One-5

As I was entering the hotel, I heard a noise behind me. It was Abdur Rahman. He blurted out, " I just went out for some air, I swear."

I gave him a suspicious look and wondered whether he's a fathead or the king of idiots.

I couldn't sleep at all that night.
I looked up through the window and saw the Orion on the sky. Smiling down at me gracefully, absorbing the peace and calmness of the sky in its silhouette and redirecting down to me. I remembered a Persian poem. Once the royal persian poet was drinking with a group of sewage workers. When the kings charged him for bringing disgrace to his court, he had replied,

" That star in sky, falls a thousand yards
does it lose its grace,
when it reflects at the feet of the herds?"

When the night ended, a dark cloud came over the stars and covered them with darkness one by one.  I felt unsettled. Vivekanand wrote, " The stars are blotted out." Satyen Dutta translated it in Bengali as the stars went out one by one. My mind started swirling ominous thoughts of "what might happen".
Before dawn broke, it started pouring, just like it did in Sylhet at Monsoon.
God is so kind. He fulfilled all my wishes. I boasted that my wishes can be beyond the endless grace of thy creator. How stupid was I?

One-4

She relaxed on the bench and spread forward her legs past the Hindkush mountains and almost reaching Katakhan-Badshkan,  kicked off her right shoe with her left toe all the way to Tashkent and sighed, " What a relief!!"

I said, " I know my pronunciation is really bad, but why do you bring that up to embarrass me?"
 She sat up straight and turned to face me fully and exclaimed, "What nonsense! WHo said, your pronunciation is bad? I said 'weird'. Does weird mean bad? Wait, let me find the right word. You know that musky smell you get when you open your grandma's old chest, your Persian feels like that. Other Hindustani's speak such a blunt persian."

I tried to reason, " But they are all Punjabis. I am from Bangladesh."

For the first time she was speechless. then he found her words, " The land of Bengal!!! But I heard that is at the edge of this world. After that is bottomless pit. As far as you can look, there is gaping nothingness. That is why there is a railing there, lest someone falls off that cliff. Even Bangalis don't ever leaver their house to venture."

I knew, the Kabulis that travel to India, don't go far past Bangladesh. These must have been the tales they brought back. I laughed, " What did you say? Bangalis never leave their house? Like me, I didn't leave my house, right?"

She softened a bit. "Look, Monsieur..."

I said, " My name is Majnun."
"Majnun!!!"
I confirmed, " Yes."
" But Majnun means lunatic. When the Djinn takes over someone's senses, then the past participle form of Djinn, Majnun is used to call someone a lunatic. Who gave you this name?"
I replied, " My father's fan. Look Ms. Shabnam Banu, not everyone is lucky enough to have such sweet name as yours. Shabnam means morning dew, snowflake. Correct?"
" I was born at the break of dawn"
I recited,

" I want to accompany you, my dear Shefali, 

You are my dream in an autumn night

but a tragedy at dawn, drizzled in dew. " 

"Explain please."

I said, " There is this flower that blooms in my country, named Sheuli. The poet is saying the autumn night dreams all its length for the Sheuli to bloom, but as soon as dawn breaks, the Sheuli withers off the tree, leaving the tree in despair."

Shabnam is a poetry lover. She exclaimed, " Beautiful! One flower mesmerizes the entire night. What is my name was Shabnam Sheuli? How would that sound?"

I said, "You cannot even imagine how sweet that would sound to a Bangali."

She smiled, " Do you know what Poet Kisaii said about flower?"
" I have only read Hafiz, Sadi and little Rumi."
"Then listen,

"Flowers are a gift from heaven

Heaven opens its gates for sinners through flowers

Dear flower girl, why you exchange them for mere silver

My beloved, would you exchange your beauty for them?"

I said, "What a marvelous poem. I have to translate it to Bangla."
" You know how to rhyme?"
I said, " Goodness, no! I am just a teacher."
" That I know. There are two types of Indian that come here. Either a merchant, or a teacher. But I have never seen you before. Tell me this, What do you make of all the restructuring Badsha AmanUllah is doing to the country?"

" Does it matter? I am but a foreigner."
" Foreigner but a neighbor, nonetheless. When I was returning from France..."
I was so surprised that I had to intervene, " From France..?"
" The English sent my father to exile. I was born in Paris. Spent ten years of my life there and nine here. But forget about that. When we were returning to Afghan, we travelled through Bombay and Peshawar. Wait, let me think. Yes, it was August, like now. The rain was pouring and pouring. From Bombay till Lahore. Splish, Splash, Splish. Its rhythm matched that of the train and sounded so harmonic. But from Bombay to this Peshawar, it has nothing in common with France. But Afghanistan does. Both are truly beautiful countries. Do you know what the Persian poets said about India?"

" Hafiz said saomething, right?"
"No. Ali Quli Salim. He said,

"Where can you fill your life's purpose in Iran?

For Mehedi to stain dark red it has to be in India. " 

I had to ask, " Henna grown here, doesn't stain red?"
" Nah. It's pale, yellowish."

I asked, " How ca you recite poems on every topic?"
She smiled, " My father, he recites all the time. Even when I was nine or ten years old, I was very self conscious of my Afghan identity. In paris, whenever someone recited a french poem in class, I had to reply with a Persian poem. "

She changed the topic, "There is not a soul on the main street. But I can hear an automobile going round and round for a while. Have you noticed it?"

I said, " Perhaps."
" Why didn't you tell me?"
I felt so embarrassed, my head bowed, but I admitted "because I was enjoying the conversation."
She fell silent.
I asked, " Is that your car? Looking for you?"
" Mmm"
" Let's go then."
" No."
" OK. But won't your family worry for you?"
" Let's go then." She stood up.
I said, " Shabnam Banu, please don't misunderstand me."
" Blyme. Why would I misunderstand you?"

As we walked she picked up the conversation again, saying, " It is pleasant to talk to a foreigner. Neither do I know anything about the person, Nor does he. Isn't there a poem?"

" Who knows the beginning and end of this universe?

Like an ancient book, pages are missing along its covers" 

Right then, the car with it's bright blinding headlights stopped in front of us. Shabnam Banu proposed, "Let me drop you off at your house."

So far, our conversation flowed casually. But now, in the presence of the chauffeur we both felt awkward. Even if he's from Paris, or a Kabuli from here, nobody would disagree that they are radically conservative. So I said, " Never mind. My hotel is very close by."

Shabnam is really clever. Said, " Fine. But, look Mister, Don't ever feel shy. I don't 'Porwa' anybody."
Porwa means to fear. It's a Persian word. Shabnam Used that exact same word.
" Adab Araj, My respects."
"Khuda hafiz, May god bless you."

One-3

She turned on her heels and faced me, " Exactment- You are absolutely right!Say, I am walking with you, or perhaps my father has introduced us, but you don't ask me any question, as if I am inferior than an insect. Neither do I ask you anything, as if you are homeless or a nobody. In fact, it is rude in our culture to not ask someone these questions"

I replied, "Same goes for my country's culture."

She promptly asked, "Which country?"

I said, " Doesn't my appearance give away that I am from Hindustan?"

Her response was, " As if! Hindustani people can't speak French!"

I retorted, "Suppose every Kabuli speaks French!"

Her outburst of giggle stopped short as she twisted her ankle. She cried, " I can't walk any more. I am not used to wearing high heels. Lets go over to that side of the Tennis court. There's a bench there to sit."

The darkness was pitch black. Far, very far away, an electric light tries its best to push the darkness away. We had to approach the Tennis court following a thin strip of path. I excused myself, as my arm brushed against her in carelessness, " Pardon, please excuse me.".

She couldn't stop giggling. Said, " Your French is so weird. So is your Persian."

I felt young blood in my veins that wanted to protest her. I started, " Mademoiselle..."

"My name is Shabnam."

I immediately admitted defeat. A girl with such a pretty name has every right to tell me whatever the hell she wants.

One -2

Oh Gosh!, I had lost my way. Too bemused in reminiscing. It was almost nine o' clock and the roads were already deserted by then, Not a single life to be seen anywhere. Nobody to ask for direction.
On my right I heard dance music playing inside a huge building. Than this must be that dance hall described by Abdur Rahman. The servants or butlers in this house might be able to give me direction to get to my hotel. I thought I should go to the servant's entrance at the back of the house.
So I went.
Before I could knock on the door, rushed out through it a young lady.
The first thing I noticed was her forehead. Just like the moon on it's third day of rising. Only, moon has this pale yellowish sickly color, but her forehead was as white as the snow on top of the Pagman mountain. Oh! You haven't seen that, right? Ok! then I'll say it looks like pure milk, without any mix of water. You haven't seen such purity either? Well then, the only only thing left to compare it with would be the petals of wild jasmine. That, my friend still exists in its purest from in nature, even in these days.
Her nose was like a tiny flute. God knows how he managed to put two holes in such a tiny flute. If you would take notice, you could see the faintest hint of shiver on the tip of her nose. Her cheek was as red as the apples of Kabul, but there was such a shade there, that you can tell its her natural color and not makeup. I couldn't tell if her eyes were green or blue. The gown she was wearing must have been made by an excellent tailor and she was wearing high heels. She ordered like a princess, "You! Call Sarder Aorangjeb Khan's car over here!"
I was startled. Was she ordering me? I tried to say something, but thought better of it and kept quiet.
In the meantime, she had taken a better look at me and had realized that I was not one of the valets at the hotel. Then she realized that I was a foreigner. First she apologized in french, " Je vous demande pardon, monsieur." Then she said it again in Persian.
I tried my best in my broken Persian to say, "Let me see what I can do for you."
She readily said, " Alright! Let's go."
Quiet a smart young lady! How old she would be- eighteen or nineteen? I thought while walking toward the parking lot. Before we could reach the lot she spoke out, " Nope! Our car isn't here."
I tried being a gentleman, saying, " Let me see if I can manage any other car for you."
At this, she seemed to burst out in rage, sticking up her tiny nose in the air, making a face and speaking in a very uncouth Persian, " All the losers are trying to get a sneak peak of the naughty stuff going inside there. Where do you think you can find a driver?"
Before I could swallow it in, it blurted out my mouth, "What naughty stuff?"
The girl turned around, faced me and measured me inch by inch from head to toe in one quick glance as if to verify it was a man she was looking at. Then said, " If you are not in a hurry, then you can escort me home."
I quickly responded, " Sure, sure!" and cheerfully stepped forward to prove what a gentleman I was.
The girl was really very bold. She lightly asked, " How long have you been in this country? Pardon- my french professor had said - not to ask questions to strangers."
I replied, " So did my professor, But I don't care."

One -1

King Amanullah must be mad. Otherwise why would he be arranging a ball dance party in a bizarrely conservative country like Afghanistan. On independence day Afghanistan's first ever ball-dance is going to be held in Pagman city.
Me, and other foreigners here, weren't that much excited about it. But the mullahs sure were, and there's followers, like the water supplier, tailors, grocers, servants and such alike.
So when one day while serving the morning tea, my servant Abdur Rahman muttered under his breath , " Tradition, religion all are lost", I didn't pay attention.
I never paid much attention to what Abdur Rahman said. Besides, I am not Lord Krishna, it was not my duty to save the tradition and religion.
"Those young pussycat dolls are gonna linger and dance around with those bad-ass lads." Abdur rahman tried harder to get my attention. He succeeded. I had to ask, " Where? In the movies?"
That triggered Abdur rahman off! He gave such a juicy, erotic description of that upcoming dance party, roman orgy is child's play compared to that . He finished with, " When the clock strikes twelve, all the lights go out. I can't tell you master what happens after that, not to you."
I said, " and why is that any of your business you fish eyed monster?"
Abdur Rahman became quiet. Whenever I would address him as vetki lochon, fish eyed monster or ahlader futo ghoti, crackpot, Abdur rahman would figure out that his master is in a bad mood and would shut up. Although I used to make those remarks in my mothertongue Bangla, Abdur Rahman, a clever fellow that he is, would still understand without knowing a word of Bangla.
On that evening, I had gone out to enjoy the cool breeze of an Afghan evening. Light bulbs were twinkling here and there in the bushes and shrubs of Pagman. The pitch-black roads were clean and shiny. I was thinking to myself that 'it must be the vadro month in bangladesh. Yestreday was Janmashtomi, birthday of Lord krishna. Then it should have been my birthday yesterday according to what my mother had told me. It must be raining cats and dogs in Sylhet right now. Maa would be sitting on a woven bamboo  tool on the north-facing balcony of the south side cottage. Her adopted daughter Champa would be massaging her feet and maybe asking her, " when will chotomia return?"

In all the foreign lands I had visited Monsoon is the season I had missed the most. Kabul, Kandahar, Jerusalem, Berlin, nowhere, nowhere do they have any monsoon. The relentless downpour of Vadro would make Maa all restless, Her sari, that she would change into after her daily bath, would never dry, the thick smoke from the wet firewood would make her go crazy in the kitchen. But all i would see that one minute the sky would be falling down in torrents, the next minute there was sun smiling everywhere. On the rose bush in the yard, on the Sheuli tree at the corner of the kitchen, on the leaves of the Chaur tree in the backyard, there would be glittering light spreading the joy everywhere.
But here, you would find no trace of such sweet and soft beauty.

এক

বাদশা আমানুল্লাহ্র নিশ্চয়ই মাথা খারাপ। না হলে আফগানিস্তানের মত বিদঘুটে গোঁড়া দেশে বল-ডান্সের ব্যবস্থা করতে যাবেন কেন? স্বাধীনতা দিবসে পাগমান শহরে আফগানিস্থানের প্রথম বল-ডান্স হবে।
আমরা যারা বিদেশী তারা এ নিয়ে খুব বেশি উত্তেজিত হইনি। উত্তেজনাটা মোল্লাদের এবং তাদের চেলা অর্থাৎ ভিশতি, দর্জী, মুদী, চাকর-বাকরদের ভিতর।
আমার ভৃত্য আবদুর রহমান সকাল বেলা চা দেবার সময় বিড়বিড় করে বললে, 'জাত ধম্মো আর কিছু রইল না।'
আবদুর রহ্মানের কথায় আমি বড় একটা কান দিই নে। আমি শ্রীকৃষ্ণ নই; 'জাত ধম্মো' বাঁচাবার ভার আমার স্কন্ধে নয়।
'ধেঁড়ে ধেঁড়ে হুনোরা ডপ্‌কি ডপ্‌কি মেনিদের গলা জড়িয়ে ধেই ধেই করে নৃত্য করবে।'
আমি শুধালুম, 'কোথায়? সিনেমায়?'
আর আবদুর রহমানকে পায় কে? সে তখন সেই হবু ডান্সের যা একখানা সরেস রগরগে বয়ান ছাড়লে, তার সামনে রোমান কুকর্ম কুকীর্তি শিশু। শেষটায় বললে, 'রাত বারোটার সময় সমস্ত আলো নিবিয়ে দেয়া হয়। আর তারপর কি হয় সে-সব আমি জানি নে হুজুর।'
আমি বললুম, ' তোমার তাতে কি, ভেটকি-লোচন?'
আবদুর রহমান চুপ করে গেল। 'ভেটকি লোচন', 'ওরে আমার আহ্লাদের ফুটো ঘটি' এসব বললেই আব১দুর রহমান বুঝতে পারত বাবু বদমেজাজে আছেন। এগুলো আমি মাতৃভাষা বাঙলাতেই বলতুম। আবদুর রহাম্ন ঝান্ডু লোক; বাঙলা না বুঝেও বুঝত।
ঝিরঝিরে ঠান্ডা হাওয়ায় সন্ধ্যার সময় বেরিয়েছি। পাগমানের ঝোপে ঝাপ্রে হেথা হোথা বিজলী বাতি জ্বলছে। পরিষ্কার তকতকে ঝকঝকে পিচ-ঢালা রাস্তা। আমি আপন মনে ভাবতে ভাবতে যাচ্ছি, এটা হল ভাদ্দোর মাস। কাল জন্মাষ্টমী গেছে। আমার জন্মদিন। মা'র মুখে শোনা। এখন সিলেটে নিশ্চয়ই জোর বৃষ্টি হচ্ছে। মা দক্ষিণের ঘরের উত্তরের বারান্দায় মোড়ার উপর বসে আছে। তার কুড়িয়ে-পাওয়া মেয়ে চম্পা তার পায়ে হাত বুলিয়ে দিচ্ছে আর হয়তো বা জিজ্ঞেস করছে, 'ছোট মিয়া ফিরবে কবে?'
বিদেশে বর্ষাকাল আমাল কাল। কাবুল কান্দাহার জেরুজালেম বার্লিন কোথাও মনসূন নেই। ভাদ্দোর মাসের পচা বৃষ্টিতে মা অস্থির। তাঁর নাইবার শারি শুকোচ্ছে না, ভিজে কাঠের ধূয়োয় তিনি পাগল, আর আমি দেখছি হুড়মুড় করে বৃষ্টি নেমে আসছে, খানিকক্ষণ পরে আবার রোদ। আঙ্গিনার গোলাপ গাছে, রান্নাঘরের কোণে শিউলি গাছে, পিছনের চাউর গাছের পাতায় পাতায় খুশীর ঝিলিমিলি।
এখানে সে শ্যামল-সুন্দরের দর্শন নেই।

translating

Shabnam by Syed mujtaba ali has been one of my favorite reading since i got my hand on it. My father often told me that my name "himi" comes from the main character of this book. Shabnam in Farsi means the morning dew. translating it in Bangla using a poet's imagination it becomes "himika" or in short just "himi". I am mesmerized by her elegance, witt and life. Like her i also dream of vanishing like a morning dew someday from this world and leave behind a profound impression among people whom I've cam across. Well, it's a just a dream. But the important thing is that I am once again taking in my hand a big big project which i probably will never finish. I intend do these for explicit reason , that is to let the world know about this great piece of literature. But the true reason is to fill up those mundane moments spent in the lab to cheer me up by doing something worthy. So let my triumph begin....

if anyone happens to come across this blog and actually read it, please leave your comment, it will mean a lot. Thank you.