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...