(All photos by Hasan Z. Rahim)
In my previous post, I had
written of a dear cousin, a physician from Connecticut, who I was hoping to
meet up with in Bangladesh this winter. He had arrived in the country of our
birth in mid-December, two weeks before I was scheduled to arrive from San
Jose, California.
But the transience of life and the absurdity of human planning cruelly manifested themselves. Suddenly he became ill and in the ambulance on the way to
the hospital, he breathed his last. His body was taken by road from Dhaka, the
capital, to Chittagong, the port-city by the Bay of Bengal, about 150 miles
south. From there it was taken to our ancestral village 15 miles further south.
He was buried in the family graveyard, 8000 miles away from Connecticut to which he had booked his flight to return in the third week of January.
And so it happened that I
found myself on the 2nd of January standing by my cousin’s grave,
still bearing the evidence freshly dug earth, surrounded by ancient mango trees
loud with birds. I prayed for his soul and wept.
*
Modernity has come to
Bangladeshi villages. City folks arrive by car to visit relatives, unlike the
boats and the steamers we relied on few decades ago. There are shopping centers
and banquet halls and the hustle and bustle of the marketplace, more than
agriculture, has become the norm. Farmers still carry hay on their head but
instead of wearing the traditional lungi,
they now wear jeans.
*
I visit Bangladesh every
winter to see my mother. She is in her mid-80s and is rapidly sliding downward. She
cannot talk. The guttural sound she makes to express herself is indecipherable
to me. But it doesn’t matter, for my sister, a leading pediatrician of
Bangladesh and our mother’s principal care-giver, understands her perfectly.
Mother is literally and metaphorically in the best possible hands. There are
round-the-clock nurses and maids but it is my sister’s
sublime touch that sustains and nourishes her. I am a side show, but mother is still thrilled
to see me and asks if I have been served food to my liking. "You know I can't cook anymore for you," she says with a wan smile. I look away to hide my tears. Then I look at her and
see the tireless woman who raised six boisterous, often rowdy and difficult
children, while father, a doctor, was mostly busy earning to support the family. Father
had passed away almost two decades ago. Mother’s eyes well up when I recall the
things father used to say, a funny man, and her shoulder sinks into the wheel
chair. “Sit up straight,” mocks my sister. “Stop being mischievous,” she
tells her with a twinkle in her eye. We all share in the laughter. Another day
followed by another unchanging night. Only time marks the passage of sorrow and
a generation with a grace that I can only sense but cannot explain.
*
I take a stroll along the shore
by the Bay of Bengal. It is the Patenga
beach of my childhood, as timeless as ever, boatmen plying the Karnafuli river and ship slowly moving toward
the Bay. A
3-mile long tunnel under the Karnafuli
is being built. When it’s completed in about 2 years, Chittagong and the
outlying villages will be linked, and commerce will flourish, particularly the garment
industry, and the economy will undoubtedly boom. Yet I can feel that something
is being lost, that what was once unique is giving way to the commonplace and the
mundane, that villages that were once a haven for restless city souls will be
no more. The path forward is relentless, trampling beauty and peace in its wake.
*
Inequality is stark in
Bangladesh. With a population of about 165 million and a per capita income of $2000,
there are 10 billionaires and over 23,000 millionaires, most of whom got
wealthy through graft and political shenanigans. There are very few beggars but
frustration and repressed anger among the general population are palpable. Who can
exploit whom to get ahead seems to occupy the waking (and sometimes the
sleeping) hours of many Bangladeshis. But I have also seen a proliferation of philanthropic
organizations managed by the locals - young and old – whose only aim in life is
to serve the poor and the destitute. My own family operates a hospital in our
village in Chittagong where every Friday, my sister operates on about a dozen
children afflicted with life-threatening illnesses. On the outskirts of Dhaka,
I visited a
self-sustaining and sprawling experimental “Park” that serve the
local village population with everything from schools and clinics to groceries
and theaters.
*
The natural beauty of
Bangladesh is taking a hit from rapid industrialization, particularly from
brick fields that continuously spew out harmful chemicals in the air to only
partially meet the insatiable demands of the booming construction industry. But
if you make the effort, and not worry about time, you can still discover the breathtaking
beauty Bangladesh used to be known for.
Before bidding mother and my
siblings good-bye, I save a day to do nothing but seek beauty even as it
becomes more elusive by the year.
