Racing through old, layered memories and events of my yesteryears, I have found consolation. This has offered me unique sense of joy, and the very best of nostalgia.
Nazarul Islam
Part 1 of my Autobiography
Friendship is a gift from Heavens. When allowed to prevail over a lifetime, it transforms into God’s wonderful blessing. A few days ago, my dear friend Tanvir, from our school days had wished me well, in a touching email. Those wonderful words of tribute made me recoil myself back to the chilling comforts of life—and recollect the past events which collectively, had made their way into memory bins. This has been the exhibition of life’s watershed moments, and my share of existence on this planet.
Racing through old, layered memories and events of my yesteryears, I have found consolation. This has offered me unique sense of joy, and the very best of nostalgia.
I shall begin my story with the immortal values of faith and trust and friendship that friends have carried—something that had always prevailed for the two of us, well over 60 years. It still stands rock-solid, as a tall monolith.
Later on in my narrative, two more stories joined in to paint the larger canvas of history where horrors of human evil, deception and communal hatred which shattered human conscience, and quickly replaced by genocide. This was an unfortunate human tragedy in the Bay of Bengal, in what was then known as East Pakistan. Leaving in the process—an unending trail of human sufferings and catastrophe. Events, that created history and gave birth to a new nation of Bangladesh.
Yet the true story of two homes, two families and two unique friends have survived the onslaughts of successive tragedies. In English Literature classes, we were taught that darker clouds have their characteristic silver linings. Hence, my story is the narrative of survival in chaos, peace after war and a final return to sanity.
Where, two friends initiate once again the process of reconciliation amidst to helpless and betrayed people, learning to move on in life, and catch up on the lost values of faith. The obvious theme remained: reconciliation of two loving, caring sincere friends, who were torn apart by war, yet they choose and reconcile through sufferings.
For years, I have meditated about the way people have moved in and out of lives of people who share a common bondage
As I go through the leaves of my memory in a story book form, I also tread through, what the contents carry. In doing so, perhaps I am reading my own, beautifully composed ‘obituary’—before my world would end, with eyelids closed for the final time.
For years, I have meditated about the way people have moved in and out of lives of people who share a common bondage. Perhaps, this isn’t an issue that has led to grief, but it seems to somehow come up a lot, in our small world of when we experience a devastating loss, many dominos can fall. In my case, my best friends had suddenly disappeared—many familiar faces had disappeared in the snap of finger, following history’s great upheaval. This really was my personal casualty, my memorable losses. Later on, after many more years they reappeared, with the familiar sights, songs and smiles of the loving yesteryears.
In 1979, I met my childhood friend Tanvir in Dacca, after seven long years of physical separation. By this time, we had grown up, matured and become adults. He had just returned from Sheffield, with an M Phil Degree in Economics. What a blast of memoirs and laughter, we had shared together. It was real fun walking the lanes of the old city, and its familiar places, puncturing the night with noisy laughter!
There are times when life gets very busy. People move away, change occupations, have children, and suddenly someone who meant a lot to me, is not around. Whatever the reasons, sometimes we look around and realize that we just don’t have quite as much love and a sense of belonging to one another, these days as we used to, or as we may have needed. The pain of those people, who fade away, is more intense. Particularly, while we’re grieving and then, wish we could really use their love and support. We tasted our earliest casualties in 1969, with the passing away of our classmate Syed Jahangir Kabir-in the prime of his youth and adolescence!
A goodwill torch, appreciating our bygone days of love and friendship was passed on to me by my school friend HQ. Tradition required me now, to carry on the typecast, loving sentiments fast-forward, into the hands of my dearest friend Babu (Tanvir Khan), who may then pass his affection on to another favorite friend, and so on, giving impetus to the tradition to move forward, in its journey ahead….
I am a firm believer in the value of printed words. All good thoughts and words need to be preserved for posterity-which I am sure one day, shall define me and my generation, as the children of history’s great upheavals. Because, we have (boastfully) lived through genocide and liberation war, and then recoiled and reconciled together, in the wake of human sufferings. Did our generation not carve out boldly, its unique image, through the passion of our pursuits and struggles?
Sixty years ago, I had initiated my bond of friendship with an energetic seven-year old, who had held his distinct, sharp gaze. His friends had called him ‘Babu’. Over the passage of a few years, our bondage had flourished; even though fate had reserved for both of us, separate journeys into the future. I have known Tanvir Khan (Babu) since those days of the ‘unforgettable’ (start of the) sixties. We had joined the Alma mater together- St. Gregory’s high school in 1960, after having jumped over the walls, from the adjacent Convent School.
I like to dedicate this piece to our wonderful friendship. Both of us had grown up to share exactly the same era of upheavals, the winds of change, and had boldly faced life’s most unusual challenges. By virtue of his hard earned scholarship, Tanveer Khan, PhD discovered his identity in the academia. Today, he is a renowned economist, an author, educator, a thinker a leader, and a believer in the sacred values of human bondage.
Dr. T A Khan has headed the institutions of higher learning, universities, and the departments of the institutions of higher learning in Bangladesh, relegated under his control. Something that he was motivated to do in life has paid rich dividends. I always saw his parents carry their precious pride with lovely smiles on their faces-throughput their lifetime!
With the dismemberment of Pakistan in 1971, emerged the stark reality of Bangladesh. This was a new country on the map of our globe….a nation that had risen from the ashes of war, genocide and divine intervention
Tanvir is my dear friend who knows me so well, to be exact…very deep, inside and out. Even after six decades, he continues to love me and hold me dear, among his galaxy of friends. Our friendship had blossomed in the age of our innocence that warmly carried through the threshold of 1971, a volatile and turbulent year in our lives, which had gravitated to my world. Events and upheavals had truncated my existence, reduced into urns of ashes-storing inside, life’s many consequent ruptures and grief that had followed.
With the dismemberment of Pakistan in 1971, emerged the stark reality of Bangladesh. This was a new country on the map of our globe….a nation that had risen from the ashes of war, genocide and divine intervention. Recalling back…In the previous three years, both of us had witnessed a revolution of ideas, spirits and the power of armed struggle. And tracing back….only twenty four years ago in time, East Bengal had turned around from being a part of British India, to a wing of the Dominion of Pakistan, to an independent country of Bangladesh.
My time had finally arrived-to part ways in a journey we had humbly begun together. This was also the moment to reflect, where each one of us stood at the defining juncture of history. And perhaps this was our destiny- to suffer the pangs of separation, in life’s innocence and our tender years. When we finally picked up the pieces, after the War of Liberation, I had felt myself very belittled. Was I reduced into an insignificant character of Tolstoy’s immortal classic, War and Peace? Or perhaps, I felt I was a prisoner of history, -a witness, who would testify the end of a dream my father had carried, after he had opted to migrate to a new homeland, seventy years ago.
Truly, 1971 had transformed into the watershed year which defined our lives. Tanvir had pursued his future seriously. He progressed happily through his days at the Dhaka University, which followed his years of MPhil and PhD in Economics, at the University of Sheffield UK. He had successfully completed his BA Honors & Masters in Economics at Dacca University, Masters in Urban & Regional Planning in Sheffield; PhD in Urban & Regional Planning.
Fate again, had forced me to leave Dhaka in another direction-to newer, and barren pastures. I managed to reach Karachi, an unfriendly city, which hosted me for the next two decades. While Tanvir pursued his life’s goals with dedication, achieving accolades-six thousand miles away, I had opted to work full time, in a city called Karachi, in my bid to meet obligations, as the ‘acting father’ of six siblings, all coupled with a loving mother. As much I had loathed, I had become a full time breadwinner, reduced to a struggling student of Karachi’s University.
Whenever, we got a chance-we talked. We remembered the years of our innocence and our teens. And each one had thought of the other, as someone who had been ushered out, into a different time zone. We happily recalled our class-picnic in 1962 in Ghorasal. That was my first encounter with outdoor fun. On the way back to the city by train, we had our share of fun on the railway platform.
We all took turns and managed to run dark, black soot on late Jahangir Kabir’s trouser and seat with a rub from the bottom of the huge pulao ‘deghchi’, while our innocent friend had rested in one corner, tired of he exertions. He never had the slightest idea, his classmates were rubbing him black and grey. Again, we had loved to talk about our troop’s Scouting trip to Mowchak, under the direct supervision of Scout Master, late Sir Nicholas Rozario. I need to share this, with all my readers. The worst part of seeing old friends often provokes our rose-colored memories, to become undone by reality.
Today, I need a name for this ink … A name for the feeling that you get when you see old friends like Babu, after so many years. Was someone that I met after ages, had been lost to me-Or, so I had often thought. All those years, I had remembered him in a certain way. In your mind, friends never age. But then suddenly, there they are. Older…and Changed by time. Different, but exactly the same. There…was my friend Babu, laughing his heart out!
Reunions are the first day of school for old time friends, all over again. Time would cast away familiarity and replace it with warm confusion. Seeing how the years have frayed the friends of our youth also reminds us that we too have irrevocably changed, and can never return to the state of innocence again. When you are in the midst of your old friends, you look back at your life through a rear view mirror and rekindle some of your finest and forgotten memories.
What do I remember most about my friend, Tanvir Khan? Yes, I remember him in his elementary classes, he was shy. Perhaps, very disciplined. He never crossed the defined boundaries. And, he never really, laughed heartily. His smile was as good as gold. There was a deep seriousness about him that never quite separated from his aura. It was as though he was overwhelmed, by challenges that lay ahead and likely to come by, in life. Only after he had acquired his youthful exuberance, he learned to laugh. And he did so, quite well and loud! Har…de har, har!
When you meet with your old friends, you recollect some of the finest moments of your life and find yourself immersed in joy that has no comparison
We had both chosen to be friends together, because of our close proximity and access to each other’s homes. An old friend had once shared: “Ten minutes with a genuine friend is better than years spent with anyone less.” While both of us had continued to talk and reminisce together, we shared the wonderful years of childhood, innocence and and youth. Each one thought of the other, as though the past had been another span of time we had enjoyed together, in life!
My happy reunions with Tanvir Khan, a scholar and a gentleman, had been many and joyful. And these homecomings served as reminders of our first day of school together…..those moments of excitement, all over again. Time had cast away familiarity, to replace it with warm confusion. Seeing how the years had frayed the friends of our innocent years, we continued to remind ourselves that each one of us had also, irrevocably changed and could never return back to (his) lost state of innocence, again.
When you meet with your old friends, like Tanvir…..you recollect some of the finest moments of your life and find yourself immersed in joy that has no comparison. When you are together, you look back at your life through a rear view mirror and rekindle some of your finest and forgotten memories.
One early winter morning in 1965, Tanvir came by noisily and called me through the window, which faced the lane where I lived. I recall, it was still dark. He was riding the latest fad-the two-wheeler, Honda 50 cc. He wanted me to share a ride with him. I did not disappoint him, and quietly sneaked out of home and took the seat behind the rider. Then began the cherished ride of my life and friendship, into an unknown dawn of Dacca, winding through it’s dark, sleepy, vacant roads-slowly brightening up with twilight.
Seven miles to the north, near Asad Gate, the joy ride ended into an abrupt halt. We had run out of petrol. And luck. The prospect of walking back home nearly seven miles home, pushing the vehicle in turns, was a dreaded option. Calling someone for help, threatened to expose the two fun loving idiots to the mercy of our parents. I thought I would be severely admonished, and grounded for life.
Then, suddenly I remembered I had an aunt who lived only a mile away, in a newly built apartment. Embarrassed as we were, we really had little option other than to ask for her kindness. We didn’t have money on us to buy gas! Sheepishly I knocked her door, to find my shocked aunt’s face… staring at me, in the ungodly hour. I fumbled for words in an effort to what had happened, and asked if I could borrow some money. She wasted no time. She gave me cash and ordered: ‘Go home’.
On the way back, misfortune favored the braves. We were stopped at an intersection by a police sergeant, who looked smilingly at the two novices, and asked if we carried any driving permits. I tried to explain, we were allowed to ride together. He promptly took hold of the papers and road permits of the vehicle, asked where we lived. Then, he smiled and said “Carefully…slowly you ride back home. I will bring these papers and deliver them to your parents….”
That ended the joyride, with our fallible and punctured egos. The prospect of facing our parents, brought us visions of our impending doom. We shared our happy memories of time we spent in the company of our loving, caring teachers. In 1964, we had the pleasure of knowing Mr. Mrinal Kanti Dev-who taught us Science. Sometimes the lessons were boring. Nevertheless, his quality of speaking Benglish (English with a deep Bengali accent) amused the entire class. No prejudice, just hilarious fun! And even had provoked some of us, to imitate our learned teacher. After all, this is the best form of flattery.
In the last two years of high school, we wore on ourselves an aura of discipline and responsibilities. The pressure was on us to qualify for Secondary School Examinations-1968, with flying colours. By this time, my parents felt obliged to create more space for me at my home. One single room, for myself. And, this was a luxury that my friends had relished. This became an ideal place for ‘adda’. We studied together, shed our anxieties and apprehensions in life, often criticizing each other bitterly on issues of politics and faith.
Despite our differences, opinions and personal judgements, our friendship had prevailed. It was a cherished, sacrosanct value that was never allowed to diminish in our hearts. Both of us prepared our best, and polished our skills. Our teachers in school began to receive our best, most careful attention. Among those dedicated souls, we had loved the English classes taught by Brother Hobart csc, and Mr. Nalini Sarkar. Some of the best authors, and writers to evolve in Bangladesh had remained their sincere disciples. I gathered a wealth of admiration and inspiration, from both which helped me in my later years to write…and persevere.
Tanvir’s high moment had arrived for him in 1967. He was chosen to represent our school, the 5th DAC Troop, in the national Scouts Jamboree in Karachi–an enchanting destination for young adults in Dacca. Then, arrived the moments of our calling. We both took our SSC Examinations, and passed. Tanvir had done exceedingly well. I could do better, and had missed my mark. And that I knew, would make a huge difference in life ahead!
We looked forward to join the same Intermediate College, to pursue Higher Secondary Studies at the erstwhile Notre Dame College, of Dacca. That year, in 1970 we both crossed the HSC threshold. Again, Tanvir proved his merit and qualified top class, to join the Department of Economics, at Dacca University. A pause in the next phase of learning, continued till autumn of this year.
In November of the same year, we in East Pakistan had faced history’s greatest natural disaster. A deadly cyclone accompanied by the 40 feet high tidal waves ravaged the delta of East Pakistan. It took days to assess the damage. Half a million people had perished. Was this God’s wrath, or a signal that many more tragedies were yet to come….We got into the relief work, helping international agencies in their efforts to restore back life that had come to a standstill.
The tragedy exposed our weaknesses of infrastructure, defense, health and wellness and of course our absolute limitations when faced with human crisis. National wide elections were around the corner, and could not be delayed. A part of humanity then, had stood naked and demoralized, in a he face of disaster and lack of financial support.
The inevitable happened in the elections held on the 2nd day of December, 1970. The verdict was clear. This eastern wing of Pakistan had voted to charter its own future. And thus began a movement in history that led people to choose an armed rebellion and say goodbye to the federation of Pakistan. In the wee hours of March 26, 1971 East Pakistan had declared its own political independence. That had brought confusion and chaos. Indiscriminate killing led to genocide, and simultaneously a massive reprisal against those who supported Pakistan. Life had lost meaning and value in a state of lawlessness.
Amidst chaos and firepower, Tanvir had come down to ask me if we felt safe or needed assistance. That was a heroic gesture, on his part. In these delicate times, his father had traveled to London for his cardiac surgery. At the turn of history, Tanvir had embraced his nation’s independence- alone! Eventually, in May 1972 after hostilities had cooled down, I travelled to India, then to Nepal. I was quickly dispatched to Karachi on an emergency passport. Then began my own struggles, but I managed to return back and unite with my friends in Dacca after seven long and patient years. This was only first of the many homecomings, I had yearned for!
In the nineties of the last century, I was appointed to head a British Charity, which promoted skill development in Pakistan, Bangladesh and Nepal. The curriculum was based on experiences of institutions of academic learning in Australia, Singapore, Malaysia, UK and USA. My job required me to visit all those countries with which we held collaboration agreements, and with their institutions of training. This enabled me to visit more than 49 countries in a short span of 4 years.
I loved to visit Dhaka repeatedly. Here, Tanvir was held in high esteem after he had obtained a Doctorate from Sheffield University. He was associated with prestigious development institutions like CIDA, working to rebuild Bangladesh. Later on he joined the academic programs of several Universities in Dhaka. He has remained the Vice Chancellor of at least two such institutions.
And then life…. has continued. I managed to migrate to the US on a work Visa, and have lived in America for the last 25 years. Both the friends have grown older, reached our senility and have come to terms with life. Our children have come of age, got their decent education and have prospered.
Life must go on….We have continued to remain friends, brothers and blood brothers….and now reminisce about the wonderful days we shared together for sixty years or more. If I could, I would be happy to relive the same life one more time, with my bosom ‘bondhu’ Tanvir Khan! (Continues)
Read: Memoirs: What’s left behind…
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The Bengal-born writer Nazarul Islam is a senior educationist based in USA. He writes for Sindh Courier and the newspapers of Bangladesh, India and America. He is author of a book ‘Chasing Hope’ – a compilation of his articles.
