A Trip to Poetry

A travelogue

It was the fourth night of our eleven-day tour across the country. We reached Tekerhat from Kustia. We got down from the bus.  Before leaving Kustia, we stayed there for two days; we had visited Lalon’s living legacy and the cottage of Nobel Laureate Rabindranath Tagore.

I was the guide for that tour. A facebook friend of mine named Mrinal Roy was the initiator and sponsor. He is an Indian, visiting Bangladesh after a long time. He told me that, a long time ago, his forefathers lived in this country. So these visits meant a lot to him.

A month before that tour I wrote a poem titled ‘Danpitey’ which means ‘Dare-devil’, but of course, the kid’s version of it. And as if from nowhere, I received a comment from Mrinal Roy. He was not someone I knew, he was not even in my facebook friend list. He said that that poem made him feel nostalgic; it took him back to his childhood. At that time, I was beginning to write regularly as an aspiring young writer, so that comment was an inspiring one to me. After that, we started to have conversations through messenger. We talked about ourselves, our interests and thoughts. I found him as a man of wisdom and adventure. He is a banker, and photography is his passion. He had visited many countries around the globe and captured his experiences through the lens of his camera.

We were communists, but not comrades. I was about half of his age. He was around fifty at that time, but still, I called him Mrinal’da. ‘Da’ is a short form of ‘Dada’ which means ‘Big brother’. And, he used to call me by my name. In that meantime, I kicked myself out from my family in Dhaka, the capital city of Bangladesh and moved to one of my friend’s house. His name is Rakib. He is the only son of his parents, so there was always a room for another. His parents liked me because they knew among the friends of his, I was the good-natured one. I didn’t do drugs, I didn’t go crazy for girls and I did not engage in fighting. They thought if I could stay with him, he will be a good boy too. I also helped him in his studies. So living with them was a kind of lodging for me.

One day Mrinal’da told me that he wants to visit our country. He was planning a tour. He requested me to accompany him. Rakib heard all this and wanted to join in. So, we became a team of three.

The tour was going as we planned. From Dhaka, at first, we went to Kustia. After visiting Kustia we went to Tekerhat. Our destination there was my mother’s birthplace. It’s a village called Pukuria. That place was one of the settings of my poem. But before going there, we had to stay at my maternal aunt’s house, which is twelve kilometres away from Tekerhat. It was 9:30 PM. At that moment we were looking for Three-wheeler human haulers. I could not find one. During the daytime, Tekerhat is one of the busiest places of Madaripur district. But after evening it turns completely different. Most people who come to that place are villagers from the surrounding areas. They do their businesses in the daytime. At night they rest. As the number of people decreases, it becomes hard to find transport. We saw there were a few paddle vans. I talked to them. I came to know that it was not their route. Besides, even if one would agree to go, they would have to return without any passenger. At night that village road remains dark in most parts. So, people think it is not safe to passing through it alone.

Eventually, we got a Baby-taxi, another three-wheeler that can carry up to four persons. But, we had to pay double to that saviour. He started the engine. He also shared his seat with Rakib, I told him to be careful. Mrinal’da and I got inside. Over the phone, I gave updates on our condition.  The car started to move. We only had backpacks, so space was not an issue, but the road surely was. It was a highway, it was willowy and dark. There were a few patches here and there. A narrow canal was following us on the right side of the road. And on the other side, there are low-lying lands. Though a bitten moon was on the sky shining like a fair middle-aged woman, we couldn’t see what harvests were there. The headlight of that car was dimmed. We were passing by different kinds of trees, hardly recognizable at that moment. They were saluting us, standing tall in attention mood forming two lines beside the road. They were showing us the path. Those trees were reflecting the light, which made our driver remain on the highway. At that moment, none of us was thinking of diving into the canal along with the car and take the waterway. The trees were running backwards with their shadows over the roads. At the beginning we were tired. But the weather was not. The soothing air was blowing; the breeze was very refreshing to our body and the brain. Then we heard “Oh dear! Love doesn’t care cast or creed on this planet…” Rakib was singing a song composed by Baul Shah Abdul Karim. He was not a professional singer. But we liked it. That was probably because the background music of the car’s engine was very loud and unpleasant. However, our journey suddenly became a surreal experience. Mrinal’da said, “So, we are arriving at last.”

It took almost an hour to reach my aunt’s home. News had spread that an Indian has come with Hira. A few numbers of people gathered to see him in person. At the dinner regular dishes were served; mostly deshi fish and vegetables. Mrinal’da enjoyed everything, so did Rakib. They were delighted. We stayed that night over there.

On the next day, we woke up with the morning birds. After having our breakfast we started walking to our destination. On the way, we had our tea at a village mart. Mrinal’da could not resist without tea. He made his habit became ours. The village people were looking at him with interest. I can still remember their’s happy faces. He was also pleased to see different kinds of people. Then again, we started walking along the village road, made of soil. We were heading to Pukuria. Mrinal da was very slow; he was busy with his business. He took pictures of almost everything under the sun. After half an hour we reached a place where one of my cousins was waiting for us in his small boat. Pukuria is a low-lying village and it was the end of a rainy season. The paddy fields are all under water. So we needed to cross a swamp to get to my uncles’ homestead. We got on the boat. It was a small one; it could barely carry four persons. Mrinal’da was surprised at first but then he became calm. I told him not to worry. A sudden act of panic and a false move could result in boat sinking. The twenty minutes trip ended with greetings from the people of my maternal relations.

“I had never been a place like this. Thank you very much, Hira.” Mrinal’da told me that he never saw a village where all the homesteads are like islands, distant from one another and none can go out without a boat.

Everyone was very excited and curious about him. And he is also a friendly soul. He made those people his own in a very short period of time. At one point, he asked me to read out that poem again. I opened it on my mobile, and read:

“I was a dare-devil
Hornless, without a tail, still exhibited my worth
I remember my childhood, 
I anchored my ship to islands where nobody had ever gone
Well, I thought so, where I collected red beauty queens
From the Hijal trees, and saw how the creatures of the underworld
Kisses the water surface with utmost please,
Electrifying! Start from the evening
Millions of singers battled over their hymn having-
Identical rhyme, to please their Gods?

Love was in the air when I-
Ploughed the land with earthworms,
Snatched the red ribbons from the hair of my sisters,
Heard an elderly reading his daily Geeta, and when I
Fish-hooked others catch,
I was no match, I saw love-
Into the gumming smile of the grannies,
Into the misled quacks,
Into the mash of Tamarind leaves,
Into the colour of the dusky skies,
Into the theatrical gesture of the girls,
Into the udder of newly mother Rai,
Into the heartache of Sajal’s flute,
I saw love everywhere, there was no doubt,

Love was in the air,
The fireflies, the nestlings, and flowers bloomed-
Told me that I was theirs’, I remember my childhood
I wish to become that dare-devil once more- If I could.”

One of my elder cousins, a sister named Ety also liked this poem. We two made a checklist instantly. Then we tried to give some flavour of this poem to Mrinal’da in real life. Whatever we had done, he could not have been more pleased.  

We started our return journey in the late afternoon. We rode the same boat. But then, the number of passengers increased, Ety di and Choyonika were with us. Rakib and Mrinal’da sat on one side, and Choyonika and I were on the other side. Ety sat in the middle, where the boat did not have boat-gauge. She kept her legs in it. She was facing Mrinal da. Choyonika, nicknamed Chanu was our boatman; she was only thirteen at that time. She started boating. We were leaving, everyone was present to see us off. They were asking Mrinal’da to visit them again. Mrinal da was thanking them and bade them farewell.

The edges of the boat levelled with the surface of the water. Water overflowed into the boat on every unbalanced move. Mrinal’da was concerned, but none of my sisters were, not me and Rakib either. Ety di was wiping out the water from the boat by a small cup of a coconut shell. “Rakib, Ety, and Chanu all are swimmers. Do not panic Mrinal da, you have two professional life-savers.” Ety and Chanu smiled. It worked. In a minute Chanu got the full control of the boat. Mrinal’da started to take snaps again with his camera, though I told him not to move.

The boat was floating over a natural bed. There were water lilies, moss, little water-hyacinths, and many other aquatic plants. Ety was doing her part now and then and answering all the questions of Mrinal’da. Rakib was silent from the very beginning. He wanted to boat, but I refused to give him the opportunity. His earlier lone-tryout was miserable. He did not even know how to stand while boating. So, I couldn’t take that risk. To make him comfortable I asked, “Why don’t you sing a song like last night?” He answered, “Sorry, now I am not in a mood.” And then, Mrinal’da started to sing, “Is that a touch of a gentle breeze, which makes the buds dance in peace?” I joined with him singing this ‘Rabindranath Song’. Surprisingly Rakib’s mood also returned. 

We reached the other side of the swamp. We left the boat and got onto the isle of a pond. It had a footpath which went to the main village road. We are returning to that Aunt’s house. Ety di was also going with us. Chanu was the one to return. She asked me, “Won’t you come again dada?” “Not this time Chanu, probably next year.” I replied and then said, “You take care and study well.” She looked at Mrinal’da and asked him to come again. Then, she became pale. She turned the face of the boat slowly to the opposite direction. The boat was shaking violently for the first time. I shouted her name. I waved my hand at her. She gave me a smile in return. She made it up. 

We started to walk and realized Mrinal’da was not moving. We turned back at him. Chanu had gone a little distant. She was wearing a regular white dress. I saw she had become a beautiful water-lily. Mrinal da was taking pictures of her. Then he put the camera down with his hands. Then he did not move. He was crying silently. What was he thinking? His life was on that girl’s hand a while ago. He probably would not see her again. I still wonder what Chanu was doing on her way back home.