Probashe Bangaliana - Banani Sarker

 

Monon Mukur Selected Article

Probashe Bangaliana

Me with My Roots

Banani Sarker

With the word ‘probash’ (exile/abroad), I always hear a sorrowful tune. I do not know—whether that tune is the flute left behind in the fields, or the beckoning of the setting sun on the endless green horizon. In this foreign land I am always searching for that flute, that gentle sunlight, that whispering breeze.

My childhood days passed in a remote village at the bottom of a wetland, where I went by boat to distant fields to gather water lilies in the month of Asharh, hung clusters of kadamba flowers on the window, soaked in heavy rains on the excuse of having a taro leaf on my head, and swam from pond to pond saying, “Oh, I slipped into the mud!”

Since everyone in the family had a close connection with the soil, not only the Ramadan (Month of Fasting) and winter vacations, but even if we got two or four days’ break, we would go home. And so I grew up along with the maddening joy and restless liveliness of the village.

In my expatriate life I could not come out of that enchantment. Just as opening the door of my home reveals that old courtyard—so I wanted my little house in a village near Cambridge, with a small garden. From the road one has to walk a bit by the pond bank to reach our courtyard, just as I wished—that my foreign house too would be a little inside from the road. Behind my uncles’ kitchen there was a fig tree; on the east side of our house were some paddy fields—just beyond them the Aulia house, and looking that way the first sight was a huge olive tree. In remembrance of that unfading memory I planted fig and olive trees at home. Is there a house without a palm tree or banana tree? I searched and found those trees too. I have seen bamboo trees bend down in the slightest wind; in two corners of the garden I have made two bamboo groves. And in one corner in front of the house I planted Kash (Catkin) flowers. When I feel sad, I look at them; in my gaze remains my beloved motherland.

Gardening was always my delight; this time I added Madhabilata (Hiptage Benghalensis), Nagchampa (Plumeria pudica), Kathgolap (Frangipani) and Rongon (Ixora). The girl who grew up plucking Lilies, can she live without seeing Water Lilies? That is why I created a pond, planted lilies and green Helencha (Common Enhydra). How happy I would be if at dawn I could hear sweet chirping. In the garden I kept several roosters and hens.

To tell the truth, inside and outside I am always carrying my Bangla identity. This is not a matter of will or unwillingness; this is my being, I am just this me.

My everyday morning starts—as always—with that country’s habit. In Dhaka, in the morning the house helper girl would knock at the door calling, “Masi, tea—”. With that habit, whoever wakes up first, I or my husband, we bring two cups of tea to bed. We sit together and drink tea, then get down to our routine work. He goes away to his work.

By searching old shops I bought a long player. My husband, going to Dhaka, searched a lot and brought back a few CDs of songs from lost days. Almost every dawn I put them on, they play and I slowly enter the day’s busyness.

I go to the garden and look at the chickens, stretch my hand toward them. I give them breakfast, see if they have drinking water. Aubergine, chili, hyacinth beans, pointed gourd, bitter gourd, tomato, bottle gourd, pumpkin—I try to see how much each has grown. The various flowers in the garden—I take their fragrance, caress them. The dried twigs or fallen flowers I break off. Then I look at the fish, pick out the dead leaves floating on the water; then I feed them too. My brother-in-law feeds the indoor fish before going to work.

Something happens in my home sometimes—the joy of which I cannot express in words. When the university is closed, our sleep breaks at the sound of my son playing the harmonium. When at home, he tries to make up for not being able to practice during university days. Just as educating children is their fundamental right, in the same way our basic desire was to engrain Bangla language and culture into their minds. For that goal we started teaching them Bangla from childhood, the son learned song and guitar; the daughter is still learning dance, song, and violin. As I was saying—on holidays the morning begins with Aritro’s sargam (Music notes), and the day ends with my daughter’s music and dance practice. However, my daughter Rodela Dharitree has to sit down with some effort, unlike Aritro. Still I think—at least something has been done!!

My husband is by profession a doctor; but a man deeply mad about songs. He loves listening to songs; even more he loves singing. If any guest comes home, or if anyone asks, he sits at once with Harmonium (Musical instrument) and Tabla (musical instrument). So if we get a little time in hand, we start our singing and music. Growing up in the eighties-nineties, for us music still means that time. The songs we hear are from then, the poems too, and we like plays and films of that form; YouTube, Hoichoi, Chorki keep us alive.

When I read Shobdo Mukhur’s Jyoistho, Ashar, Srabon editions—through the writings of distinguished authors I feel the summer heat of Joistho even in exile, I am touched by the continuous showers and drizzle of Ashar-Srabon. In this long foreign living my most favourite thing is a tradition Khaddar shawl (homespun clothe); where is written the famous poem of Madhusudan Dutt:

“Hey Bongo, in your storehouse are diverse gems——”

Reading books has always been my addiction. I thought social and electronic media had taken away that addiction! But in reality it has not. When I reread the books I read in childhood, adolescence, and youth, I am newly charmed; and when I read today’s writings, I am even more moved. Literature is the mirror of society; that is why in today’s writings I find contemporary joys and sorrows, happiness and grief, and I feel one with them.

In exile I always live a Bangla life. That is why I could not leave the sari. Cotton, silk, katan, garad, jamdani, Monipuri—just one is enough; sari (Traditional garment worn by women) itself brings peace to my mind. In any Bangla function and festivals, my husband and children too have become accustomed to Bangla dress. We are a fully fish-and-rice Bangla family!

Another habit I could not give up is having puri-singara (Bangla snacks) or spiced puffed rice with tea in the evening. Without this evening ritual, even after dinner there seems no peace! If any guest comes home, I almost always cook traditional Bangla food like luchi-sabji, chickpea dal and payesh, along with other items. Sometimes I make chotpoti and halim. On the days when I buy mangoes from Bangladesh, my daughter says she smells Bangladesh!

Not only when the scent of Puja (Hindu festival) fills the air does our heart rejoice—we are thrilled even when the month of fasting begins. So what if I do not fast, I will eat iftar with everyone—that is no small joy! On Eid day, what joy we have!! On Shab-e-Barat I still wait hoping someone will send home Rice Flatbread and chickpea Pudding.

We celebrate Durga Puja (Hindu festival) together with all. But at home we arrange Lakshmi Puja (Hindu festival)  simply. Just as I saw mothers doing, I love to arrange the Lakshmi Puja tray with many elements like curd, puffed rice, all types of traditional sweets, luchi, rice, durba grass, clay idol. Brahmin priests, relatives and friends and  family join together in worship.

In my home we celebrate another festival—that is the Bangla New Year. From childhood I saw—New Year meant going with elder brothers and sisters to the place called Ramna Botmul at dawn and later friends and relatives come to celebrate as well. Mother cooked Hilsa fish and various bharta . On the year’s first day, paying respects to elders was the main purpose of all this coming and going. After marriage, another reason joined in celebrating the New Year—it was my husband’s birthday. Because of both the Baishakh celebration and my husband’s birthday—we try to celebrate this day as a very special occasion. All traditional Bangla food like Chotpoti, panta-ilish, various bharta, music, red-green dress—all together make our expatriate Baishakhi festival.

I do not know if I have remained an entire Bangla; but my neighbors, colleagues, and foreign friends also sense my deep feelings for my roots and culture left behind; they also feel in the same way as I do. Perhaps this is why I also enjoy expatriate life—because I can express myself to them.

When I touch the shawl I also feel the poet’s guilt; just as when I remember Sagordari of Jashore, then I feel—‘I have lost my little childhood, but not my Mother (the motherland) —’

Truly, I have not lost my Mother (the motherland).

Published in Shobdo Mukur e-mag Bhadro edition, 1432.