A couple of weeks ago I saw a series of NHS posters about the increased incidence of oral cancer in people who chew pan. One of them was in Bangla and it instantly brought to mind the image of the Mesabji, or teacher, who presided over the little ’school’ at the house of my friend, N. I was ten or eleven at the time. The ’school’ was held on Saturdays and was compulsory for my Bangladeshi friends, which inevitably meant it was something of a chore for them; whereas i attended completely of my own will and loved every minute of the experience.

During the first half of the class we learnt how to read the Qur’an – and I do mean read: there was never any expectation that we should be able to comprehend the words we were reciting; it was enough that we could speak them. We started by learning the Arabic alphabet. Actually, what we learnt was the Bangla pronunciation of the letters: ا alif, ب ba, ت ta, ث sa. After that, we worked our way through vowel markers and joined up letter forms until we could read words and, eventually, sentences.

In the second half of the class we turned our attentions to Bangla. My friends had the advantage over me then, as they understood what we were reading. I struggled along with the help of N. I could already read the script however: I think I’d learnt it the year before with N’s assistance; but my grasp of the the language itself was minimal. I seemed to spend the whole time grappling with the first lesson in আমার বই, ‘Āmār Bai’ (‘My Book’). Āmāder desh shundâr desh* is the only bit of it I can still recall.

Nevertheless, I loved it: Arabic and Bangla alike. I even loved the fact that we had to do a funny ritual (uzu) in which we washed our hands, feet etc before we had the class; and had to cover our heads with an una – at least the girls (remember this is pre-transition). I didn’t understand why we had to do these things until a couple of years later when my friends’ dad acquired a couple of books in English, but it scarcely mattered: participation in a ritual generates a meaning of its own.

The mesabji himself spoke no English. He communicated with me entirely through smiles and via valiant attempts at interpretation by my friends. I remember how keen he was to try and learn though. He used to sit and pore over Ladybird books, even as we grappled with Arabic and Bangla. I can picture his face now: the childlike expression contrasting with his long grey beard, as he stares at an illustration of a toothbrush and attempts to say the word on the page opposite. “Tootbrash” is how it always comes out, no matter how hard he tries.

He was such a gentle old man, at least with me; and I revelled in my ’special pupil’ status, which more than made up for having an una made from someone’s cut down sari. As a ‘convert’ I could do no wrong**. At the end of the class my friends’ mum would bring the pan. The bright green leaf and the red stain on the Mesabji’s teeth were the signal that the class was ending; which explains I suppose why I’ve never liked them.

* Our land is a beautiful land”, or thereabouts
** By contrast, N’s brother A could do no right. The poor lad had a stammer. He was punished with a rap on the knuckles each time he fluffed a word, which happened more and more often, as he got more and more nervous.

Da Il Piccolo

Una città che si confronta su Facebook. “Monfalcone pulita, piazza vecchia e senza bangla” e “Monfalcone pulita nei cervelli” sono le due pagine di social network contrapposte che in pochi giorni hanno raccolto un migliaio di fan ciascuna, su una popolazione residente totale di appena 28 mila anime. Su “Il Piccolo” in edicola una pagina dedicata a questo duello

Monfalcone, una città che si confronta e scontra su Facebook. “Monfalcone pulita, piazza vecchia e senza bangla” e “Monfalcone pulita nei cervelli” sono le due pagine di social network contrapposte che in pochi giorni hanno raccolto un migliaio di fan ciascuna, su una popolazione residente totale di appena 28 mila anime. Sulla prima pagina, quella del “no” ai bengalesi, trovano spazio le posizioni più intransigenti e leghiste contro l’”invasione” di stranieri; sulla seconda si sono scatenati i fautori della tolleranza e della critica nei confronti di posizioni di stampo razzista, tra l’altro del tutto trasversali rispetto all’appartenenza sociale e partitica.

Gopalgonj er og blir det stedet der jeg følte meg mest hjemme. Jeg tok buss til og fra helt på egenhånd, med tilhørende elvebåttur.

Den første kvelden gikk jeg meg en tur, og blei invitert hjem til en helt fremmed fyr. Jeg hadde hele gjestehuset for meg sjøl den uka jeg var der, mashien var verdens søteste lille dame som alltid smilte til meg, og KFUK-damene og alle ungdommene jeg møtte var helt fantastiske. Jeg besøkte mange forskjellige folk, overnatta hos fine Mou, lærte verdens kuleste grønnsakssang.. Jeg kunne nevnt hundrevis av grunner til at Gopalgonj har en spesiell plass i hjertet mitt.

Foran alle disse barna fikk jeg lære min første, skikkelige banglasang. Det var Dipa(di) som egentlig bare skulle ta meg med så jeg skulle få se hvordan hun hadde sangtimer med en gruppe vanskeligstilte barn, og jeg trodde bare jeg skulle sitte og følge med. Slik blei det ikke. Sangen de sang, “Ekbar jete dena”, var så utrolig fin, og jeg prøvde så godt jeg kunne å synge litt med. Så spurte jeg om hun ikke kunne skrive ned teksten til meg med latinske bokstaver, og plutselig satt jeg med mikrofonen og sang ord jeg ikke skjønte bæret av foran alle disse barna. Det er et sånt minne jeg aldri glemmer.

Dipadi og lillesøstra hennes skulle også lære meg å danse. Jeg var hjemme hos dem hver dag en halv uke, og hadde intensive dansetimer. Det var liten plass og varmt, jeg blei utrolig sliten og svett, og jeg følte meg som alt annet enn noen dancing queen. Men sørenmeg lærte jeg ikke en dans også.

Før jeg hadde vært i Gopalgonj hadde jeg bare sett mursteinsskorsteinene på avstand, gjerne når vi dro på utflukter ut av hovedstaden Dhaka, der man kunne se skoger av dem stikke opp av det ellers flate landskapet. I Gopalgonj befant jeg meg plutselig rett i nærheten av en, og i følge med ei av de som jobba på KFUK gikk jeg til og med opp der hvor denne mannen er på vei. Det var rart, og veldig varmt under beina (under der han fyren med rød t-skjorte står befinner ovnen seg – den som brenner mursteinene). Jeg brukte det lille jeg kunne av bangla til å snakke med mennene, og jeg kan bare tenke meg hvor utrolig merkelig de må ha syntes at det var å møte ei hvit, ung jente som plutselig dukka opp og ville se hvordan de jobba.

En dag skal jeg dra tilbake. Og kanskje jeg kan få dreisen på måten man drikker vann på også? Hvis Mou greide å lære meg hvordan man spiller harmonium, kan hu sikkert lære meg dette også.

Amar shonar Bangla..

Terima kasih, tanpa entry yang baru, blog ini masih sudi dikunjungi oleh orang yang mencari ulasan buku (Begitulah apa yang wordpress beritahu). Ramai yang sampai ke sini dengan kata kunci “Andrea Hirata”, “Faisal Tehrani”, “Pramoedya”, “Abdullah Hussain” dan tajuk buku2 mereka. Selain kata kunci “Ultraman”, “Murayya Paniculata” dan “perempuan sunyi” (Ceh!). Ada juga sampai ke sini dengan kata kunci “kisah beromen” (Hey! keji tau..)

Maka dengan nawaitu untuk terus diberi perhatian (minta puji orang Sabah kata) maka saya mahu tulis tentang buku lagi kali ini.

Tajuknya Interlok dan ditulis oleh Abdullah Hussain, sasterawan negara yang ke 8 (Wah! nombor manyak ong!). Ini adalah buku pertama yang saya beli dalam format kulit keras. Antara buku fiksyen yang paling mahal saya beli. Saya mahu meraikan keindahan sastera negara. Gitu!

.

Interlok berlatarbelakangkan sebuah kampung di Tanah Melayu waktu pra-kemerdekaan. Ianya di pecahkan kepada empat bab.

Bab pertama tentang Seman yang baru menyedari kekayaan yang dimilki oleh keluarganya hanyalah ilusi. Tiba2 diberitahu dia tidak berharta setelah ayahnya meninggal dunia dan kerana kejahilan tentang pentingnya pendidikan, Seman dihalang ke sekolah. Maka, itulah Seman, miskin, tidak berpelajaran dan merempat di tanah sendiri.

Bab kedua tentang Cing Huat yang datangnya dari tanah besar Cina dengan semangat membara lari dari kemiskinan yang menjerut lalu bernafas hasil dari kecekalan melawan tipu muslihat. Maka itulah Cing Huat, cekal, licik dan kaya di tanah orang.

Bab ketiga tentang Maniam yang datangnya dari Kerala, setelah mendengar kisah satu tempat  dimana apa sahaja yang dipegang boleh menjadi duit, dengan tekad Maniam terpaksa meninggalkan isteri dan anaknya dan mencuba apa sahaja. Setelah beberapa lama di Tanah Melayu, kedengaran isterinya di Kerala berkahwin dengan lelaki lain. Maka itulah Maniam, kecewa, pelarian perasaan, di tanah orang.

Bab keempat interlok. Dimana ketiga2 mereka tadi rupanya mempunyai kaitan yang berselirat lantas akhirnya merungkai setiap nasib. Di dalamnya muncul kisah melawan Malayan Union, kekejaman jepun, kesetanan komunis. Dan tiba2 muncul pula perjuangan melayu yang berapi2 yang tiba2 ada kekuatan merampas semula tanah mereka, kemudian tiba2 pula si cina dan si india bersepakat membantu kerana sebab2 tersirat. Setiap watak menyumbang kepada berlakunya nasib watak yang lain. Ye lah! kita ni wujud di dunia bukanlah kerana kebetulan.

Buku ini adalah metafora buku sejarah Malaysia. Jika tidak suka membaca buku sejarah, maka bacalah buku ini. Dengan halus dan terperinci melalui setiap watak, sasterawan negara ini mampu menerangkan bagaimana kaum cina dan india menyumbang kepada kekuatan ekonomi dan akhirnya diterima menjadi sebahagian dari negara ini. (Adakah satu hari nanti si Indon, si Bangla, si Nepal, si Pilliphine, si Om akan dianggap sebagai sebahagian dari negara ini? Lu pikirlah sendiri). Bagaimana si melayu yang berada ditanah sendiri terus miskin dan tidak tahu untuk maju.  Buku ini menyelami jiwa dan perasaan watak2 sejarah. Ianya melangkaui buku sejarah biasa yang kering emosi walaupun banjir dengan fakta.

Cerita disusun kedepan dan kebelakang dengan terancang sekali. Buku ini terletak pada kelasnya yang tersendiri. Bacalah buku ini jika mahu belajar menghargai kemerdekaan, kecekalan, persahabatan, pendidikan, pengkhianatan, kebodohan dan penjajahan. Jangan cari kisah cinta yang dibantu pari2. Tidak ada.

Buku ini telah menang dalam Peraduan Mengarang Novel 10 Tahun Merdeka (1967)

Saya suka sejarah. Memahami sejarah membuatkan saya menghargai pesahabatan saya dengan si cina, si india dan si kadazan. Saya, Anita Wong, Thulasimani dan Patricia jika berjumpa tidak suka bersalaman. Kami berpeluk. (Ini bukan iklan retorik* 1Malaysia seperti di tv. Ini betul2)

* Retorik = penuh dgn bahasa atau kata yg indah dan muluk utk mempengaruhi pemikiran pendengar (Kamus Dewan)

(Bunyi runut iringan –Malaysia Satu, Faizal Tahir)

By William Gomes

Recently, a Bengali lecturer of an English course in a private university was unable to translate “Nogorayan” – a Bengali word that stands for “urbanization” – in a class when a student asked her for help. The teacher proudly said that she could not translate the word, since she was more familiar with English, had forgotten many Bengali words and felt more at home with English.

This is a common scenario for Bangladeshis, from lecturers to rickshaw drivers; they feel proud to learn English and wish to forget their mother language of Bangla. Even though these people dream in Bangla, think in Bangla and have their inner growth and imagination begin and end in Bangla, they still want to deny its existence. Some feel sad that their mother tongue was not English by birth; they feel cursed instead of blessed by the Bangla language.

The triumph of English and and the belittling of the mother tongue of Bangla in Bangladesh is tragic. The mushrooming growth of English-speaking schools recalls colonization to mind, where the education system controlled by the colonial powers propagated and institutionalized English.

In British India, the colonial forces tried their best to learn the native Indian languages, but found it really hard to master the more than 29 spoken languages present in India. They found it was easier to have the Indian people learn English instead.

While prominent Christian missionary William Carry was translating Bible into Bangla and Baptist missionaries Joshua Marshman, William Ward and John Clark Marshman were mastering Bangla and publishing the first Bangla newspaper, the Samachar Darpan, the colonial forces were projecting and propagating their racist and imperialist tool, using English to set up the empire for the future by getting the best minds of India through “brain drain” and by controlling their language. The politics of language were also practiced by the Pakistani government, when it forced Urdu as the official language upon the people of then East Pakistan, which is today Bangladesh.

When the colonial forces were kicked out from the Indian subcontinent, the nation needed to slowly make reforms in the use of language and counter the negative impact of having English as the primary and formal language used at the administrative level. In 1935, Calcutta University took the initiative and introduced Bangla as the language of education together with English. In Bangladesh, the use of Bangla at the college level started in the 1960s. This system continues on the Indian subcontinent.

After its independence from Pakistan, the government of Bangladesh made the decision to replace English with Bangla at the administrative level, but after the death of Sheikh Mujib, this process came to a halt and English continued to be the primary language. The process was continued when Hussain Muhammad Ershad introduced the Bangla Procholon Aeen, or Bangla Implementation Act, of 1987.

The scenario has changed in Bangladesh. At different administrative levels, Bangla is the official language. But, although the lower courts carry out their activities in Bangla, English remain influential since many of the judges in the high courts and Supreme Court give their verdicts in English.

The influence of English is even greater in the areas of science and technology, for the sake of higher education. Major problems include the fact that there are not enough books in Bangla to teach with and that most of the books and references are in English or other languages.

Everyone is obviously not learning English because they like English or Shakespeare or Elizabeth Bishop, etc. They are learning it because the English language has established itself as the language of the world. The English language has an influential history. It started its journey as a West Germanic language in the early 5th century A.D. and, gradually, with the growth of British Empire, it spread beyond the British Isles; by the late nineteenth century, it had become the first global “lingua franca”.

From the Roman invasion of England by Julius Caesar in 55 B.C. to any aggression against other countries, the English language was often a tool of imperialist politics. Nowadays, English is used as the official language in 53 countries and 300 to 400 million people use English as their primary language all around the world. Many religious and state entities have patronized English.

On Feb. 21, 1952, several people were killed by police as thousands protested for their right to use the Bangla language. Rabindranath Tagore, given the name Gurudev, and other Bengalis have given the Bangla language a place of honor in the world. If we Bangla-speaking people can focus on Bangla, the rest of the world be in our hands; many “Gurudevs” will shine before the world. Then, the imperialist politics of English will collapse.

William Nicholas Gomes is a human rights activist and freelance journalist.He can be reached at E-mail:cda.exe@gmail.com

I look around and see girls and guys messing around. They go out with each other without the thought of being in a long-term commitment. I grew up in America for majority of my life. I lived in America since I was 6-years-old and now I’m in my mid 20s; so I can’t be classified as a FOB. Some call me a FOB because I don’t drink, sleep around, or do drugs, but then again how I conduct myself makes me better than the druggies. I find it very unusual that going out without the intention of getting married it ok with people of my generation. I think I am who I am because of how strictly my family raised me but then again I’ve rebelled many times and had my fun against my family’s wishes.

For this long I stayed with my principle of doing my best to staying single and waiting for the right girl but then again life is short. I had my fun with friendly flirtings, dates, and crushes with girls, but to actually go out in a committed relationship is another story. Sometimes I think, if girls can go out and have fun, and the chances of me ending up marrying a girl like them is high, then why can’t I? Perhaps I’m not giving any potential girls any chances. I look the other way if Desi girls, who are not of Bengali origin, show interest in me. I may have to broaden my potential region beyond Bangladesh. I’m a very stubborn person and I’m stuck hard about my relationship view, but as I see my friends and family members getting engaged and getting married, sometimes I wish I should take a chance.

In my undergrad year, a Punjabi Pakistani girl showed interest, but since she was Pakistani, I ignored her. It’s not that I hate them; I have many female friends who are Punjabi Pakistani. However, someone who cannot speak Bangla nor someone who does not know of the Bengali culture seem to be in the bottom of my list. I don’t mind speaking Urdu, it’s a beautiful language, but for some reason I cannot let go of Bangla or let Urdu overcome it. I want my kids to know Bangla first and English/Hindi second.

Some may think I’m stuck up, but I’m really not. I waited this long for the right person so, why mess around with girls now? Finding the right Bengali girl is hard. People joke around that Bengali girls should be avoided if they are Sylheti, North Bengali, Noakali, or Barishal, but to me it’s doesn’t matter as long as she’s Bengali. I would even cross the border if she was West Bengali or Assamese Bengali from India. A famous quote of the Bengali Nobel Prize winner Rabindranath Tagore said “Everything comes to us that belongs to us if we create the capacity to receive it.” So, how do I receive it, I don’t know.

আমার মধ্যে কটা আমি!
হিসেব কষতে বসেই দেখি
থই মেলে না। কোথায় থামি!

একটি আমির ভাল লাগে
ভোরের তারা, সাঁঝের বাতি।
অপরটি – সে ভালবাসে
আঁধারঘেরা নিশীথ রাতি।
আলো-আঁধার, কালো-উজল
দুই-ই কি হয় সমান দামী!

যে আমিটির মন কেড়েছে
রূপসাগরে মনের মানুষ,
সেই আমিটিই হঠাৎ হাওয়ার
ভাসানস্রোতে ওড়ায় ফানুস।
শিকড় টানে। আকাশ ডাকে।
পথহারা মন মধ্যগামী।

একটি আমির গহীন রাতে
একলা ঘরে শ্রান্ত রোদন।
অন্য আমির রোজ প্রভাতে
পূবের আলোয় দিন-আবাহন।
এমনি করেই আলোয়-কালোয়
অতীত হবে দূর আগামী।

Det er som å se gjennom den gale enden av kikkerten. Som å lese en eventyrbok med sprett-opp-figurer som dukker opp mellom bølgene i det som er et stort hav av sammenfiltrede minner. Et åtte måneder stort hav.

Hete solstråler. Lukten av banglate. Rickshawer som klirrer med sykkelbjeller for å komme seg frem mellom folk og biler og hull i veien. Ofte besvart av intens tuting fra biler, folk ligger på hornet, lyder over alt. Pruting med CNG-sjåfører og rickshaw-wallaer, jeg begynner å klare å ta meg fram i en by med et svimlende antall millioner mennesker, jeg kan si høyre, rett fram, venstre, stopp. Og takk.

Jeg kan ordet for mango også, “aam”. Mangoene, som jeg kun har sett i fruktdisken med “Bama – fem om dagen” påklistra, vokser på virkelige trær midt i hovedstaden.

Jeg tilbringer om lag en tredjedel av banglalivet mitt sovende inne i kokonger av myggnetting.

Om kvelden synger ikke bare gresshoppene, men også tik-tikien.

Disse, mine medsammensvorne, stod muligens for godt over den neste tredelen av tida. Vi var jo bideshi.

De fleste kjæledyrene spiser ris. Jeg spiser mer ris i løpet av ei uke enn jeg ville spist på et halvt år i Norge. Ris er et stikkord.

Bønder som steller med rismarkene sine, holder dem fuktige nok, tråkker rundt med gjørme til langt oppå leggen, passer på livsgrunnlaget sitt.

Jeg blir etterhvert ganske dreven i å spise ris og dal ved bruk av høyre hånd og skyve-på-maten-med-tommelen-teknikk. Jeg blir flinkere i bangla, jeg møter stadig nye folk, stadig nye KFUK-damer, mashier som blir henrykt av å få kle meg opp i sari eller å lære meg å lage rismel for hånd, jeg kan snakke, holde små samtaler, skjønne litt mer av hva folk ler av. For folk ler mye. De smiler mye. Jeg blir møtt av åpne armer.

Kvinner uten sko med vakre sarier. I mikrokredittgruppene trer de fram fra sine vante plasser ved gryter og med barn i skjørtene, de har også et ønske om å bidra økonomisk, de vil mer enn det samfunnet forventer av dem.

Barn som du føler ser alt inni deg med sine gjennomborende blikk. De ser at du er i uvant terreng, de ser at du er “bare på besøk”, de ser at du ikke helt skjønner deg på alle spillereglene.

Barn som skriver disse uvante tegnene hengende fra linja om igjen og om igjen i khataene sine.

Barn som ber deg tegne noe på tavla, og du prøver å tegne en slags elefant. I øverste hjørne i kjent “la stå!”-stil står det at elevene egentlig har bangla nå, og det er der man kan trekke paralleller, man kan se at barn er barn og at barn elsker sidesprang og krumspring, for de vil høre den norske nasjonalsangen også. Og jeg vil høre dem synge noe, såklart.

Ami aro likbo, kintu ekhon ami ghumabo.

Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1942): Bengali polymath and Nobel laureate. He has been one of my literary heroes ever since i was introduced to his work as an undergraduate student studying – supposedly – Bangla (Bengali). I remember the first time i encountered his writing. It was a letter, which he wrote home while travelling from India to Britain. I no longer remember the exact contents, only that in it he mentioned the Suez Canal. What i do recall is being awestruck, even with my very limited command of Bangla, by the beauty of his writing.

Reading him in English is, by contrast, a much more frustrating experience. The songs and poems fare especially poorly. Translators seem obsessed with rendering the most minute details of Bengali life to the exclusion of the real essence of the poetry. Do we really need to know the name of every musical instrument, flower or season? Tagore’s is the poetry of transcendence, of the way in which the particular points towards the universal; footnoting and exotic vocabulary can only get in the way. Nevertheless, i enjoy the translations by Brother James, especially of the song lyrics. They communicate the rapture, the devotion which is at the poems’ heart:

“…

You may have millions of stars and planets,
but you don’t have me.

You won’t be able to tolerate that,
You’ll have to draw me to Your side,
for You are alone
if i am alone.”

(Gitali 77, excerpt)

Tagore also wrote novels, short stories and plays. He painted, he founded a school – in fact the breadth of his accomplishments is astonishing. I feel almost as if i’m trivialising him then when i say that of all his works it’s what Wikipedia describes as his “autobiographies” which are my great loves. Two books in particular, “Glimpses of Bengal” and “My Reminiscences”, go everywhere with me: I carry them round with me on my iPhone to turn to when i feel drained by life’s pressures. Tagore had a magical memory. I don’t just mean that his memory was good, but that he remembered what mattered, the things that could make a scene live again for a reader – even one who’d never seen his world or anything remotely like it.

I’ll conclude by giving two very different examples, one from each of the titles I’ve just mentioned. Not exactly favourite passages, but ones i’ve alighted on tonight as i’ve been flicking through the books. The first i find touching – although others will perhaps consider it a bit mawkish:

“I saw a dead bird floating down the current today. The history of its death may easily be divined. It had a nest in some mango tree at the edge of a village. It returned home in the evening, nestling there against soft-feathered companions, and resting a wearied little body in sleep. All of a sudden, in the night, the mighty Padma tossed slightly in her bed, and the earth was swept away from the roots of the mango tree…”

(“Glimpses of Bengal”)

The second is just funny, but to understand it you need to know that the arrival they are awaiting is that of their dreaded English language tutor:

“It is evening. The rain is pouring in lance-like showers. Our lane is under knee-deep water. The tank has overflown into the garden, and the bushy tops of the Bael trees are seen standing out over the waters. Our whole being, on this delightful rainy evening is radiating rapture like the Kadamba flower its fragrant spikes. The time for the arrival of our tutor is over by just a few minutes. Yet there is no certainty…! We are sitting on the verandah overlooking the lane watching and watching with a piteous gaze. All of a sudden, with a great big thump, our hearts seem to fall into a swoon. The familiar black umbrella has turned the corner undefeated by such weather! Could it not be somebody else? It certainly could not! In the wide world there might be found another, his equal in pertinacity, but never in this little lane of ours.”

(“My Reminiscences”)

So there you have it: my plea for Tagore. Do not be put off by translations which seem designed to convince you he is unreadable, or by the idea that his work is all esoteric and mystical. It isn’t. If at least one person who reads this post falls under Tagore’s spell then my work here will be done!

This September when I was in Dhaka, I met some netizens from Dhaka whom I know from blogs and other online activities. One of them was Mehdi hasan. He is a young Bangladeshi in his mid twenties and keeps a low profile. I was surprised to learn that he is the one who wrote the Avro software, the versatile and open source Bangla typing software which is used by thousands of Bangladeshis because its free and supports multiple platforms including Mac OS and Linux. It was first released in 2003 by Omicronlab (Mehdi is the CEO) and since than it had many updates which makes it a perfect Bangla typing software.

The remarkable thing is that he is medical student (Mymensingh Medical College) and IT is his passion, not business.

And it turns out that he is a damn good photographer too. Check out his photographs at Flickr. I am sure you will be immersed into the photographic depiction of Bangladesh, its people and nature.

Image by Mehdi Hasan.

In Bangla (or for that matter most languages stemming from Sanskrit), words and phrases come with a value judgment.

I’ll speak for Bengali here, that being my mother tongue. For instance, cheshta (effort, industry) is coupled with charitra (character). Jivan (life) is paired with yatra (journey). This I find very poignant and prescriptive.

The phrase cheshta-charitra implies those who are upright and have a character are industrious and make an effort. Similarly, life is about a journey. Hence jivan-yatra. Some decouple jeevan and yatra to suggest their lives either are a blast – jivan —the good life – or a dirge, only endless labour — yatra, journey.

The Bengali lexicon attaches as much weight to listening as it does to studying. That’s why pora-shona. (studying-listening). It’s another matter that most Bengalis are poor listeners. Our mother tongue values the skill but we who speak it, don’t. Even though the language has an inbuilt message on the virtue of hearing what others say. Close on the heels come the phonetically perfect khela-dhulo — khela for play and dhulo for dust, a picture perfect description!  Ranna-banna doesn’t fall in the same category, ranna means cooking and banna, well, it is like a the Bollywood item number — rhythmically fitted in the end to jazz things up.

If you are magnanimous, and remorselessly give away your precious posessions as donations (oblivious to benefits accruing from Section 80G of the Income-Tax Act), you’re Karna, the giver data-Karna. The expression instantly conjures the image of the ultimate tragic hero of Mahabharata giving away his life-saving armour.

If you are honest to the core and never ever fib, even if it were to save your life, you are satyavadi Harishchandra. Harishchandra is the mythical king considered a mountain of virtue who shunned all things wrong, even at the expense of his family.

Bitter? Irritated? Bristling? Well then, the Bengali term to describe your state of mind would be titi-birokto. Mere annoyance can pass as birokto. Titi adds that extra bit of incorrigibility to birokto.

Shomoye (time) parades with oshomoye (inopportune/unfortunately timed). The two expressions are hitched and used to qualify utilitarian, handy stuff such as a torchlight or a medical kit — lifesavers at the worst of times. Very close to the English tit-bits, though with slightly higher utility index.

Have wheels under your feet? Meaning, are you a globetrotter? In Rabindranath’s land you’re a gechhodada (one whose feet are never on the ground). But in formal parlance, they’d call you a more Sanskritised bhuparyatak.

Ranga pairs with roshikata, thatta with tamasha and galpo with gujob. While ranga is an act or theatrics in Bangla, roshikata translates into flippancy or being jokey. I wouldn’t know how accurate this connection is, though. Do flippancy and facetiousness necessarily go hand in hand with theatrics?

Thatta is a joke and is curiously cocktailed with tamasha — a term with over-the-top theatrical connotations. Galpo-gujob (story-gossip/rumour) effortlessly blend into one another when friends meet for an evening spiced with fact and fiction.

As for sisters katha-barta, they are twins meaning very much the same — dialogue or talk– with a Hindi equivalent baat-cheet. The same is true for haanta-chala (walking) and pujo-archa (prayer/reverence).

To depict complete irreverence and disgust, a chhagol (goat) or nit wit becomes ram-chhagol. This is the colloquial genre, nowhere close to the Rabindranath gharana of literature. There are far hilarious colloquial produces routinely manufactured and entered into local dictionaries in Behala and Kasba, Patipukur and Dum Dum, but they merit another post, someday.

I am sure there would be hundreds of such pairings. The uniqueness of Bengali is the music these couplings create. Rabindranath goads us to be adventurous and industrious in his song jaaboi, aami jaaboi. Saying, if at the end of the opportunity hunt, Lakshmi (the Goddess of wealth) eludes you, Alakshmi certainly won’t. So keep looking.