By Nazarul Islam

England were at home, but it didn’t come. The gem of a team did not flower in the hothouse of a final but, after a sublime initial burst of energy, shrank further and further as the game went on. The Queen had already signed her congratulatory message, as the nation sensed victory. And then, there was a longing for glory all around them. The perfect weight of Harry Kane’s cross field pass, the magnificence of Trippier’s cross and Luke Shaw’s half volley was that longing expressed in football perfection. A moment had seized in time. And then there was nothing…

The English team turned away from glory. They retreated from a dazed Italian team. They could not tap into the wave of demonic national energy and were thus consumed by it. Sending out two players who had not kicked the ball in open play and a 19-year-old to take penalties was a cruelty that none of them deserved. Gareth Southgate builds his philosophy around bravery, kindness and ambition and none of those virtues was present in the last 75 minutes of the game.

So, the final was not a new beginning but another chapter in a long story which might also be called a chronicle of a death foretold – That foreboding of heartbreak to come and an unrealized beauty.

As a child, I had accompanied my uncle to watch Dacca’s favorite—The Aga Khan (Gold Cup) Football Tournament. I also have the first memories of a confused sense of weirdness and impending heartbreak, again tied up with football, and particularly Indonesia and Iran, the best overseas teams in the race for the Gold Cup.

I can still see through my thirteen-year-old eyes, the fuzzy screen of our big fat black and white telly in the lounge with its dodgy aerial. The only clarity was an intense white dot when you turned it off. My brother insisted that I lay completely still on the floor while we played so that I wouldn’t disturb the picture. I remember the blurred insanity of the ball bouncing down off the crossbar and my overexcited confusion as the players ran in dreamtime. I lay on the floor crying, lying completely still. It was all too much.

The European Cup Final must have turned that way for many young game lovers, all over the world!

Perhaps, this was also my first experience of heresy. There was the shock of hearing German Jewish relatives say it wasn’t a goal, that the ball did not cross the line. That sent me into a spin from which I’ve never really recovered. What did they mean Russian linesman? And then there was the lingering heartbreak of Jimmy Greaves. I was as sure as you could be sure of anything that he was the greatest striker in England and he was dropped from the team in favor of a West Ham player.

He said that when the final whistle blew he felt like the loneliest man in the world and that he was never the same again. Well, that could have made the two of us. It was the beginning of a lifelong argument with the FA management that defined the outcome of this tournament – A reluctance to trust the wild brilliance of English football.

I was a far more mature nine in 1970, and armed with a full Esso collection of world cup player coins collection that I proudly shared. It took me ages to get Paul Reaney, and he broke his leg and couldn’t even go to Mexico. I would stare for hours at the profile of Frances Lee and Colin Bell, Terry Cooper and Peter Bonetti – And all the feelings of heartbreak and weirdness.

Bobby Moore got arrested and jailed for four days for stealing a bracelet in a Bogota hotel. What was that all about?

And then the ecstasy of going two goals up – Back Home, they were really behind them when they were far away. And then it all fell apart – The numb awfulness of Germany equalizing and then scoring the winner in extra time. English fans must have felt like they’d jumped off a mountain and was falling through space. Something inside died and one couldn’t really engage for two decades after that. That feeling that something was going wrong and no one was doing anything about it.

The Englishmen couldn’t even qualify for the World Cup in the Seventies and the cameo appearances in the European Championship were fleeting. It seemed they were playing football in a parallel universe. The big number nine, the concrete feet. Obviously, they appeared to be simultaneously brutal and naïve. It was something unique and completely dissatisfying.

Don Revie disappeared in a puff of Saudi smoke. Tony Curry. And even when they had finally qualified in 1982 they wouldn’t play Glen Hoddle. It seemed obvious that English Football did not trust English footballers who were touched with the gift of passing – Nor the dribblers.

Blame the management not the workers. In the Eighties it felt like there was a systematic loathing of working-class culture in our politics, economy and football. I had also clocked on for ‘86 and witnessed the two faces of Maradona but never felt that we were any more than a walk on part in his apotheosis.

(To be continued)

Nazarul Islam

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 recently published book ‘Chasing Hope’ – a compilation of his 119 articles.

The post Football Fantasies…. first appeared on Sindh Courier.

By Nazarul Islam

Less than a mile from my house in Dacca lay the city’s Christian Cemetery, with its broken graves of Europe’s men and women. Five decades ago, I had made it a routine to visit this lifeless, cemetery that had already started to ruin. A notebook in hand I copied the drawings of old, fascinating graves and tombstones. I also copied the scriptures etched in faded English or Portuguese. I had saved them perhaps, for a future reference or recall.

Books reveal that this Christian Cemetery was developed mainly for the European traders and their families, thus most members of the East India Company lie buried there. The oldest grave there belongs to Reverend Joseph Paget, minister of Calcutta, who died there in 1724 at the age of 26.

This historical graveyard had been in a declining state since the early 1800s as noticed by both Reginald Heber, and F.B. Bradley Burt, although the decay had a more emotional romantic appeal to him. The original road layout of the cemetery has faded away with time, but it can be understood that a couple of straight roads intersected to make a path system within the network. The tombs were jumbled into a group to form one or two clusters, while making it hardly visible to visitors.

The structures built on top of graves had given me a strange vision—of dripping stone walls in uninhabited castles and of ivy-clad monastery ruins by moonlight, of locked inner rooms and secret dungeons, dank charnel houses and overgrown graveyards, of footsteps creaking upon staircases and fingers tapping at casements of howling and shrieking, groaning and scuttling and the clanking of chains, of hooded monks and headless horseman, swirling mists and sudden winds, insubstantial specters and sheeted creatures, vampires and bloodhounds, bats and rats and spiders, of men found at dawn and women turned white-haired and raving lunatic, and of vanished corpses and curses upon heirs.

When we visit a graveyard for the first time, it is scary and we take a different vow: Never to visit again. I was in my early teens and had read the legendary Elegy written in a country churchyard by Thomas Gray. In those days, I used to tell my mother that we friends would study together for exams but instead we would roam about the Ulsuru Lake.

Out of sheer curiosity, one evening, “The curfew tolls the knell of parting day” as per Grey, I found myself in the Narinda (or Wari) graveyard having entered there by mistake through broken boundary wall.  Initially, I didn’t know where I was till I found a few alabaster stones with by-gone dates and a few simmering mounds of earth with firewood in the yonder. I had held my breath and ran through the length and exited by the Railway line.

I had restored myself with some roadside snack and returned home. But had vowed never to visit graveyard remained.

Of course, this vow was very short-lived, as I had to go there and to other burial locations in Azimpur, dozens of times as I lost several loved ones including my father, and my grandfather, uncles and aunties, as time went by.

But, what took the cake was visiting a graveyard without any compelling sad need. Charles Tucker my former English teacher at Notre Dame was driving me to Southampton to his brother’s home, and suddenly asked me, “Do you wish to stop by Stoke Poges, where Thomas Grey was buried.”

I remembered reading about the Churchyard, where Grey’s mother was originally buried and which probably influenced his poem. So we stopped, spent a while in the graveyard and the church where his poem is inscribed on the walls. Of all the lines, the ones which make a deep impression are:

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow’r,

And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave,

Awaits alike th’ inevitable hour.

The paths of glory lead but to the grave!

Well, needless to elaborate…The dead only knows their world. Graveyards have the dignity of air, and the authority of dust…

Nazarul Islam

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 recently published book ‘Chasing Hope’ – a compilation of his 119 articles.

The post The authority of dust…. first appeared on Sindh Courier.

To avert further impoverishment, fragmentation and conflict throughout the subcontinent, it would be essential for future leaders in Delhi, Dacca and Islamabad to thrust aside present divisions and acrimony and join hands out of necessity in their search for fresh ties and institutions that would enable them to attack overriding common problems in dignity and peace.

By Nazarul Islam

It was just another winter… not of discontent, but the one after the winter of 1971. I vividly remember, a half-moon smiling dimly in the silhouette of darkness all around the city. And the sweet fragrance of the night-flowering jasmine pervaded the atmosphere.

I can recall my exact location that evening in Dacca. This city had emerged from the chaos that followed the war of liberation.

Impressionistic images of people and places and events have kept moving by in my consciousness. For nearly five decades, these were etched in memory and permanently embossed. All this helped me to understand the depths of time, matter and existence.

That night, I saw no taxis or baby-taxis (auto-rickshaws) or cycle rickshaws on the roads. A sinister silence pervaded our lives. I was walking, fast paced towards the city’s famous racecourse. This vast esplanade was bathed in silvery moonlight. A huge boat-shaped platform erected for Indira Gandhi’s last visit to the capital glistened in solitary splendour with petunia-shaped loudspeakers pointing out on all four sides.

The nation’s founder Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman was due to make his first ‘anniversary of liberation’ speech the following (victory) day. I noticed a few armed policemen guarding the rostrum and I quickly retraced my steps. It was only then that I realized that I had neither met anyone on the road nor heard the usual hustle and bustle, typical sounds of an Asian city.

An occasional truck thundered by and a rickety motor rickshaw, we liked to call ‘scooter’, spluttered on its hurried journey homewards – Nothing more. I felt that I could have been in some remote village: dogs barking in the distance and packs of jackals baying at the moon. But this was Dacca, the new capital of Bangladesh.

I reached the Intercontinental Hotel, located on Mymensingh Road, only to run into my childhood friend, since kindergarten, at the St Francis Xavier’s — Fazlur Rahman (Shamim), a college student (today’s retired business magnate). Strangely though, I also ran into a Bengali journalist who had arrived from Calcutta.

‘Have you been out at this hour of the evening?’ he asked me in a tone of grave horror. ‘My dear brother, you must be careful. In any case, if you must go out after dark, be sure to leave your money and your watch somewhere else.’

Nonsense! I snapped in exuberance and quickly returned to the crowded lobby. I recalled my earlier visit to this doyen of a hotel that was entrenched in the birth of Bangladesh, nearly 11 months ago.

The airport had been in ruins: deep craters adorned the runway; charred skeletons of Indian and Pakistani fighter planes, broken glass reflecting the sun’s ray during the day. What had been the Pakistan Air Force mess hall was transformed into a heap of rubble in which some airmen had reportedly been buried.

Nearly a year after the independence of Bangladesh, the airport seemed to be in a good shape. The buildings were repaired. There was little trace of damage anywhere.

I also recalled the vengeful mood of the citizens only a year ago. The shuttered shops of the non-Bengalis, who spoke a different language — people, who were called the Biharis, sided with the Pakistanis; the barbed-wire encampment behind which they lived in terror of reprisals; the bayoneting of four ‘Ansar’ collaborators. Bangladeshis were also angry with the Chinese and the Americans and exhibited their passions.

Chinese restaurants were closed. Slogans condemning the United States for sending its Seventh Fleet into the Bay of Bengal were plastered on many walls.

I also recalled the scenes of jubilation. In the markets, people shook their hands, embraced each other and rejoiced. Street children shouted, ‘Joy Bangla (Victory to Bangladesh)’ and ‘Joy Hind (Victory to India)’. It must have been great for any Indian to be in Dacca during those historic and festive early years of Bangladesh.

The naked reality stared boldly to mock all those present — truly the newly independent Bangladesh had been in shambles. Its roads and railways were out of commission because most of the bridges had been blown up. The nascent country’s vital river transport system almost stood at a standstill because a large number of ferry boats and steamers had been sunken by occupant, enemy forces. And then, there was the scarcity of food that had bothered all because standing crops had been burnt.

Reportedly, three million men are said to have been butchered in cold blood. And nearly 10 million had been forced to seek refuge across the borders into India. At least, 300000 women had been ravished and many of them left pregnant. I recalled all this but also saw hope in the eyes of Bengalis — something that naturally emerged as soon as Bangabandhu (friend of Bengal) Sheikh Mujibur Rahman returned from his confinement in Pakistan. Soon, it seemed all would be well in Bangladesh.

I remember suddenly to have been awakened by the muezzin’s loud call for prayers. The previous year, I could not hear it once during the bedlam of war. Perhaps that day, there were too many Sikh and Hindu soldiers in the vicinity of the independent land which rendered it to be safe for Muslims, who had wished to proclaim the glory of Allah. Now mosques were fixed with PA systems. At 5:30am, while it was still pitch dark, the faithful responded and joined together after similar calls to prayers had flowed around from a thousand minarets.

An hour later, an acquaintance offered me tea, biscuits and a copy of the Bangladesh Observer. ‘Good morning, young man!’, he greeted me in English. I replied ‘Joy Bangla.’ He looked embarrassed. ‘Don’t you say Joy Bangla anymore?’ I had asked him. ‘How can I say Joy when I have to pay twice as much for rice and fish, four times as much for clothes? I used to smoke 10 cigarettes a day; I haven’t smoked one in the past 10 days.’ Before I could ask him why, he was gone.

In the nascent years of the nation, the big question that bothered many economists and political analysts, both within and outside the government, was just how much money and effort would it take to build a new nation from scratch and to keep it afloat and moving.

By this, the proud Bangladeshis meant: how much money and material would India be requiring to pump into the new country of Bangladesh, the nation that India’s brave leader Indira Gandhi helped to create in her war against Pakistan?

It was just one question that Prime Minister Indira Gandhi was known to have pondered long and hard and this was something which Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, the prime minister of Bangladesh, had been so deeply concerned about. The economics of one country, India, would directly impact the politics of Bangladesh, a new neighbor that was created through a bloody war.

According to figures which were released by the Indian government, the cost of supporting and sustaining the 9.0 million or so East Pakistani refugees who came over during the months of March to November the year before was more than $700 million, of which about $250 million was to be contributed by foreign governments.

Finance ministry officials in India pointed out that in order to make Bangladesh’s economy viable, India would have to pour nearly $2.9 billion annually into Dacca’s deep pockets for the coming five years at least.

Already, the Indian economy had begun to feel the strain of having to support a foreign economy. In order to meet the budgetary deficit of $700 million caused by the influx of the refugees, India Gandhi’s government levied $91 million in new taxes only the previous November on the people of India. All told, new taxes and levies were expected to fetch in an additional $568 million that financial year and about 60 per cent of which would be diverted to the newly established ally, Bangladesh.

This beautiful country, with an area of 143,000 square miles, ranked among one of the world’s most densely populated nations — a total of 75 million people and a per capita income of about $24. Rice and jute constituted the country’s principal crops. Of 35.3 million cultivable acres, 22.4 million, or roughly 63 per cent, were cultivated before the war. But Indian government officials iterated that fewer than 6.0 million acres could possibly be readied for cultivation that year. Roads, bridges, houses and airports suffered the greatest devastation during the war of liberation.

In that fateful year of 1973, Bangladesh enjoyed no internal security. According to a survey made by Indian army officials, between December 1972 and April the next year, 700,000 tons of bricks, 100,000 tons of steel rods and nearly 30,000 tons of heavy steel material were estimated to be needed to restore Bangladesh, at least to bring the conditions in the new country at par with situation that had existed in the fateful month of March 1971.

India was hoping that it would not have to bear the burden of reconstruction alone because the Indian economy possibly could not sustain an additional burden in the shape of the economy of Bangladesh any longer.

However, the economic problems created definite spinoffs, leading to some serious political problems. One important point had obviously been under consideration: how long would leaders of Bangladesh continue or want to continue receiving massive doses of aid from India, a country which some time ago in the past, was its bitter enemy when the new country of Bangladesh had been the eastern province of Pakistan and that day in time had to bear with the problems that undoubtedly arose from being economically dependent too much on India.

Also, the question arose: how long would political opponents of Indira Gandhi, notably the right-wing Jan Sangh Party, tolerate a situation where in effect the vitally needed resources were being channeled into supporting a foreign neighboring country?

And the crucial point was that for the moment, at least, there seemed to be no way out of the tunnel of a long-term economic commitment made by the worthy Indira Gandhi to Bangladesh.

The political stability of the new country depended directly on how well the country was restored economically.

If widespread hunger and poverty had been allowed to persist, extremist factions would have been bound to gain popularity, thereby undermining the power and control of the Mujib government. If that happened, chaos and anarchy were likely to set in and there could be a new outbreak of greater subversion. Under such extreme circumstances, would the nascent Bangladesh army take over the reins to restore law, order and control of the nation?

Indira Gandhi hoped at that point if at that time in the history of Bangladesh, when its survival had been under question, such nations as Britain, France and the Soviet Union, which had remained largely neutral or supported India during the war, would most likely take the initiative and come forth with large chunks of economic assistance for Bangladesh. That hope was the source of the independent nation’s trial and tribulations.

‘The scenario would be something like a doctor who had helped a woman give birth and then was entrusted with the task of taking proper care for the infant.’ I clearly remember how an Indian official sardonically remarked. Perhaps, that was the ominous way nations were born and nurtured while a cluster of other, large and powerful nations only needed to put their acts together and play ‘god, the great saviour’ in order to ensure the survival of a small and proud nation of Bangladeshis.

India’s support for full Bengali independence may have been made inescapable by the incredibly short-sighted and brutal policies of General Yahya Khan’s military government. But certainly no one, particularly the Indians, could have ignored the approaching dangers and problems that would erupt with the birth of Bangladesh.

Most likely, it was conjectured that the success of secession in East Bengal would touch off a chain reaction of separatist demands throughout the subcontinent in India as well as Pakistan. Kashmir inevitably would, in future become the bone of contention in India. And the secession of the eastern wing of Pakistan would provoke the people of Balochistan to follow the path of autonomy and self-respect.

Desperately poor and heavily overpopulated, then existing population of 75 million was expected to double in 20 years when the country of Bangladesh would perhaps become a breeding ground for domestic unrest and also a lightning rod for foreign meddling. There were deep apprehensions that it could also become a magnet for the Bengalis of India and a destructive influence on the delicate structure of Indian unity.

To avert further impoverishment, fragmentation and conflict throughout the subcontinent, it would be essential for future leaders in Delhi, Dacca and Islamabad to thrust aside present divisions and acrimony and join hands out of necessity in their search for fresh ties and institutions that would enable them to attack overriding common problems in dignity and peace.

As an emerging dominant power, India then assumed special responsibility in future to assert the moral leadership for reconciliation that had been so sadly lacking during the war of liberation. And Mother India would step out of the way to assist and extend favour whenever Bangladesh would be forced to march on a new path of trials.

It is never winter in the land of hope.

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About the Author

The Bengal-born writer is a senior educationist based in USA. He writes for Sindh Courier and the newspapers of Bangladesh, India and America.

The post A winter after the winter of discontent first appeared on Sindh Courier.

I feel there is something reassuring and safe about libraries. The thrill of discovery, looking for that elusive book, climbing the footstool to reach the top shelf to find a hidden gem and the sensory pleasure of the smell and touch of books are all part of the library experience.

By Nazarul Islam

My tryst with libraries began when I was probably nine years old, and my parents weary with two young children wanted to find a way of keeping us occupied while they got some well-earned free time! Once he asked an elder cousin to take me The British Council Library on Fuller Road, Dacca. This became a welcome destination of the 60s and my treasure trove of delight because sometimes I could walk full three miles to the place.

I found a new world and rejoiced in magazines like the Children’s World, Junior Statesman, the fairy tales and my all-time favorite – the children’s version of Superman

And sooner than later, my younger brother and I were hooked. Soon we had finished most books in the Children’s Section, in the prestigious library and then started our weekly Saturday ritual. On more than one occasion, In his second hand Vespa scooter, my youngest Chacha would take us to the Children’s library and the Balda Gardens, which boasted of a private museum.

In the Library, I would rush to devour the amazing collection of books and often had to be dragged out at 5 pm when the library shut and we were still in the middle of an engrossing story.

My visiting relatives from Delhi who were rich enough to visit us, Wasted no time in boasting about the mobile government libraries in Delhi. We were amazed to hear about Buses with loads of books with a driver and a librarian who would come to each area one day of the week and stay there for a few hours till people returned and borrowed books. What a brilliant idea it was.

Backtracking those wonderful days, I felt that the bureaucrat who thought of this fantastic initiative should be given a medal. Children’s Library for many years, offered me the joys of reading—stories of friendship, sacrifice, tragedy, sufferings, poverty and human kindness. There was heroism, treachery, evil and goodness and in the end good prevailed over the evil. There was always a moral lesson to draw, that I shared with my parents.

I enjoyed and looked forward to my library escapades till I was 12 years old. And, this was my staple source of Enid Blytons, Nancy Drew, William, Biggles, the classics and of course the Austen’s. All this was for a paltry one rupee library card that had to be renewed once a year.

How can I forget the train libraries? Again what an ingenious idea of a book loving Railway bureaucrat! As soon as we got into the GT express or the AJanta or KK express (as it was then called), for the long 48 hour journey, the first thing was to check out the tiny library in one of the compartments and borrow four books to be read on the top berth of the train, oblivious to everyone and anything else. Whenever we visited relatives in India, we looked forward to travel on trains that carried Children’s books.

My school library was full of interesting books by English authors. My love for English literature started because of my teacher Br. Thomas O’Keefe who generated our particular interest by telling us some wonderful stories, backed by references to available books in school library.

He was also the librarian with whom we would earnestly discuss the works of Suitable authors for our age. Later, in Senior Classes, he accepted me to assist him as his assistant Librarian of the school Library—a coveted post, that made feel proud.

Beginning from here, onwards—looking for quaint libraries in every city has become a passion. I have been fortunate to visit nearly 60 cities in 45 countries. I was required to visit overseas to promote academic collaboration, curriculum exchange and training programs. I worked for a British Charity which promoted Skill Development Programs in Pakistan, Bangladesh and Nepal.

In the course of my work, whenever, I had chanced to visit New York, London, Amsterdam, Sydney or Zurich—I took time to visit the decor and glamor of the huge libraries, particularly the institution’s Children’s Section. I always enjoyed visiting the International Cultural Section, which offered information

I was able to pass on an enhanced level of interest for books to my children. All of them enjoyed the visits to book stores and libraries. When, the Islam family migrated to US, they found themselves at home in the nearest libraries that boasted of exciting sections for children and young adults. Their regular visits catalyzed their strong interest to their education, and career development. Perhaps, this habit was instrumental in career development. All of them excelled in life.

On a Training Session in the UK, I was delighted to live in a flat that was a 10-minute walk from the Manchester City library with its 1850s architecture and a great selection of books on science and art read between cups of hot chocolate from the library café.

I feel there is something reassuring and safe about libraries. The thrill of discovery, looking for that elusive book, climbing the footstool to reach the top shelf to find a hidden gem and the sensory pleasure of the smell and touch of books are all part of the library experience.

Children’s libraries with reading areas, in particular, lead to voyages of adventure to rich imaginary lands for every child, regardless of gender, income, disability, caste or religion. It is hence such a wonderful initiative that in the small urban centers of Karachi, and Dhaka, the Government started new rural children’s libraries this year, some of them with books in Braille.

Once again the brilliant brainchild of a book-loving bureaucrat!

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About the Author

The Bengal-born writer is a senior educationist based in USA. He writes for Sindh Courier and the newspapers of Bangladesh, India and America.

The post An everlasting love affair…. first appeared on Sindh Courier.