By Indu Muralidharan
Title: The Book of Dhaka: A City in Short Fiction
Edited by: Pushpita Alam and Arunava Sinha
Publisher: Comma Press
Price: Rs 843
Collections of place-themed fiction can be powerfully evocative with descriptions of indigenous sights and sounds, unique references to the geographical landscape, and above all, glimpses into the minds of local characters, who, with their attitudes, mindset, dialogues, dreams and desires represent the collective ethos of the place in the given time setting. Examples include Dubliners and The Red Carpet by Lavanya Sankaran which transport the readers to early twentieth century Dublin and Bangalore in the late nineties respectively. The Book of Dhaka aspires to add to this worthy genre. As K. Anis Ahmed mentions in the introduction, this collection of stories by various writers tries to capture the present-day ethos of the “world’s most densely populated city” of rice fields, lakes that overflow during the monsoon and “concrete structures, among roads far too narrow for anything to thrive but despair”. This intrinsic sense of despair hangs over the book, manifesting itself in the steam-of-consciousness monologue of a timid Chemistry lecturer who gets captured and tortured by the military in “The Raincoat” (written by Akhteruzzaman Elias and translated by Pushpita Alam), the story of a promising student whose poverty forces him to leave school and eventually become a gangster in “The Weapon” (written by Syed Manzoorul Islam and translated by Arunava Sinha) and that of a housemaid who resorts to peddling drugs in order to give her son a better future in “Mother” (written by Rashida Sultana and translated by Syeda Nur-E-Royhan).
The sense of gloom creeps like fog into the stories of the middle-class characters too. “The Decision” (written by Parvez Hossain and translated by Pushpita Alam) portrays the apathy of a young woman towards her ex-husband on coming across him at a book fair, as she rather indifferently contemplates on what went wrong in the relationship. “The Widening Gyre” (written by Wasi Ahmed and translated by Ahmed Ahsanuzzaman) is a chilling glimpse into the dangers lurking in the city roads where citizens are alleged to be shot dead in broad daylight.
Abubakar was inspired to take up the pen in the late 1970s, when as a bookseller he lamented […]
Written by Syed Manzoorul Islam & Translated by Arunava Sinha
ponIr alI haD always been troubled by his name. He had no idea why his father had named him after cottage cheese. He hadn’t had the chance to ask him, either. His father, who used to work in a shop in Islampur selling cut-price fabric, had died suddenly after a three-day fever. Ponir was 10 or 11 at the time, a student of Class Five at the Suritola Primary School. What had Ponir’s father been ill with? A malignant form of pneumonia, apparently, but neither Ponir, nor his mother, nor the local doctor had had any inkling. The doctor had treated him for flu.But then,why blame the neighbourhood doctor, when the diagnoses of well-known physicians are wide off the mark. They’ve managed to send gastric patients to their graves, before, by giving them bypass surgeries, confusing gas-induced chest pains with heart-attacks. Haven’t you heard of such cases?
How did we find out the truth about Ponir’s father, then? Why, that’s just what we do.As storytellers it’s one of our responsibilities to know these things. How else are we supposed to tell our stories?
Ponir Ali didn’t know whether his father was fond of cheese. The fact was that he had never seen a slice of cheese in his life, for they couldn’t afford any. Perhaps his father had in fact loved cheese – who could tell? But Ponir had a grievance against the dead man – why did he of all people have to be named after cheese? Why not his younger brother, the one who had died at the age of three months? He too had remained as elusive as cheese, beyond their reach.
Asking his mother hadn’t helped. She never answered such questions. Probably she didn’t know either. Earlier, when the family was still somehow managing to get by – back when Ponir’s father was alive – his mother could occasionally spare a few moments for a conversation. But after his father’s death, all responsibilities fell on her. Ponir barely got to see his mother from one day to the next, let alone ask her a question. They had to sell her last pieces of jewellery, a set of gold bangles, to pay for his father’s funeral. It takes a lot of money to give someone a decent burial in this country, you see. Graveyard spaces are shrinking – even in a small district town, it costs between five and seven thousand taka. Ponir’s mother was insistent on giving her husband a respectable burial. He was a respectable man, after all. Besides, many respectable men also name their children Ponir. From that point of view, there should have been no obstacle to a respectable man like Ponir’s father getting a decent burial.
My classmate at Jadavpur University in Kolkata, Saraswati Narayan, who went by the pet name Chachu, asked me, […]
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by Rheea Mukherjee, Blogs Editor, Kitaab
Ikthisad Ahmed sticks firm to his views as he eloquently expresses the hum and tune of Bangladeshi writing: “Ours is a nation of struggle, ours is a culture of struggle. Bangladeshi writers, regardless of the language in which they write, have acute senses of justice, anguish and humanity. We burrow deep to find the revolutionary spirit inherent to us, and extract beauty from those wells.”
Sharbari Zohra Ahmed is not as convinced and believes that those of Bangladeshi descent can at best provide a diluted sense of the identity. Moreover, she believes, there is the need to be recognized as writers without the frills and thrills of Bangladeshi exotica. She lays down her opinion with thick confidence: “When I was starting out, agents and editors were disappointed and unwilling to accept the fact that I was not exotic in my style or interested in the ‘displaced immigrant ‘ theme. One actually said to me, ‘Can you write more about being Bangladeshi and American at the same time?’ The problem was that I was not culturally conflicted enough. My Bangladeshi and American identities were not constantly at odds. That feeling of being an ‘other’ happened more powerfully after 9/11, when being Muslim and American was deemed mutually exclusive. But I was not conflicted by it.”
What role, then, does Bangladeshi writing have in a publishing world that either slots literature as authentic translations, or westernized exotisized South Asian literature? Is the roar of revolution and the country’s immense history owed more attention and regard from the outside world? Kitaab’s Asia Uncensored presents two positively compelling sides of the story, if not to persuade you to one side, then to keep you informed of the larger picture, and the grey strokes of literature, nationalism, and identity.
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