constructions on rivers and canals caused the water to spill into settlement areas causing humanitarian crisis unseen in decades. Kompaniganj and Hatiya upazilas (sub-districts) were completely inundated by floodwaters, while Subarna Char, Sonaimuri, Noakhali Sadar, Kabir Hat, and Senbag upazilas were partially affected. The flooding submerged homes, roads, and marketplaces, with water levels reaching roof levels in the high flood zones, waist-deep in some areas and knee-deep inside most homes. The rising floodwaters devastated farmlands, particularly Aman paddy seedbeds and vegetable fields, swept away, a large number of the cattle, poultry including the sheds which sheltered them.
Current Challenges
The ongoing flood crisis in Bangladesh faces several critical challenges. One of the most immediate issues is the submersion of roads and the disruption of communication networks, which has significantly hindered relief efforts. The situation is fluid, with new districts continuously being affected, complicating the delivery of aid and emergency services to those in need. This has also resulted in delays in evacuations, leaving many communities stranded without access to basic necessities.
Another key challenge is the conflicting information from different meteorological agencies. The Bangladesh Meteorological Department and the Flood Forecasting and Warning Center (FFWC) have issued varying reports regarding upcoming weather conditions. This uncertainty is affecting the preparedness of the affected populations, making it difficult for them to take timely and appropriate measures to protect themselves and their property.
Geo-political Tension in River Management in Bangladesh
Bangladesh, known as one of the most climate-vulnerable nations globally is facing increasing geopolitical challenges due to its strategic location on the Ganges-Brahmaputra Delta. Besides, annual monsoon floods, flash flood, particularly in northeastern districts of Sylhet, Feni and Cumilla, Noakhali are exacerbated by water releases from upstream dams, such as the Dumbur Dam. These actions have intensified tensions between Bangladesh and India, highlighting the complex dynamics of transboundary river management.
Despite legal recognition of rivers as living entities, both nations continue to exploit these water resources through infrastructure projects that disrupt natural river flows. Extensive dam and hydropower projects on shared rivers have caused significant environmental and social injustices downstream, impacting both ecosystems and livelihoods. This situation reflects a broader pattern of unilateral control and inadequate cooperation in water management, which contradicts international agreements and hinders equitable water sharing.
The Bangladesh-India Joint River Commission, established in 1972, is yet to resolve these critical issues. The recent floods have further underscored the need for more effective communication and cooperation between the two nations to prevent future disasters. As calls for water justice grow louder, there is increasing pressure on both countries to remove barriers and ensure the free flow of rivers across borders, upholding the principles of transboundary water governance and protecting the rights of those affected downstream.
Flood Map of Noakhali District, 2024. Map provided by Salma A Shafi
[5] Ministry of External Affairs, in this case Bangladesh.
Salma A. Shafi is an architect and urban planner. She did her MSc. in Urban Planning from AIT, Bangkok, Thailand and has a Bachelor of Architecture (B. Arch.) degree from BUET, Dhaka. Salma Shafi has extensive experience in urban research and consultancy, specialising in urban land use and infrastructure planning, housing and tenure issues. She is a well-known researcher in the field of urbanisation and urban planning. Urban Crime and Violence in Dhaka published by the University Press Limited (2010), Housing Development Program for Dhaka City, Centre for Urban Studies, Dhaka (2008) and Feroza, a biography of her mother published by Journeyman (2021).
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Fakrul Alam writes nostalgically of his visits to Feni in Noakhali, a small town which now suffers from severe flooding due to climate change.
Green Feni, Noakhali Feni flooded due to climate change From Public Domain
Every year, twice a year, during winter and summer vacations, my family would travel to Feni, Noakhali, where we would spend our holidays in our Nana Bari, the home of my Nana, or maternal grandfather.
For days before the journey, our excitement would keep mounting. For one thing, Amma[1] would make frequent trips to Nawabpur, or what was then called Jinnah Avenue, to buy fabrics or wool which she would then sew/darn/weave into clothes or woolens to gift her family members when in Feni. She would also spend more time in the kitchen than usual, cooking as many dishes as she could for my father, the only one of us who would be staying behind since he had his office to attend to; he would join us, if at all, for a few days at the end. For days before she left, Amma would repeat instructions to our household help until, by the time we left, we had memorised what they were supposed to be doing while we were away. Moreover, she would spend the last few days before the journey packing and repacking since she had to ensure that we had everything we needed, not only for the fortnight or so we would spend in Feni, but also for the journey back and forth.
And then, finally, the day of the journey to Feni would arrive! The six of us would board two or three rickshaws in the morning elatedly and head for the railway station in Phulbaria. We would have to thread our way through a platform overflowing with passengers and hangers-on, coolies and vendors, beggars and con-artists, as well as railway police and ticket checkers. Intrepid and inspired, Amma would lead us through the milling and tense crowd. It was as if the whole world was heading for the same interclass compartment; indeed, it seemed that we always managed to reach it just when the train was ready to leave the station.
Eventually, the train would leave Phulbaria and we would relax and feel exhilarated again. Because we did the trip so often, we looked forward to the highlights on the way. Bhairab Bridge, huge and unending, had views of the riverscape that were breathtaking in all seasons and for as long as the train clanged through it we were awestruck. Kasba, the station on the border where Pakistani and Indian troops skirmished frequently throughout the 1960s, was always the place where we tensed up a little. The red hills of Mainamati looked incongruous in the green world of Bangladesh. There were junctions like Brahmanbaria and Laxam, where vendors hawked their wares and cries of “cha gorom[2]” and “deem[3]” filled the air. Although the trip to Feni was supposed to be seven or eight hours long, by the time the train reached Feni station, it would be late in the evening and we would be exhausted, worn out by a journey that seemed to have gone on and on.
Feni in the 1960s was a small mofussil town, and to us Dhakaites, quaintly interesting. Rickshaws were often veiled! The traffic consisted almost entirely of rickshaws and bullock carts; the buildings seemed rickety or run-down, as if someone had forbidden them all to look good or completed or told them not to stand up straight. Although the trip to our Nana Bari from the station was not more than a few minutes by rickshaw, to us, it seemed to take forever; we just couldn’t wait for the journey to end by this time.
But all our fatigue evaporated as soon as our rickshaw took a bend and Nana Bari swung into view, revealing our uncles and aunts waiting eagerly to take us in. Nana, intensely religious at this stage of his life, would often be waiting to greet us with the warmest of smiles before hurrying off to prayer. My Nani[4] would first embrace Amma and the two of them would sniff a little, both overcome by the emotion of the oldest daughter returning home after some months. Then she would hug the five of us turn by turn and dash for the kitchen where she had been supervising the cooking. We would join her there as soon as we had washed and changed so that she could serve us delicious pithas[5] and all sorts of delicacies that Amma could cook in Dhaka only now and then. If it wasn’t too late, Amma’s relatives and friends would drop in, making us feel very important, for everyone wanted to know what we children were doing in school and the details of our Dhaka life. Eventually, we would drop off to sleep in utter exhaustion, but not before our uncles and aunts revealed the plans they had for us for the next few days.
The next few days, in fact, would go in a whirl. If it was summer and the heat was too intense or the rain too heavy, we would play carom or snakes and ladders inside for a while; if there was a cloud cover or only a drizzle outside, we would play hopscotch or football in the courtyard or retreat to the shaded grove in the backyard. Sooner or later, though, we would head for the pond, the centre of our daily rituals. Once we went into the water, we stayed in till Nani and Amma dragged us out for lunch. It was in this pond that we all learned to swim in successive trips; here we floated on banana-trunk rafts for hours and were thrilled at the way my uncles caught fish either with a net or a fishing rod. Sometimes, a tiger-skinned snake would slither past us shushing us instantly until it disappeared. Then we would resume our water games once again. If it was winter, on the other hand, we would stay in bed as long as possible, until the sun was completely up; afterwards, we would head for the courtyard where we would play hopscotch or cricket or go to the farthest reach of our Nana Bari in the plot of land adjacent to the pond, pretending to be picnicking. And then after we had psyched and warmed ourselves adequately we would go to the pond for a quick dip and rush out shivering to dry ourselves and have lunch in the sun.
Some evenings Amma would take us out to visit her relatives. Other evenings, we would go out for strolls. At least one evening we would spend promenading all around the dighi (large tank) around which colonial Feni had grown and where there were dak bungalows and the offices of this sub-divisional town. On one of these evenings, our uncle would take us to the edge of the town to show the old bridge and the massive and ancient banyan tree on the Grand Trunk Road, narrating to us, as we went, the story of how Sher Shah had built it and the bridge hundreds of years ago as part of his plan to administer efficiently the territories he had wrested from the Mughals. On another evening, our uncle would take us to see the ruins of Feni airport, for the town was once one of the key forward bases of the Royal Air Force, even though it would be abandoned at the bend of our history when India was partitioned. At least once during every visit to Feni, we would sneak out to go to see a film, for our now-puritan Nana was known to frown even at the mention of the cinema and would get mad at my uncles and aunts if he came to know where they had taken us.
At night, we would occasionally go to dawats[6]. Once every trip, Nanu would reciprocate by inviting relatives, friends, and even acquaintances she considered important to Nana Bari so that they could also meet us over dinner. On nights when we stayed home all by ourselves, Nana would join us after evening prayers, relaxing and joking with us for at least an hour, and thus remind the other elders of how he had been full of life and a Swadeshi (self-rule) campaigner once, an activist in the cause of one Bengal, but how he had become other-worldly now. Sometimes his stepbrother would visit us, tooting his odd-sounding bicycle horn entirely for our benefit as he came and went, and filling Nana Bari with his booming voice and loud laughter. Nani, too, would join us for a while, finally relaxing after another day of hard work, and would tease us as grandmothers are supposed to do, making us grandchildren feel silly and important at the same time.
Reluctantly, we would go to sleep after dinner; some on beds and some on the mats spread out on the floor. But sleep would take long to come, for we would first review the events of the day or plan for the one that was coming up, exchange secrets in the dark, or whisper stories about the ghosts and robbers that were supposed to be all around Nana Bari.
But we felt totally secure in Nana Bari, wrapped up in the love of my grandparents and uncles and aunts. Every part of the Bari[7] was full of family history. “There,” an aunt would say, “was where you were born!” “Those rooms are where all of us used to live before your Nana decided to extend the house for all you grandchildren,” my Nani would tell us proudly. In time, I began to fill parts of Nana Bari with my own memories too, although I was still a boy. Wasn’t that the room, for instance, where I was painfully initiated into the faith, though the occasion led to a feast in my honour afterwards? Occasionally, we all became part of family history in the making, as an uncle or an aunt got married, or one of us or a cousin had his akika[8] or birthday celebrated, and Nana Bari would then take on a festive air for days.
For the fortnight or so we were in Nana Bari, we were thus completely happy. Little did we know then the financial difficulties my Nana was experiencing due to the religious turn he had taken in old age; the hours he was spending in prayers and meditation meant that other people were taking advantage of him, encroaching on his land and trying to defraud him in business. Little did we know the strain Nani was going through then, running the large family on a reduced budget—Amma had three brothers and seven sisters—for she was always generous with us. Little did we realise that our uncles and aunts had to make do with much less than they had been once used to, for they seemed to be totally indulgent and giving whenever we asked them for anything.
No wonder that when the time to return to Dhaka came we were all quite unhappy. As we departed, Amma (and Nani) cried a lot, this time because mother and daughter knew that they would not be seeing each other for at least another six months, and because every leave-taking now confirmed to them that the first parting was irrevocable. We felt a little sad too. School was something to look forward to, but how could the cramped life we led in the busy city compensate for the freedom and the open spaces and the love swirling all around Nana Bari? The journey back, therefore, would seem uneventful and unending and we would go back to Dhaka a fatigued and melancholy lot.
*
Last year, two of our sisters and I visited Nana Bari for a few hours. My Nana had died in 1970, and my Nani went in 1997; all my uncles and aunts were now in Dhaka or abroad. Nana Bari had shrunk in size, for my uncles had decided to sell parts of it in a strategic move to secure the main house from the machinations of the covetous lot that controls remittance-rich and hooligan-infested Feni. The pond, the shaded groves, and all our favorite haunts were gone and we felt totally depressed at the diminished thing that the Bari had become. Better not to come any more, I told myself, better to keep Nana Bari intact in memory than confront the diminution of the place where more than anywhere else we had once been totally happy. Better to wax nostalgic than be confronted with the ever-increasing intimations of mortality.
Nazrul’s lyrics transcreated by Professor Fakrul Alam
Roomu Jhoomu Roomu Jhoomu
Roomo Jhoomo Roomo Jhoomo—anklet bells sound. Addicted to dancing, bangles jingle jangle to that beat. The dresses’ borders keep swaying in the restless wind. Who could be moving with such wantonly dancing feet? Stranger though she is and so close to the riverbank I think I know this dancer on the move. Her movements Fill this heart of mine. Her swan or peacock-like steps Cast a spell, like a mirage in a desert will. With her smile She even enchants the forest deer. Her big eyes dance, Making the sea waves lilt. Forests in the high hills sway, Sway away to the beat and music of her dancing feet.
Born in united Bengal, long before the Partition, Kazi Nazrul Islam(1899-1976) was known as the Bidrohi Kobi, or “rebel poet”. Nazrul is now regarded as the national poet of Bangladesh though he continues a revered name in the Indian subcontinent. In addition to his prose and poetry, Nazrul wrote about 4000 songs.
The quiet evening sky Holds secrets of unnamed people, Echoes of the screams of some named people. The colourful evening sky Keeps memories of unfulfilled dreams. The vast evening sky Has many stories to tell Of those who refused to waver From their path, knowing it is perilous, Knowing life is but a fleeting moment. The evening sky is witness to it all It has secrets to keep
Jackie Kabir is a writer and translator from Bangladesh. Her collection of short stories Silent Noise was published in 2016. The titular story, ‘Silent Noise’, is being taught in colleges under Manomanium Sundaram University, Tirunelveli, Tamil Nadu.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
“If Washington goes to Dhaka, there’s a chance that Paris might make it to Stockholm. And of course Moscow would be moved to Geneva!?”
Sounds like gibberish? But this is a piece of the speculative conversation on transfers and postings that is regular in the drawing rooms of embassies and consulates, Dr Reba Som found out on her very first posting after her marriage with Himachal Som.
Both were Presidency graduates pursuing higher careers — he in Foreign Service, she on the threshold of a doctorate. But life as the wife of an ambassador wasn’t only about glamour postings, fancy holidays and brush with celebrities. It was a mixed bag of blessings, as the woman who had grown up in Kolkata with a grounding in Tagore’s music would soon conclude. For, there were the dark clouds of life away from ageing parents and school going children; from the comfort of familiar food and mastered language; from developing your potential and crafting your own identity in the world out there.
In recent years we have read accounts of retired ambassadors and career diplomats’ experiences in diplomatic life. In her memoirs, Hop, Skip and Jump; Peregrinations of a Diplomat’s Wife, Dr Som’s is a woman’s voice, abounding in stories and observations about how the spouses keep a brave front in alien surroundings to hold up the best image of her country. In this conversation, she voices outmore about her encounters with racism, with political emergencies and exigencies. In short, about her lessons in a borderless world of multicoloured humanity.
You went to Brazil (1972), then to Denmark (1974), then Delhi (1976), Pakistan (1978), New York (1981), Dhaka (1984), then Ottawa (1991), Laos (1994), Italy (2002). Please share your gleanings from these lands.
The roller coaster ride was a saga of discovery. Travelling across expanses of the planet earth that we had seen only on the pages of geography books and atlases was a great learning experience. I gained an understanding of diverse cultures, imbibed social customs, became proficient in languages, and was exposed to exotic cuisines. At the same time I faced homesickness. Each posting entailed the challenge of uprooting oneself, finding schools for children, and reinventing oneself every time.
A large part of this life was in the years that had no mobile phones, no video calls, no social media, no internet communication. What did you thrive on?
Continents and hemispheres away from home, the only link with family and friends then was the diplomatic bag. The weekly mail service ferried across oceans by the ministry in Delhi contained letters and parcels from home. We were asked to judiciously use the weight allowed to bring spices, tea, condiments, clothing and other necessities. It became a ritual to write long letters and send them weekly by the diplomatic bag to Delhi from where they would be posted to respective destinations throughout India.
Along with letters would come bundles of magazines and newspapers. These brought us news of home from which we were truly cut off. With no television or internet or phone calls, we were in the dark about all news, be it political, social or entertainment. Every week on the bag day we waited anxiously to receive the newspapers – and the letters, which had instructions, news, recipes, advice, gossip. All of these were crucial for nurturing our souls.
One telegram from my father in 1973 carried the cryptic message: ‘Reba, solitary First class.’ These were the MA results of Calcutta University which were out after a delay of two years.
I was most taken up by the understated humour of some of your encounters in your memoir. Please recount some of them.
On our very first posting, to Brazil, not only our unaccompanied baggage but also our accompanied baggage did not arrive. Eventually when the lost luggage showed up, Himachal’s ceremonial bandhgala[1]was steeped brown — in the colour of the gur[2] my mother had lovingly packed in!
In Brazil, we found the people to be fun loving but too flamboyant. They made tall claims that their institutions were the biggest in the world. But reality often proved the claims to be hollow. Such was the Presidential bid to make the tallest flag pole in the world in Brazil’s new capital, Brasilia. A very tall flag mast was indeed built but the huge flag atop it was torn to shreds since the engineers had not factored in the wind speed at that height. Brazilians mirthfully called it the President’s erection!
And at Denmark. we were surprised by a sudden news of our posting to Mozambique. We had long realised that we were mere players on the chessboard of postings – we could be shunted off across continents at the whims of the powers that be. By the same token, a couple of phone calls by the newly arrived ambassador undid the mischief. We were happy to unpack and settle down again. The only guilt I felt was when I met the owner of Anthony Berg chocolates: I had in no time demolished the entire carton of chocolates he had sent as farewell gift!
You are among the few I know who have mothered in different continents. So how different is it to become a mother away from India?
I always felt that the best way to get to know certain nuances of a country’s cultural tradition was to have babies in them. My elder son, Vishnu was born in Copenhagen and Abhishek, the younger one, in New York — and my experiences each time couldn’t be more different.
In Copenhagen, a social democrat country, hospital visits for full term pregnant women were fixed on a certain day of the week. On the preceding day they had to collect their urine in a jerry can and present it for lab examination. I was confounded and not a little embarrassed to meet other mothers-to-be, swinging their jerry cans like designer bags without fail on the appointed day. I learnt only later that, from the urine examination doctors would note the condition of the placenta and not unnecessarily rush patients into childbirth with caesarean and surgical intervention!
In NY, on the day of my discharge, the hospital staff were highly excited because Elizabeth Taylor had come in for one of her facelifts. I could not forgive them their magnificent obsession when, along with a goodbye hamper, they wheeled in a bassinet with a different baby. On my protestation the nurse rudely shouted, “Can’t you read… the tag says Som Junior?” Shocked by the implication I said, I could not only read but also see! And it was not my child. While everyone was looking on in disbelief another nurse wheeled in my little one. The babies had their diapers changed and were put back in the wrong bassinet.
Years later, we discovered in an informal meeting with an American ambassador that Abhishek was indeed an American citizen. Because, at the time of the child’s birth Himachal was posted not to the embassy in Washington but to the consulate in New York. Only consulate children were given the privilege. This discovery, rechecked by State Department Records, gave our son the US passport. It was a windfall as Abhishek went on to graduate summa cum laude from a prestigious management school in the US and enter Wall Street as an investment banker.
I must also share another truth about birthing away from India. Before Vishnu’s birth, my parents had come to Copenhagen. When I was discharged from the hospital I received their care and being fed Ma’s cuisine was the best gift I could have. So, when phone calls came from hospital, followed by visits enquiring about my state of depression, I was totally confused. I realised how many mothers suffered from postpartum depression in a society bereft of nurturing family care.
How could you master languages as removed as Portuguese from Lao and Italian from Urdu? Is a flair for languages the key to this proficiency or the training imparted before each posting?
I enjoy learning languages. My stint at learning French at Ramakrishna Mission Golpark stood me in good stead in grasping Portuguese in Brazil, French in Ottawa and Italian in Rome — all Latin languages. But there was also the hazard of mixing up some phrases and words, so similar yet so different! Like Bon Appetit in French and Bueno Appetito in Italian. Or Amor in Portuguese; amore in Italian and amour in French.
Sometimes though, I accidentally learnt how language travels. My mother had packed in many petticoats to match with my saris but without their cord. We went to a store that promised to hold all we need but all my sign language did not bring what I needed. “Phita is obviously not available here,” I told Himachal, preparing to leave. Suddenly the storekeeper perked up. ‘Fita, si senhora!” he said and produced bundles of cord.
In due time I found out that janala, kedara and chabi – Bengali for window, chair and keys – had travelled from India to become janela, cadeira and chavi.
What did Dhaka mean to one raised in West Bengal – per se the Ghoti-Bangal[3]divide, your roots or the cultural side with Firoza Begum and Nazrul Geeti?
Dhaka was a great posting in so many ways. It was a hop, skip and jump away from my home town Kolkata, with the same language and culture and yet was a foreign posting with foreign allowances!
As you know, there’s a subtle cultural difference in East and West Bengal. Both speak Bengali but in East Bengal, it’s a colloquial rustic dialect while West Bengal speaks its refined cultural form. This formed the infamous ‘Ghoti-Bangal’ divide: Urban Calcuttans looked askance at their country cousins from the East.
The difference extended to the palate. East Bengalis flavoured their dishes with more chillies and West Bengalis, with a pinch of sugar. For the fish loving people, the two iconic symbols are Hilsa and Prawns, for East and West. Emotions soared high in Kolkata when the supporters of the football teams, East Bengal and Mohun Bagan, clashed, after intensely fought matches that spurred deadly arguments and bets.
Given this background, Himachal created a minor storm by announcing to his parents from Chinsurah, Hooghly in West Bengal that he would marry a girl whose parents were from Dhaka and Faridpur in East Bengal. Ghoti-Bangal feud remained the subject of much friendly banter between Himachal and me until we were posted in Dhaka. There, in a diplomatic turnaround, Himachal played down his Ghoti background to announce that his mother’s family was from Chittagong and he was born in the principal’s bungalow in Daulatpur, Khulna, where his grandfather was posted.
To give a bit of Himachal’s family background: Dr Pramod Kumar Biswas, the first Indian doctorate in Agricultural Sciences from Hokkaido University in Japan, had settled in Dhaka as principal of the Agricultural College. His charming daughter Kana won the heart of Dr Rabindranath Som, a veterinarian who weathered the predictable Ghoti Bangal storm to win her hand in marriage.
When my parents Jyotsnamay and Manashi Ray visited us, we couldn’t visit Patishwar in Rajshahi district, where my maternal grandfather Atul Sen had worked with Rabindranath Tagore before he was arrested for revolutionary activities with Anushilan Samiti, and exiled to Kutubdia, an isolated island in the Bay of Bengal. As a headmaster, he had given shelter to Jatirindranath Mukherji, popularly known as Bagha Jatin[4].
It was a breezy day when my octogenarian father revisited Faridpur Zilla School. The colonial bungalow had acquired a fresh coat of terracotta paint. Finding his way to the headmaster’s room, he announced with a lump in his throat that history had been rewritten, boundaries redefined and new national identities forged since 1923, the year he had matriculated.
The headmaster, delving through yellowing files, fished out the matriculation results for that year. My father’s face was that of an excited school boy impatient to show off his prowess: “Look at my maths marks! Oh yes, my English scores were a trifle lower than expected because I had a touch of fever, but look at Jasimuddin’s marks in English! Thank God, he passed it.” We looked around in hushed surprise. This isn’t The Jasimuddin, the beloved poet of Bangladesh? “But of course,” my father responded. “Jasim’s weakness in English was my strength!”
Dhaka was also personally fulfilling as my doctoral studies, which I had carried across three continents, found fruition at last! On another front, I met with success in gaining the confidence and blessings of Firoza Begum, the legendary exponent of Nazrul Geeti.
The songs of Kazi Nazrul Islam were a great favourite of my father. He often hummed those made famous by Firoza Begum. Since I had trained in Tagore songs from age five, I never aspired to master the distinctly different style of rendition. A chance encounter with the golden voice revived this desire. Firoza Begum bluntly refused. When I persisted, she wanted to hear me sing a few Tagore songs.
One morning I mounted three flights of steps, harmonium on my driver’s shoulder, to enter her flat with apprehension. At her bidding, I sang four songs of Tagore. She heard me without any comment, then she asked why I hadn’t been singing for Bangladesh television. My relief was palpable! I had passed her test.
Over the next two years, my weekly classes with her extended well beyond the music lessons to serious discussions on life itself and the meaning of religion. What began as a guru-shishya[5]relationship, transcended to deep friendship. She declined any remuneration and dearly wished that I should cut a disc. This wish of hers came true only when Debojyoti Mishra heard me and decided to record my Nazrul-songs for Times Music in 2016.
Food is perhaps the first face of culture. So please share with us some of your culinary adventures. Or should I say ‘fishy’ stories?
Adventures? I could talk about the chapli kebabs in Pakistan, or about putting samosas in Bake Sales. I could tell you about making rasgullas from powder milk. I could even tell you about our gardener in Laos who merrily collected every scorpion and caterpillar that came his way, “for snacks,” he told me. But let me focus on fish.
The very first party I hosted at home in Brazil led me to seek substitutes for Indian ingredients. Fish of course had to be on the menu, mustard fish at that. I had already learnt from the Brazilian ambassador in Delhi that surubim, being boneless, was the most suited for curries. So surubim it was for months until the day I had to go to the fishmongers – and found it was a monster of a whale!
In Pakistan, traversing the arid countryside of Sind, the train would stop at stations where fillets of pala were being shallow fried on large skillets. Savouring its delicate flavour we went into a discussion on the merits of pala versus hilsa. Both have a shiny silver body with thin bones, both swim upstream against current. The taste of hilsa steam-cooked in mustard sauce is a super delight in both Dhaka and Kolkata. There of course the discussions are on the merits of the hilsa from Padma and Ganga respectively.
In Laos I once called the plumber to ease the draining of the bathtub since the pipe had got clogged. He arrived with a live fish in a plastic bag and promptly emptied it into the pipe. It would eat through the slush as it travelled through the pipe, he assured me!
Post retirement, Himachal settled to honing his culinary skills. Cooking, which he had started in Ottawa, became his lasting hobby. He would shop for fish in C R Park or INA Market[6]. He would pore over cookbooks and plot innovative recipes. “Cooking,” he was quoted in Outlook magazine, “is art thought out with palate.” And his piece de resistance was the salmon baked whole.
Which was your most cherished, or striking, brush with celebrities in world history?
At one of the finest dinners in Copenhagen I found myself seated next to a countess. She invited me to visit her since she lived in the neighbourhood. The next day a liveried man arrived to escort us to an imposing manor house. We were welcomed with sherry and we had to select a card from a silver salver with the name of our partner for the dinner. I was escorted by a handsome young man who floored me when we exchanged names. He was the descendent of Count Leo Tolstoy!
Another memorable encounter was with a person straight out of the history books. I was strolling in a forested park outside Copenhagen. I noticed with a shock that I was looking into a glass topped coffin. The aristocratic face inside had an aquiline nose and a goatee that lent a refinement to the visage that still sported a faint smile. The starched lace collar was held in place by a jewelled button that showed impeccable taste. But the elegant hands tapered off to skeletal fingers, and the feet too had become skeletal.
The plaque at the bottom of the coffin informed us that this was James Hepburn, the Earl of Bothwell, with whom Mary, Queen of Scots had fallen in love. It was a fatal attraction since both were married. But soon her husband, Lord Darnley, the father of her son James, the future king of Scotland and England, was mysteriously burnt down in a manor, and Bothwell was granted a divorce. However, their marriage incensed Catholic Europe, so Mary gave herself up to buy the release of Bothwell, who fled to Denmark.
‘Whoever marries your mother is your father’: this dictum defines the acceptance of whatever political dispensation you are forced to live with, at home or abroad.So how did you cope with a turmoil like Emergency or antagonism in Islamabad?
We had returned to Delhi in the midst of Emergency. We felt some relief to see trains running on time and punctuality being maintained in government offices. Corrupt officers were being hauled up and over-population being addressed. But the atmosphere was sombre and conversations hushed. The deep scar left by the Emergency saw Indira Gandhi being swept out of power the following year.
In Islamabad tension had mounted when I arrived over the imminent execution of Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto[7]. Our residence had become the favourite watering hole for Indian and international journalists who knew Himachal from his Delhi days. Animated discussions over drinks were followed by quick despatches typed out on my rickety typewriter. Unending speculations on the unfolding drama had kept us on tenterhooks. Then one morning in April 1979, the phone rang to say, “It’s done.” [8]
How did Italy change your life?
Italy was easily the best posting of my life in embassies, not only because of its rich history. There I found Italian artists painting inspired by Tagore’s lyrics, and singers like Francesca Cassio singing Alain Danielou’s translations. What made them take it on? The question led me to rediscover Tagore.
My singing of Rabindra Sangeet also found recognition in Rome. My first CD album was released there. I was in many concerts. It was so fulfilling when my translation of Tagore’s lyrics into English found appreciation. Tagore himself believed that his songs were ‘real songs’ with emotions that speak to all people. I began translation in earnest. And that led me to write Rabindranath Tagore: The Singer and his Song (Penguin 2009). The book, with my translation of 50 Tagore songs, was considered very useful to many performing artistes who could understand and represent Tagore better in their art forms.
Please tell us about growing up with Tagore.
Like many girls in Kolkata I began learning Rabindra Sangeet from the age of five. Over the years the songs grew on me. The unique lyrics conveying a gamut of emotions spoke to me when I was far away on postings abroad. I continued my practice of the music through the years and felt vindicated when I got the opportunity to perform to appreciative audiences abroad and back in India.
Why did you work on his songs rather than his poems or stories?
There’s something compelling about Tagore songs. Remember that Gitanjali, which won him the Nobel, was a collection of ‘Song Offerings.’ Songs had given Tagore the strength to ride over the tragedies that had beset his life. They not only helped him express his grief over the deaths and suicides in his family, they were also his mode of expressing his frustration over the political situation that obtained then. And he felt his songs would help others too. “You can forget me but not my songs,” he had written.
Did you ever feel the need to jazz up the songs for Western audiences?
Tagore’s songs are like the Ardhanariswar[9] – the lyrics and the music are inseparable. The copyright restrictions that prevailed after this death did not allow translations. And that was a handicap since his music cannot be appreciated without comprehending his lyrics which are an expression of his creative thoughts.
I would say his songs have near-perfect balance between evocative lyrics, matching melody and rhythmic structure. And the incredible variety of his musical oeuvre touches every emotion felt by any human soul, without jazzing up.
Tagore’s songs are the national anthem of India and Bangladesh, and have also inspired that of Sri Lanka. But will his internationalism hold up with the change of order indicated by the recent developments on the subcontinent?
Tagore was known to be anti-nationalistic. He believed no man-made divisions can keep people segregated. He did not agree with the Western concept of ‘nation,’ he was an internationalist who accepted the ideals of democracy – ‘aamra sabai raja’[10], of gender equality – ‘aami naari, aami mohiyoshi’[11]; indeed, in equality of humans. What he wrote in lucid Bengali suited every mood. Georges Clemenceau, who was the Prime Minister of France for a second time from 1917 to 1920, had turned to Gitanjali when he heard that World War I had broken out. Even today people can relate to what he wrote.
How did all the hop skip and jump shape the feminist within Reba Som?
The wives of Foreign Service officers are often seen as decorative extensions of their spouses. People only saw the glamour we enjoyed on postings abroad, not the heartbreaks and disappointments we battled. Despite their qualifications the wives were not allowed to work abroad. Instead they had to be perfect hostesses: clad in colourful Kanjeevarams they had to prepare mounds of samosas and gulab jamuns.
But there was little recognition, appreciation or compensation by the Ministry of External Affairs of all the hard work and struggle they put in. To settle down in different postings in rapid succession. To host representational parties where they had to conjure Indian delicacies with improvised ingredients. To raise disgruntled children on paltry allowances.
Once, as the Editor of our in-house magazine, I had floated a questionnaire to all the missions abroad asking about the changing perceptions of the Foreign Service wives. That had opened a Pandora’s Box. Eventually in response to our requests the Ministry relaxed service conditions and allowed the wives to work abroad if they had the professional qualifications and received the host country’s permission. This was a veritable coup!
My own act of rebellion was accepting the Directorship of the Tagore Centre ICCR Kolkata (2008-13) after we returned to Delhi on Himachal’s retirement. It became a challenge for me to try and get the Tagore Centre on the cultural map of Kolkata, proving to myself and my disbelieving family in Delhi that it was possible!
Ratnottama Sengupta, formerly Arts Editor of The Times of India, teaches mass communication and film appreciation, curates film festivals and art exhibitions, and translates and write books. She has been a member of CBFC, served on the National Film Awards jury and has herself won a National Award.
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The many faces pf Kazi Nazrul Islam. From the Public Domain
The abiding image of Kazi Nazrul Islam (1899-1976) is that of the “Rebel Poet,” who defines himself as a fiery comet streaking across the firmament, emblazoning in the sky a message of revolutionary change. Unlike Rabindranath Tagore, Nazrul was not born into social and intellectual privilege. He has been described, in fact, as “the ‘other’ of the elite Kolkata bhadralok”.[1] Born in Churulia village in the Bardhaman district of Bengal, Nazrul was the son of the head of a mosque, studied in an Islamic school, and during his youth, joined a Leto group, a travelling band of local performers. When in high school, he was recruited into the British army, and served in Karachi. Even after he returned to Bengal as a young poet who had already acquired fame and repute, he remained something of an outsider to the intellectually sophisticated world of the literati. It was from this position of an outsider that he fashioned his own image as the bidrohior ‘Rebel poet’ who challenged the structures of the political, social, cultural and literary establishment with the sheer force of his iconoclastic writings.
Though best known as a poet, composer and revolutionary, Nazrul’s oeuvre also includes novels, essays, stories, editorials and journalistic pieces on a remarkable variety of topics. He was also a lyricist and composer, creator of the iconic genre called “Nazrulgeeti”. Nazrul’s brilliant literary career lasted from 1919 to 1942, when illness brought it to a sudden end. During this short span of time, he wrote on an amazing range of subjects, including politics, nationalism, social change, religion, communalism, education, philosophy, nature, love, aesthetics, literature and music. He saw it as his mission to arouse public awareness about pressing issues, and to jolt them out of their complacency and general apathy. Remembering Nazrul on the 48th anniversary of his death, it is daunting to think about his extraordinary legacy, but also a timely moment to reflect upon his significance for our own times.
In his political stance, Nazrul argued passionately in favour of armed struggle for total independence from colonial rule, rejecting the Gandhian path to advocate a freedom won via armed resistance. The trope of violence recurs in his writings. Yet his apparent espousal of the principle of destruction springs from a utopian dream of constructive change. “Reform can be brought about, not through evolution, but through an outright bloody revolution,” he says in the essay ‘World Literature Today’. “We shall transform the world completely, in form and substance, and remake it, from scratch. Through our endeavours, we shall produce new creation, as well as new creators”.[2]
Nazrul’s ideas on education counter the colonial pattern, advocating instead a curriculum that draws on indigenous contexts and models. He feels that the new education policy should emphasise empathy, inclusiveness and heterogeneity, with a special focus on psychological and emotional development. “It is our desire that our system of education should be such that it progressively makes our life-spirit awakened and alive,” he says in ‘A National Education’, adding: “… We would rather produce daredevils than spineless young men.” [3]
Inclusiveness and acceptance of heterogeneities are central to Nazrul’s vision. During his stint as a soldier in Karachi in his young days, he became interested in Marxist thought. The influence of this line of thinking can be felt in his emphasis on economic egalitarianism, and his passionate support of the cause of the downtrodden peasantry, particularly in his journal Langal. Following the 1926 riots in Kolkata, he expresses his anguish at the communal antagonism between Hindus and Muslims, critiquing different forms of orthodoxy in both religions. In the poem ‘Samyabadi (Egalitarian)’ [4], he declares:
I sing the song of equality— Where all divisions vanish and barriers dissolve, Where Hindu-Buddhist-Muslim-Christian merge and become one …
Nazrul was also a supporter of women’s rights. In his poetry, he speaks of equality between men and women. In ‘Nari (Woman)’ he argues: “If man keeps woman captive, then in ages to come, / He will languish in a prison of his own making”.[5]
Not surprisingly, Nazrul’s fearless, unconventional attitude aroused hostility in many quarters. His bold, outspoken magazine Dhumketu enraged the British. The journal was banned, and Nazrul condemned to rigorous imprisonment. At his trial in 1923, he delivered a resounding rejoinder in his speech ‘Rajbandir Jabanbandi (Deposition of a Political Prisoner)’. He remained a thorn in the flesh for the British administration because of his revolutionary views. Nazrul’s religious views also raised many hackles. He married Ashalata Sengupta, or Pramila, who belonged to the Brahmo Samaj. This antagonised conservative Hindus as well as orthodox Muslims.
Nazrul’s success as a writer, especially Rabindranath Tagore’s appreciation of his work, also caused jealousy among contemporary writers. For Tagore had dedicated his play Basanta to Nazrul, and also sent a telegram to him when he was in prison, exhorting him to give up his hunger strike. In 1922, Tagore had written a poem addressed to Nazrul, which appeared in successive issues of the journal Dhumketu[6]:
Come, O shining comet! Blaze Across the darkness, with your fiery trail. Upon the fortress-top of evil days, Let your victory-pennant sail. What if the forehead of the night Bear misfortune’s sinister sign? Awaken, with your flashing light, All who lie comatose, supine.
Rabindranath Tagore’s recognition of Nazrul’s talent created a lot of envy in literary circles. In 1926-27, parodies of Nazrul’s poetry started appearing in Shanibarer Chithi, a journal published by the Tagore circle. It came to be rumoured that Tagore had not liked Nazrul’s use of the Persianate word khoon (blood) instead of the Sanskritised word rakta, in his composition ‘Kandari Hushiar’. This gave rise to a controversy that became known as khooner mamla (the bloody affair), which drew a strong reaction from a deeply perturbed Nazrul, in the shape of an essay ‘Boror Piriti Balir Baandh” (A Great Man’s Love is a Sandbank)’, in which he blamed Tagore’s followers for the entire misunderstanding. The situation was resolved through the mediation of friends, and relations between Tagore and Nazrul remained cordial. When Tagore died in 1941, Nazrul broadcast a moving elegy, “Robi-Hara”, on Calcutta Radio.
In some ways, Nazrul was ahead of his time. Not many people know that he was aware of environmental issues and the threat of climate change, pressing problems in our own times. In ‘The Day of Annihilation’, he writes in a prophetic vein, of global warming, dissolving ice-caps and a changing ecology, cautioning his readers that if humans exploit the planet, we will eventually be responsible for the destruction of life on earth.
In Nazrul’s life and writings, we encounter the constant pull of contraries.His consciousness was simultaneously rooted in local culture, and infused with a broad transnational spirit. He felt inspired by movements in other parts of the world, such as the Turkish Revolution, the Irish Revolution and the Russian Revolution. In the essay ‘Bartaman Viswasahitya (World Literature Today)’, we discover his awareness about literary developments across the globe.In his political writings he espouses the path of violence, but he also composes exquisitely tender love songs, devotional songs drawing on both Hindu and Muslim imagery, and songs about the beauty of nature.
Nazrul’s style is a volatile mix of colloquial, idiomatic expressions, formal Bengali, Sanskrit and Persianate vocabulary, a smattering of English, and multiple registers of language. His polyglot sensibility also surfaces in his practice as a translator. He translated Omar Khayyam and Hafez from Persian into Bengali. His translations from Arabic into Bengali include 38 verses of the Qu’ran, part of the Mirasun Nagmat (a treatise on Hindustani classical music) and some poems. He translated Whitman’s ‘O Pioneer’ from English into Bengali. He is also known for his innovative ghazals in Bengali.
In 1942, Nazrul suddenly lost his speech. His illness brought his literary life to an abrupt end. All the same, the impact of his writings continued to be felt. In the Bangladesh Liberation War of 1971, the freedom fighters adopted Nazrul’s music as a source of inspiration. He was later declared the National Poet of Bangladesh. Today, while Nazrul’s poems and songs continue to delight and inspire, the true extent of his achievement remains in shadow. It is time for a comprehensive reappraisal of this much underestimated literary genius, because his writings have so much to offer us in our present world.
[1]The Collected Short Stories of Kazi Nazrul Islam, ed. Syed Manzoorul Islam and Kaustav Chakraborty (Hyderabad: Orient Blackswan, 2024), p. xviii. Bhadralok translates to gentleman
[2]Kazi Nazrul Islam, Selected Essays, translated by Radha Chakravarty (New Delhi: Penguin Random House, 2024), p. 137.
[3] Kazi Nazrul Islam,Selected Essays, trans. Radha Chakravarty (2024), p. 60.
[6]The Essential Tagore, ed. Fakrul Alam and Radha Chakravarty. Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 2011, pp. 115-116; Translation mine.
Radha Chakravarty is a writer, critic, and translator. She has published 23 books, including poetry, translations of major Bengali writers, anthologies of South Asian literature, and critical writings on Tagore, translation and contemporary women’s writing. She was nominated for the Crossword Translation Award 2004.
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Translations from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam
Nazrul teaching NazrulgeetiNazrulBorn in united Bengal, long before the Partition, Kazi Nazrul Islam(1899-1976) was known as the Bidrohi Kobi, or “rebel poet”. Nazrul is now regarded as the national poet of Bangladesh though he continues a revered name in the Indian subcontinent. In addition to his prose and poetry, Nazrul wrote about 4000 songs. Pictures from Public Domain
Nazrul’s Bidai Shondha Ashilo has been translated as ‘The Evening of Parting’
THE EVENING OF PARTING
The evening of parting is here; darkness encases the eyes. Dearest, don’t let tears make my path of parting more slippery. Like a flower would, I drifted with the tide and came here Unintentionally. Why, dearest, did you err and pick the flower up? Why did you put the flower in your tresses, only to fling it away, Letting it drift once again with the tide? Here no one understands Each other. The one you crave only slights you; the one you desire Won’t be your own. Here there is no real love in the heart’s depths. How will you understand how my pain wilts the garland of union? The song I sing takes wings and reaches the sky, craving for you.
Nazrul’s Masjideri Pashe Amai Kabar Diyo Bhai has been translated as’Bury Me’
BURY ME
Make sure to bury me next to a mosque, dear brother of mine, So that from my grave I’ll hear the muezzin’s prayer call all the time. As those in the congregation pass me by, I’ll hear too their holy steps This sinner will thus be saved from the evil spirits close to the grave! So many pious people—God’s devotees and our prophet’s disciples— Come to this mosque and recite verses from the Holy Quran here. Those verses uplift my soul and mind. Many dervishes and fakirs Come to the mosque’s compound too. Till deep into the night They recite God’s name repeatedly, though hidden from sight. I too would like to repeat with them His Holy name, all in tears. I too would so like to keep repeating His Holy name thus!
I’m a rough tongued kitty. Many blades, many languages. I’ve licked the globe like it’s my very own Catnip filled toy -- Yet forever remained an alien, exotic breed. “You speak meow so well,” Say the domestics. “It doesn’t fit.” I’m a sharp-clawed kitty. Declawed, I’m defenceless. Where beauty remains the ultimate weapon -- do I fit? Do I fit -- among these manicured personas Moulded into the shapes of patriarchal desire? My feral femininity, My felinity Trying to go hand in paw -- But it doesn’t fit.
Arshi Mortuza was made in Bangladesh but moulded in the U.K, U.S.A, Sweden, China, Thailand and Canada. Many of her poems explore the theme of alienation, drawn from her experiences of being raised in multiple countries. You can find her on instagram as @poetessarshi
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Several years ago, probably around the 1990s, the critic Nilanjana S Roy had defined the current crop of Indian Writing in English novelists as a ‘Doon School-St. Stephens’ conspiracy’. It was an interesting but true observation since the writers who were popular at that time were all products of these elite institutions and were quite adept at imitating western culture and simultaneously wrote in a style that was quite polished and urban. Upamanyu Chatterjee, belonging to this category, and at present a retired Indian civil servant, had shot into fame way back in 1988 by writing a definitive urban Indian coming-of-age story with his first novel, English August: An Indian Story. Several years later in 2000, he won the Sahitya Akademi Award for Mammaries of a Welfare State. His seventh novel Villany focused on a new class of post-liberalisation, westernised urban Indians who were hitherto ignored in the regional as well as the English fiction of India. This meticulously crafted literary thriller, a riveting story of crime and retribution, now stands at the other end of the spectrum when we read Chatterjee’s latest novel Lorenzo Searches for the Meaning of Life (2024). Narrating the life-story of an Italian Benedictine monk Lorenzo Senesi, who is on a spiritual quest to find the meaning in life, this meticulously detailed story is based on the life of Italian Fabrizio Senesi, an acquaintance of Chatterjee in Sri Lanka for the last few years, who turned out to be “a good friend” of his and who is now a European bureaucrat and a Development expert residing in Phnom Penh leading a successful professional as well as a blissful family life. As Chatterjee states in his foreword, “It is a true story, that is to say, like many true stories, it is a work of fiction.”
Divided into nine chapters, the locale of his story moves from Italy to London and then to Bangladesh. This is how things begin. One summer morning in 1977, nineteen-year-old Lorenzo Senesi of Aquilina, Italy, drives his Vespa motor-scooter into a Fiat and breaks his forearm. It keeps him in bed for a month, and his boggled mind thinks of unfamiliar things: where he has come from, where he is going, and how to find out more about where he ought to go. When he recovers, he enrolls for a course in physiotherapy. He also joins a prayer group, and visits Praglia Abbey, a Benedictine monastery in the foothills outside Padua. Detailing this part of his life we are told how this monastery will become his home for ten years, its isolation and discipline the anchors of his life. The first three chapters are full of quotes from the teachings of Saint Benedictine, the different vocations that Lorenzo follows, and give us details of monastic life as led in different Catholic institutions spread throughout Italy.
In the fourth chapter titled ‘The Visitor at the Abbey’, Lorenzo listens to a talk by one Luca Rossini, a Benedictine monk native of Bergamo, who since 1976 has been staying a little over seven thousand kilometers to the east in a place called Phulbari Para near the town of Khulna in Bangladesh where he runs an ashram as a dependent of the Praglia monastery. So, after eight long years of the introspective silence of a monastery, Lorenzo decides to go to Khulna. But before that he must spend eight months in England attending English-to-Speakers of-Other-Languages courses at an Academy there, till Luca would come to pick him up and take him to Bangladesh.
Upon arriving in Dhaka, the cacophony and different aspects of an alien culture that Lorenzo faces is described very beautifully by Chatterjee in great details. He starts wearing a lungi, eating with the fingers of his right hand, washing his clothes in a public tank along with female strangers, studying Bengali in the library with Luca, and tries to acclimatise with the place, the weather, and the people as quickly as possible. Apart from praying seven times a day, he also spends a lot of time decorating the walls of the chapel with different tempura paintings.
After some time, he visits another ashram called Rishilpi run by Enzo and Laura, an Italian missionary couple in Satkhira, some sixty kilometers away. Seeing the multifarious social upliftment activities that are being undertaken at their place, Lorenzo is intrigued by the idea of worming one’s way into a community and working for its betterment from within. Though remaining a Benedictine at heart, he decides to quit the Order and continue his search for some purpose to his life.
At Rishilpi he joins as Deputy Director, Health Services, and opens a sorely needed physiotherapy clinic that would attempt to instill a little meaning in the lives of the disabled and would educate the rest in matters of hygiene, sanitation, medical care and physical well-being. After surviving quite comfortably without money for the past eleven years and living a strict, disciplined monastic life, Lorenzo gradually undergoes a change when he starts interacting with people from all strata of society. Concealing his religion within his heart, he goes on working with a missionary zeal and after some time realises that even working with women felt marvellous.
In due course, he even falls in love and proposes to Dipti, the Headmistress of the same institution, and thus an ex-priest goes on to marry an ex-nun, both remaining devout Catholics forever. They spend the six happiest years of their lives at Rishilpi, till Lorenzo realises it is also life that is holding him back. With children, his responsibilities increase, he cannot go his own way. He needs money to survive and is called upon more and more often to lecture trainees in Dhaka at the Centre for the Rehabilitation of the Paralysed. In this manner, he slowly broadens his acquaintance with the developing world, and becomes the ideal person to build a bridge between the first world donors and third world recipients.
In the brief concluding chapter of the book, Chatterjee tells us that if one ended Lorenzo’s story here, it is because, even though twenty-nine years have passed since his marriage and he and Dipti are alive and well in Phnom-Penh, he has not in essential changed and he is still in spirit, Benedictine. But what is most interesting is the fact that “he still continues, though, to live his life anti-clockwise, as it were, for (as we have seen) after passing his youth in search of direction for his spirit, he turned outward to the community – and to the joys and responsibilities of the domestic life – only in his mid-thirties; and it was not till his early forties that he properly set about addressing the matter of money. It is – broadly – the trajectory of the typical human life but lived in reverse.”
Chatterjee’s tour-de-force is his storytelling and imaginative prose combined with his trademark wit and attention to detail. In the acknowledgement section he thanks his friend Fabrizio Senesi for providing him innumerable clarifications about life in Italy and in Bangladesh. The long list of books that Chatterjee read and mentioned in the end provides ample proof that he undertook his research rather seriously and this is clearly reflected in the intricate details that he provides of places and people throughout the novel. The book is not a page-turner, and one must read it rather seriously to savour the meticulous effort that Chatterjee made to provide us a fascinating tale about an ordinary human being who finds that a life of service to God is enough, and that it is not enough.
Ghumaite Dao Shranto Robi Re (Let Robi Sleep in Peace) was written by Nazrul in 1941 for Tagore, when he died. It has been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam …
Tagore takes his leave on August 7, 1941. Photo from Public Domain
Let the spent Robi sleep on. Please, please don’t try to wake him up. Let not the one who spread light all his life Be awakened; don’t disturb his sleep. Let the one who gave light and delighted thousands, And has now collapsed at mother earth’s bosom, Be ritually smeared with sandal paste on his forehead; Don’t redden his face by weeping incessantly! Even at the risk of straining yourself, stretch out your palms To accept the power and the strength he has given you. The departed Sun and Supreme One will enable us to succeed Let the poet sleep on! The departed Sun’s glow will still light up our interiors. So, from within yourself pay him homage every day. Don’t make him weep by shedding continuous tears!
A recording of the first performance of Nazrul’s lyrics in Bengali
Born in united Bengal, long before the Partition, Kazi Nazrul Islam(1899-1976) was known as the Bidrohi Kobi, or “rebel poet”. Nazrul is now regarded as the national poet of Bangladesh though he continues a revered name in the Indian subcontinent. In addition to his prose and poetry, Nazrul wrote about 4000 songs.
Borderless 