Tohon

After our spiritual journey to the Old City and West Bank, the realities of life caught up to us.

I knew him by his household name, ‘Babul,’ and his friends knew him as ‘Ulfat’, but the vast majority of his viewers knew him as ‘Magic Uncle.’ Even my children called him ‘Magic Chacha’ from childhood. At that age, they did not even know how he was related to them.

Life is a battlefield. Every living species fights a different battle; therefore, I can only talk about mine.

The best part of my childhood was during the late fifties, attending Dacca Cantonment Primary School at Ayub Line.

Now that I am old and have time,

Today, on the first day of 2021, I open the 71st chapter of my memoir written – not sure when – probably before time. I want to read what lies ahead. There are only a few more chapters left before I happily reach the final episode.

In 1980 while I was pursuing PhD in the U.S.A. I stumbled into the world of philosophy. Beyond my engineering studies, I devoted myself to my new-found passion. Since that time, I have been maintaining a diary. The following episodes are based on selected journal entries.

During the Pakistan days my father was in the army, and we moved frequently, every few years. Soon after I finished Grade 10 in 1966, we made a big move: from Chittagong to Rawalpindi.

My father was in the Pakistani army, so we moved frequently, every few years. Soon after I finished Grade 10 in 1966, we made a big move: from Chittagong to Rawalpindi.

I was so excited when my first story – “My American Dream”–appeared in The Daily Star back in 2007 that I quickly emailed the web link to all my friends. And they promptly responded with “What is Tohon?” as if the name was more important than the story itself.

I am now seventy, yet I remember vividly an incident from my childhood that left a deep impression on my soul.

On our way to Dhahran from Austin, we plan to stop at Pennsylvania, New York and London. I have never been to New York and it would be a shame to leave America without visiting the city. Nishat has been to New York on a previous occasion and this time he wants to spend time with Dipa, her childhood friend.

This is a story without a beginning or an end. The story does not even relate to events that one can see. And yet, in some sense, there is a beginning and there is an end.

The total number of guests adds up to forty-odd. It is too many, yet Nishat and I are not prepared to drop any. I have just finished my PhD and we are leaving America to take up my new job in Saudi Arabia. It is time for celebration, it is time to say goodbye.

Nishat prepares iftari, a sumptuous light meal that includes lemon sorbet, dates, fruits, nuts, begooni, samosa, beans and curd. It is the best part of fasting. But now that she is visiting Bangladesh in preparation for the upcoming Eid ul-Fitr, I manage things on my own at our new home, Dhahran.

There is a buzz in the house this morning. Things are on the move. Nishat has taken full command, directing her troops to advance swiftly. I look at my watch and ask chotu to fetch my briefcase and the driver to get the car out.

This is the story of my life. But before I get there I want to tell you another story—the story of a mali who lived all by himself in a far-off land.

I am a Bangladeshi born of a Muslim family. My ancestors were Hindus and, somehow, I have inherited their philosophical instincts. Although professionally I am an engineer with advanced degrees from the USA, and remain a practicing Muslim, at some point in my life I was drawn to the Indian philosophy and devoted myself to studying Hindu and Buddhist scriptures, seeking to understand the fabric of life.