Non-Fiction
From the Back Pages of Memory
artwork by amina
The banyan tree isn't there any more. Nor the restaurants where one could while away a pleasant evening. More importantly, many of the habitués of those joints are no more. From the main gate of the Medical College to the old Jagannath Hall auditorium, the street was lined with restaurants. "Meko" and "Najma," I remember, were the names of two of them. All the other names have faded from memory. Najma was the last one on this side of the sheet. The only reason for my partiality towards it was that adjacent to it was an open space with a few tables laid out. A small group could sit around any of these. Our table was the one at the far end, beneath a banyan tree whose overhanging branches and leaves provided ample cover. The slightest breeze would set off a susurrus. On days when there was a high wind, the sound would inspire an apocalyptic mood in us. Varied thoughts would arise in our minds, but we could never sit solemn-faced for long. By the time it was half past nine in the evening everyone would be there. There would always be five of us regulars. Not that there wouldn't be one or two more on occasion, but they would soon feel out of place. They would realize that their unexpected presence had inhibited the conversation. Actually, without the combination of just the five of us the evening wouldn't get going. Needless to say, I was something of the odd one out in the group. The others were all medical students. Whether or not their lessons in, say, Anatomy, Histology or Pathology were learnt, at half past nine they all turned up without fail. It was hard to say what drew them. Perhaps the lure of a lively discussion after the day's tedium. After the tiring pursuit of medical knowledge they delighted in the taste of another world. Mine was a similar case. After dealing with the daily excitements of the newspaper office, I longed for a bit of untrammeled relaxation. I don't know why, but though I wasn't a medical student, every evening I'd head for the Medical College hostel. Especially the first and fifth dormitories. As a university student I had a place at the Iqbal Hall, but I wasn't in the habit of staying there. During the day I would be in Curzon Hall. Most days I'd be working the night shift. The leftover time I'd be at the Medical College hostel. I had little need of the accommodation at Iqbal Hall; its only use was that it provided me with a postal address. Wherever I might be, as soon as it was half past nine I'd find myself at the familiar table in the open space beside Restaurant Najma. Listening to the medical shop talk it often seemed to me that though I'd never be a physician myself, thanks to the company I kept, with a little effort I might be able to attain the medical expertise of a compounder or pharmacist. Of course, my presence would soon bring about a change in the subject of conversation. From Pathology, Histology, Anatomy, the Labour Ward, to Politics, Social Policy, Student Affairs, International Affairs. Maybe because I worked for a newspaper, everyone expected me to provide a commentary on the day's miscellaneous news. For that reason, before leaving office I'd memorize the headlines for the following day. Yet, after the spirited discussions a mood of weariness would overwhelm us. It seemed quite inexorable. It wasn't hard to see that the weariness was mental, not physical. Those were the heated days of the fifties. Onslaughts against our language were being mounted, one after another. Sometimes snide comments, sometimes insulting remarks, were being made about the language spoken by seventy-five million people. Sometimes there would be a frontal attack. The ruling elite stationed in Karachi were busy drawing up plans to transform the culture of this land. They had figured out what would ensure well-being for the wretched Bengalis; what would bring them advancement. They issued instructions on what kinds of radio programmes should go on air, how big the Urdu lettering on railway trains should be. In fact they even specified how much of the essence of pure Urdu should be infused into the Bengali language. Consequently, those were evil times for everyone. Every day brought to light a new conspiracy against the language and culture of this country. Like thousands, we too were voluble in discussing these matters. It was obvious that there was no easy way out. Alternative courses of action would be suggested in lowered tones, of course. There was a murmur of discontent. It wasn't hard to make out that in neighbouring tables as well the same subject had been broached. Those at the other tables would also lower the voice at some point. Ten o'clock would strike. Time for Listeners' Choice on the radio. Needless to say, we'd wait anxiously to listen to the Bengali songs that would be interspersed with the raucous Urdu ones. After that programme the place would start emptying. We'd still hang on. No one paid attention to the teacups in front of us. Those restless days seemed to be earmarked for self-examination, self-analysis. We could make out that clouds had slowly started gathering. Every now and then there would be a flash of lightning. Though it wasn't possible to say when the torrent would start, there was no doubt that a storm was imminent. Needless to say, our conversation veered to the weather. Suddenly someone expostulated: "Do you realize, it's just not possible to put up with them." I looked up and saw it was Ajmal, pushing the cup away as he spoke. He had been quiet for a long while. All four of us were startled. How did he know what was on our minds as well? It was irrelevant to ask who one couldn't put up with. Everyone knew. Everyone understood. Maybe it was one of us who then asked, "It's true we can't put up with this, but how are we to free ourselves?" Ajmal grew even more solemn. He said, "I don't know how. But something needs to be done. We can't just sit around like this." Ehsan said with a laugh, "I keep wondering why they hate the Bengali language so much. If only they'd learn to read it. They can't stand the name of Tagore, but I can guarantee that if they understood the meaning of his poetry they would realize their folly." By then the rain had started. We had to beat a retreat. On the way we heard Ehsan recite: There it comesIn awesome revelry,
Amidst surging aroma
From sprinkled earth, The youthful monsoon
Filled with pride,
While the dog watches
,Darkly sombre.
Forests tremble under
Thundering skies,
The peacock frolics
With loud restless cries,
It's an exultant scene
As the drunken monsoon
Proudly enters! Fazle Rabbi exclaimed, "Extraordinary, you've memorized the whole poem! It's exquisite." Ajmal was still sombre. In order to draw him out I said, "Hey, Why aren't you saying anything?" He replied with a laugh, "What can I say? Poetry alone won't work." "Then what will?" "That's what we have to think about." "There won't be any end to thinking." This was the view shared by all four of us, but Ajmal didn't mind. He only said, "I won't be just thinking. When the time comes, you'll see." We didn't take this seriously none of us, including myself. But when the time came, he did keep his word. Both Ehsan and Fazle Rabbi used to say, "You know, without Ajmal things might have turned out quite differently." I don't know if there's any truth in this, but I do remember that in 1952 Ajmal led the first group to defy the ban on demonstrations. They had been warned that if they took a single step they would be shot. Ajmal ignored the warning. The shots were not fired. We saw that Ajmal and his cohorts were taken away in a Police van. Today it seems to me that though Ajmal might not have been a figure of the first rank, he was a fiery symbol of those tormented times. The Police force of the repressive regime could have opened fire that day, as they were to do a few days later. But that didn't happen, as we know. Ajmal went to jail. The history that was inscribed in blood on the 21st of February would have occurred in any case. It would have happened even if there were no Ajmal. Still, it seems to me that of the varied backgrounds to that historic event there was one with which Ajmal was intimately involved. I've already said that Ajmal wasn't a figure of the first rank. He'd never contest the Union elections. And yet, in every movement in the medical college he played a key role. We'd assemble in his room, perhaps because we were drawn by his personality. Today, none of my old comrades are around me. After coming out of jail Ajmal couldn't set his mind on his studies. One day I heard he had left the medical college. He had become cynical about everything. He withdrew to a village in Sirajganj. It's not easy to get in touch with him. In 1961 Ehsan came back after completing higher studies in Manila. He intended to devote himself to caring for lepers. He couldn't realize his aim. Before the year was out Dr. Ehsan died of a heart attack. And Fazle Rabbi? Cardiologist Dr. Rabbi fell victim to the barbaric Pakistan Army in 1971. Everyone knows this. Of course Dr. Newaz is still around. He's a pathologist. And I'm there too. But it seems we'll never again be able to meet the way we used to, in the shade of a banyan tree. Still, each time the 21st of February draws near I recall those memorable days, particularly because we could share in the conscious dream of that great event, even though we were among the people in the back row.
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