The Last Wish

“Once upon a time in a fairy land…..” No , this is not a fairytale, but it has got shades and colors of one. This is the story of a man and his passionate wish – a tale of a bygone era starting from the end-days of the British Raj and ending in the  new century in a rapidly globalized modern India, it is a unique story of Life coming full-circle; of  a man’s desperate quest for his roots and for his home which  had been snatched away from him.

My Father-In-Law was born in a small village of Kushtia, now in Bangladesh. Famous for the 19^th Century mystic Lalon Fakir, the mighty river Padma has blessed this area with an unmatched abundance.It was admist this abundance that a small boy was growing up, when all of a sudden dark clouds of tragedy visited his family.The year was 1947, Britain was in Tatters, the British were leaving India ; they decided to strike one fatal blow to their erstwhile colony. The country was to be Partitioned  on religious basis into two new countries- India and Pakistan. A sea of humanity would be uprooted and displaced, families would be wiped out and countless rendered homeless. This small boy and his family would meet such fate, although theirs would be far less tragic than that of many. They would resettle at a small sub-urban town near Calcutta, not far from Kushtia. Peering from across the barbed fence that had been erected overnight, the boy would be lost in the reverie of the home he had left behind across the barbed fence.

Fast forward to the new century , the dawn of this century saw a mighty India arise, having forgotten the pains of colonization and partition.Indian economy was  Registering a phenomenal growth rate of around 8% year after year, Indian companies started  opening up overseas offices and transforming themselves into “Indian Multinational” companies. Its footsoldiers were traversing the globe in chartered flights and Jet planes , like the retinue of Indian Merchants and sailors who had done so  ages back in Big Ship. As a child of this globalization, I was no exception. My company opened a Operations Centre  at  Dhaka, the capital of Bangladesh, and I was transferred there for an year’s time. My Father-In-Law was one of those  few people who actually celebrated this transfer, drowning the sea of skeptical voices who questioned what I would be doing in a country which had been in the Indian public opinion  for wrong reasons. “ Settle down soon, and I am on my way” , he said, – On his way to return to his village, back to those fields where he played and frolicked, back to those days when 60 mins made an hour, back to those sunlight washed verandah of his house where the Durgapuja used to be performed every year with great pomp and grandeur.

However destiny had very different plans for all of us, my father-in-law was a cancer survivor, the effects of radiation and chemotherapy would gradually wither him away. A few weeks before his death, he made his last wish; being pleaded by his eldest daughter to come down and stay with her at Sydney for advanced medical care, he replied, “Kushtia it is, I wish to recover soon , get back to my little village and relive those golden days”.But the wish would remain a wish only, within afew days he was relieved from the unbearable pain and suffering he had so majestically borne for the last few years.

According to Hindu death rites, the lifeless Body is consigned to the flames, and the ashes floated down the River Ganga. The river which gives life to millions , also gives them solace and emancipation after death.  However my communist Father-In-Law never lived by such faith , after death when suggestions were floated for doing so, his family felt the comrade’s soul might object to our doing so , he might infact return to haunt those who carried it out. Accordingly a compromise was worked out, while a portion of the relics were to be immersed in a small river that flowed by his house, the remainder would be carried back to Bangladesh, and immersed in the Majestic Padma which flowed near his erstwhile village , and which was an offshoot of the Ganges.

It was journey time for us, journeying to the interiors of Bangladesh , a lazy morning  saw us arrive at a suburban town called “Bheramara”. Now it was a total journey into the unknown. Imagine searching for a village with only the memories of a man in  his eighties – Description of  pre-independence era Subdivison Mufassal towns , kotwalis(Small Police Outposts) and villages; story  of a small river flowing through the village  didn’t help either. We asked the locals about the village, “Jhaudia”, it turned out that there were three  villages of the same name, all within a 10 sq mile radius!!However we were lucky, the locals recognized the pre-independence era Kotwali and subdivision town still existed; the river was also identified, but sadly, like many other small rivers of this riverine country,  it had also dried up. Armed with local info, we rented a small three wheel drive, and embarked on our “Discovery of your roots” journey .Dawn was just breaking out and the serene idyllic villages of rural Bengal were just waking up. Smiling farmers on the way to their fields helped us out with directions.

After about an hours sojourn through some of the greenest landscape in the world, we were at our destination. A small motley rustic crowd surrounded us , curious to know why we were searching for a Hindu family in their village, where there was none. We explained to them the purpose of our visit, we told them about my Father-In-Law’s  grandfather   being rich landowner   in this village. An elderly man recognized him.”Oh you are searching for Nagen Babu’s house, where have you come from ?”, he asked,  On telling him that we were from India,the villagers became suspsicious, had we come to claim these lands under the infamous “Enemy Property Act”, they wondered. We could sense a certain degree of resentment in them.One person came forward and said that he has the lease papers for farming in  “Nagen babu’s” erstwhile estate land. We had to convince them that we had no such intention; that gone were rich landlords, gone was the zamnidari system itself, theirs lands gone as well. It took some time to convince them, once they were convinced , they welcomed us with open arms. We were taken around and shown the stretch of land on which stood the Huge  Mansion.Time the great leveler had razed it to dust.The remnants of the house was used as construction material by the villagers and the land used for cultivation. The villagers regaled us with anecdotes about the house, we in turn told them the story of a dead man’s “Last wish”. It touched them so much that one person exclaimed, “What a tremendous attachment and love it is – This love for one’s  land, you may leave it and travel far and wide, but be it in your lifetime or after it, you will definitely have to return”. The rustic had summarized our story like none.

Time was sparse, the purpose of our visit to this place only partially accomplished. My Father-In-Law had returned to his village, now it was time to immerse his ashes in the Padma – the sacred river formed by the confluence of two Great Sub-continental rivers- the Ganga and Bramhaputra. As the  tranquil river carried the urn containing the mortal remains in her bosom , we offered our prayers , “ Go forth to where there is no more darkness and death, go there where there is no more separation and its accompanying tears, your Last Wish has been fulfilled, now Rest in peace”.

Arjuner Khal

There once lived in a small nondescript village of Bangladesh,  a man called Arjun. He was a simple person, with a few acres of farmland. Blessed with abundance of water, Arjun's  farmlands  gave enough  produce to keep the family going throughout the year. An exceptionally strong man , Arjun would work hard in his fields throughout the day, come home in the evening, relax  under the starlit sky and watch his children playing around him. Kind-hearted and good-natured, Arjun was loved by one and all.

It was one of those years, when the rainfall was below normal. Sensing tough days ahead, Arjun decided to dig a canal to get water from the nearby Madhumati river upto his fields. Along with a friend, he hired a group of around 10 daily wagers to do the job. It being the blazing days of summer, the group decided to start work very early and wrap off  early. Accordingly they decided to be at the field next morning  during  the Azan(call) of the First Namaz(Islamic Prayer) , which usually is at around 3.45 AM. Arjun’s friend Fazal told him that he would bring the group of laborers to his house at that time. Together they would leave for the fields.  Arjun finished his dinner with his friend and bade him good-night.

Next day, when the night was still dark, Arjun heard  a knock. Startled by the  knock at dead of the night, Arjun wondered who was at his door. The table clock  showed 2.00 AM. He heard an indistinct voice calling out his name. Was that Fazal? But why at this unearthly hour, was Fazal calling him? He went out with a small kerosene lamp. In the dim light , he saw a form which resembled Fazal, but which was covered from head to toe with a Chaddar(Light  Shawl). “Is it you Fazal?”, Arjun asked. “Yes Arjun, sorry to have arrived so early”, the voice replied.”The chief laborer came to me after I returned from your house and said that he wanted to start  earlier than  decided”. “Fine, if that’s so, lets get started”, Arjun replied. He picked up his ploughshare, took with him a small packet of food, the lantern and left for the field.     

There was something eerie about the night. It was pitch dark  all around. Far away a Jackal was howling. It seemed that  something sinister would happen. Arjun started feeling a little uncomfortable. Fear was something alien to him. But tonight, he started getting creepy. As he kept moving, he noticed something which puzzled him. It was Fazal. Why was he not removing that cloak of his? It was a mid-summers night, temperatures were running high.  Why then this cloak? Also, Fazal was behaving very strangely. He seemed to be maintaining some  distance from Arjun, as if something about Arjun was scaring him . “Brother Fazal, what is the matter?” Arjun asked, “Why are you moving so slowly?”. “Nothing Arjun, just got  lost in my own thoughts. Brother, why don’t you relieve yourself of that massive iron ploughshare of yours”, Fazal  replied.  For a moment Arjun thought of reliving himself of this burden. But then something deep within him forbade him to do so.”It is OK Brother, I will carry it”, Arjun replied. Although he couldn’t see Fazal’s face in the dark, he instinctively felt  Fazal’s displeasure. They continued ; after sometime Fazal  again repeated his offer of carrying the plough, this time albeit much more aggressively. Now Arjun sensed something was wrong. He turned around, and tried to see Fazal with the faint light of his lantern. Fazal jumped back , as if he was stung by a scorpion. “Don’t you do it again, don’t you bring that mass of fire near me”, the figure from the cloak howled. The voice was not Fazal’s. Arjun now realized what was going on. This was definitely not Fazal. This was something Evil, some disembodied spirit which had taken the form of Fazal to lure him to the field and kill him. Now it made sense; he understood  why Fazal was trying to take away the ploughshare from him. Iron scared evil  spirits. As long as that piece of Iron and the lantern was with him, the ghost wouldn’t be able to harm him. But what was he to do? Would he run away? No, it couldn’t be. If he tried running away, matters might come to worse. He decided to go to the field, he would pretend as if everything was alright. The first Namaz would be called  in another couple of hours , the sacred Prayers were known to dispel evil spirits. 

For the first time in his life, Arjun was mortally scared. Mustering  whatever courage he could , he moved on with the Ghost in the form of his friend Fazal following him. Once they reached the field, they started their  work. The ghost  volunteered, “Arjun, give me your ploughshare, let me start digging the canal”. Arjun refused firmly, “No Fazal, I will dig the canal, you clear the earth that is being burrowed out”. Thus they began their work, Arjun digging the canal, and the Ghost clearing the earth;  each pound of earth that it threw fell miles away. All the while the ghost told Arjun, “Rest awhile my friend, keep aside your ploughshare and rest awhile”, but Arjun knew that the ploughshare was his lifeline. The moment he stopped digging and kept the ploughshare aside, the Ghost would pounce upon him. Thus he continued digging  without a moments break. Within a couple of  hours , aided by the supernatural powers of the evil one , and his fears,  Arjun  had accomplished what would have taken an army of laborers atleast three days to achieve – his canal  was ready.  As he looked at the sky, he realized that dawn would set  in soon. The Azan for the Fajr Namaz would be heard in a while. Ah, Hold on yet a while brave soul, he told himself.

Around early morning, at the appointed hour, the  real Fazal turned up at Arjun’s door. Arjun’s sister was shell shocked to see him, she told him  the events that had happened since mid-night.  They both ran to the field, and saw what was going on. The sister was a very powerful lady, well versed in occult powers. She uttered a mantra(Chant) , the ghost ;let loose a cry of pain. He assumed his real form, a hideous dark monster, he yelled and he howled. In a voice that was bestial, he said ,”Arjun your ploughshare and your sister   saved you today  , but I will be back,I will have my vengeance. You wont be lucky again”. Saying so,  the ghost vanished. Arjun fainted, more from non-stop digging than fear. When he was  brought back to his senses he was surrounded by a sea of humanity. People from the nearby villages came running, the word had spread, Arjun had miraculously dug a Khal(Canal/Trench) overnight with the aid of a Ghost. Arjun became a celebrity , people named the canal as  “ Arjuner Khal”.

 Even now Arjun is alive;his  Khal  still exists. If you, dear reader,  don’t believe me, visit Lakhimpur village  of Narail district in Jessore division of Bangladesh. Probably on a moonless night,  standing near Arjuner Khal, you might chance upon a cloaked figure, waiting in the dark; waiting for some other  Arjun, waiting to extract his vengeance.

The Prodigal Son

My Father called him Kakumoni - The Crest Jewel among his Uncles. Barely seven years older than him, he was the youngest among my Grandfather's siblings. Charming, Handsome and having a noble bearing, Kakumoni was an extremely lovable person . But this lovable person had an extreme Life , leading it  like "A candle in the Wind". Kakumoni was "Born Free" - Free like the wind. 


This is a tale that dates back eighty years  to a rich aristocratic family of Chittagong. The Head of the family was a very famous lawyer of his time. Jogen Chowdhury, or Jogen Ukil as he was fondly called, was not only 
a famous lawyer of Chittagong court, he was also actively involved with the Indian Revolutionaries , aiding  them in their fight against the Mighty British Raj. The only earning member of the family, he had to support a large number of relatives who led an ostentatious life at his expense.  Jogen Ukil died at 
a very early age leaving behind four Children , the eldest one not more than 15 years old, the youngest only fifteen months, and a unlettered wife who couldnt even count money . Sensing a golden opportunity , the parasitic relatives rushed for all that was up for grabs, by devious means they usurped the entire property of the good lawyer, leaving his immediate family destitute. My Grandfather, the eldest of the siblings , took up the responsibility of the Family . A Brilliant student, he obtained a free education at the local school and meager financial aid from some kind-hearted relatives . Post Graduation, he obtained a job in the railways and was married to my grandmother, the eldest daughter of another wealthy and respected Lawyer of Chittagong , Rai Bahadur Janada Ranjan Dutta Sharma. The family situation improved and my grandfather was able to send his younger brothers to school. It was here that Kakumoni's life took a drastic turn.


The little boy was a Born-Bohemian with a heart as broad and pure as the blue sky above, a mind as colorful as the rainbow and a personality that tolerated no bondage. Extremely courageous and self-respecting, he 
couldnt brook injustice and slight. Kakumoni had spent much of his childhood among the open fields and broad rivers of rural Bengal, school life set admist an urban environ made him feel like a caged bird. He yearned to break the cage and fly away. At school he made acquaintance with a few boys of questionable character. Not good at concealing or hiding , he revealed his new found friendship to his brother and his wife. Alarmed, they warned him to sever his friendship . Kakumoni rebelled. He started being even more paly with this group. His Guardians rebuked him severely. He rebelled even more. There were a few among his relatives who started instigating him against his Eldest Brother and his wife. The simple hearted lad believed all that was said, his eternal bohemian nature popped up again, he started planning his escape. A good student, he now developed an intense distaste for education .

Matters came to a standoff one day; Scolded probably a bit more than normal, Kakumoni was Gone. Along with a few boys of his group, he went in and around Chittagong. Soon the scant finances they had were exhausted, the other boys returned to the safety of their homes, but Kakumoni cried, "How can I ever face Dada(Elder Brother) and Boudi(Sister-in-law). I can never return, and I will never return till I have become  worthy of my family". He was hardly in his teens then. Now began Kakumoni's GREAT JOURNEY into the unknown. Befriending a few sea-faring boatmen, he started living and working with them. These kind hearted simple folk developed a liking for this charming young boy and took him under their tutelage. Dressed as a boatman's son, he sailed far and wide with them and one day he arrived at Teknaf . Bordering Myanmar, Teknaf is the last bit of land in the Southwestern corner of Bangladesh. Situated on the Eastern bank of the Beautiful Naf river as  she flows languidly on her way to the ocean, it faces Akyab in Myanmar on its opposite shore. On an impulse, Kakumoni sailed into Akyab . Akyab was then a heavily forested region, home to fierce tribal groups. As luck would have it, while crossing a jungle, he was captured by one such tribe and taken a prisoner to be offered  as a Human-sacrifice to their Goddess. The tribal chief was quite pleased to see such a perfect sacrificial object. Kakumoni was to be slaughtered at the altar of the Goddess on a dark moonless night. Here again providence helped him. The tribal king had a large harem, it turned out that one of his wives was a Bengali. She quickly got to hear about the young Bengali boy who was to be sacrificed. Her maternal instincts got better of her loyalty to her husband, at the dead of night, she  set the boy free and helped him escape. Kakumoni arrived at  Akyab town, here he started doing odd jobs to make a living. Sometimes a cleaner in a roadside eatery, sometimes an errand boy, occasionally a vegetable seller, he tried everything to eke out a living. He could never stay long at a place, he now turned towards Rangoon, the capital of Myanmar. At Rangoon he resumed his odd jobs, when his attractive bearing and bright looks caught notice of a Bengali Pharmacist from Chittagong. He took  Kakumoni as his assistant and tutored him in the business of Pharmacy.


Kakumoni was a now a young man, a respected figure in Rangoon. He had married a local Bengali girl here, things were looking bright for the family, when all of a sudden they had to leave Rangoon for India. Myanmar was now under a military rule. The rulers  were expelling non-Burmese from Myanmar. Overnight, Kakumoni became a pauper once again. But he could never accept defeat, he started his life all over again. He travelled to Calcutta, thence to Assam and finally to Itanagar, the capital of Arunachal Pradesh, where he would eventually setup his own Medical store; all the while the faithful wife accompanying him through his ordeals.


After all these years , he lived upto his promise of meeting his Dada and Boudi after becoming worthy of his family name . His family had long taken him to be lost, some even believed that he was dead, his sudden appearance after nearly a decade caused a stir. The Prodigal son was finally back, back as a young man, his  innocence and childlike nature untarnished by the long harsh years in a Big Bad world. His large-heartedness would become a legend, there were instances when he would gift  his wrist-watch to somebody who happened to admire it. All these years, he had seen the good, the bad and the grotesque. Yet he never lost his faith on MAN. He never lost hope.  After all there was good all around, the good far outweighed the bad. And Kakumoni would vouch for the innate goodness in everyone till the end of his days - or was it that he could never see bad in anything or anyone? Well he is dead and gone, probably he alone would have known it. But he still lives on  as a spot of sunlight in the lives of all who knew him, and was blessed to have lived with him. 

Kakumoni

Beautiful Naf river at Teknaf - It was from Teknaf that Kakumoni
sailed towards Akyab in Myanmar

Chittagong - Where Kakumoni grew up

Akyab - Myanmar

Translations from Tagore

Tagore's songs are a world in them self. The heart wrenching love for God and the mundane love of a man and woman are found in equal measure in his songs. The beauty of Nature, as well as the pathos at the  condition of destitute humanity make for ingredients of his songs or poems. Truly, he is a world poet, no doubt the Chinese and Russians are as keen a student of Tagore as the Indians and Bangladeshis. Tagore loved his country passionately, yet he was a world citizen . He is the poet of the National Anthems of two countries, one country has a national anthem penned by his disciple. Here is my humble tribute to Kaviguru . I have tried to translate two of his songs in English, extremely gross and rough they will seem, yet its my work of Love for this Great Being.


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                                     EMONO DINE TARE BOLA JAYE




Emono dine tare bola jay
Emono ghono ghoro borishay
Emono dine mon’o khola jay
Emono megho shore, badolo jhoro jhore
Topono hino ghono tomoshay
Emono dine tare bola jay


Shey kotha shunibe na, keho aar
Nivrito nirjono charidhar
Du’jone mukho mukhi, gobhir’o dukhe dukhi
Akashe jol’o jhore onibar
Jogote keho jeno nahi aar




Shomaj shongshar’o miche shob
Miche jiboner’o kolorob
Keboli akhi diye, akhir’o shudha piye
Ridoyo diye ridhi onubhob
Adhare mishe geche aar shob


Tahate e jogote khoti kar
Namate pari jodi mon’o bhaar
Srabono borishone.. ekoda griho kone
Du kotha boli jodi, kache tar
Tahate ashe jabe ki ba kar
Bekulo bege aj bohe bay
Bijoli theke theke chomokay
Je kotha e jibone, rohia gelo mone
She kotha aji jeno bola jay




On this dark day…..When darkness seems to have been engulfed by darkness…..when the wind outside  howls with the Joy of Freedom….When clouds rumble , and the sword of lightning, having  been taken out from  the rapier  of dark clouds, shines with effulgent  brilliance  and occasionally rips  through the darkness and gloom of the environ around..on such a dark day can I open up my mind to her…Can I open up my heart to her….




My words are unheard to the world at large..Not a soul  gets to hear it…There is no one around…..We sit facing each other….The unrevealed   sorrow  in our hearts having filled its brim, tend to break its bounds. The sky, a mute witness to this pain,  lets lose incessant teardrops  from heaven,
Why does it seem to me now , that apart from us, nothing else exists in the world?


The world but seems to be a hazy dream to me now…The cacophony of the external world has suddenly vanished..Or was it ever there?
Using the Wine-goblet of my eyes, I drink deep from her lovely eyes…
With my heart alone do I realize whats going on in her heart
I have forgotten everything else..Everything else has just dissolved in this ocean of darkness..


How does this exhilarating joy of mine  affect anybody else..How does it trouble anybody else if it helps me forget my pain and sorrows…
In this dark day..ravaged by the waters from heaven….as we sit at a concealed corner of this house..forgotten by all..having forgotten all , if  we exchange a few soothing words..how does it affect anyone else??




The mad wind outside gets unrulier by the minute…
The occasional lightning, seeming more like brilliant waves rising  on the surface of the  ocean of darkness  , can be seen outside.
Those words which till now had been concealed  inside  the darkest chambers of my heart…
Let those words see the light of day on this very dark day…
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                         MAHABISWE MAHAKASHE MAHAKAL O MAJHE




Mahabiswe Mahakashe Mahakalo Majhe, AMi Manob ekaki bhromi biswoye bhromi biswoye,
Tumi acho Biswanatho , Osimo Rohossho majhe, Nirobe, Ekaki, apono Mahima Niloye, 


Anonto ei Desho Kale, Ogonno Ei Dipto Loke, Tumi acho more chahi, Ami Chahi toma Pane,
Stobdho sorbo kolholo, Shanti Mogno Chorachoro,
Eko tumi, toma Majhe, Ami eka nirbhoye.




Admist the boundless Universe…surrounded by the infinitude of space and time me  a mere mortal,  gasp with wonder, bewitched and bewildered.


THOU, Oh LORD of the Universe..The beginning and end of this creation..Oh LORD…
Thou art there admist every particle of this infinitude..covered by a shroud of illusion…
Cloaked by an unfathomable mystery.
Thou THE ONE WITHOUT A SECOND..thou art there…….admist eternal silence..pervading everthing..You do exist eternally in Your abode of eternal glory…


Admist the  millions of universe that exist like dust particles on the shores of time,
Through  the numerous constellations that  bejewell dark  space, 
You  look at me..And I look at You!!


The cacophony of the world around  has ceased to exist,
The sounds and noise of existence  gradually melts away,Entire creation is bathed in peace and bliss…
Admist all this....You the transcendent one, Only you do  exist….And I do exist in and through You..Oh LORD..THOU IN ME..I in THEE….All else has vanished…Only I do exist fearless and deathless.
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St.Martin's - The Hidden Coral Island

I love Islands and Island stories. My fascination for islands started with a small Childrens Picture book version  of Robert Stevenson's "Treasure Island". As I grew up,  stories of the uber rich owning private islands in the middle of the verdant blue pacific ocean fired my imagination. That "I must own one some day"  syndrome has already started showing signs  . Not that I have gone anywhere close to achieving it . "Huzoon Dilli Durast". Dilli is still far off. To atleat live the Great  island dream, I island hop whenever i get a chance. Islands like those mentioned in Treasure Island have a special charm about them; filled with dense vegetation, small hills all around ; probably remnants of a volcanic past , parrots of different hues, coconut trees ,  sea facing huts of fishermen colony   beckon me like nothing else . However crass commercialisation has stripped off most island destinations of these sights and scenes.  Most of the famous island locales have become "French rivieras". It was thus a pleasant surprise for me when I came to know of St.Martin's. Located about 10 kms off the extreme Southwestern Tip off mainland Bangladesh , bordering Myanmar,  St.Martins is a tropical island paradise. The whole island is filled with corals, thus the name "Coral Island".  Miles and miles of untouched Coral Shoreline , the sun ,the surf ,dense flaura and rare fauna  is what St.Martin's is all about. The whole island is not more than 8km2, shrinking to about 5km2 during High tide. Home to about 7000 people, mostly fishermen, this island doesnt have a electricity supply yet. 

The Ocean in and around the island is an amazing deep blue hued sometimes taking shades of emerald , very much like the Atlantic. 

The ideal time to visit St.Martin's is between October to February. Post these months, there is always the danger of cyclones getting you stranded on the island , or your steamer being rocked violently on turbulent seas. We arrived at Cox's Bazar , boasting of the worlds longest beachline - 125kms from  point to point , on a sunny April end. Braving such fears and the warning of well meaning locals, we decided to make the journey upto St.Martins. A bus takes the travellers to the last bit of Bangladeshi land called Teknaf. From Teknaf a 2 hour Cruise journey  takes you to St.Martin's. This Journey Sure is Fun!!! Our  cruise was quite romantically named the "Keari Sindbad". It was the biggest and best in its category. Usually there are about 4-5 steamers that operate in this route during the tourist season. Being off-season , with the flow of tourists having reduced to a tickle , the other steamers were out of service.  Having seated  ourselves comfortably in the main deck, it was time for a recee of the Cruise. A two storeyed liner, not ultra - luxurious , it was filled with young couples, some of them probably on their honeymoon , middle aged potbellied gentlemen and elderly ladies, comprising of the neo-affluent Bangladeshi middle-class. The Diesel engine struts to life, spewing out black smoke,the only eyesore in such peaceful and virgin environs, there is a Public announcement system welcoming you on board and briefing you about the journey. The steamer will speed up the River Naf which flows between Bangladesh and Myanmar, arrriving at the Delta of the River , thence it will be a rolling journey up the Bay of Bengal till the Coral island is in sight.

The Naf river rises in the Arakan mountain ranges of Myanmar, thence it flows through Myanmar and Bangladesh. Akyab in Myanmar is on its left Bank, Teknaf in Bangladesh is on its right bank. Outside the famed Sundarbans, the river is home to Sundari trees . Flowing between mountain ranges, dotted with little fishing boats, Silver Hued and wide as the heart of a Saint,  the river was in true sense the "Daughter of the Mountains". As the boat cruised through the Naf, Myanmar came into view, the 36X zoom of my Nikon P-500 revealed a beautiful land nestled at the foot  of sky kissing Mountains and dotted with beautiful pagodas, but fenced with tall barbed wire fences  all through. It was a reminder that this was a country which is warning the entire world , "Keep OFF". Cut off from the world for the last 24 years , Myanmar is an enigma in itself. We are all awaiting the day when Myanmar will be opened up to the world at large and tourists would flock back to this lovely place.

The journey upto the delta of the river takes around 30 minutes. The smooth ride now becomes rather rough. The steamer starts rolling, "Welcome to the Ocean". The waves play with the boat as a small child plays with his toy boat. The silver colour of the river is replaced by the deep blue and emerald green shades of the Bay of Bengal. Its a rolly ride  upto the island. People with nauseating tendency should take adequate precaution on such journeys.
The Boat drops us at main Jetty located at St.Martin's Bazar.It would be docked there till 3.00 PM in the afternoon. Passengers returning from the Island would need to board the steamer by then. Since we didnt intend to stay back, we had much to do within a couple of hours . 
 In such circumstances it is best to go with one of the numerous Flatbed Cycle rickshaws ; these anyway are the only mode of transport inside the island. Well decorated, with flat seats that will accomodate 3 people comfortably , these colourful rickshaws are unique to this part of the world. We were taken to a beach  on the Western  End of the island, very near the cottage of the famous Bangladeshi writer Dr. Humayun Ahmed. Even  for those who have been  to some very  exotic beaches around the world, this beach would  seem stunning. White  as moon beamlight, filled with dense vegetation, dead corals strewn all around ; some of them millions of years old ;  here was something closest to the Beaches of "The Lonely Planet". Miles and miles of sandy beach   devoid of merry making holiday crowd, water as clear as a crystal revealing the bosom of an ocean filled with  corals and  jellyfish, here and there a wooden boat just back from overnight fishing, fishermen proudly displaying their Catch , tiny picturesque sea-side huts of fishermen; these sights  regaled us . On Fullmoon nights,  the island devoid of man-made illumination,  comes to life; Moonwashed; there is a mystic aura all around. On moonless nights, the island is flooded  with millions of stars above and little fishing boats out in the ocean twinkling like stars on the ground. Weary travellers running away from Overhyped and over-crowded  travel destinations would find St.Martin's  to be a welcome break. 

Time constraint forced us to skip a few interesting to-do's. The biggest attraction of a night stay at St.martin's is the night sky. On a moonless night sitting under the sky, with the small generator powered light sources shutting down within 10.00 PM, the traveller is greeted by a spectacle so unseen in big Metro cities. The Canvas of the sky is fille dup with countless stars, it seems as if the sky will collpase due to the weight  of millions of diamonds embedded on it. You will surely be blessed by this sight, the illeffects of long city stay, will definitely be washed off. In and around the island are many sights to chose from.  There is a Sea Turtle Hatchery on the Western  Side of the Island. Scuba diving enthusiasts can go Scuba diving near the southeast end of the island . Chera Dwip  is another small island near St.Martins which is accessible during low-tide only.  For foodies there is plenty to chose from ,  Lobsters, Prawns, Fresh Sea-food. Try out Shahina Restaurant in the main Bazar area . It serves some of the best sea-food in the Island.

The day was drawing to a close. The steamer started is journey back to Teknaf. As I looked back at the fast receding shoreline of St.Martin's,  I pondered  whether this island would be still around when we are back. The future looks bleak for such Island paradises. With a fast rising Ocean level, many of them would be just fables like Atlantis. The time to act is limited and the work to be done is enormous. But each bit counts. After all "The Journey of a thousand mile begins with a single step". 

                                                       On the way to Teknaf

                                             
                                                    The Naf river is home to Sundari Trees.

                                               
                                                 Keari Sinbad - Our Cruise to St.Martin's

                                          Picturesque  Naf River - The Daughter of the mountains !!!

                                             The Naf flows through sky touching montains

                                              Burma - An enigmatic world!!
   

                                           Dead Corals strewn all along the Beach @ ST.Martin's

                                               
                                                            Coral Island!!!

Coral!!!

                                                  The Crystal clear sea bed reveals corals and Jellyfish

                                  

                                                      Flat Bed Cycle Rickshaws

                                                                      Lobsters!!!

How Blue is my Bay!!!

                                  Fresh Catch from the ocean!!!


(A special Thank You to Wiki Travel for some Factual Data)

Sapta Purush Jethaye Manush - Where seven generation of ancestors have grown up

Anthropologists say that the history of humans  is one of movement and migration. About 70,000 years back , our ancestors migrated out of Africa into Diverse places across Europe and Asia. It has been one unceasing migration for our kind ever since. Doesn't a popular theory say that a group of  cold steppe highland dwellers moved  into the abundant lands of  Iran and India to give rise to Aryan civilization? As late as the last century, fortune seekers, gold diggers and free men followed  Columbus into the Wild Wild West and turned it into the "United States of America". Migration has been a central theme of human kind, migration has made us what we are today, it has bestowed us our nationalities  and the accompanying good , bad and ugly.  The Great partition of the last century brought in its wake a huge exodus of a large section of humanity. An estimated 25 million people were uprooted and displaced , many would never cross the man-made borders to reach the new countries of which they were to become citizens. Well, this would probably tire out my readers, I know none likes to relive those nightmares. So lets spare the bitter memories. The gist is that two new nations were formed out of this partition in 1947, India and Pakistan. The newly formed nation of Pakistan would be further partitioned in 1971 to form the nation of Bangladesh. The Bengali majority of East Pakistan would rise against the imposition of an alien language and culture on them by the Urdu speaking West Pakistani rulers. The years leading upto the independence of Bangladesh witnessed one of the largest genocide in human history. In response to President Yahya Khan's exuberant declaration, "Kill three million of them , and the rest will eat out of our hands", the Pakistani army unleashed its version of "Mission kill three million" which would eventually lead to the butchering of around 200,000–3,000,000 people by official estimates alone; countless would be rendered homeless as refugees in refugee camps across India. Many would never see their home again, they would migrate to the safe haven of Neighboring India never to return. 


As a small boy growing up in the port city of Chittagong, my father had never imagined that  he would be caught in the vortex of this impending calamity. Even after the partition of 1947, my grandparents had refused to move out of the place  they called home. Chittagong, one of the oldest natural harbors of the world has  a 1400 year old history.  Ibn Batuta has recorded his travels through Sudakwan(Chittagong). This beautiful mountainous district and the District headquarter city of Chittagong has been blessed with nature's bounty. Mountains, Forests, Rivers and the Ocean, it is all there.One Chinese poem has described Chittagong as rising from "Mist and Water".  Few places of the world can boast of such abundance. The rolling hills  play with the Ocean in this playground of Nature. The ancestral home was situated on the banks of the Karnaphuli river, near the Delta. This mountanious stream, flowing out from the Lushai Hills of Mizoram, India,  flows 270 km through the Chittagong Hill tracts and merges with the Ocean at Chittagong city. My father thus grew up admist  the vastness of nature;  the hilly roads of Chittagong , the song of  the river about to meet its fullfillment ,  the roar of the ocean  - such sights and sound were his constant companion. The large ancestral house was filled with fruit laden trees . There were open playgrounds all around. Loving parents ,  Grandparents  and a little sister made up the ingredients of a happy childhood. My grandfather, a singer, writer and musician was a respected and honoured Chittagongian. The house was filled with cultural discussions and debates . The residents took to poetry and music as a fish takes to water. 


Since its creation in 1947, the repressive nation of Pakistan had started a state policy of exterminating Bengali culture and Bengalis  in general  and Bengali Hindus in particular. Sensing difficult days ahead , my father was sent off to Calcutta to continue his studies. He started living with his relatives. It was during school vacations that he would return to Chittagong. The 60s , were turbulent times.  My Grandfather, a  left leaning intellectual and musician, was arrested  by the Government on charges of fanning unrest. There were plans to persecute him. The Bengali police officials helped him escape from prison and eventually from East Pakistan. A section of the family comprising of his brother and his family  would stay back  to witness the horrific  events  leading to the creation of Bangladesh.
Throughout our childhood, our Grandparents , father and aunt would regale us with tales of the city they so loved. The hills, the river, the school named after my Father's grandmother, the court where my great-grandfather had practiced as a highly successful barrister, the sea-faring ship , the call of  port, the rocky Beach, the indigenous people of the Hill tracts, these became an inseparable part of our lives, much like the Fairytales we have all grown up with. I would always dream of returning to this land someday. Little did I imagine that the opportunity would come to me in the form of a transfer on official assignment to Dhaka in 2011. Within a few months after my arrival in Dhaka, my parents arrived on a short trip to Bangladesh and we travelled to Chittagong. It was a momentous journey for all of us, specially my father, who was returning  "Home" after nearly fifty years. He was excited as a boy. All throughout the train-ride  he kept on telling anecdotes about the place and the people. As the train chugged into Chittagong City, he could barely control his urge to get down from the running train and feel the "ground" beneath his feet.  Finally   the train came to a halt.  Our hotel had sent a car to recieve us at the station.  My Father started talking to the cabbie  in local Chittagongeese  language. The man was pleasantly surprised to find an  Indian conversing with him in a Language which Bangladeshis outside Chittagong hardly understand, leave alone converse.


The daylong journey and the  accompanying excitement of  what it meant to be here made for a hearty meal  and a good night's sleep. The next day we  were out,  trying to locate the places associated my father's boyhood and our relatives who had continued to stay here . Our first destination was the Family home located beside the river. With  great difficulty, we located the remnants of the sprawling villa . It was being razed to ground and in its place  a ugly skyrise was shaping up.  There was more dejection and disappointment in store. The virgin river had been encroached upon by greedy landsharks and  polluted by the numerous factories along its bank. The sleepy little idyllic hilly town had been turned into a raging industrialized metropolis. However the people around were extremely cordial. Bangladeshis are famed for their hospitality, there have been instances of totally unknown visitors like us being welcomed into a modest house for lunch or dinner. We were  welcomed like long lost kith and kin. We caught up with an old man, who  could recognize our ancestry. He reminiscenced how as a small boy , he would play near our house and take a dip at the pool adjoining it.  With the help of people like these , we were able to locate our relatives. It was an emotional reunion, since most of us were meeting each other  for the first time in our lives. They accorded us a warm welcome and fed us with the choicest Chittagong delicacies. It was a strange feeling, here were my own people, yet they were of  a different nationality. The notion of my own as people of my Country seemed to blurr for me. Borders lost their significance;  the concept of nationhood seemed to be irrelevant. Probably such feelings are common to Astronauts , at least when they look at the blue Planet  from Space. How else did Neil Armstrong say "A small step for a man, a giant leap for mankind" instead of "A small step for an American, A Giant leap for America". God knows, when such a day will come, when we will learn to recognize one another as a Big Earthy Family.

Chittagong - Rising out of Mist and Water 

A momentous Journey for my parents

                                       Reminiscences of an old man - The gentleman on the right recognized our ancestry

Remnants of our ancestral house

The Beautiful River Karnaphuli has been encroached by Landsharks.

Patenga Beach- Patenga, Chittagong

Family from across the border.

My Father goes Nostalgic!!

Where the river meets the ocean!!

The day was drawing to an end, we wanted to witness the sunset from Chittagong sea shore. Riding through the port city,  we arrived at a place called Patenga. Patenga has a rocky beach which was inundated by travellers and merry makers. It is at this Patenga beach that the Karnaphuli river merges into the Bay of Bengal. Seated at the delta point, with the sun making its descent into its nocturnal home somewhere beneath the  Ocean, I happened to video my Father's experience of this trip. It was a Priceless moment.He was sad to see his lovely little town being sacrificed at the Alter of "Progress", he thanked God for giving him the unexpected opportunity to be back "Home"  through his son, he yearned to return here again and again. After all, this was his land, the land of his forefathers, what did it matter if a man-made fence had somewhere been erected to  remind him that this was a Foreign Land. In the words of Tagore, "Sapta Purush Jethaye Manush, shey Mati SOnar Bara"..Where Ancestors till seven generations past have been born and brought up, that land is your very own, it is even dearer than Gold!!!

The Great Inflater

He was a  small village boy with Gigantic Stories. He had been to the moon and back, if you would go by his version. I met him through a  friend of mine at Dhaka. My friend had known him since their boy-years,  having grown up in the same village.Rab, as he was called, used to stay at Dhaka with a few friends and fellow villagers. A chauffeur by profession, Rab had the incredible gift of spinning stories of any length he wanted to . While on a trip to my friend's village, we got a chance to know the Great storyteller in him. He had accompained my wife, me and my Friend on this trip. It was a trip through the hinterlands of Bangladesh, crossing multiple rivers in ferries, Riding small micro buses , battery operated tom-toms and Rickshaw vans through some of the greenest villages I have ever seen. All along the trip, Rab  continued with his tales of the impossible.Our casual talk would be interrupted by his periodic intejection of which relative he had in which powerful office of Bangladesh. The bus would be passing by a military camp and immediately Rab would say , ""Dada, my uncle is the Commanding Officer here"....While crossing the majestic Padma, we were lost in a reverie , overwhelmed by what we say all around, the reverie would be broken by Rab's, "Dada, Yesterday Bangladesh lost the cricket match. I was at the Prime minister's office then, and I saw the President leave for the match."....Or this rather archaic sounding, "Dada, I will lend you my bike. You ride it....Dont you worry about the police sergeant and all..They are all my village folk. The DIG-Police is my uncle, You dont know the kind of power I have ".....He impressed quite a few gullible folks in the bus by his tales of District Magistrate  uncles and High Court Judge cousins. One of them introduced himself as a senior officer in a Nationalised bank and requested him to share his contact details.After the person alighted from the bus, Rab winked  at us and said," Says he is a Officer in such an important bank..Ha ha ..I can call his bluff..Just one phonecall to my Brother, who is the President of this bank should  be good enough".."But brother, how would you know his name. He didnt disclose his name or which branch is he based out of:",  my friend interrupted..."Oh brother, whats in a name..My Brother is very powerful. I would just need to tell him that this person looks like this, and he can sniff him out"...


Pscycologists say that people with big tales usually have some small feeling or inferiority complexe to hide.I dont know how true was it with this friend of mine, but I noticed that his tendency to fake increased in my presence. Probably he mistook me to be a topshot of my organization and thus tried to impress me.However, instead of getting impressed, I started dreading him.....I suffer from migraines,  the moment Rab would open his mouth, my migraines would be back.It was a trigger. So, to keep him off from his fantastic stories, I would try to broach some small topic, but Rab would take that topic as the foundation for his next "Dreamworks Production" and zoom off into the thin air...Pulling out one fantastic story after the other from his inhexaustible quiver. Savour this one, "So Brother Rab, are you riding your bike ? Hows the Old machine doing ? ' , "Dada, what to say of my bike and me..I was born to ride.Although i drive a car,  bikes are my passion".."Oh good, nice to hear that. Do you know, some people in India have started Bike Taxis...".."Dada, thats nothing new..I used to do it...I would be dressed in my Biking gear, I would wear biking boots, the visor of my Helmet lifted  and I would vroom off..I would take any highway I felt like and I would disappear for days altogether...All along the highway, I would offer ride to people in exchange of money..With the wind playing with my hair, I would be off to distant places with tourists and adventure seekers..." We, the listeners , would have to struggle a lot to contain a sceptic smile....


Now heres the last bit of the story. While returning from the exotic trip,  during which Rab had minced meat our brains and pushed our endurance to the limit, we happened to touch down at Rab's home as well. We had informed him that there was some work back home and that we would need to start for Dhaka early. Rab said, "Dada, I need to return earlier than you . I had accompanied you without telling  my Sir.Yesterday night he had called me up, he was telling me that he needs me to take him to Sylhet.You see, without me, my sir feels very insecure. He is the Chairman of The Zilla Parishad. I told him that I was off to my aunty's house at Savar, and that my aunt was very sick. So you see, what urgency i have to return . Its even greater than yours." Right, point noted. However i still felt apprehensive. We lolled around for an hour at his house giving him ample time to get ready. But to our surprise, even after an hour he showed little signs of embarking on the journey back. We reminded him that it was getting late, and he exclaimed, "But, we didnt have our lunch. How can we let you go without having lunch. Besides there is a cycling competition going on at the neighbourhood school, my cousin who is a retired police commisioner and the current president of the Panchayat is the chief guest. We will check out the race.".."But we will get late", I protested.."Dada, my urgency is greater than yours, we wont delay,  dont worry".Now my friend interjected "Brother Rab, you have no urgency to return, and neither do i see any seriousness on your part. You have been saying this since morning, but this is just another one of your regular bluff"....The medicine had its effect, we started back to Dhaka after our early lunch.But all the way back , Rab kept saying we should have gone for the cycling race. He  had missed out on an opportunity to show us how he and his friends would have been accorded a VIP reception. He would grumble and crib, and when he calmed down a bit, we would reignite the fire saying, "Even we feel sorry. We wanted to experience such a grand event. Its all fate "..And he would start the whole process once again. Even now , whenever I meet him, I just need to remind him of the cycling event, that brings out a whole host of stories and lamentations from him....... And when I listen to them , I wonder whether the economic  inflation in Bangladesh and India  is being caused by him? God knows, but here was certainly  a worthy nominee for  "The Great Inflater" title.

A river Named Sari

Ibn Batuta had called her The Blue river, she is a small mountain stream, flowing out from the Jaintia Hills of Meghalaya, India into Bangladesh, creating a natural  border between these two nations. Azure at Places, sometimes Emerald and occasionally  ochre , she was a canvas on which the creator had tried out some of HIS loveliest colours.....Crystal clear , she was like the mind of a Yogi, clear, serene , pure ....On  a trip to Sylhet, we had a chance to go boating on the Saree ....Boating right upto the Zero Point- The India Bangladesh Border..I had always tried imagining how does your country look like when you see it from the other side ..what goes through your mind, What are the range of emotions that possibly overpower your heart. I decided to find it out for myself. We were a 14 member strong team, comprising of my office colleagues and their family...An hour long boatride would take us up the river right upto the Zero point. The boat spluttered to life, its engine shattering to pieces    the dense peace that hung upon the surroundings...Gifting a gust of dark  smoke to the environ, the boat started its journey.  Summer had set in and the river had shrunk in size.  The river bank was covered with lush green vegetation, birds had created small hole dwellings all along it.The river was being quarried, boats laden with sand from the river bed could be seen all along the river. Labourers standing in waist deep water  were sifting sand and dumping it on small canoes.The water was so clear that we actually carried some of it along in a mineral water bottle, not a drop of dirt could be spotted. The river was dotted with little islands, the banks hosted some of the greenest tea gardens of Sylhet.I wondered how it would look like during the monsoons.The white clouds would probably be looming low trying to take a boat ride along this beautiful river....Would The river still remain  this Pacific,  or would  it  turn into a tempestuous torrent? The vegetation all along its banks would  probably become dense green...I was passing into a reverie, when suddenly out of nowhere Green mountains loomed out from the horizon. The boatsmen pointed out that these were the Jaintia mountain ranges, and that there in the distance was India...We were at point zero, Ah how beautiful my country looked from here, how near was she yet how far away...I didnt have my passport also with me, I ran a chance of being shot if i went  near the border. The Boatsmen showed us a warning board which read like  "This is a dangerous area", and that no-one should cross this point...Inspite of that warning, little kids were swimming beyond the zero point and into what was "No Mans Water"....How I felt like swimming across the border into Meghalaya---The Land of clouds, the crest jewel of India..In all these years, I had never been to our North-east, it was just another chapter in the Geography Books..But today I felt a strange love and longing for this Land..At the moment it was my only connection   with my country....I captured this unique moment in my memory and also in the digital memory of my colleague's camera.... I would probably relive this moment over and over again, and whenever the urge to crib and complaint about my nation would arise, these memories would probably desist me from doing so. 

The Emerald River!!!

There in the horizon looms India..So near, yet so far!!

A boat ride to remember

A trip to Jessore

The majestic River Padma has always fascinated me since my childhood. It was the fabled river which provided some of the best hilsa fish to a bengali household. It was the recurring theme of many Bengali movies like 'Padma nadir Majhi'. It was the river about which it was said, its an ocean in itself , one bank of the river is not visible from the other bank, it was the river which eroded its banks and anything on it with the hunger of a monster devouring its prey.However these were things I had heard of, the river being spoken of nostalgically by many Bengalis who migrated to India post partition. Stories of the river had acquired a sort of fairy Talesque proportions for me. This became still more vivid when my wife and myself went  to dine at a Bengali restaurant in Bangalore. This restaurant had made sincere efforts to introduce its guests to long lost Bengali cuisine. Admist the quaint sounding "Chicken dak bungalow", "Murshidabadi Murgir Rann", we chanced to spot a dish called "Goalondo Steamer Curry". Intrigued by the name, we decided to try it and read the details on the menucard.What I read, seemed to transport me to an era when life was pretty relaxed and slow. It spanned through an era when India was not yet devided into fractions called Pakistan, Bangladesh. The Imperial railways connecting the erstwhile British Capital Calcutta to Eastern Bengal terminated at a small station called Goalondo.Passengers disembarked here , crossed the Mighty Padma in steamers and travelled onwards till the great cities of east bengal like Dhaka and Chittagong.The Padma , as it is now, was then a dreaded river. Mighty and arrogant she had hurled many a steamer in rough weather down to her unfathomable depths. Passengers would offer prayers and board the steamer. It would be an overnight journey for many people. Thus there was a provision for dinner onboard. And this dinner, cooked onboard the steamer, would become a legend in the gastronomic world. Cooked by the boatsmen, it was a simple perparation of Chicken/Mutton curry, a bit hot I guess, accompanied by steaming hot rice. But the effect of this curry was amazing. Many of those who have tasted it long back in the 40's are still alive, they vouch that they have traveled far and wide, but have never come across anything as delicious as this. How? No, they cant answer that? Probably it was the breeze of the Padma that ignited their bellies and aromised the food. Maybe The sound of the water and the song of the Boatsmen and oarsmen also had something to do with it.


 Life moved on pretty fast after that evening, however the history of the steamer curry became entrenched in my memory in romantic hues. It was not long after, when my company transferred me to Dhaka,Bangladesh. Strange is the will of the Lord, I came back to the very place from where my grandfather had moved out in the 1960s, to avoid execution by the Pakistan army.In a few days time, I happened to strike a fast friendship with our guesthouse caretaker. Kajol, as he was named, came from a small village in Jessore. Unlettered yet enlightened, small village boy with a global outlook, fond of the Folk songs of baul Lalon Shah, he was a unique person. After getting to know him from close quarters, he became a sort of "Man friday" for me.He regaled me with tales of his village, of his little boy who called him up every morning and demanded he return home with lots of A(bb)les and oranges and Lighting Shoes, of the ferry he had to board to cross the mighty Padma to reach his village, of how every soul on board the steamer quaked when the sky darkened, the winds howled and the Padma began to dance a mad dance of death and destruction.

Colourful Fruit Bazars adorn the Mawa Ghat...

Fresh Catch from the River!!

The Mighty Padma regularly erodes its banks..

Crossing the Madhumati- A Small tributary of the Padma!!!

Taare Zameen Par!!!

Kajol and his youngest Son Ramzan!!

Sujalang Sufalang Malayaja Shitalang!!!

Wife!!

Now thats deff not a colgate smile...Few things on earth can bring such precious smile.

Nibir ati timir maya kunja!!!

Rural Electrification - Many Villages in Bangladesh are turning to solar power as a source of clean and cheap power

Ah to be a "Padma Nadir Majhi"...:)

Food!!! @ Mawa Ghat

These stories ignited in me the old urge to cross the Padma and visit Goalondo ghat.So, on one fine Bright Friday morning, we set out of Dhaka...Kajol, his friend named Rab accompanied my wife and myself on this exotic journey. We reached a place called Mawa Ghat. Travellers from Dhaka usually board steamers from here. Arriving at Mawa Ghat, we found it to be a  Foodies paradise. Small eateries, lined all along the road catering to the insatiable hunger of a race who probably Lives only  to eat..Fresh Hilsa from the river, Prawns, Pangash(A fresh water fish, extremely soft and succulent), U name it, and it was  there. I felt like Alice in wonderland...Unmindful of the growing day, we decided to 'Make  it Large'....  Food arrived straight from the Hearth(Literally) and we kept on ordering one menu after the other...I literally had to be pulled out of the eatery, otherwise I would have eaten up the shop as well. Now came the best part, crossing the Padma. Here was the great river, The river of many a tale, of many movies, of many a song, Here was the great river, sacred to me as a Hindu, dear to the millions dwelling on its banks, The giver of bounty and the Great destroyer..Ah, There was She...Unfathomable, verily an ocean in itself...Where were her banks, No it was not visible. Sparkling under the morning sun, the emerald waters of the Padma soothed our eyes....We took a Speedboat to reach the other bank. At this moment , a twist takes place in our plans. Kajol says that he hasnt gone home for the last 3 months. His wife who had got to know of our plans has insisted he bring us home....So, for the sake of a Friend and the lure to visit the beautiful  villages of 'Sonar Bangla' our plans were changed. We gave up our plans of Trying out 'Goalondo Steamer Curry', and headed towards Jessore ....Wow, this is what Travelling is all about, no set destination, no definite plans...Lets now return to the Padma Crossing...All along the river were islands whose sand was as white as Moonbeamlight.The river was the great Mother, providing a lifeline for the people of Bangladesh. Hundreds of Steamers   carrying people and Vehicles plyed its waters. The river eroded its banks and brought rich alluvial soil, blessing the land and people with bountiful harvest..
Children swam in its waters and played with it.... Eagles flew over her , circling the sun only to swoop down momentarily for fish....Fishermen oared across the river in small boats ...What a riot of colour and activity was there all around..How munificient the river looked under a Blue sky without a hint of any cloud..I tried to imagine how this gentle river could become a ravaging monster during rough weather...


The boatride took us around 30 minutes. We landed at a Place called "Kaorakandi Ghat  ". We would have to journey forward in crammed micro-buses, ride Battery operated Tom Toms, Cross a small river called "Madhumati' in a  ferry that had to be pulled till mid river by ropes, ride Rickshaw vans to pass through some of the loveliest countryside I have ever seen.  The long day was drawing to an end, the sun was setting in the western horizon, we were still on the way to my Friend's village. It was a lovely little road with trees all around, here and there small huts....Twilight had just set in, it was after a long time that  we were witnessing such ethereal beauty , the mystic light and shade effect of twilight heightened by the mystic words of my friend..."Dada, it is such beautiful out here, back there in Dhaka, when the day draws to a close, many thoughts, many memories flood my mind and as if set up a Big Marketplace out there..Oh that Aunty, how much she used to Love me, she loved feeding me, alas she is no longer alive ..And that friend of mine, he is no longer in my life, he would tell me this and that....When such thoughts come, I feel what is the value of life, it is only in doing good and being good...I pray to Allah that he give  me the power to serve and help others"....The simplicity and sincerity of his words , the peace and vastness all around transported me to  a world beyond the tension of work, of the strife all around, of the failures and troubles I was experiencing. Very Slowly as twilight faded and the night set in, glowworms lit up the road, and the stars gathered in the banquet hall of the night sky...Small stars here on the earth..and those millions up there, I couldnt help echoing Tagore, "In this great universe , through the vastness of time and space, me a puny Human being, traverse through all this wonder struck"...


It was quite late in the evening when we reached my Friend's house.Imagine the excitement of the household, the man of the house was returning after 3 months and with him comes city Foreigners from India.   We  were    immediately surrounded by a motley group of people, curious to see "Foreigners' who had come from the Big city. My wife was taken to the inner chambers , my friend's wife and other family members welcomed her like a sister. Tired and exhausted, i decided to answer the call of nature and have a bath...Well, what a bathroom it was, open air , covered with palm leaves all around  , the sky as its roof, water had to be taken along with U in a small pot, use the earth to cleanse your hand...:) But never before I had  used a bathroom, whose ceiling was adorned with millions of stars..Ah the beauty of it is past description. Fresh and invigorated, we had our dinner, prepared by the mistress of the house . .. Fish from the pond, rice and green vegetables from the Farm....Fresh, Healthy and warm.....After a long journey and such delicious food, sleep quickly overpowered us, deep sleep was the reward of this most satisfying but long journey.


The next morning, we woke up to the sound of roosters call and chirby children. My Friend, not more than 35 years of age, has  three kids , the eldest one being 10+ years and the youngest one being 3 years old..These kids were staring at us, as the liliputs would have looked at Gulliver all brought in ropes...Kajol quickly sent the eldest one with me to carry the water mug and  towel, while I  performed the morning ablutions. Bathing was performed in open paddy fields, under a irrigation well with the village folk enjoying the discomfort of the Country Sahib...All fresh and raring to go , we went out for a tour of Kajol's farm..The paddy fields, the coconut trees, the little cottages  surrounded by ample shady trees, wow , it was a feast for the eyes...Kajol got his son to climb up a coconut tree and bring Tender coconut for us. There was something very interesting which I noticed, Bangladesh is a high-demand low Power supply country. The current estimate in the demand and supply gap is around 1650 Kw.Cities donot have power for hours at a stretch, villages are severely hit. Thus  Bangladesh villages have gone all out for Solar power. Nobel Prize winner Dr.Younus's organization Grameen Group is carrying out yeomans service in rural electrification. I found even my friend  was using Solar Powered  lamps at his house. He informed me that Solar Power works well even during the Peak Monsoon season...Wonder if policy makers in Power starved Emerging Economies are listening?


The day was growing, the sun was climbing up the staircase of the heavens, it was time for us to leave. We bid farewell to our kind hosts, thanked them for the love and care they have showered on us. Kajol's wife was aggrieved that her Husband was going away so soon...The youngest child ran up to him and said that his Lighting shoes was out of order, that his "Father from Dhaka" (Thats how he adresses his Father when he is away from home and at Dhaka...:) ) should get him a new pair of shoes, more a(bb)les  and oranges next time around..He should also tell his elder brother not to beat him...We all assured him suitably, only then could we leave....The long dreary trip to Dhaka was on, the next day would be another  "Day at the office" filled with strifes, struggles, achievments and failures, but the peace that I was carrying back would probably help me sail Through all this...But there was one question that was haunting me, What is more preferable, a life filled with money and luxuries and the accompanying tensions or a simple life spent under the blue skies and bright sunshine filled with the fresh air of the countryside..I could hear Denver in the background, "Country roads take me home...To the place i belong...." Probably this is a  question best left Unanswered...