A book review by Syed Badrul Haque

Partly nostalgic narrative, partly political diatribe and partly a journal of self-discovery, the book, Tirtha Amar Gram (Holy Is My Village) is an amalgam of poignant, vibrant pieces by Dr. Mizanur Rahman, an expatriate in Canada for over five decades now. It is an impressive example of a new genre, - dovetailing of reminiscent sketches with the prevailing socio-political agendas. He first wrote those pieces for Bangla journals published from Ottawa, New York and New Jersey.
   After one has reached a certain age, reflection on yesteryears are more compelling scenes than going up the career-ladder. He resonates at different levels - from salad days to manhood and now the sere and yellow stage. The vernacular essays are so lovingly penned that even the reader who has never heard of Hasnabad will recognise the book as a letter from home. The writer draws a memorable picture of his childhood lived in the shadows of his dear and near ones; there is an intensity and innocence in his account of a world he can't fully understand, but the beauties and dangers of which he is keenly aware of.
   Rahman takes a sweeping pejorative look at the prevailing socio-economic scenario of our country. He finds that the high moral and ideological ground on which the Liberation War was fought are now lost in the welter of corruption, greediness and erosion of values. He laments that the lowly people, especially the vast multitude of farmers who were buoyed up with optimism for better days after liberation are now rudely shocked by what they find - they still continue to be exploited for enriching the townspeople. He considers - apart from its socio-economic implication - it is hugely callous from human standpoint.
   It beggars belief that the middle-class people of our society who otherwise had a bright track record in the political arena had failed to keep the nation on the rails. He reasons that 'subordinated psyche' that we inherited from the historic past was mainly to blame for this debacle and feels that it will be quite a while before we can get rid of it.
   His concern for the younger generation is quite palpable. He shudders to think that many of them would trade life even for a few bucks. In such a scenario what kind of future the county can look forward to, he questions. He holds our leadership responsible for giving short-shift to this much disquieting aspect in nation's life.
   The author's reference to Kuttis, a Dhakait community, - known for their typical sense of humour and repartee, - that was once an inseparable part of Dhaka culture, evokes their memories to city-dwellers who had seen them in action. They are a vanishing breed, - almost forgotten, and now theirs' is a story of how a minority culture is overwhelmed by a more powerful one. Or, should we say it's a cultural compulsion?
   Of all the pieces, Bibi touches a reader most for its sheer celebration of humanity par excellence, one that overcomes social barriers, and remains unyielding to the cruel passage of time. In his panache of a seasoned writer, he lights up the long-dusted earthy fairy tale of adolescence love in crisp and telling strokes. Given its thematic dimension, the piece holds the promise of a full-blown literary venture of classic variety.
   The portrayals of the male violence and pettiness of village life and the sexual predatory exploitation of the well-off people are quite revealing.
   Moving through the labyrinth of old Dhaka, a sad mood descends upon the writer when he finds that his once favourite restaurant, Beauty Boarding, is no longer there, and the neighbourhood had virtually change almost beyond recognition since he left the shores decade ago. It summons my memories with the writer, the hours that we often used to spend together along with Sadek Khan, columnist, AZM Obaidullah Khan, Poet and UN bureaucrat, Nazrul Islam, ex- Foreign Secretary and Harunar Rashid, ex-Chief, BSFIC, at a restaurant called Moti Bhai at Luxmibazar which too is now gone. But the changes are obviously the price we pay to suit our ambition in urban renewal.
   If one has to stretch his mind, the worrying issues the writer raises pointedly define our time, they are no less the spill-over of the cultures that intrude into our domain from outside. However, much we decry it we might have to endure this special ugliness of our time in the global village.
   The author, in his career shuffle, retired as Professor of the Carlton University, Canada. He identifies himself as a Bangladeshi-Canadian, finds meaning in his adopted home though, he acknowledges immense personal toll it exacted on his life. A fractured identity in a global Diaspora is a tragedy and the scar born of it hardly goes away, he believes. It will rather linger in a time-wrap to his personal drama. It is at this moment of interaction that the reader obliquely feels the author's own pain, his own role in the saga he weaves as an expatriate. He is in two minds if his children though born and brought up in Canada shall ever identify themselves as unalloyed Canadian. His heroes are those who would never leave their shores to settle elsewhere.
   In personal terms, his haul in life is enviable. He rose to international eminence as the co-author of the Basic Hyper Geometric Series published by Cambridge University of the United Kingdom. The Russian translation of the title won him the county's award for the best book of Mathematics for the year 1993. After a script of success in his career that now betrays his mental peace, he confronts a kind of hollowness that so easily pales all his life's harvest. He arrived at a definitive moment of truth' the ultimate success in life is to be measured only in terms of one's contribution to society and not being an achiever only. In the present razzmatazz of life when consumerism has its irresistible sway, this philosophical reflection has a ring of bell on behalf of society and is deservingly a candidate for a bigger audience.
   The book launches with a rainbow of real-life pieces and melodramatic tear-jerkers that were essentially a portrayal of our life in its varied dimensions. The pieces, seemingly isolated from each other have a commonality in as much as they form part of human chain. A note of pessimism, is, however, quite discernible in many of his pieces.
   When a book is so well-endowed with scholastic integrity, one feels, it could afford to brighten its narrative with some informed speculation.
   The disarming candour that graces his pieces is indeed the hallmark of his writing. He luxuriates in details worthy of an artist. His prose is precise and crafty. They are a gripping read with a lot of depth and many layers for the reader to peel off. A startlingly good debut.
   Author a contributor to the Holiday is a former PRO to the President of Bangladesh.

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