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by Rajen Kumar
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The Last Word
Down the Memory Lane
Rajen Kumar
Jan 2012
Jan 2012
Zainul Abdin was the only person who would pour his heart out to me in a mix of Urdu-Hindi (Hindustani ) in hush-hush tones during the war-torn Dhaka (then Dacca) in the early 70s where I worked for a news agency -- my first journalistic stint.
Abdin was in his late 30s and I in my late teens. He treated me like a child and would turn emotive recalling the days he had spent his birthplace -- Allahabad. He was the only person with whom I felt 'at home'.
Speaking in any language other than Bengali was risky in those times. Fear loomed large. Bihari Muslims were the most vulnerable lot in the new nation -- Bangladesh. Abdin would often advice me not to roam around freely and desist from speaking Hindustani with unknown people. Those were difficult times. If I missed to take meals before sunset, there was no eatery or restaurant I could dine at. The shops shut down by 7 p.m. Road-side robberies were common.
I very well remember having met an old man, a roadside petty vendor, selling sundry items outside the Dhaka stadium. Somehow I sensed that he was a non-Bengali. I asked in my native 'peshwari' language, “How much is this pen for?” He gazed straight into my eyes and moved closer to my ears, “this is not Pakistan now. Don't ever talk like this. Are you not worried about your life?” I kept quite for a while and confided in him that I was born and brought in India and have never ever been to Pakistan.” The old man shot back unbelievingly, “what are you doing here speaking in Peshawari language?” I told him that I am a journalist working for a news agency here and also informed him that my family migrated to India after partition.” His eyes became moist and told me in low voice, “It's like ages I have spoken my language. He blessed me like a grand father and told me to come every day so that he could converse with me in his language. “I am starving to speak in my native tongue, my child.” Such was the harrowing time packed with persisting fears in Bangladesh.
“We have a fine morning, a gloomy afternoon, a rainy evening and a stormy night.” This is how a journalist friend had described the conditions in Bangladesh those days. In the press club, I was often cornered by a cluster of journalists who would discuss India and Indian politicians. The tones were with sarcastic.
Visiting Bangladesh after a span of 38 years was a breath of fresh air. My first brush with Dhaka was with the traffic jams. I was told that Dhaka now had a population of about 14 million – almost the size of Delhi. “Everyone seemed to be converging in Dhaka for work,” my local contact confided.
The city was abuzz with activity and my old memories took a back seat.
Green Road, in the heart of Dhaka, looked no more familiar. A sleepy street with a few shops it had in the 70s now had high rise buildings housing shops and vendors.
I recalled having stayed at Green Road for a few days with a wealthy landowner, a lawyer by profession, who had a palatial heritage building surrounded by a battery of coconut trees.
I asked some shopkeepers about him. He expired a decade ago and his house was a big hospital,
The foremost thing I did after landing in Dhaka recently was to find out the whereabouts of journalist colleagues and friends. The only way was to visit the Press Club. A meekly two-room old building had turned into an all-new building with a thorough professional and modern outlook.
I enquired from the receptionist a few names I still remembered. “Just wait. Let me check up, he at once entered a door with a signboard 'Only for Members'. While I reviewed the surroundings, I found the club busy with hustle and bustle of the people.
The receptionist soon came out accompanied by a man. “He is Zainul Abdin, the senior most member,” he introduced me to him. It took me moments to recognize the familiar Abdin. “Sir, do you remember me. I am Rajen and worked with you in the 70s,” I helped him recall.
“Oh yes, Rajen. How are you and where have you been all these years?” He seemed to recognize me well and he immediately started talking to me in Hindustani. The long years had little changed Abdin. His voice sounded so familiar and his smile had still the same aura. I instantly slipped into nostalgia. “Aap kaise hain sir?” He retorted, “See, I am the same but a lot of things have changed.”
He asked me a number of questions. He became the best source of news about various friends I had worked with. “You must have seen how Bangladesh has transformed but I am the same,” his smile seemed wry.
“Come let's sit out in the open for a cup of tea,” he held my hand. Yes, Bangladesh appeared more than open to me. Abdin once again talked of Allahabad in Hindustani.
Yes, the language this time, after a span of 38 years, appeared to flow freely. Bangladesh has come of age. So are the people.
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