উত্তরবঙ্গে আপনাকে স্বাগতম

ACT I

"I've got it!" Shaila screamed and started jumping around in the corridor. Her elation drew the attention of her father, mother, and brother, all of whom rushed out of their rooms to find Shaila jumping with joy with a paper in hand. The paper had a list of the people recommended for the 47th BCS. Shaila was on it. She is due to become a magistrate!

The festive ambiance was dealt a blow a couple of days later. The place of her posting caused a ruckus throughout the family. Her father almost had a heart attack when Shaila mentioned it. "BHURUNGAMARI" was typed on the official letter that was sent to Shaila. She was to join her workplace from the beginning of the next month. "I cannot send you there. Do you even know where that is?" Of course, no one in the family knew where it was. This was the true North; they have never in their lives even crossed the Jamuna river!

"It is okay, Abbu! Trust me, I can live anywhere." For Shaila, this was an opportunity of a lifetime. Shaila came from a privileged background. Her family is mostly settled in Dhaka, and she spent all her life in this dystopic bustling wasteland. She studied in well-known institutions and graduated in Political Science from one of the best public universities in the country. Shaila, however, was tired of city life. She rarely ventured out of the city, perhaps once in three years to their almost abandoned village house in Bhanga, which is now a stone's throw away from Dhaka after the Padma bridge opened. She reminisces about the one time she did venture truly out to the countryside, to the mountains at Kaptai, accompanied by her close friends, and of course, Jahid. This memory is now being suppressed by her consciousness. While all her friends were trying to go abroad after graduation, Shaila's thoughts revolved around exploring Bangladesh first. She wanted to see her country, and the best way to do it, to her, was to get a government job that posts her around the country, in the middle of nowhere.

"You have never been outside Dhaka! Never! You don't understand," Motaher Hossain is a retired officer of Agrahani Bank. He spent all his life counting money and yelling at defaulters and customers to get their act right. However, he could not yell at his only daughter and make her come to her senses. "Perhaps we can arrange something. I know a guy at BPSC. I can ask if there is a way to get her posted close to Dhaka. Even Mymensingh, we can live with!" "Abbu, you know how they work! Nothing works without money. It's okay; it's just the probationary period. If I work well there for 6 months or so, they will shift me elsewhere. I am sure of it!" "Abbu, she's right, you know. Let her go. I will be staying with you. Let ammu go to Bhurungamari with her," Shuvro retorted. Shaila wanted to go alone, but it was a compromise she was willing to make.

ACT II

There was no direct bus to Bhurungamari, so they had to reach Kurigram first and then travel to Bhurungamari by local bus or CNG. Shuvro booked them a bus ticket to Kurigram. Shaila said she could manage a CNG from there, and Shuvro didn't need to go with them. Motaher Hossain bid his wife and daughter an anxious goodbye. "Please be safe, ammu." "Don't worry Abbu, I will be." The bus kicked off from Technical at 12 pm. It took 2 hours to reach the Jamuna Bridge. The concrete jungle slowly gave way to open fields and lush greenery. Pockets of concrete were still visible in some areas. Of course, the road was being widened, and the journey was through a dusty landscape. It was a good thing that they booked an AC bus. The fact that it was June midsummer made it a no-brainer. Shaila could see the chars(little islands) on the Jamuna river. Some of them were half submerged, most probably due to recent rains. Some had become permanent, and Shaila could see small settlements cropping up on them. There were children running around with livestock there, and a garden of mango trees. As soon as they crossed the bridge, Shaila saw the sign written on the bridge's toll booth, "উত্তরবঙ্গে আপনাকে স্বাগতম".

The four-lane highway gave way to a two-lane road after they crossed Bogura. And suddenly, there were no more prominent settlements for a while. Only fields stretching for miles, some with rice, some with potatoes, some even with soybeans, cabbages, and whatnot. The one thing the north had was diversity of crops. 

But things were changing as they traveled further north. The mile-stretching fields were suddenly becoming emptier and emptier, arid and barren. The grounds were being cracked open, as if something was trapped underneath and wanting to escape. It was warm, but it was not uncomfortable like Dhaka. Shaila overheard a conversation: it didn't rain much this year, hence the yields have suffered considerably. 

Shaila thought that they could use a large-scale irrigation project here. Of course, she didn't know that there was a large-scale irrigation project all over the north, but the rivers were running dry, and there was also the case of Farakka being closed. They reached Kurigram at 7 pm. Kurigram hardly felt like a town, but more like a village market. There were hardly any large concrete structures. One thing Kurigram did have was a beautiful night sky. As Shaila looked up and saw the sky bursting with a billion splendid stars and a fully lit moon, she realized that the last time she saw such a sky was back in Bandarban with Jahid. Whatever! She booked a CNG to Bhrungamari. It was 60 km away from Kurigram, and the CNG driver at first demanded a whopping 3000 Taka. Shaila knew it would cost at most 1500 Taka (she knew from the clerk at her new office whom she had phoned to manage accommodation), so her careful haggling got her one with that price. Shaila won the first battle out here in the wild. Shaila fell asleep as soon as the CNG started, the mechanical whirl providing an irritating repetitive symphony. She would get used to this sound. They reached Bhrungamari at 9:30 PM.

ACT III

There were hardly any people on the streets at that late night, most of the shops shut down before 9. Shaila did not exactly know where to go. The CNG wala reached the town center, named Jamtola. There were a few tea shops open there still, at this hour. Shaila told the CNG wala to stop, and she stepped out and approached one shop. The shop had some Murabbis paying attention to something on the small black and white telescreen located behind the shop owner, all of them were in Punjabi payjama, and had taqiyah on their heads. "Excuse me, do you know where the Press Club is?" The Murabbis looked at Shaila as if she were some kind of divine deity crawling out of the darkness, a mystical being which aroused a lot of curiosity. All of the eyes turned away from the telescreen and laser focused on Shaila. They rarely see a woman out this late at night. "Of course, head straight up to Dofadar more, then head east, then head southwards, and you will reach the press club." "What the hell is southward?" Shaila questioned her consciousness. Good for them that the CNG wala was paying attention. "It's okay, madam. I have understood." 

The CNG wala had a convincing tone in his voice. He was an old man, probably in his 50s, his hair and beard were white, and he had a wrinkled face. On the way, he talked about his house, which is located at Sonahat which is east of Bhurungamari. He doesn't visit Bhurungamari often, except for big trips like this, which come once in a while. The old man said he used to own a big field, where he grew different types of crops. But the nearby river, named Dud Kumar, was drying up rapidly. "Goddamn Indians, building a dam on everything," he said, was the reason. It is hard to live a life as a CNG driver in this part. Gas pumps only extend up to Kurigram, and if they want to venture far out like this, they need to run on diesel. This was the reason for asking such a high fare, Shaila reasoned. 

The CNG wala quite easily navigated through the narrow streets of the town and reached Press Club. Shaila and her mother stepped out, and saw a two-storied building in front. Below it was written Bhurungamari Press Club. A faint but audible tone was floating in her ears from a distance. It was the tone of harmonium, kasha, and probably a dhol, with a few people singing something in a high pitch, sounding more like a melodious outcry. Shaila, while bringing out her stuff from the back of the CNG, tried to pay attention to what it was. "Kirtan," said the CNG wala. "They do this a few times a month." The town, like most other towns located away from big population centers, was a divided one. Divided along religious lines. It was nothing written on paper, but there was a clear distinction between Hindu areas and Muslim ones. The press club was curiously located in between the two communities.

Shaila called the number which was supposed to be the number of the caretaker of the house they were going to stay in. The caretaker curiously cancelled the call, Shaila freaked out a bit, but soon the side gate of the pressclub building opened, and a lean boy, perhaps 16/17 years of age, walked out. "Assalamu alaikum, madam", he said. The leanness of the boy couldn't complement his strength. He picked up two luggages on his hand, and the CNG wala gave a larger one on his head. He carried three luggages and stepped through the side gate, turned right and headed straight up the stairs. Two storied buildings were a very infrequent sight within the pourashava area. The few that existed were all multipurpose, the ground floor had offices or shops, and the second floor were small apartments. The caretaker boy crossed two doors after reaching the second floor, dropped one luggage on the ground (Shaila's mother widened her eyes a bit at that sight, the luggage had her cosmetics), slid the door knob, and burst it wide open. It was a three bedroom apartment, nothing fancy like the one they were used to at Dhaka, but something people around here would deem a luxury. The boy placed the two luggages on the floor, and then slowly bent to bring down the one from his head. Shaila, at one time, thought of helping the boy out, but the boys hands and muscles were just much faster than Shaila's melting ice of an unfamiliar place. "Madam, I will leave, you can give me the money to pay the CNG wala." Shaila handed over a 1600tk, and told the boy to have something with that extra 100 bucks. The boys eyes lit up, as if someone as handed him a 100 gold dimes. "If you need anything, call me madam", the boy told, now in an overly enthusiastic tone. "What is your name?" "Jahid, madam." The boy left. A curious smile arose from Shaila's face. Life is filled with such ironies, she thought. 

"Where is my night cream?", Shaila's mother yelled. Outside, an owl was repeating the same tone, "tuu-huu, tuu-huu", over and over and over again. It was like an outcry in the darkness, as the distant sound of kirtan went on, and crickets also participated in this orchestra. 

ACT IV

Shaila went out early in the morning to look for a night cream. The much-needed commodity was unfortunately not packed in their bags. The shops open up early in the morning, and the bazaar was bustling with people. It was haat day, after all.

None of the shops had the cream though. Bhurungamari's tin shade shops were unfortunately not big enough to meet the daily needs of people accustomed to a metropolis. What the bazaar did have, though, were a variety of vegetables sold at dirt-cheap prices. Potatoes suddenly cost 30 taka per kilogram instead of 60, ladies' fingers were 10 taka per kilogram, and there was an unlimited supply of gajor sold at only 15 taka per kilogram! Shaila bought as much as she could, thinking that the price could shoot up anytime. What Shaila did not know was that this was a regular sight on haat day. What was not regular though, was a Muslim woman without a veil buying vegetables amidst a crowd during the Monday haat. There were women at the bazaar, of course, but they were either fully veiled or had shakha shidur.

Shaila realized that she was attracting a lot of unwanted attention. Eyes were following her all around. She felt uncomfortable and wanted to leave as soon as possible. She left the bazaar with two bags full of veggies in her hand. She wanted to book an auto fully reserved up to her house, but almost all of them were filled up. So, she decided to walk for a bit and then get on one. Shaila walked down the narrow streets and slowly started to get the hang of the place. Or so she thought. Bhurungamari was a pourashava, but only in name it seemed. The roads were narrow, and almost 1/4th was eaten up by an open drain. There were at most two rows of houses beside the road, and then it was all open fields. It was more like a populated village center rather than a small town. The air was fresh. It was early morning, the sun was still in a friendly mood, and a faint cool breeze was flowing. Shaila felt nice and decided to walk the whole way.

Her mother was a bit disappointed that she did not manage to get the night cream, but at least there was going to be some fresh food. Shaila also picked up some fish on her way, also at dirt-cheap prices. She bought half a kilogram of boal and some mola. Apparently, they were fresh catches from Dharla, bought here for haat day. Shaila handed over the bazaar to her mother and phoned Jahid to get a kitchen hand for the day. There was no fridge. They would have to cook all the fish. Electricity went away as soon as Jahid confirmed that the kitchen hand would come. Shaila needed to leave though, her joining to the new office was due today.

ACT V

Bhurungamari Upazilla Parishad is perhaps the tallest structure in the area, a three-story building, probably made in the 80s. The sun was now way up, almost at the midpoint of the sky. It was hot, it burned when you stepped into it. But you did not sweat. The humidity was low.

There were many people at the Upazilla Parishad that day. It seemed like people believed that the haat day was a perfect opportunity to accomplish multiple tasks, such as trading and conducting official business at the UP office. Shaila entered the office and was warmly welcomed by the clerk with whom she had spoken on the phone. Taher Hossain, a local resident of 41 years old, had been working in this office since the 1990s, although he couldn't recall the exact date. In addition to him, there was another magistrate and the UNO present in the office. As expected, the rest of the positions were vacant. Naturally, Shaila was the only woman in the office aside from the khala, who served as the cleaner and cook.

UNO sir greeted her and showed her to her desk. She would need to get accustomed to the office and the place before starting her duties. "Relax, Shaila. You don't need to rush. You're going to spend a lot of time here." Shaila smirked and said, "Of course, sir!" Shaila settled at her desk. It is unusual for employees to start working on the first day. Shaila, however, was an exceptional one. She picked up a bunch of files, located on the cabinet behind her, and peeked at them.

Official Notice Dated May 1, 2024

Subject: Alarming rate of electricity usage due to electric nets

Dear Sir,

It is alarming that your Upazilla is experiencing alarming rates of electricity usage from March 14th onwards. The NESCO engineers believe that this is due to the use of electric nets in fishing operations on Dharla and Dud Kumar. Please take necessary action to stop this illegal fishing ASAP.

Official Notice Dated May 10, 2024

Subject: Land grab issue

Dear sir,

A case has arisen from the land department regarding a local union chairman forcefully grabbing land from a minority family. Please investigate the matter.

Illegal fishing, land grabs, child marriage - notices have been issued to prevent them. They have been decreed by central authorities, but it is uncertain whether they are being enforced. It is a small town, but the problems are never small.

ACT VI

Shaila was a bit too much of a workaholic. She embarked on a noble mission to resolve as many unresolved issues as possible. She went from place to place, preventing land grabs, child marriages, and putting an end to electric fishing altogether. And all the while, she roamed around, filling her heart with her lifelong dream of visiting and exploring the countryside. Her mother also got used to this life in the shantytown. Her father still phoned a few times a day, worried about what trouble her workaholic daughter might bring.

Shaila found the north to be beautiful. The land was arid and dry, and it rarely rained. The people here were conservative and didn't take kindly to outsiders. The Muslims gave her hard stares at first. The Hindus avoided her, just like they avoided most Muslim government officials. But Shaila's kind heart drew them close. Shaila learned the language to communicate across communities, listening to their grief and agonies. They always looked out for an outsider who listened. They felt that nobody understood them. People here were simpler compared to the city. They wanted a good harvest, some fresh fish, regular milk from their cows, and eggs from hens. They worked hard all day, trying to get what they could from the land. However, the land was unforgiving. Rain was becoming scarce day by day. The rivers were drying up. Bhurungamari was drying up. It was soon to become a desert.

And so, there was a shift in the overall paradigm around the town. People suddenly became more religious. It wasn't like this before, many remembered. Disasters foster religion. And many reckoned that the up and coming new generation was doomed. They were addicted to mobile phones. The fields used to be filled with young people playing football. Now, they were filled with kids dressed up like gangsters, doing TikTok.

And it was in this curious mixture, where modernity clashed with tradition, where greenery clashed with desertification, where strong rhetoric challenged progress, that Shaila found beauty. It was a long way away from Dhaka. She was all but one woman. Yet, she thought of thriving.

ACT VII

It was time for the monthly waz. A huge religious gathering with a famous preacher arriving from Rangpur. There would be an all-night waz. People from all surrounding unions flocked to Bhurungamari. Police presence was increased in the area. Shaila went to the office that day, although many advised her to stay home. She had some important things to do at the office.

The waz, unlike all, was fierce. It was filled with attacking remarks, many of which startled the common folks of Bhurungamari. Of course, as it was being uttered by such a famous preacher, he had the right. There were almost no talks of the Quran, and much more talk about how non-Muslims were destroying the community. Suddenly, out of nowhere, the preacher brought up the topic of Shaila.

One month after joining, Shaila resolved a land grab case. A local muscleman, who once was a union chairman or something, was trying to oust a Hindu family from their home. The family was poor, and they could not withstand the continuous threats that the muscleman and his goons were giving. They were also afraid of notifying the authorities, as it may bring more unwarranted attention. However, they learned of this Madam who now works at the UP office. She could save them, probably. So they went to Shaila. Shaila, after listening to them, went to the ex-chairman's house and vowed to take strong legal action if he did not stop. The chairman laughed. But with her strong presence, she indicated she was not messing around. The threats had to stop.

The ex-chairman attended the orosh. The preacher cried about how much of a religious man he was (the chairman did illegal river dredging), how much he did for the Muslim community (as a chairman, no mosques were built in his village), and how the "bidhormis" were conspiring against him. He said that Shaila was an infidel who helps the infidels. She should be removed from this town.

The crowd suddenly went out of control. They were furious, raging, and marched towards Upazilla Parishad, knowing Shaila was there.

Shaila heard that a mob was marching towards her. She rushed out of the office. The local streets were now known to her like the palm of her hand. She went to her house, picked up her mother, quickly reserved a CNG, and rushed out of Bhurungamari and went to Sonahat. She visited the house of the CNG wala that had brought her to Bhurungamari at the beginning. It was now her safe haven.

Shaila watched horridly at the news.

"Clash between Police and protesters in front of Bhurungamari Upazilla Parishad. 50 people injured."

Shaila would be transferred out of Bhurungamari the following day.

ACT VIII

Shaila's father was finally relieved. The new place of her posting was Sreepur. "Jaak, close to Dhaka," Motaher Hossain breathed a sigh of relief. "So close to Dhaka," Shaila breathed a sigh of agony. "Did you not learn a lesson, sister?" Shuvro asked. "You still want a job far away?"

"People of this country are nice re bhai. Not everyone is a robot like us city people. They are just a bit emotional and lost. That's what makes them more human. It is better to live a life among humans than among mechanical turks. No wonder our world remains so small, we don't see people for who they are!"

"Even when they try to hurt you?"

"Perhaps. Everyone has goodness in them, if you really want to see it."

 

Acronyms:

NESCO: Northern Electricity Supply Company Limited

 Note:

Photos are taken from my 2021 North Bengal tour.