I grew up in a non-literary household. Though in our home nobody ever took any interest in either music or art, in my childhood I did have brushes with Dhakaiya culture. Many a time did I hearqawwaliandmerashinsongs.Merashinsongs were a type of feminine songs that at one time was very much heard in old Dhaka. In reputable households, after women had confined themselves for forty days in the birthing room, festivities were arranged, and for those festivities themerashiniswould be called, where for a fee they would sing songs to the accompaniment of drums. They performed at weddings and marriage ceremonies too. Of course no such excuses were necessary forqawwalisessions. Whenever the head of household wanted such a session theqawwalisingers would arrive at the house. They would sing the whole night in front of a jampacked audience. There would contests between two groups ofqawwalisingers. The enthusiastic, drunken audience would throw cash at the singers. And in neighbourhood after neighbourhood, on the last day of Chaitra month, there would be the feverish flying of kites. And even though I could not fly kites, yet I loved to see the kites flying in the sky................***.............I derived the most enjoyment from our open roof. Above me would be the open sky. In the sky were clouds, the moon, the sun, stars, birds, and kites during the kite season. In the sky I would discover varieties of trees, the incomparable face of princesses in fables, sometimes Pashaboti's face would bloom, and at other times pictures of riders on horseback or flowers more beautiful than even those in the garden of Mr. Harney. In short, I would be entranced by an amazing celestial garden. Anytime I got a break from the study table I would race off to the roof. Many of the thoughts, reflections and dreams of my childhood, adolescent and youthful years bears the impress of that Mahut-tuli roof. Alas, today there is no way of getting there--to even think about it brings despair. Within my mind sunshine and moonlit nights, the green leaves of trees, the muddy waters of a pond, many shaded faces, diverse birds come crowding. The whispering of those lost days comes floating into my ears...
Khademul Islam is literary editor, The Daily Star.
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