Amma- Ode to a friend's mother

When I was five in 1971, Abba fell

From a coconut tree and cracked open his skull,

Like a ceremonial coconut.

The village elders informed Amma that he was fermenting coconut toddy in the sun,

Hidden in the highest fronds, he was drinking his devil’s drink and the Almighty hurled him down.

Like squashing a cockroach, they told my mother

He will burn in Hell-Jahannam forever, they told my mother

And it’s all her fault, for she had the evil eye

They told my mother.

Amma had green eyes and they might have sparkled like marbles once

But after Abba’s death, mother sold her jewels to bury Abba and pay for our food, our schooling,

She threw away whatever was left in her life

For the sake of our stomachs and our heads.

I think after Abba died, she also threw away

Her green eyes.

We were four brothers and five sisters and selfishly, we all needed to grow up at the same time.

Our childhoods must’ve been a nightmare for Amma.

Our upbringings like nine desert crossings, nine crucifixions, nine agonising dry deaths.

Yet she threw away the rest of her life for us and she continued living the nightmare,

As if that was the only thing she could ever dream of doing.

I remember Amma as tired and humourless as an old woman, while still in her twenties,

I remember her working three jobs at once just to keep us alive,

With a demon’s or a mad woman’s tenacity.

She worked as a daily labourer and carried sand and sowed paddy waist deep in mud and

Fished river crabs and foraged wild spinach and

Even in the worst famines, she miraculously cooked something for us, even if it was

Boiled muddy water.

We didn’t care cause we ate or imagined we were eating something

And we knew Amma

Would serve us one meal a day, even if she had to cook

Her own flesh.

She was a demon, our Amma.

During the war of independence, she smuggled guns, carried messages and she gave shelter

To a Mukti Bahini guerrilla soldier.

A man, whose face I’ve forgotten, whose name we never knew, who never said a word to us and visited our hut late every night, ate rice in pitch darkness,

Said his Namaaz and slept somewhere inside the hut, although none of us nine brothers and sisters

Can imagine where exactly he found the place to sleep.

Amma never said a word to him either but one afternoon, on returning early from school,

I found her cleaning the freedom fighter’s rifle

With a strange smile on her face and I realised

That she had found her green eyes again.

Then in the most obscure days of my childhood, Pakistani soldiers entered our village

And shot all the men and many male children.

We didn’t ask what they did to the womenfolk but we knew,

Even my youngest brother- 1 and a half years old-

Knew exactly what was happening.

Amma told us to hide in the Mango forest and remained in the hut, waiting

For the freedom fighter to return.

She was a mad woman, our Amma

We hid in the forest for 2 days and nights and when we returned,

 Amma was broken and bleeding and nearly dead and the freedom fighter’s body

Had been hacked and shot into many small pieces

And scattered around the bloodied village pond.

Vultures and foxes were fighting over his innards.

But I must’ve imagined a lot of what happened then for as I say,

It was the most obscure time in my childhood.

What I know for a fact is that when we, all four brothers

Were going to school together,

Amma managed to magically procure one egg a day (she must’ve stolen it from somewhere or the neighbours may have taken pity on the madwoman who once had the evil eye)

And she boiled the egg

And she broke it with her finger into four pieces and fed the four of us the meal of the day,

A quarter egg and a fistful of rice each.

Somedays she would slip us 10 paise pocket money, most days she didn’t have such great wealth.

And she would apologise to us, us fucking spoilt brats.

We grew up and killed Amma in the process.

35 years she never left the village except when it was to visit her sister in the

Neighbouring village.

Then when we had all grown up and abandoned the village and her and led our nonsensical lives.

Only then did she let herself die.

Something terrible was tearing apart her insides, she was coughing up blood in the hut.

Only my sisters, my youngest brother and I bothered to turn up at her side as she lay dying

The Kazi asked her for any last requests from the All Mighty,

Who had hurled her husband from the coconut tree four decades ago.

She croaked out her request.

She wanted to be denied heaven- Jannat,

She did not desire the paradise to which she was surely entitled.

She wanted to go to Jahannam- to burn in hell

Why? The Kazi shrieked and we were afraid he was about to pass out from such blasphemy

“To be with my man”, croaked Amma and even as

The Kazi picked up his umbrella, cursed the mad woman who once had green marble like evil eyes and pronounced her a Damned whore,

Even as my religious brother wept and my sisters blushed,

I knew that Amma was going to hunt down that wife-beating, coconut toddy drunkard- our Abba,

That lout who was lucky enough to marry the most beautiful girl in the village,

Who gave him nine children, who was so lucky that he just had to throw it all away and drink

Till he dropped and sentence Amma

To four decades in hell- that fucking idiot,

No matter which brimstone in hell he is he is hiding under, I know Amma will find

Her irresponsible, abusive, heartless lover and once she finds him,

 I cannot imagine

What she is going to do to him.

An Education

9 yr old boy (looks more like 3 due to malnutrition) runs into the bamboo-tin hut, Imran and I are surveying, clutching a handful of Class 2 school text books. His father owns a teashop but business is bad and ever since the silk factories laid-off half a village, his customers can’t afford a cup of tea and a ripe banana every day. His mother brings us tea and refuses our money. We are guests in their home, their basha. Mother shouts and laughs at her son’s mischief. Father takes a break from answering our questions about his healthcare needs and his dwindling income and his dying youngest daughter. The times are bad.  

Mother- He’s at it again. He’s trying to sell his school books.

Boy- I’ll sell them. I’ll sell everyone of them.

Father- You rascal! Have some respect for our guests.

Boy- I’ll sell them.

Imran- You should never sell your books. Why are you trying to sell them?

Boy- They have stopped teaching these lessons. They have closed down the school.

Imran and I flip through the books. Instead of a price tag they have the UNICEF logo at the back. Donor funded books, which are of little use where the schools disappear like rain puddles in the sun.

Me- Don’t sell them. Don’t be foolish. You can use them later. You can give them to somebody who needs them.

Mother- They are in good condition. He can earn some money if he sells them.

Imran- He can earn much much more money if he studies them.

Mother- That will take many years and many more books. At the end of which he may not earn more than a fisherman.

Imran (getting very angry)- Knowledge should be respected. Knowledge is powerful Inshallah. Rajshahi is the city of universities and knowledge. Some of the best universities in the world are in Rajshahi and you have no respect for that.  

Boy- But I can get 8 taka per textbook and 5 taka per note book.

Imran- What will you do with that money?

Boy- I’ll eat.

Imran- What will you eat? What will you eat?

Mother- He likes to eat grapefruit at the Padma ghat and lots of other junk.

Father- Leave that rascal. He will not learn anything anyway, even if the school reopens. Have another banana.

Boy- Forget about 8 taka. I’ll sell these for 10 taka. Not less than 10 taka.

Imran- Don’t be stupid. You should eat the knowledge contained in these books and many many other books over many years. Only then will you be somebody.

Boy- I don’t want to eat knowledge. I don't want to be anybody. I want to eat real food. Right Now.

street carom match

Fifty boys and old men gather around a carom board in the middle of a lane in Badda-para. The rat-a-tat epic carom battle rages on- rat-a-tat, tat-a-tat. Fistful of chalk dust is scattered on the board and the wooden counters slide across the slippery-as- ice board and crash with a deafening roar from the crowd applauding an impressive shot and hooting at bad misses. The street carom champion with a sniper’s aim is a shaking, bearded old man with bony lightning fingers and cataract grey eyes; his hands and face clouded with chalk dust and his face smeared with a child’s toothless grin.

Wonderful Week

Winding down from a thrilling week of work in Dhaka. Working from early morning till evening every day on how to provide community health services to those who live on Chars- tidal riverine marshy islands, which are precipitated out of demonic river currents and are inhabited by thousands of people in tin and wood shacks built on bamboo stilts, inhabited till the islands are reclaimed by the river and dissolve away. Also been working on protecting herders from the loss of their livestock and cattle and a facility for giving out stipends to promising school students in the slums. Huge challenges but a wonderful team of locals to work with and extremely stimulating and satisfying work. Feel like I've done something worthwhile at the end of the day.
Oh and a fantastic home cooked Bangla lunch at work- best lunches I've had for years and years! Been flat-hunting, making friends and feasting on street food in the nights. Tomorrow's a holiday- so I'll work for a few hours in the morning then move to a cheaper place and explore old Dhaka (Adi-Dhaka) for the first time. Durga Puja fever seems to be spreading now. Will see the Puja after years and years...     

Tales from the USA exile

It was somewhere around this time a few years back when I chose to set out on my exile. I remember making fun of my friends when they cried a river before leaving their near and dear ones. Not manly enough I said...real men never cry!! Yet I felt an overwhelming sadness choking me when I said goodbye to my city for the last time. Glanced at the bed I had been sleeping on for a considerable number of years and accepted the fact that I would never return to it anytime soon.

Shortly after boarding my flight I fought that grief by closing my eyes only to wake up to a new land. Soon the sadness was pushed back to being discussed after a few rounds of drinks with fellow countrymen who were as drunk.

Everything has a bright side and soon I saw the bright side of my journey. Not long back I would stare at the sky and wonder what it would be to fly a plane instead of being a passenger in it, look at rapids raging in its full glory and want to jump in them , put on my headphones while playing Need for Speed on my computer to make me believe I was actually driving that car in real life. Today those dreams are no longer dreams and I have fulfilled them all.

Yet today as my roommate vacated all his stuff leaving a huge empty house to myself that lost grief finds its way out of the murky depths where it was lost .

The morbid rooms and empty spaces glare at the lone figure typing away while sitting on the lifeless carpet. The lone person who was once surrounded by near and dear ones whom he could see without the aid of technology ....near and dear ones that are far far away now...

Streetscapes 1

A street in Moukhali- buzzing with Friday afternoon goodwill,
ringing with singing songbird bells
of speeding butterfly red-blue-green rickshaws.
Rickshaws adorned like new brides
with gold-silver paper, sparkles and film stars and saints and shrines and blessings
ringing their way down labyrinthine lanes and cataract blind alleyways
like electrified brides in love
pulling along
their puzzled, perspiring cycling rickshaw-wallahs,
their men.

A kid with a broken leg in grey plaster lies on a roadside bench
Waiting for a bus or a mother or a meal; he eyes
A special battalion commando soldier in camouflage uniform who shares his bench
But doesn’t share his snack, which he bites and chews with un-camouflaged pleasure-
A sliced green mango with diced green chillies and rock-salt, eyes screwed up
In the sensuality of the sour mango- burning chilly- crunching salt inside his mouth.
The lame kid watches the soldier’s guilty delights and the automatic rifle,
Which lies across the soldier’s lap
Like a giant catapult.

Dhaka Landing

From the plunging window of the twisted metal bubble of your aeroplane, you realise that
Dhaka is a life crammed city and a flotilla
of a thousand floodswept villages
scattered on the eroding clay fingers and mud flats of the largest delta in humanity.
The delta city of brown giant python like rivers and serpentine estuaries,
baby snake rivulets and tapeworm canals and
the shimmering blue green of the Bay of Bengal.
The delta city of coconut forests, concrete chaos,
marooned hamlets on riverine islands,
fleets of fishing boats and ferries and
the most beautiful rickshaws in the world.
The delta city which lives, dies and shimmers
at the mangled mouths of sweet rivers
of life and destruction,
a city planning to break out
into the sea.