#Title

This Pahela Baishakh, let’s make a pledge to ruralise our city
OF MAGIC
& MADNESS
Badiuzzaman Bay
is an assistant editor at The Daily Star.
BADIUZZAMAN BAY
IT’S been quite some time since we’ve had a Pahela Baishakh in the middle of Ramadan. The convergence of the two occasions, not necessarily a clash of ideologies, begs appreciation of life in its many nuances and complexities. How do you, for example, reconcile the spirit of restraint of the holy month with the unrestrained joy of life and rebirth associated with Bangla New Year? For now, perhaps we should be grateful that we’re finally having this moment, regardless of how subdued its celebration. The familiar drum beat or chorus coming out of the historic Ramna Batamul is not only a nod to tradition but also a welcome sight after two years of pandemic-induced closures, during which we lost more than just music. It means turning a page filled with loss and grief, and giving life a fresh start after it has been rudely stopped in its tracks.
Chhayanaut’s musical tribute to Pahela Baishakh, or the spectacles of the Unesco-recognised Mongol Shobhajatra, can be equally evocative for those who see in them a celebration of nature and the pastoral life. But here’s the irony: How out of place does this celebration seem when done in a concrete mess like Dhaka? Put another way, we’re celebrating the rural idyll and values through nature-themed songs, scenes and motifs while surrounded by flyovers, skyscrapers, shopping malls and endless streams of vehicles. In truth, it’s more lamentation than celebration. One of the conundrums of our search for a closer connection to the rural world is that the search itself has morphed into a “fancification” of those rustic products and motifs now on display at the festival sites. It’s as if the visitors are customers, and what they are really buying into is a sort of processed pastoral.
Dhaka is a city that is not only increasingly encroaching upon the nearby countryside, but also snubbing out all traces of rustic life and values within itself. I say “values” because taking in the scene without taking in what it represents is superficial. Dhaka’s urbanisation is in sharp contrast to the ruralisation of some of the foreign cities that we fondly talk about. I remember reading about the ruralisation trend in the UK, where the desire for a closer connection with nature has led to the countryside creeping into many cities and towns—in how their residents shop, eat, play, read, dress, decorate homes, and even spend their time. You can see rustic playgrounds, wildflower meadows nestling beside tower blocks, rustic furniture, weekly farmers’ markets, flourishing rural children’s literature, street food being sold out of revamped agricultural trucks, or from village-delivery-style bicycles. The signs of ruralism are everywhere. And there is a deliberate attempt behind it, led by ordinary citizens.
One may argue if this is enough for someone seeking rural contact, or possible in a city like Dhaka. But we are not even giving it a serious thought anymore, let alone a serious try, apart from having Pahela Baishakh celebrations. As I remarked elsewhere, “Dhaka is trapped in an ironic twist as it grows and falls apart at the same time. Its aggressive development is rivalled only by the progressive decline in almost all other parameters of urban life.” Any description of this city these days invariably summons up images of toxic air, loud noise, unsafe drinking water, traffic gridlocks, high population density, high cost of living, inadequate road, transport and recreational facilities, general lack of security, etc.
More than the decline in the quality of sights and scenes, it’s the absence of rural values and the essential simpleness associated with them that should bother seekers of rural contact. Imagine walking down a street and being passed by everyone like you don’t exist. Imagine not knowing your neighbour. Imagine always looking over your shoulder. Imagine not having meaningful contact with your children or parents. Imagine feeling restless every time you go out, or get on a public transport, anticipating trouble. Imagine feeling lonely even when surrounded by people. Imagine worrying if you’d have a final resting place somewhere you know, or have anyone beyond close relatives at your janaza prayer when you die. This lack of connection and simpleness is the opposite of what living—or dying—means in the countryside.
I got a real taste of that recently after attending the janaza of a relative. He was by no means a popular man—just someone who lived long enough, albeit weakened by infirmity. But his janaza was attended by the whole village. Relatives close and distant, neighbours from adjacent villages and even random people who were passing by at the moment felt the need to give him a proper send-off. Memories were shared, tributes offered, and prayers sought. His body, after the janaza, was carried to the gravesite with honour and laid to rest among the people he once knew. As the poet Lang Leav said, “We will remain unwritten through history, no X will mark us on the map; but in books of prose and poetry, you loved me once, in a paragraph.” My uncle will remain unwritten in history, but his stories will survive through the people he was connected with.
I have often marvelled at these rural customs, values as well as the power of stories shared and passed through generations. To me, the countryside is more than the purity of water, cleanliness of air, or the unadulterated nature. Living in Dhaka as we do, bereft of any real connection with it, what we need is a critical rethink of our desire for pastoral idyll and how we want to achieve it. We must make a conscious effort to turn the clock back on its destructive urbanism, and begin a gradual process of ruralisation—covering not just the sights and scenes, but also the values that can make us live better. Celebrating Pahela Baishakh is not the answer to the void you feel deep inside.
Living in Dhaka as we do, bereft of any real connection with it, what we need is a critical rethink of our desire for pastoral idyll and how we want to achieve it. We must make a conscious effort to turn the clock back on its destructive urbanism.