DHAKA THIS WEEK

Mahbub Husain Khan

This week has been a tense week for the leaders of the mainstream political parties. And as I hand in my column, the issue of Khaleda Zia leaving the country and Sheikh Hasina returning home has not yet been resolved. The next week would be critical for these two leaders. Speculation is rife as to how and when the leaders will exit from or enter into the country. And pundits say that Begum Khaleda Zia would be leaving with her younger son and the rest of the family, and Tarique Rahman may be sent abroad for medical attention. The news that the proceedings of Tarique's extortion case has been stayed for six months has added fuel to the fire of the rumours and speculations. But only time can tell what fate awaits the two leaders and other leading politicians of the country.
   On Saturday, Pahela Baishakh, the capital turned into a human sea celebrating the advent of the new Bengali year of 1414. Scenes at other cities and towns across the country were more or less the same. Pahela Baishakh has always been observed with emotion but this year's was something unprecedented. Men, women and children from all walks of life and clad in dresses matching the festivity thronged the five square kilometer area around Ramna Park where the day's oldest and the most popular event was held. With the sun rising teachers and students of Chhayanaut, the leading cultural organisation, welcomed the Bangla Nobo Borsha or new year with Bengali songs, instrumental renderings and recitations. Nobody kept count of how many were there at the Ramna Park but the figure would possibly be between 15 and 20 lakhs.
   Never in the post-independence history of this land Pahela Baishakh was observed with such festivity and spontaneity. Looking at the smiling faces of the participants one could feel the outpouring of love for what is essentially their own proving once again that cultural affinity is far more strong and spontaneous than anything else. Culture identifies a people much more comprehensively than anything else, including religion. What the Arabs have is Arab culture. Ours is Bangalee culture, Indians' is Indian and, somewhat intriguingly, what the western world has western culture although there are distinctive identities like Polish, German, French etc. It is the cultural bond that keeps people of different religion and community together. We must concede that the free atmosphere that the present caretaker government has been able to create and the massive security arrangements allowed people to demonstrate where their true love is.
   Perhaps there was another inspiration behind this massive outpouring of emotion also. Is it the people's spontaneous protest against the scandalous effort by different brands of politicians to impose their own versions of culture on the Bangladeshis?
   Could be. But only the word Bangalee describes all 150 million people of this land. Yes, that's what the people said on Saturday.
   The Dhaka dweller is threatened by the global events. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse: War, Pestilence, Famine and Death are stalking the earth and bringing on untold sorrows to the people in developed and developing countries. Global warming and the climate change is affecting people both rich and poor. We have in our columns commented time and again on the need for global action based on agreements such the Kyoto protocol, which will also save the cities and rural areas of Bangladesh. The environmental problems emerge from the impact of this production and consumption on the contemporary health, comfort and well-being of the larger community. And they come from their future effects, including the exhaustion of the natural resources that are now so abundantly available and consumed.
   The manifestations of contemporary damage are distressingly familiar air and water pollution, the large and growing problem of waste disposal, the immediate danger to health from the products and services dispensed and the visual pollution from the intrusion of production and sales activity, particularly retail sales activity, on the urban and rural landscape. Not infrequently, bad health and visual pollution go together. In their great steel-producing days, Pittsburgh, the English Midlands and the Ruhr were both dangerous as to health and hideous as to aspect.
   The long-term as distinct from the contemporary effects are many: the delayed damage of air pollution, the most discussed examples being global warming and the greater incidence of lung cancer and emphysema; other disastrous climatic changes, as from rain forest depletion; the exhaustion of mineral, petroleum and other resources on which current consumption depends; and, more distantly, as the population grows and urbanisation continues unrestrained, the exhaustion of relevant living space itself. There are also exceptionally complex issues that have to do with the protection of wild life, with the protection of public lands including wetlands and parks from aggressive commercial invasion or expropriation.
   As a low lying country that faces the sea and drains 92 per cent of the snowmelt from the vast Himalayan mountain range, Bangladesh is one of the most vulnerable places on the earth to global warming. Already, sea levels are rising in the Bay of Bengal and pushing salty water inland, lowering the productivity of rice cultivation in the south of the country. Farmers are adapting by switching land over to prawn farming, which tolerates saltier water. In the last 20 years, we've had four very big floods-in 1987, 1988, 1995 and 2005. So it appears that the new pattern is to get a 1-in-20-year flood every five or 10 years. That increase has gotten policymakers' attention. After years of lobbying by environmentalists and scientists, the Ministry of Water Resources recently agreed to incorporate climate change models into all future planning and decisions. But obviously of poverty Bangladesh cannot afford the kind of defenses planned in Europe, or even New Orleans. As a matter of fairness, we feel that adaptation measures in poor countries should be subsidized by rich countries an alarming rate because of imprudent levee building and oil-and-gas development.
   The latest research makes it clear that we will be living with global warming for the rest of our lives. That's not a happy thought, but it's not necessarily dire either. The key is to follow the new rules of life under global warming. We look forward to the present government, the concerned public agencies and our scientists tackling effectively and cogently the issues and problems arising out of the climate change scenario. The weight of public opinion and support must always be on their side.
   Next to the defeated politician, the writer is the most vocal and inventive griper on earth. He sees hardship and unfairness wherever he looks. His agent doesn't love him (enough). The blank sheet of paper is an enemy. The publisher is a cheapskate. The critic is a philistine. The public doesn't understand him. His wife doesn't understand him. The waiter at his club doesn't understand him. These are only some of the common complaints of working writers, but I have yet to hear any of them bring up the most fundamental gripe of all: the lifelong, horrifying expense involved in getting out the words. This may come as a surprise to many of you who assume that a writer's equipment is limited to paper and pencils and a bottle of libation, and maybe a suit of clothes for interviews. It goes far beyond that.
   The problem from which all other problems spring is that writing takes up the time that could otherwise be spent earning a living. A beggar on the street, seeing a writer shuffling toward him, will dig deep into his rags to see if he can spare a dime. The loan officer in the bank will hide under his desk to avoid saying no yet again to the wild-eyed and desperate figure looking for something to tide him over until he finishes the great novel. He knows that the man of letters is not a good credit risk. "Writers" and money are not words that fit together with any conviction. From time to time, of course, mistakes happen. Money originally sent off on some adult and worthwhile mission gets diverted somewhere along the way and finds itself in a writer's pocket. Its stay there is short; not, as any writer will tell you, because of foolish extravagance, but because of the demands of the profession.
   The first of these is the need for peace, which is not easy to find these days. City living disturbs the concentration. That traditional haunt of the urban writer, the garret, has become insupportable; the landlord is forever hammering on the door for his Tk 5000 a month, and in the brief moments between his visits the cockroaches make a terrible noise on the bare boards, the dripping tap bores into the brain, and the force-eight gale howling through the brown paper stuck over the broken window rattles the back teeth. Emigration to the village is the only solution. Look what it did for Thoreau.
   But it can't be an old tar-paper shack miles from anywhere and anyone. That is too much peace. In fact, that's enough peace to send a man gibbering into the woods looking for a tree to talk to after a day spent. Peace is all very well as long as there's a place to go when work is done, a place where a sympathetic ear can be found to complain to. And what better ear, who more sympathetic, than another writer? He knows how tough it is. He understands.
   That is how writers' colonies come into being. And inevitably, as soon as they are established, they also attract agents, editors, publishers, and owners of funky restaurants, as well as real-estate operators on the make. Peace and the simple country life gradually disappear. The local bar sprouts ferns and starts serving complicated drinks, and the whole place goes to hell.
   But we can't allow these domestic upheavals to interfere with the act of creation; God knows, there are enough interferences as it is. Let's take, for example, the question of research. To the outsider, this probably suggests a few hours in the library or half a dozen phone calls, and maybe that's all it used to be. Today, however, writers are expected-more than that, required-to produce work that is totally authentic in all its details. Imagination and a couple of blobs of local colour aren't enough; the reader has to know that the writer has been there and done it. Direct personal experience is the thing, and don't try to fob off the sharp young editor with anything less. You're going to write a novel about love and death along the Bhutan border? Wonderful! Off you go. See you in six months, and don't forget your cholera shots and medical insurance.
   The writer in the throes of research can often be seen in some of the world's most uncomfortable and dangerous corners. In Beirut, in Nicaragua, in the stews of Hong Kong and the oven of the Australian outback, you will find him soaking up the atmosphere, crouched intently over his notebook. But if you should look over his shoulder expecting to see the jewel-like phrase or the telling observation, you might be disappointed. The poor wretch is more likely to be doing his sums to see if his advance will stretch to a plateful of beans as well as a soft drink.
   After a few months of this, and a brief but costly checkup in the hospital for exotic diseases, he is technically ready to start work. The ream of blank paper awaits. The pencils are sharp. A saga of epic proportions, the stuff of which Pulitzer and Booker prizes are made, swirls around in his head.
   And to help it along, now that the research has been done and the block has (we hope) been unblocked, it is time to call in modern technology so that the torrent of words can flow as fast as thought. Those primitive pencils must go, to be replaced by the latest in desktop computers, complete with the author's software package. It is even worth ambushing the loan officer at the bank for this; great steps forward in efficient productivity can be achieved here, and all for a miserable few thousand dollars. At last! The words are beginning to come out, and none too soon either, because the specter of the deadline has become a constant companion, and those calls from the editor that used to be so friendly now have a distinct air of do or die about them. There is a thinly veiled threat that if the manuscript isn't delivered, the advance (by now long gone) will have to be returned.
   This sets off a chain of events and emotions familiar to all writers. It starts with panic, as realisation dawns that time and excuses have both run out. Panic is followed by exhilaration, as the pages pile up and look increasingly promising-a best-seller at least, and possibly a movie, too. Exhilaration is followed by relief, as the manuscript is delivered. Relief is followed by anticlimax when nothing much happens-and won't, for at least six months. And anticlimax is followed by massive doses of doubt and consolation.
   The period in between finishing a manuscript and seeing a book is bleak. Nobody calls anymore. It's too early for galleys. It's too early for reviews. It's too late to change anything. The work has vanished, and postnatal depression can easily set in unless the writer's reward system is activated to help him through the limbo months. It may be a further plunge into the fleshpots, a trip (this time without the notebook), a new hobby, an old flame, a second honeymoon. Whatever it is will undoubtedly involve another visit to the moneylenders, because no consolation worth having is cheap. But at least there is the hope of becoming a rich literary lion before too much longer.
   I don't know how other writers feel, but I'd rather live precariously in my own office than comfortably in someone else's. My powers of concentration in meetings have atrophied. Wearing a tie gives me a rash. Corporate routine makes me claustrophobic, and I have a deep horror of attache cases, with all that they imply. The lure of the solitary endeavour, at whatever cost, is irresistible. Is it a habit or an affliction? I'm not sure. But I do know that a writer's life is the life for me. Please send the check by registered mail.

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