Impressions
My Father's Autobiography
In the month of February this year I came across an unforeseen episode of my life. The new episode began with a creation called Birombito Jiban. Birombito Jiban is the autobiography of my father.
My father's autobiography I wouldn't say is the best written autobiography ever. Unlike some other all time favourite autobiographies it is not a book full of all the rich attributes of literature. Jiboner birombona, life's contraries, in this book have not been philosophically interpreted but rather plainly rendered. It is also not a composition where my father has interwoven his thoughts with intricate language. Parallel to my father's belief "plain living and high thinking" the book's language is more simple and uncomplicated than ornamental and complex.
However, that very simple style, which impedes my father's book from entering the realm of the renowned autobiographies of great literary values, succeeds in making a place of its own in the hearts of all those who have read the book. My father may not have been introspective himself about the paradoxes of his life but his plain and lucid narration makes readers certainly pause and contemplate on it. They surely had a pleasant and satisfying time reading the book, at times smiling with joy and at times shedding tears of sorrow.
The book unfolds by telling of an unusual childhood lacking all the securities that a child usually gets or takes for granted in his family. The harshness of life had engulfed my father and his only elder brother at a very early age. After his father's business collapsed the two brothers had to cope up with all the misfortunes that resulted. Days were spent going back and forth into the experiences of sometimes extreme hopelessness and sometimes happiness. The uncertain times then with a greater blow culminated with the death of my grandmother when my father was only seven or eight years old. One can hardly hold back one's tears at this stage and one's heart goes out to the little tender soul. One reader expressed her grief by saying that she couldn't read the book for sometime after she had read the particular part. While my uncle had already been sent to a missionary school away from home, after the death of his mother my father's life floated from one sphere to another, first taken over by his Chhoto Mama, then his Khalas, then by his father and finally by his Chhoto Mama again. The book closes with my father's end of adolescence in Goalondo (his Chhoto Mama's place) when he is about to start for Dhaka to study further after his SSC.
The turbulent journey of my father in the book has awakened me from my deep slumber of ignorance, the ignorance of my father's early childhood. The book made me realize that those were stories I had merely heard but never fathomed. Until I read the book I had never really apprehended the emotions of my father as a little boy. To start with, I was completely unaware of his afflictions after his mother's death. I had never felt the magnitude of his sorrow when he had to spend an entire night sitting beside the lifeless body of his departed mother. How sad and helpless he might have felt that night!
The particular part where he writes about his days with his father in Kolkata after his mother's demise makes me perceive his lonesome sufferings of the time. He writes that he used to stay alone at home all day long when his father was at work. Here we see a heartbreaking scene of a little motherless boy who has no one beside him. He spends his time playing with a rubber ball (it was the only toy he had at the time which was bought by his father), watching the white clouds high above in the sky and often taking heed of the whistles of the trains that passed nearby. Every time I read this extract my heart goes out to him and I wish to turn back the clock and go there to embrace him with all the tender love, warmth and care that I as a mother shower on my son.
The book not only enables me to feel my father's pains but also the joys that he had experienced then. The hugeness of a little boy's joy can be measured in the section where he describes his first experience of having an ice cream of two paisa. The day had been more joyful as it coincided with his elder brother's visit. The extract is always pleasant to read.
In addition, little kids' coming back from the village fair and at night showing each other and everyone in the family the things they had bought or wearing punjabi and pajama and going to prayer congregations and enjoying sweets afterwards give us a delightful picture of rural children's pleasures. I am surprised to realize how the simple and tiniest things used to give the children of that time great excitement and happiness. One true example would be my father's description of a meal served by his Kutti Khala (youngest aunt) on an Eid day. The simple meal of bhuna kichuri and duck's egg curry was considered by my father and his cousins a feast. How excited they had been to see an enormous egg on their plate and how elated they were while having the meal! In the abundant treats and amusements of our times, it is unthinkable that children will now find anything grandiose in a meal like that.
The book has also been enlightening for me because it speaks about my grandparents, my roots. My grandfather Moulavi Tofajjol Hossein was not a person with whom one could easily communicate. I remember him leading a very isolated life even though he was living with us. Apart from taking walks in front of the house he never left his room to exchange words with the other family members. He showed affection for his grandchildren but not in the way grandfathers usually do. It seemed he was resentful of everything and did not have much care for anyone in the world. We all accepted our Dadu's seclusion without ever questioning why he had such bitterness in life. I don't know whether any one of his other grandchildren ever thought about it or not but I certainly did not. The reason for this of course is that we rarely see our grandfathers' identities beyond the role that they play as grandfathers. However, the book has given me not only some impressions about Dadu's personality but also made me inquisitive to learn more about him. The book reveals his failure in business and so we understand why he could not be there for his wife and children. And just when he had a grip over life's harsh realities and started a new life with his wife and children, his wife died, shattering all his renewed hope and zest for life.
Accepting the inevitability and realizing his limitations he let his relatives take care of his children. These disclosures in the book certainly give some clues as to why he had such bitterness in life. It is true that Dadu was not an ideal husband or father, but it was not because of selfishness but rather inability on his part that caused it. We note that he never remarried. I greatly respect Dadu for this decision as I believe it highly honoured my grandmother's deceased soul.
While I had seen Dadu and remember him quite well, Dadi to us had always been a myth. As she had died very young few people had the opportunity to meet her and those who did were too old to say anything about her while we were growing up. But my father's early fleeting memories of his mother in the book were good enough resources for me from which I could paint a realistic image of our Dadi. My grandmother Jamila Khatun was a cheerful woman full of spontaneity. Everyone, including our Dadu, highly admired her and often compared her with a saint (in their words Fereshta). My father recalls that he had never seen her quarrel with anyone and therefore had good relations with everyone. An incident which is quite proof of her lovable behaviour is when she as a young girl once accomplished something that every other person had failed to do. At a cousin's wedding the bride had suddenly become disappointed and refused to talk or eat at all. In this predicament eventually it was Dadi who succeeded in rescuing the family. Dadi not only pleased her enough to speak out but also eat from her hands. Because of Dadu's inconsistencies, life for Dadi was quite hazardous. She passed days in great uncertainty being the loan parent. But what is appreciable is that she never lost her calm or patience. Instead, for the well being of the family, she often tried to contribute on her own. From time to time she ventured out to do something that would bring some extra money at home. One such instance is that when her house was near the school, she quite innovatively thought of preparing some peanuts that the children could buy from her while going to school. Attempts like these were not looked upon kindly by my grandfather and I am sure it was also a gesture not well accepted at that time in the society they lived in. A woman from a middle class conservative society was expected to depend on the male members of the family. But I would say that it only shows that she was a woman who believed in progress. And her endeavours which were not recognized then would now be considered as admirable entrepreneurship skills. I salute my Dadi for her ventures. She had undertaken to do something which I don't think I could have ever dared to do myself.
Saara Zabeen is currently working as a Lecturer in English at Independent University, Bangladesh. Her father, Dr. Md. Zahurul Haque retired as Director General of Bangladesh Rice Research Institute
For all latest news, follow The Daily Star's Google News channel.
Comments