The Lushai village and a road coiled like a mitochondrion

After a little longer there, we went to see the Lushai village next to the helipad. In a small space they have presented their heritage beautifully, and many of us got busy taking photos in their traditional dress. Abul Kashem sir and Mihir Lal Saha sir arrived a while later, and Mihir sir gave us an important talk on the Lushai village and on Japanese culture, which we listened to attentively. He was also the first to point out how strongly lichens had taken hold there. After a look around we headed back to the resort for breakfast, and on the walk back I spotted some Cycas plants. Breakfast done, we packed up, said goodbye to the Darjeeling Resort and set out again for something new. This time the destination was Khagrachari town.

The chander gari rocked along, rising and falling with the waves of the hills, and I was enjoying today’s ride even more than yesterday’s. The road to Sajek has one peculiar quality: you can see where you are going from a long way off, it even looks quite close, but the road is coiled like a mitochondrion. The jeep goes right, goes left, swings round, and then you realise that after all that road you have moved only a little way forward from where you were. Little by little, in this way, we left Sajek behind and moved towards Khagrachari.

On the way the children were waving tata again, just like the day before. Then a gentleman in the jeep ahead of us threw a ten-taka note towards them. Watching the children run after that note reminded me of Sanjib Chandra Chattopadhyay’s travelogue “Palamau”, and the scene where the children are given money at a river crossing. That was a lovely story. But here the children were chasing the money without looking around them, and a serious accident could happen at any moment. I was still thinking about that when we reached Khagrachari town. There I was a little surprised to see the flags of Brazil, Argentina, Germany and other teams; the World Cup had clearly touched the whole country. Brazil were playing that night, and you could feel it here and there. Taking all this in, we arrived back at yesterday’s hotel, Eco Chari Inn.

A dash for Jumma and the steps of Risang falls

It was a Friday. The moment we got out of the jeeps, a few of us ran for the mosque for Jumma prayers. But it was already half past one, and in the middle of the road we split into two camps. One side said the time is gone, let us go back, shower, freshen up and pray afterwards. The other said we are nearly there, let us just pray and go. We were still debating what was best when we found ourselves in front of the mosque. The time had passed, true, but the khutba was still going on, so there was still a ray of hope. We did a hurried wudu and managed to join the prayer. Two lessons that day: stay hopeful, and keep at it until the end. Back at the hotel we freshened up and went for lunch. The cooking at this hotel is genuinely excellent. We ate well, rested a little and set off again, this time to see Khagrachari’s famous Risang falls.

I rode on the roof of our pilot’s jeep, taking in the view. The funny thing was that ten of the twelve people in our jeep were on the roof, and the inside was practically empty. On the way back it was dark, though, so everyone sat inside. The jeep dropped us at a spot above the falls and we started down in groups, one after another. The way down was terribly steep and looked frightening, so quite a few people decided not to go down at all and stayed at the top. Bit by bit we descended until we were right by the waterfall. The path is a run of notched concrete steps hugging the hillside, also very steep, and you can tell just by looking that the falls are a long way down. Taking the steps slowly, my eyes fell on the hillside, and when I looked closely there was a carpet of ferns and Selaginella over it. Looking at those, we reached the bottom and the falls. We had been late leaving the hotel, so by the time we got there the light was already fading.

The teachers began hurrying everyone back. And that was exactly the problem: as easily as we had come down, that was how hard the climb back would be. I had come down late and was at the back of everyone, so I tried to run to the front, which was another piece of foolishness. A short run and I was gasping; I managed the rest of the way a little at a time. There were motorbikes available, and for a little money you could ride straight to the top, but nobody was keen on taking that risk, so we all walked up. At the top a forest department officer was waiting for us. He took us to the range office, which was under construction. The officer in charge turned out to be a senior from our own Botany department. It was 2 December, the 25th anniversary of the Chittagong Hill Tracts Peace Accord, and an event had been organised there for it. That he gave us his time in the middle of all that was a real pleasure.

After this courtesy visit we returned to the hotel. But this was our last ride in the chander gari. We took a photo with Sukash dada and said goodbye to him. I have been telling his stories for two days, and I think this is the first time I have said the pilot’s name. From tomorrow we would be travelling by bus again, no more chander gari, and that thought stuck somewhere in my mind. But it was all fate, and there was nothing to do but accept it.

The last night at Eco Chari

Everyone freshened up in their rooms and was ready for dinner, and the moment the call came we were all up on the hotel’s fourth floor. The food at this hotel really was wonderful. After eating and a short rest, some went to their rooms, some went downstairs to chat, and some stayed on a while where they were. A small group went out for a walk around the hotel, and I followed them. It was a beautiful, quiet place with hardly anyone about, and the crickets could be heard clearly. A little way along there was a small tong-like shop, where another group had already settled in before us. We joined their tea adda, and it felt good. Eventually we left that lovely spot and went back to the hotel, where the teachers and everyone else were waiting downstairs. There a small class took place on what we had learnt and seen on the tour so far.

After the class we went to our rooms. I thought I would get a peaceful sleep, but one glance at the television in the room and that idea vanished. I like football, but my roommates are hardcore. Brazil were playing at one in the morning and they were going to watch at any cost. For some reason the TV was not working, though, and while I felt sorry for them I felt a certain peace for myself. I thought they might go next door to watch, but the people next door were Argentina fans, so that did not happen. They checked the score on their phones now and then. By then I was already sinking into the world of sleep, and I could not hold out as a resident of this one.

As soon as I woke, Rasif said, bhai, it was a good thing we did not stay up for the match, Brazil lost. Rakib, beside him, agreed: yes, bhai, just as well, it was not much of a game. Well then. Other people wake to birdsong and a good morning; I wake to football news. Fine. So today one of our camps would be observing a silence. And that is exactly what happened. When the call for breakfast came and we all trooped up to the fourth floor, you could tell as soon as you got near them that they were subdued and saying nothing. But halfway through breakfast someone said something about the match, the talk started up and things slowly returned to normal. We discussed the plan for the day. After breakfast we packed our bags, thanked our favourite hotel, Eco Chari Inn, and said goodbye. Mihir sir said a few words of guidance, we took a group photo for the memory, and walked to the bus that was waiting for us.

Nata at the Horticulture Park, darkness at Alutila

Today’s final destination was Rangamati, but on the way we would see the Horticulture Park and the Alutila cave before spending the night there. With the bus full of noise and singing we reached the Horticulture Park very quickly. It was still early, so apart from a handful of people there were no tourists; any later and you could not have stood the crowd. We got to wander around in complete comfort. Cross the hanging bridge and go inside and the atmosphere changes completely, so quiet and calm. Alongside the familiar plants we found several rare ones, and as at Sajek the strong presence of ferns and lichens was worth noticing. Both sides of the path had been planted with lovely flowering plants for decoration. Moving slowly on, we suddenly found ourselves in front of the hanging bridge again; the place is laid out so that you go in by one path and come back by the other.

We spent a little more time looking around and set off again. On the way back I came across the fruit of the nata plant by the roadside. I had seen its flowers beside the Darjeeling Resort in Sajek, so now, at last, I had the complete picture of the plant. It immediately brought back “Aam Antir Bhenpu”, the children’s edition of Bibhutibhushan Bandyopadhyay’s Pather Panchali, and the games played there with nata seeds. Whether this nata was that nata, I was not sure. I looked around for a ripe seed but found none, and there was no time. So, hoping to meet it again, I went and sat in the bus.

Next, the Alutila cave. Everyone was so eager for the cave that you could hear it in the singing. Between the songs and the scenery, I never noticed when we arrived in front of the cave. We got off the bus and started walking towards it. The path is cut into the hillside, pretty, with neat rows of trees on either side, and it was a pleasure to go down the steps. The banyan tree halfway along was a real eye-catcher; its hanging roots were so beautifully draped that my heart lifted just looking at it. But sir had told us beforehand not to stop anywhere, as we were short of time, so we went straight to the mouth of the cave. There my eyes suddenly fell on the ground. I had never seen earth with such beautiful patterns, as if someone had painted it with a brush just the way they liked. One by one everyone was going into the cave, and now it was my turn.

I had imagined it would be like a crack running through a hill, but as I went in bit by bit, my idea changed completely. The deeper I went, the narrower the passage became and the less light there was. At one point it was properly dark inside; even with the phone’s flashlight on I could hardly make anything out. A stream of water flowing under my feet added a whole new dimension to this strange experience, and a creeping shiver ran through me. A little further on I saw a light ahead. I cannot describe how happy that light made me. I got out of the cave quickly, with a feeling quite unlike anything else. One by one those behind me came out too. But I was surprised to see Mihir sir emerge from the cave mouth last of all. He had said at first that he would not go in, but his tremendous hunger to know something new truly deserves praise. If you want to do anything in life, you need that kind of will. Then we all started climbing back up. There were a few more sights on the way, still under construction, but good to see all the same. It would have been nice to stay a little longer, but we were hostages to time. Everyone was called onto the bus, and we set off for Rangamati.

The red-earth road to Rangamati

A little way on, the road changed completely. Until now there had been hills, slopes and teak on both sides; now none of that was to be seen. Now there was only water, and more water. Rivers and streams everywhere, and the sunlight glittering on them took my mind away. It brought to mind Rabindranath’s famous song “Gram-chhara oi ranga matir path”, the one about the red-earth road beyond the village. Truly, everything was a delight to the enchanted eye. The one annoyance was that the bus had to stop at a BGB camp every little while. Annoying or not, there was nothing to be done; it was all for our safety.

In the afternoon we reached Rangamati town. We freshened up, had lunch and went to the market to shop for home. Prices were fairly affordable, so many people bought a lot: a fatua for themselves or a brother, a shawl for the family, clothes, or pickles and chocolate to their heart’s content. At one point I felt that if the teachers had not hurried us onto the bus, between us we would have bought everything in the shops. After the shopping we made our way to the Kshudra Nrigoshthi Cultural Institute, the government’s cultural institute for the small ethnic communities, where we would stay the night. It is essentially a government rest house: the people who run music and dance groups, rehearse and take part in various programmes stay here overnight. Chandan sir showed us our rooms, and we freshened up and rested for a while.

Dinner was arranged on the second floor, but the food came packed from a hotel, which spared us the trek there. As every time, it was delicious, and as every time it was on the spicy side. Because of all that chilli a lot of food was left over and some was wasted; everything has its good and bad sides. There was yogurt and sweets afterwards, though, which Subarna ma’am had arranged for everyone.

When the eating was over we all gathered in the room upstairs. The special event of the night was a lottery. Toufika apu and Nasiha had been selling tickets since we arrived in Rangamati, and now the show began. There were 18 prizes and 44 of us including the teachers. The numbers were called one by one, and every winner went as wild with joy as the actor Jasim. Finally the first prize went to Hasibur, and with that the lottery was over. Everyone was supposed to get ready for bed, but instead everyone got ready for Argentina’s match. When it was over, we went to our rooms and slept. The story of Kaptai Lake comes in the next part.

We were 39 students, four teachers (Mihir sir, Tahmina ma’am, Chandan sir and Abul Kashem sir) and one staff member, Saiful bhai, a team of 44 in all. The first destination was Sajek. Our tour had three main stops: Sajek, Khagrachari and Rangamati.

From St Martin’s to Sajek

Not that we had wanted to go to these places from the start. If the first plan had worked out, we would probably have been on our way to St Martin’s Island and Cox’s Bazar. But the route to St Martin’s was closed, so that was off. Where else could we go? There was a lot of discussion with our teachers. The Sundarbans came up first. Secretly I was all for it, because nothing else looks or feels like the Sundarbans. But we would have had to spend the whole time on a launch, which would have been hard on everyone, so that plan was dropped too.

Mihir sir asked everyone in the room once more where we could go. One of us said Sajek. Everyone agreed, Khagrachari and Rangamati were added, and the draft of a four-day study tour was ready. Today the first step of that draft was finally happening.

A World Cup night on the bus

Before long the tall brick-and-concrete buildings were behind us and we were out of Dhaka. The singing and clapping inside the bus died down after a while, and everyone settled into their seats. It went quiet; people were resting and only the bus kept going on its own. After a stretch of road we stopped at a restaurant, freshened up, had tea and got back on.

I thought the rest of the ride would pass in silence, but I had forgotten about the FIFA World Cup. At one in the morning the whole bus split into two camps, Brazil and Argentina, and the girls joined in just as loudly as the boys. The commentary was playing on the speaker and everyone was watching on their phones. Then the network started playing up, the stream kept freezing, and the mood dropped. At one point there was no network at all and no updates. Suddenly someone shouted that Argentina had scored, and the whole bus erupted in Argentina chants. After the match ended, some time past three, the bus slowly went quiet again.

It did not last. At about half past four we reached Matiranga, where the bus stopped. From here all the vehicles enter Khagrachari together, and there was some time before the convoy would move. We got down and wandered about, though the sun was not up yet so there was not much to see. We all sat down for tea at a tong, one of those tiny roadside tea shacks. Over that tea Chandan sir, Abul Kashem sir and Subarna ma’am talked with us in a way I could not have imagined. It felt like an elder brother and sister advising us about our future plans while we listened and worked out what to do. This is the one thing I love most about a study tour: you see everyone up close, you get everyone close. I secretly wished for a bit more of that time, but happiness never lasts long. The vehicles started moving and we all had to get back on the bus. Still, this was only the first page of a memory; the whole tour was still ahead.

Eco Chari Inn and the chander gari

Slowly we entered Khagrachari, which is the way to Sajek. The sun was rising in the east, and the winding road, the hills rising and falling beside it and the trees big and small were now faintly visible. Watching all this from the window, we came through Khagrachari bazar and arrived at a hotel at about half past six: Eco Chari Inn. To me the hotel itself was worth seeing. A handsome building clad in blue glass, hills on every side, and below it fields of paddy and sugarcane. The flowers in front were a delight: Rangoon creeper (Combretum indicum) over the gate, yellow bougainvillea inside, crown of thorns (Euphorbia milii) dotted red, and garlic vine (Mansoa alliacea) blooming in clusters. A perfect spot for anyone who loves taking pictures.

We freshened up, had breakfast and set off again, this time not by bus but in Sajek’s own vehicle, the chander gari. The name means moon car; they are the open jeeps that carry everyone up and down these hills. Four teachers and all of us piled into four of them. Before getting in we learnt that we would stay at this same hotel on the way back from Sajek, and I was quietly pleased to be returning to such a lovely place.

Within moments the jeep had left the town behind. The road wound through the hills, with a bamboo-and-timber house here and there beside it and rows of banana plants. The more I looked, the more I kept looking. In the jeep someone played the song “Chander Gari” by Tuhin Kanti Das of the band Krishnopokkho. Somewhere in the middle of that song and that scenery we stopped at a tourist police camp. We spent a little while there, drank sugarcane juice and got ready to move on. But before we left, something funny happened. Three or four people were taking a photo in front of the jeep, all Argentina supporters, and someone declared it the Argentina supporters’ frame. One by one people squeezed in shouting “I am Argentina too, I am Argentina too”, and when the teachers joined in at the end the frame was packed. We all enjoyed that a lot.

The slope at Baghaihat and a roller-coaster pilot

We set off again, and the football banter went on without a pause until the next stop, the Baghaihat army camp. Everyone climbed out of the jeeps and started looking around. The rest area sits beside a low hillock, but the sun was so fierce it was hard to stand in it. Many of us had brought winter clothes thinking Sajek would be cold, and now felt rather silly. Still, the heat was nothing next to the beauty around us. Some of us walked about; some sat in the shade of the trees by the hillock and rested. Plenty of other vehicles were waiting there like ours, and a few small shops had sprung up along the road to serve this stream of people. People were buying fruit, bamboo mugs and other cheap little things, and I was one of the buyers.

When I looked more closely at the hill slope beside the road, I found all sorts of pteridophytes. The Selaginella spreading over the ground like grass was impossible to miss. A few naturally grown Macaranga peltata trees kept the slope in shade, while around the camp itself there were planted rain trees (Samanea saman) and akashmoni (Acacia auriculiformis). The plant that really caught my eye on the slope was castor, bherenda (Ricinus communis). It was in flower, and a small crowd of plant lovers had gathered around it.

We spent a good while looking at this and that, and then the drive continued without any more stops. On the road to Sajek I noticed something new. Whenever a chander gari passed, the small children standing by the roadside waved and called out tata. It made me very curious, and at some point I started waving back. Hills rose and fell on both sides of the road, small waterfalls appeared now and then, and the teak (Tectona grandis) plantations along the road looked beautiful. Between the teak trees grew another plant I recognised, the broom grass phuljharu (Thysanolaena latifolia), whose flower heads are made into the brooms we sweep our houses with.

Perhaps going slowly would have made it all more enjoyable, and we would have seen much more. But our pilot, which is what the drivers of the chander gari are called, was driving as if we were on a roller coaster. At first the speed was a little unsettling, but the moment we overtook one of our own four jeeps everyone shouted “pilot, pilot”, and that was the start of it. We kept chanting to cheer him on, and one by one he left every jeep in front of us behind. The overtaking felt risky, on a hill road that was also very narrow, but everyone was having so much fun and the pilot seemed so skilled that I forgot the risk and joined in. At one point we passed our second jeep too and were right behind the first. Just as he was about to overtake it, the pilot stopped the jeep and got down. What was that about, everyone asked. He had a paper packet in his hand; he handed it over at a shop there, exchanged a few words and came back. By then every single vehicle we had passed had gone by us again. Everyone was so disappointed. We stayed hopeful that he would work his magic again, but no, not that day, and not until the very last day did he overtake a single vehicle again.

First day in the land of clouds

At about half past twelve we reached Sajek. Our friend Robiul knew someone there, so rooms had been booked in advance at the Darjeeling Resort. It was a beautiful, peaceful place. Look out from the back of the resort and the view runs away into the distance: masses of cloud, and the play of light and shade they throw on the ground. After freshening up we went for lunch. The menu was quite different from what we usually eat in the city or the village, and though it was on the spicy side the food was delicious. We ate well, went back to the resort for a short rest and then set off for Konglak hill. This time we were allowed to sit on the roof of the jeeps, so most of the boys rode on top, whooping all the way. On top of Konglak there was a frenzy of looking around and taking pictures. There were few people at first, but within minutes the summit was packed, so that if you tried to photograph one person several others walked into the frame. Everyone took their pictures and we said goodbye to Konglak before dusk.

We reached the helipad right at twilight and sat down in a big circle. Sir asked whoever could sing to start, and the rest of us to join in. Siam sang and everyone followed. Tired from the whole day, listening to songs over some light snacks felt wonderfully restful. Dinner time was approaching, so after a little longer we got ready to head back. The resort is only a short way from the helipad, so most of us walked. There is a row of food stalls just below the helipad, and we went to see what was on offer before going back: all sorts of food, most of it the kind you get in the city too. Tahmina ma’am treated those of us who were there to momos and bamboo chicken, which is chicken cooked inside a length of bamboo, and I was one of the lucky ones.

Back at the resort we showered and went for dinner at the same place as lunch. As agreed, they had everything ready for our barbecue party; we only had to go and eat. I had thought it would be more fun if we did the barbecue ourselves, but given how exhausted we were, this was the better way. At the very start of the tour Chandan sir had told us he had searched the internet, asked people who had been there, and fixed on whatever would be best. Now it seemed he had been exactly right.

With dinner over, the day was done and there were no more plans, and even the thought of that was a relief. At the resort there was no looking around, straight to bed. And there something funny happened. Like the other buildings in Sajek, the Darjeeling Resort is built entirely of wood, so you can hear every word from the next room. We could hear what our friends next door were discussing, so I knocked on the wooden wall and asked whether everything was all right in there. The answer came back: it’s going fine. The deeper the night, the clearer the sounds became. Someone snoring next door, even footsteps on the floor above, kept jolting my ears. But no sound could get in the way of a body that tired, and I never knew when I fell asleep.

There was a seminar today at Bon Bhaban, the Forest Department headquarters in Agargaon, on updating the Red Data List of Bangladesh’s plants and on controlling alien plants in some of the country’s protected areas. I was there, but how I came to have an invitation is a long story in itself. If I started on it I would have to go back three days earlier, so I will leave it out. People already complain that my posts run too long and are hard to get through. It is not that I do it on purpose; one thing leads to another and before I know it the post has grown. And a story cannot really be told in pieces, it feels disjointed even to me.

Anyway, enough of this preamble. Let me pull today’s memories out of my head one by one.

From Rampura to Agargaon

I woke up to hear that Siam would not be able to come to the programme, which put me in a bit of a low mood. Hoping he would at least make it to the real project, I set off for the TV Centre at Rampura. Samrat bhai, Robin bhai, Fahad bhai and I were to meet there and go on to Agargaon together. The programme was in the Hoimonti Auditorium at Bon Bhaban. Chatting with the older brothers, with the Uber windows down and the breeze off Hatirjheel in our faces, we reached on time.

It was good to see quite a few of our department’s teachers there. And the sir whose class was scheduled for today was at the programme too; I cannot tell you how happy that made me. After a while everyone took their seats and we were told that there might not be room for all, so those of us not on the Red Data List side should go down to the Korobi Conference Hall. That was when I understood that after the opening session the seminar would split in two, and nobody could be in both. Nothing to be done, so down we went.

Projectors in the Korobi Hall and the network back home

In the Korobi Hall my first thought was that the country really has gone digital. The arrangement was not bad at all: three projectors facing three ways across the hall, and everything happening upstairs was being shown live over Zoom. It went well at first, but soon the sound system started acting up. The variety of strange noises it produced cannot be described to anyone who was not in the room. Then the sound was fixed and a new problem began. Network unstable, the screen kept saying, stopping and starting.

During the pandemic, when I was at our village home taking classes on Zoom, I lost count of how many times I got disconnected in a one-hour class. It used to leave me very frustrated. Today all those months of frustration came to an end. If a government building with every modern facility cannot keep a broadband connection steady between an upstairs room and a downstairs one, then what was there for me to feel bad about, sitting in a village?

We were rescued from all this when an official came and said, those of you down here, come on up, there are a few scattered seats left. I was up in one jump and ran to the Hoimonti Auditorium on the first floor. There I found the Forest Minister along with the Deputy Minister, the head of the National Herbarium and many others. The opening session began. Several of them spoke on various matters, describing the present state of the country and discussing what kind of plans there might be for the future. Time passed before we knew it and that part of the programme was over.

The real programme and a five-hundred-taka surprise

At the tea break we picked up our snacks and went back to the Korobi Conference Hall. Now the real programme began. Which plants are invasive, on what basis they can be identified as harmful, which plants are alien and how they can be recognised: I learnt a lot. One professor said something that surprised me. The people who first brought in eucalyptus (Eucalyptus camaldulensis) and akashmoni (Acacia auriculiformis) as useful trees and encouraged everyone to plant them are the same people now urging us not to plant them. So you cannot say the moment a new plant goes into the ground if it will do good or harm; that only shows some time later. And another thing: a plant that is useful in another country may not be useful in ours.

Something else struck me. I assume the best plant scientists in the country were at this seminar, but there seemed to be a lack of communication among them. Perhaps there are only one or two seminars like this a year, and those two and a half or three hours are the only time they come together. Several issues were left without any resolution; the time ran out and the questions stayed unsettled. Who knows when they will be decided. Then again, I could be wrong.

Anyway, professors from one university after another presented their valuable ideas. In the middle of it a funny thing happened. I saw a register being passed from hand to hand, coming our way. A list of who was present, I thought. When it came closer my eyes popped. Next to the names there was a column for money. Fahad bhai was flipping back through the earlier pages to see what people had paid. Everyone had put down 500 taka. Robin bhai did the same. I asked the official sitting in front of us and he said the same thing. What could I do; I wrote my name and 500 taka and passed it on, working out in my head that I had just paid 500 taka to attend a seminar. I felt a little regret too; had I known beforehand I might not have come. Then I thought, money goes in so many directions, let this go for a seminar as informative and well run as this one.

A little later an official went round handing an envelope to each of us. What a surprise that was. I pulled out what looked like a slip of paper and it was a crisp 500-taka note. I laughed until I could not stop.

The lunch bag and a bilimbi tree

We did not have to sit much longer. The seminar ended soon after and the lunch bags arrived. I opened mine and found the bowls of food arranged like a stage set. The sight took me straight back to meals at our department. Only Allah knows how much longer the department will stay closed. After a long time I finished lunch sitting with the older brothers, chatting away. All I could think was how long it had been since we all ate lunch sitting on the grass at Zahir’s canteen.

After a short rest it was time to say goodbye to Bon Bhaban. We were strolling out through the gate when a bilimbi tree (Averrhoa bilimbi) caught my eye. Being a small person I could not reach the fruit. Dipon helped me pick a few. Then Robin bhai and Dipon went off in two directions, and Fahad bhai, Samrat bhai and I set out to find a CNG home.

The hunt for an empty CNG

The three of us stood in front of the IDB Bhaban and there was not a CNG to be had. After waiting a while we crossed the road to the other side. Every one we had seen on this side was full; not one was empty. We waited there too, and then Samrat bhai said, let’s take a rickshaw to Farmgate, we will find a CNG there. On the way to Farmgate we saw so many CNGs that for some reason we got down at Bijoy Sarani. That was a foolish move. Countless CNGs went past and not one was empty. We stood there a while longer and, seeing no other way, started walking. Through mud and water we walked to the link road just before Farmgate. The same story again: no empty CNG anywhere.

This time Samrat bhai simply sat down. He called an Uber and the first one cancelled; a second accepted and then, for whatever reason, cancelled too. Suddenly he spotted an empty CNG and shouted. As we reached it another empty one pulled up right there, which seemed a piece of luck. The first driver asked too much, so bhai refused and let him go, counting on the second. When we told the second one where we were going he said he would not go, and left. We would even have paid what the first one had asked, but he did not look back. Gone was gone. We were completely deflated. In the end a CNG was somehow managed and we got home.

It was a good day, and it will stay with me. Finally, my thanks to Jashim Uddin sir. It is because he gave us the chance to attend such a fine seminar that I learnt so much today.

A few weeks later we set off for Rema-Kalenga. Those days have their own story in the Days in Rema-Kalenga series.

At any other time I would probably have attached a few conditions to the job, but I could see he really had no time. I felt a little sorry for the poor fellow, so I said fine, make me a list of what you need. He first handed me a long list of books, then said he did not need all of them now, just this one, this one and this one, three books in all. And if I went to a particular shop in Nilkhet I would find all three there, no need to hunt around. For anyone who does not know it, Nilkhet is the book market right beside the university, a maze of small shops where students buy new, second-hand and photocopied textbooks.

The first Falguni trip

The next day I went to campus meaning to go on to Nilkhet, but I spent so long wandering around the whole campus that I was a little late getting there. Falguni is one of the university buses that take students home at the end of the day, and if I did not finish everything quickly I would miss its first trip. So I hurried to the shop Zaman had named. It was not as big as I had expected. Anyway, the moment I walked in, the man sitting in the shop said, how are you? No class today?

From those words alone I realised the man knew Zaman. He had probably been buying his books from him for a good while. But what was I to do now? Should I tell him, you have probably taken me for Zaman, but I am not him, I am his twin brother, he is in EEE, the electrical engineering department, and I am in Botany, he had no time to come and buy his books so I have come instead, and so on and so on? There was no time for all that; any delay and I would miss Falguni. Besides, the moment he realised I was a stranger he would ask a higher price. So without another word I said, yes bhai, no class today, I am on holiday.

Well, deal with that now

The man climbed upstairs, hunted around and brought down one book. Handing it over, he said, take this one bhai, and the second book you asked for, I sent thirty copies of that to your department the day before yesterday. Call your CR Avijit, and if more copies are needed I will send them over to your department. The CR is the class representative, the student who handles this kind of business for the whole class. Well, deal with that now. What was I supposed to do? I called Zaman, but he cut the call. A message came: he was in class, it would end in a while.

There was nothing for it. I would go home later and tell Zaman the whole thing so that he could pass it on to his CR. But that was not possible right then, so I tried to sidestep the matter a little. I said, all right bhai, I will let him know, and I will tell you how many copies are needed. With that I asked for his mobile number. I thought to myself, I got away with that one by a whisker. But this was only the beginning.

The moment I asked for another book he said, bhai, your senior Rafi, you know him, last year they took this book instead of the third one. And he put another book in front of me. Then he said, bhai, this one is needed every other year, meaning if you take it this year you do not need it next year, and the year after that everyone in your department takes it. So should I send it for copying, bhai? Just give your CR a quick call to confirm how many copies are needed and I will send it for copying today itself, and it will reach your department by tomorrow or the day after.

This time there was no chance at all of saying something and wriggling out of it. He had me cornered with call him, confirm it, call him, confirm it, until I did not know what to say. What could I do? It’s all fate.

Don’t you need any botany books?

I told him, bhai, I am not who you think I am. Zaman is my twin brother, he had no time, so I have come to buy his books. The man heard me out and said, oh, all right bhai. I had been bracing myself for a scolding, but no. He said, bhai, don’t you need any botany books yourself? Hearing that, I thought, so this is what they call a businessman’s strategy. Anyway, I asked how much it all came to, paid up and set off quickly towards campus.

But then came the single most frustrating thing that can happen to a student who lives off campus. From a distance I could see Falguni pulling away, and from where I stood there was no point running and no point shouting. Still, I did what everyone does and jogged after it a little, hoping it would get caught in a jam. But my luck being what it is, I came home by local bus.

That night I told Zaman the whole story. Later I found out that the man had indeed charged me more than the usual price for the book. We have a saying in Bangla about losing the mango and the sack along with it, which is what happens when you lose not only what you went for but what you had to begin with. At the end of the day, that was me exactly.

A hunch of my own

For a long time I had a hunch, nothing more than my own private guess with no proof behind it, that the real number of infected people was higher than the figure shown on television. Along with that I used to think that if a much bigger number suddenly appeared in front of everyone, people might panic and sink into deep worry. Worry alone is enough to make a healthy person ill, and what it would do to someone who actually has the virus I would rather not say.

That is how I thought right up until Eid. Then, suddenly, just before Eid, everything was opened up on a limited scale. While I was still trying to understand why such a decision had been taken, I saw that transport was running again as well.

All sorts of explanations went through my head. It may well have been done with us in mind. Everyone knows that even if nothing were opened, people would quietly open their shops and go home to their villages anyway, each in his own way. What the imam said before the Eid prayer was much the same thing. It is not that the chance of catching corona has gone down, he said, but no matter how many times you forbid them, Bengalis will pray the Eid prayer, so permission had to be given so that at least people could pray safely, following a few rules. Or it could be none of these and something else entirely. What is really going on is hard to tell.

Everyone is heading back

Before I could begin a fresh round of speculation after Eid, I am now hearing that the general holiday will not be extended beyond 15 June and that everything will run as normal. Today, page after page of the newspapers says the same thing: the crowds heading for Dhaka are growing, everyone is going back. But why? Only today I saw that the number of cases has risen again. One headline online said the highest number of tests so far had found the highest number of cases so far, 2,523 in a single day.

Is it right to lift the lockdown like this? I do not know what the people at the top of the country are thinking when they take these decisions. Perhaps they can see something that I cannot. But villager or city dweller, apart from a handful of people in this country, nobody looks as if they know that the infection rate is not falling day by day but still rising.

What I saw at the crossroads

What worries me is that while the number of cases keeps going up, the lockdown has lost every bit of the effect it had at the beginning, and what little is left keeps shrinking by the day. Yesterday I had to go out to the bazaar for something unavoidable, and when I reached the crossroads I found the road buzzing. In all the time I stood there, the only thing I did not see was a bus. Everything else was running as usual, without a single precaution against corona.

Among all those people, apart from one or two, nobody had a mask on and nobody was keeping any distance. And their reasoning is lovely. They say nobody here has tested positive so far, so there is nothing to worry about. Fair enough, but they do not want to understand that not detected yet does not mean it will never be detected. And by the time one patient is identified, how many people will have caught it from him? Is anyone keeping count?

So what do I do now?

So was everything I have been thinking all this time wrong? Perhaps the number on television was right all along. Perhaps I am the only one spending his days afraid of corona.

I simply cannot work out what to do. If educational institutions reopen, do I fall in step with everyone around me, admit that all my thinking was wrong, and go back to Dhaka? Or do I hold on to my own judgement, stay in the village until Eid-ul-Adha, and return to Dhaka after that? I am still looking for the answer.

This is entirely a personal post about personal thoughts, not a social or political issue.

A month of groceries

This happened only a few days ago, around the 13th or 14th of March. I suddenly realised that the situation in the country was not good because of the coronavirus, and that a state of emergency could be declared any day, shutting everything down. So I thought I had better buy the essentials before any announcement came. If I did not buy now, prices would double and triple the moment it was announced, and some things might not be available at all.

So after talking it over at home, on the 15th I bought about a month’s worth of everything: fish and meat, oil and lentils, onions and garlic, eggs, salt and sugar, soap, Dettol, vegetables, the lot. If they would not let us leave the house, fine. No problem, at least one month was secure.

The announcement came the next day

The very next day, the 16th, it was announced that all educational institutions would close for a while. Wonderful, I was delighted. That afternoon it suddenly occurred to me that this was the chance to go and visit my village home. It was a completely spur-of-the-moment decision: I would go to the village, and that same night I was off to Rajshahi. I stayed there a few days and then went on to the village, and the day after I arrived came the next announcement. The army was being deployed on the roads, and ordinary public transport was suspended until 4 April.

My groceries in Dhaka, me in the village

Now the whole country is shut. And my carefully planned stock of food is sitting in Dhaka. Here I am in the village, nervously going to the shop to buy this and that, and eating as I go. Every now and then I scold myself: why on earth did I come to the village?

That is the end of the story. The lesson? I told you that at the very beginning.

Yesterday Sujon called and asked me to come to campus today. No reason, just to wander around. Exams were over, it was a holiday, and I was not doing much at home anyway, so I got up in the morning and set off for campus. I had barely arrived when Sujon called. I had assumed he was already on campus, but he said he had just woken up and was on his way, could I wait a little.

I called Rasif. He was out too, and it would take him a while to get there. What could I do? I went to the garden, wandered around a little, took some photos and walked over to the hall, the student residence. Rasif had arrived, so the two of us went for tea. A little later Sujon turned up as well.

Setting off without a plan

So now what? Wandering around was fine, but where? There was no plan at all. Rasif said, let’s go to the garden, we have not been there in ages. Sujon wanted to go too, so I did not argue, and we went to the garden a second time. We drifted about and chatted for a good while, and somewhere in the chatting I blurted out, let’s go to Ramna. Ramna Park and Suhrawardy Udyan are the two big parks right beside the university, so if we went through Suhrawardy Udyan we could take in both. And with that we set off.

We walked all the way to Suhrawardy Udyan. I cannot describe how good it felt. No pressure on the mind, no hurry. Three friends walking along with easy minds, talking, and what could be better than that.

On the way in we saw a crowd of people waiting to see the Independence Museum. I had never been, so I suggested we go in, and it turned out Rasif had never been either, which made it easier. Look at the state of me: this museum is right next to campus, and I had got through two whole years and stepped into my third without ever finding the time to visit. Anyone who heard that would laugh out loud.

The museum under the ground

Anyway, in we went. The whole thing is below ground, every room of it. Newspaper reports from 1971 onwards, along with some of the memorable events of that time, are presented beautifully here. But what I liked most was the artificial waterfall. That alone was worth the visit.

By the time we came out it was half past one. It was clear that Ramna was not going to happen today. We turned back towards the hall.

A tree-naming contest by the roadside

On the way back Sujon suddenly called out, nageshwar tree. That is the Ceylon ironwood. Rasif heard him and said, Mesua ferrea. Just to have some fun, I added the synonym, Mesua nagassarium. Then I thought, why not start a tree identification contest right here? They would get to know a few new trees, and the ones they already knew would get a bit of revision.

So, to push things that way, I asked, who knows this tree? Both of them did, but Rasif gave the scientific name and went a step ahead of Sujon. For the next tree Sujon answered before Rasif could, and pulled ahead. The one after that they got together. It was a close fight all the way.

By the time we got back we had learned the names and scientific names of a good number of roadside trees. It worked out well: we had our wander, and some study along with it. The funny thing is, we do so much with plants in the lab, but how many of us can recognise those same plants when we meet them outside?

A little further on we noticed a rope tied to a tree like a swing. Rasif ran to it first and Sujon followed, and the two of them took turns trying, with great effort, to get a swing out of it. I was sure one of them would snap the rope and land with a thud, because it did not look very strong. But watching the two of them turn into children, that worry seemed very small. Luckily they finished their swinging in one piece.

A feast at Mamun Biryani House

We might have stayed a while longer, but Sujon had some urgent work, so we got back to the hall as fast as we could. I had imagined we would all go and eat together, but when we got there Beni Amin was already sitting with his food, Mominur had his plate in hand and said he had eaten, and when I asked Hasibur outside, he had eaten too. If only we had come back a little earlier. No matter, it did not happen today, another day inshaAllah.

After a short rest we went out to eat. The plan was to go somewhere far off, but our hunger shrank the distance as far as it could, right down to Mamun Biryani House. The three of us went and ate well, Sujon’s treat, and ate until we were thoroughly satisfied. We ate so much that walking back was out of the question.

We just sat there until our bodies finally gave some sign of being willing to walk, then somehow dragged ourselves up and headed for the hall. On the way we saw a game on at Shahidullah Hall and went over. Sujon and I came back, and Rasif stayed on there.

Sujon lay down as soon as we got into the hall. When I asked, he said he was not going home. And I caught my 5:10 university bus and went home.

It was a lovely day. I want more days like this to come back into our lives. Next time, inshaAllah, we will go to Ramna Park. Very soon.

The funny thing is that most of the important posts in the Bangladesh Association of Plant Taxonomists, from president to secretary to treasurer, are held by respected teachers from our own department. Today was the association’s annual conference. Researchers and professors from different universities and colleges had come with their work. One by one they presented their research, and after each presentation there was time for anyone in the room to ask questions about it.

When the book’s authors are in the room

The first presenter was a professor. Early in his talk he cited the Encyclopedia of Flora and Fauna of Bangladesh and put up some information from it, and our teachers immediately pointed out that it was not correct. He was a little unsettled, which is only natural. Here was a man quoting a book, and two of the authors of that very book were sitting in front of him, pointing out his mistake. Who would not be shaken? Tahmina ma’am, who was chairing the session from the front, said that any questions could be asked once the presentation was over.

As soon as he finished, the questions started again. In his presentation he had described panichitki (Phyllanthus reticulatus, the black honey shrub) as an aquatic plant. Sir asked how it could possibly be an aquatic plant when it grows on land. There was some discussion, and the point was settled: it grows on land. We just sat there, amazed at the depth of our teachers’ knowledge. It is hard even to imagine how much they know.

Question after question

We were only listening quietly and being amazed. Professors from other universities gave their presentations one after another, and the questions from our teachers made them think hard. The thing I liked most was something our teachers said: this is the age of the internet, so if anyone runs into a problem, all they need to do is get in touch, and the problem is gone. Now and then senior students from our own department presented too, and the teachers questioned them just as thoroughly. Being from the same department earned nobody any favours. What I liked even more was that it was our teachers who then offered the solutions to those problems.

When the department turns into a restaurant

And I cannot finish without praising the food. Nothing compares to the food our department serves. Someone once put it as “the department turning into a restaurant”, and today I understood exactly what they meant. What I ate today was beyond anything I could have imagined. It was a day I will remember for a long time.

Wherever the lights come and go there are people, and yet somehow there are no people. Everyone is in the grip of some wish of their own, hurrying off somewhere: home, a hotel, somewhere else. The one thing they have in common is that each of them is chasing something. This mechanical city turns colourful at night and takes on the air of a festival, though a short-lived one. And once you have walked into that festival, there is no way back, and no wish to go back either.

A faint light in the distance

Thinking about night and light brings sailors to mind. On a dark, silent night, when a sailor has lost his bearings, one faint, narrow light far away is somehow enough for him. That one small light gives him a fresh, firm resolve that carries him the rest of the way. Such a little light, and yet so many sailors have steered their course by it. He finds a new path himself and shows others a new path along the way.

The stars once gave direction to hundreds of sailors, and perhaps that is slowly dying out now. But finding your way by a distant light is something people still do today.

Where have the rivers gone

Sitting by a river with an unhurried gaze, how much literature poets and writers have drawn from it. Even today, if you stare at a river for a moment, you understand that clearly. But where are the rivers and streams these days? The small ones have all been lost to people’s need to make a living. What is left is a handful of big rivers, and those are close to dead. How long even these few will last, I have my doubts.

Why these pointless thoughts settled in my mind as I sat on a train crossing the Jamuna Bridge, over one of the largest rivers in Bangladesh, I do not know. Though without a window seat to enjoy the beauty of the river, none of this feels quite the same.

how many years it has stood there, nobody knows.

How many people it has served, nobody keeps count;

how much it has witnessed, nobody understands.

Table number eleven in the hospital.

*

It has watched people arrive, one after another,

and watched them leave, one after another,

some walking out well, some carried out as bodies.

Yet it was there then, and it is there still,

and it may yet watch more people’s fates take shape.

*

Table number eleven in the hospital

has heard the poor crying out in pain on the floor,

and heard the rich roaring from their private rooms;

heard the dying beg to come back to life just once more,

and heard the imaginings of those set on ending it all.

*

Table number eleven in the hospital,

witness to everything, and yet it kept only its silence;

in people’s joys and sorrows it served without a sound,

and without their knowing became the companion of all their stories.