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Looking Back—from This Side of 50

by Syed Maqsud Jamil
IT was the best of times it was the worst of times ” In the opening line of "A tale of Two Cities", Charles Dickens was recalling the time in which the story was set. He was describing the state of two great colonial powers of Europe — England and France.
England, although, enjoying a prosperous time with resources Drought from the colonies, was scarred by rampant crime. In France, on the other hand, the nobility and the clergy were at the zenith of their fortune and power, but the proletariat were savaged by abominable inequities and atrocities. For Dickens, the novelist, recounting the past was a matter of enquiry, for building up the plot But the past, particularly for people, past the prime of their age, has an undying spell, an irresistible charm. When we look back, there appears to be an other-worldly halo around it. Recollections is, in fact, fleeting images. We glide through it with little efforts. The same does not apply to the present and the future. When we think of the present, it looks so earthly and stationery. As for the future, its contemplation needs imagination. The recollections of the past may pain us. but it does not hold any real threat. It is not without its rough edges. However, things past cannot be resurrected. Therefore, with the passage of time, even the worst of time looks so cauterized. Recollections offer great pleasure when they dwell on benign or pleasant occurrences, facts and observation of the past.
The past, as I understand, needs a certain maturation period in order to acquire the charm and spell which create a longing for it. The longer the view the greater is its otherworldly character. But an unusually long passage of time causes the memory to falter, the view becomes greatly blurred. It has almost become a social custom to at tach great importance to the event of reaching the age of 50. Perhaps because, it is seen as the first milestone of life. We tend to look upon it as the median line of normal life span. Within a little over a year, with God's help, I shall be 50. It will not, therefore, be a precocious act for me to look back from this side of 50 and share the images with you.
Although I was born in the
city of Dhaka, my childhood was spent in a remote village of Faridpur. The farthest I can recall about my childhodd involves the backward location of the village, and about my parents with their near and dear ones. My father was the principal figure in it. He in his totality, belonged to the village. When I look back, his contentment in subsisting without the barest possible modern amenities and luxuries, his joy of savouring life in a place which offered little ease and comfort, look amazing to me. I remember him taking bath, no matter whether it shines or rains, in the pond, in front to the "Katcharighar" or visitors tin-shed, putting a little bit of mustard oil in his navel and on the crown, and rubbing it all over the body. It's very hard to remember the occasions when he used a soap or a talcum powder. Yet never in his life time, did he ever suffer from rashes or allergies. The nearest doctor was several miles away in Faridpur. And I do not recall having seen him taken ill. He rejoiced in the company of the village folks who thronged the tinshed in the afternoon, and in the time spent in Chowdhuryhat, the village market place. It was not less than seven miles from the village. He mostly went there on foot, except in the rainy season, when boat became a convenient transport. His visit to the Chowdhuryhat was an event which offered me much enthusiasm in a place, where time plodded like a tired mare. The particular reason why I used to look forward to his return from the market was that he often brought me the Sitaram Basak version of "Bengali Alphabet”. The book with the purplish red cover was a source of great pleasure for me. The book was in tatters within a week. Naturally, he brought me a new one every fortnight.
My mother, being a city bred lady, was obviously in great discomfort in the village which utterly lacked all amenities, Often she used to cry in the corner. She was so protective about her son that she never used to allow me to go out of the courtyard with-
out the company of my father or of the housekeeper Kuti Bepari. She did not even allow my father to help me to learn swimming. Lest her son should drown in the pond. The things I learnt from Kuti Bepari were modelling cocks, cows, dolls in water hyacinths. Whenever any of my relations used to visit us from Dhaka my mother used to send me to the "decent environment" of Dhaka town, at the first opportunity.
What strikes me most while drawing a parallel between me and my father is that while he could subsist so joyfully on the minimum, his son was bound to the convenience and comforts of city life. But my city bred joy paled in brightness before the taste of his happiness which prospered like the bountiful nature around him.
In the midfifties, we permanently came back to Dhaka. But my father all along remained a village folk, in his living habits, his outlook, his thinking, his pleasures. He could never transplant himself successfully in the 'greenhouse' environment of city life. I could feel, in his heart he longed to return to his village. That was not to be. It was devoured by the Padma in the mid-sixties. I lost my father in 1988. The loss of a father robs you of the assurance of knowing that you still can make mistake and not pay the penalty because someone is there to back you up.
In one year the Dhaka I knew by visiting places in the company of my parents and relations, and by watching from the 1st floor veranda of my grandfather's house, was that of a dimly lit town of hackney carriages, where movies were the notable events. There was a waterhydrant in the corner of the road. The nearby outer side of the primary school wall, was the place for pasting cinema posters. In a state of confinement within the four walls of the house, the days and nights offered no change. They looked like a sequence of de nuded hills which contained no green patches. The inquisitive mind of a six-year-old boy looked forward to any
change with avid interest. A new movie, a new poster on the wall brought that much awaited change. The man with the ladder and a bucket of glue, was a very special man, for whom I waited the entire week. If a particular movie was. having a good run he would simply paste '2nd week’ and walk away. That made me deeply dejected. When "Aan" was released in Dhaka in 1952, it created quite a sensation. I was at my eradpa's place. An elephant, I later heard, was used for publicity. Perhaps, it was released in Nishat, which is now known as Manashi. The poster remained there for weeks. My disappointment knew no bounds.
The first movie, I partly saw in, the company of my mother and aunts in the ladies class, was Bimol Roy's "Maa". The tragic suffering of the hapless father and the silent sufferings of the mother (Leela Chitnis) were miich too overpowering for me. My high pitched crying was a nuisance which the viewers could no longer ignore. I had to be sent back home after interval. New Picture House, now Sabistan, was close to our residence.
In fact, the movies represented the mood of the time. Then people loved to see, talk, spin stories and model their lives on movies. In my school life, when I became an incorrigible movie buff, I remember one incident when "'Sagarika'1 was being shown in Rupmahal. It was the love story of two medical students with Suchitra-Uttam as the romantic pair in it. During the interval, there was much commotion in the ladies class, people around, were talking that, a female medical student or perhaps a nurse has fainted, being unable to withstand the pathos of the movie which resembled her own. Such was the gripping effect of the movies.
Recently when Dilip Ku mar was visiting Bangladesh, my son was enquiring of me with a auizzicaf look on his face, what was so special about this actor which de manded such profusion of honour, adulation and com
pliment. I wish I could take my son back to the fifties and sixties and make him a, witness of the time. It is natural for him to ask what was the magic in the actor who was always loosing the heroine and singing interminably slow maudlin songs instead of displaying amazing skill of kung-fus and karate. I wanted to ask my father the same question, after dozing thorough, almost the entire session of "Mera bulbul so raha hai" fame Kismat, which ran for more than a year in Calcutta. The answer is to be found in the two different times. There was little family entertainment other than movies and film songs. Generally the plot of the film developed around a story and the songs presented the moods and sentiments of the principal chanac-ters and sometimes dramatized special moments in catchy tunas and in well-worded lyrics. Songs in those days became popular because of the tune and the lyrics, not because of the hignpitched beat of the instruments. The films occupied a place of importance; and was treated with much interest in family and in social life. It will not be wrong to observe that the films used to cast a spell on the viewers. They will talk about it in the house, at the restaurant, at school-college, hum the tunes, play it on the loudspeaker.
The spell lasted for weeks. And Dilip's spell lasted longer. His sad eyes, melan-chol\ look, well intoned voice charming mannerism, well cultivated pe rsonality, immaculately faithful portrayal of the character, they all combined to mesmerize the viewers. It was hard for the spell to fade away People will copy his hairstyle, throw glances like him. He represented the culture of the time.
I discovered the joy of reading classics in the late fifties it was through an abridged version of "Father Panchali" with illustration by Satyaiit Ray Aam Ather Bhepu opened up a wide world of deeply fulfilling pleasure in reading My emotional involvement with l’ather Pan
chali is still as fresh, as the day when 1 first read the book. Whenever I recall the description where Apu's mind wanders through the many fond memories of his dead sister Durga, the feeling overwhelms me. Who could bear the wrenching pain of those lines where Bibhuti Banda-paddhaya writes 'TOt • 5jr.*n«i sew- sun
srSJSWI -S? <3
*13 "iSiw tuft*) - srfs f$f^, sufs oznps ^(Sifa, ^|
sis 3 facs *iic°v-~"
"The next moment as if the wonder struck language deep inside my mind wanted to say this time and again by coming out in tears — I did not want it, my dear sister, 1 have not forgotten you, nor have I left you behind intentionally — they are taking me away — ". This is something which is worth cherishing throughout 9our life time.
1 am an ardent fan of test cricket. And which unfolded for me a thrilling world in 1955. In those days, five-day test matches were festivals of great joy and colour. Dhaka Stadium was commissioned for test cricket on January 1955. My father took me to see the India-Pakistan test match. Ramchand was batting. And Fazal Mahmood was- bowling from the Paltan end.
He with his collar turned upward and a stray crescent shaped lock beautifying his forehead, had all the charm of a film hero. And he used to bowl with such graceful style. He was the Reart throb of the ladies. Abdul Hafeez Kardar, the skipper, had an aristo cratic bearing. Tall, slender, gentle, soft-spoken, every inch a product of Oxford. That particular scene, is still vivid in the memory of those who were in the ground to witness the Pakistan-Australia Test match, perhaps in 1959. Neil Harvey was batting on 96. Fazal came with the new ball. He held up the new ball, perhaps, for all to see Than he started the run up from the Paltan end A silence en veloped the stadium And be lieve me! Neil Harvery was clean bowled at 96! Middle stump uprooted! It is, I be lieve, is still, one of the most memorable acenes of the Dhaka Stadium The little master Hanif Mohammad who has the record of longest test innings (16 hrs 37 minutes) scored centuries in both the
innings of the unofficial Test match at Dhaka against MCC in 1960. He scored 104 and 111 My recollection of test cricket that Dhaka saw would not be complete, if I do not recall the incredible fast bowl ing displayed by Wesley Hall of West Indies His pace was too fiery for Ejaz Butt to withstand, he fell on the wicket.
Time is relentless in its forward mobility It is irre versible Shakespeare summed it up by saying "Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomor row,/ Creeps in this petty pace from day to day' To the last syllable of recorded time ’ Nothing can bring back the years we have left behind They are swallowed into the vortex of eternity Its distant nature imparts an element of
obscurity to the rough edges. Whereas our present has an overpowering presence. It is not without its share of plea sures and perils. We generally tend to be forgetful about the worth of our pleasures that we enjoy, because they look as if they have been ours for a lifetime The perils, expose our vulnerability Our desper ation, our plight, create the necessity to turn from the Ere sent and look to the past
i such a state, the past looks like a rose garden Such kind of thinking is a bondage Reco llections and remmis cence, can serve us better when we get pleasure from it Ether the courage to tight the ttle of today and are gifted with the vision of tomorrow And only then we can tall in love with "those were the days’ and not get hurt.