(Translated by Ahmed Sofa, Mary Frances Dunham and Salimullah Khan)
A terrace garden
A coconut tree stood near my terrace. Its long, slender leaves fluttered in the breeze. One of the branches touched my terrace. Yellow flowers bloomed on this tree. At first no one could see them, but with careful scrutiny, you could detect their presence. Another coconut tree stood beside the first one. Its top branches reached above the roof of my building. Through a window I could see only its trunk. A mango tree peeped through a southern window. It was not as tall. Its abundant branches and leaves intertwined to form the tree's own domain. Crows spent the night within the dense shelter of its foliage.
Doel-birds started to sing long before day-break. When the sun began to ascend, a good number of bulbulis came from who knows where. They moved about from branch to branch. Then came a flock of zhuti shaliks, then gang shaliks. When two doves swelled their throats and sang, they made me think of a deserted home in the countryside. From where do so many birds arrive in flocks, or in pairs? Do I know the land of these birds? A flock of green parrots flew in circles in the sky. Their harsh voices pierced my ears. The beating of their wings, like the heart-beat of the vast sky, mesmerized my consciousness and held it in thrall.
One house after another bordered my street on either side. Seen from this lofty height, the houses were blocked from view by the trees, but when seen from below you’d get a completely different picture. Then you’d see only the buildings, not the trees. On my side, two houses away, there was a five-storied building. The top floor was yet to be plastered; you could see its red bricks. Along the boundary wall of that house a custard apple tree rose high in the sky. This was a rare tree in Dhaka. It looked quite out of place. I think the tree itself was aware of this. It knew well that it was a misfit in this city of brick and steel. A kind of rustic stubbornness caused it to try to reach the sky.
When I stood on my terrace I felt I had come close to Ishwar, to God. At that moment the spot on which I was standing was located far from the sea, far from mountains and rivers, and from the zigzagging roads and highways of the world. Where I was standing was a fascinating place. From there, if I studied the world around me, I seemed to encounter my own self. At the same time, if I looked into myself, I met the world there.
On that first afternoon Shushil came to see me. I considered him a son. He had a meticulous eye when it came to examining anything. He checked on every article of mine. He was convinced that something I must have left behind by mistake when moving to this new place. Since he found no trace of any such thing, he needed something with which to keep himself busy. He brought a long-twigged broom from the kitchen and began to sweep the terrace. Shushil gave so much attention to a piece of work that even an insignificant task turned into an extensive project. I was shocked to see the heap of dust and scraps and dirt he’d swept: rotten leaves, feathers, discarded chicken wings, a deteriorated rat, fragments of glass, a rusted iron nail, a kettle handle and a crippled plastic doll that had lost both its legs. Everything was there. Shushil dumped all this trash into a basket. Then he said: "I'm going to throw away this stuff downstairs. When I return, I shall show you something interesting." I lit a cigarette and stood waiting to see what Shushil called "something interesting."
When Shushil returned, I said, "Where is your 'something interesting'?" Shushil answered, "Please wait a bit longer while I wash my hands and feet with soap. I have handled a lot of dirt." After washing, he came out wiping his hands on a towel. He said, "Now follow me." He directed me toward the southern corner of the terrace and drew my attention to a half dead seedling as slender as a thread and not more than three inches in length. Shushil asked, "Can you tell me the name of this seedling?" I said, "Whatever may be its name, it is half dead. Do one thing. Pull it out and throw it away." "Look, it's a tulsi sprout. It's a shame to let it die," Shushil answered. I said, "Shushil, aren't you a Christian? Tulsis have no significance for you. Pull it out. Don't you see it is already half dead?" Shushil replied, "A tulsi is a useful plant. I will try to keep it alive." I was at a loss. What could I possibly do with a tulsi seedling? Perhaps I could write a short story about it, but that task was accomplished by Syed Waliullah long before I was born. Shushil was a determined boy. Whatever he started, he would not leave it unfinished.
I thought that after showing me the tulsi sprout Shushil would let me be, but he summoned me again. This time he drew me toward the wall on the eastern side of the terrace. There I could see two bricks lying on the ground. He moved them aside and I saw three small sprouts of nayantara plants struggling for life. Shushil said, "I shall try to keep them alive, too." I said, "Don't wait for my permission. Do whatever you like." Nevertheless, I began to marvel at how the tender shoots of nayantara plants had managed to blast their way through the thickly cemented floor. What an incredible life force!
Suddenly Shushil seemed lost in thought. He went down to the second floor and borrowed a hammer. Then he loosened his lungi-skirt, squatted down and started breaking the bricks. I asked him what he was doing. "I’ll build a little wall around the tulsi and the nayantara plants so that water does not pass through." When I saw Shushil’s determination to give new life to these half dead plants, I looked at him with increased appreciation.
I do not know how I became a partner in Shushil's venture. There was a layer of compost formed of rotten leaves in the northwest corner of the terrace. I collected this with a kodal-spade and spread it around the roots of the seedlings. "You cannot keep seedlings alive with only water and no soil," I told Shushil. The previous tenant had stored tea leaves in a container in the kitchen. I spread the contents of the container on the roots of the seedlings.
Shushil made a habit of watering the seedlings twice a day. Dear Mother! Within less than two days I noticed all the seedlings were rising to their feet, as if by mutual consent at a meeting. A miracle! Their sunburned leaves had disappeared. Fresh green leaves started sprouting. There were so many changes in their shape and growth that it became difficult to remain indifferent to them. Every day the tulsi and nayantara plants began to woo our hearts afresh.
When guests visited my place, sight of the deep green leaves on the tulsi and nayantara plants enchanted them. Both the tulsi and nayantara children were growing with joy. Every day, when Shushil watered the seedlings in the morning and evening, his whole body seemed to move in tune with the growth of the plants. He brought dry cow dung from wherever he could find it in the street and placed it on the roots of the seedlings. Neither I nor my nephew raised any objection.
Within three or four months the tulsi plant became stout. Sometimes my landlord's wife would send her maid with a request for some tulsi leaves. She often suffered from colds and coughs. Tulsi leaves are a good cure for these ailments. However, whenever anyone spoke of plucking a leaf, Shushil's expression hardened. During those times he didn't look at any one's face. He became so downcast that even if you called him many times he would not respond. Listening to the kirtan-hymns of Chavi Bandhapadhyay the other day, I newly perceived the glory of the tulsi. As the beloved plant of Shri Krishna, the tulsi inspires devotion to this god.
At some time in the past, singer Anima presented me with a clay candle stand. In order to add to the glory of the adolescent tulsi plant, I put a sizable candle on the stand and placed it at the foot of the tulsi plant. When my young friends from Jagannath Hall used to visit me, I would have a little fun with them saying, "Chinmoy, Ratneswar, Pranav, and Shamir... just look! I'm burning the candle. See whether it produces any devotion to Sri Krishna in your hearts!" Fearing that devotion to Sri Krishna might really overtake them, one of them stole the candle stand. Since then the ritual of candle burning had come to an end.
Within a short time the whole tulsi plant was covered with small white flowers. At around the same time, the red blossoms of the nayantara plants started to appear. Each day I saw many new flowers. I felt a surge of affection for the tulsi and nayantara plants. But why is it that I remained indifferent to other flowers? I found a reason. Perhaps I had not established a connection with them. As for my tulsi and nayantara children, I had seen them return from death to life. Under Shushil's care, they grew up like sons in the house. When I saw the tulsi and nayantara plants in bloom, they appeared to me like crowns of victory in the long struggle of life.
When I saw the tulsi and nayantara flowers, my faith and confidence in life were born again. Within me someone seemed to be saying, "Whatever may be the sorrows and hardships in your life, don't break down. A time will come when you will be able to stand erect. Go and work quietly."
The relationship between the tulsi and nayantara plants on my terrace was quite intimate. When the nayantara plants were flooded with reddish blossoms, the tulsi plant also wanted to bloom. When the tulsi seeds started falling from the center of its flowers, the nayantara flowers transformed themselves into dangling seed capsules. Both plants had a new birth in their mutual struggle for life. This perhaps explained the wonderful friendship between the two plants at the time of their blossoming.
When the tulsi seeds started to mature with a brownish color, flocks of sparrows came to thrust their beaks into the leaves and to feast greedily on the seeds. Sometimes the sharp chirping of the sparrows deafened our ears. There was no fixed schedule for meals. They came in the morning, in the evening, in the afternoon. They chirped and chirped while feasting on the tulsi seeds with their small beaks.
For a reason unknown to me the sparrows had no interest in the nayantara seeds. As a result, it happened that after the capsules burst open, the seeds lay scattered all over the terrace. Meanwhile, the sparrows made it a point to invite their relatives from far away to enjoy the fortuitous great feast of tulsi seeds. Although the sparrows busied themselves all day with pecking, their clan could not finish eating all the seeds. After fully maturing, some seeds remained on the ground where they fell.
When the rains came at the end of the month of Baishakh, the young tulsi and nayantara plants started to stand erect with their ears perked. They bathed themselves in the rain and in the sun. Swaying in the breeze, their stems grew strong. They blossomed. Half of my terrace became covered with tulsi and nayantara flowers.
The nayantaras on my terrace belonged to the magenta variety. From somewhere Shushil obtained a nayantara plant with white buds and planted it in a pot. For the first few days the new plant remained inert. I worried that the poor thing would kill itself because it had been displaced. In the meantime, a life force was pulsating in the leaves and stems of the red nayantaras. So, the white nayantara plant reasoned to itself: "It is pointless to commit suicide when others are growing at such a tremendous speed." The white nayantara joined the race. Through this process the whole terrace became a heaven of red and white nayantara and tulsi flowers. People pointing to my nayantara and tulsi flowers might say, "Such flowers are commonplace. In the hierarchy of flora they have no rank. So, why all this fuss about them and what is the use of writing about them?" The answer is very simple. These plants grew not only on my terrace, but also on the soil of my heart.
One afternoon Farzana came and made a suggestion: "If you put some pots of roses among the nayantaras, if the plants bloom, your terrace will look really nice." The suggestion was good, but I had some misgivings. Of course I could buy aristocratic flowering plants from a nursery, but why would I think that the nayantara and tulsi plants would accept them? Wouldn't they feel hurt? They were born partly in my soul. That evening my nephew Anwar brought four large pots of rose plants. He placed them among the nayantaras. During the night I had a feeling that my nayantaras were crying because I had been unfaithful to them.
Among the four rose plants I could easily recognize one, a Black Prince, from its striking blood-red color. Its petals are like the ears of Alsatians. The second one was of the common pink variety that you see everywhere. If you lower your head to this one, you can easily inhale its smooth, sweet fragrance. Color of the next rose resembles somewhat the hue of vermillion, the red spot on a married Hindu woman's forehead. I do not know the name of this variety. What is in a name? A rose is a rose! The fourth was yellow like raw turmeric. Since I do not know the exact name, I shall find a new name for it.
When the roses started blooming, I found no sign of discord between the nayantaras and the roses. Both kinds of plant were living quite compatibly with good neighborly feelings. But why did I have the idea that the nayantaras would be displeased with the arrival of the roses? The nayantaras, I realized later, had no such idea. I had imposed my human ways of thinking on the plants. Humans are not sensitive creatures. They take pleasure in dumping the dirt of their thoughts on the petals of flowers.
Nayantaras do not bloom throughout the year, but when the flowers appear they remain for a long time on their stems. They are not easily shaken even by a storm. The rose is a flower for all seasons. It blooms throughout the year, provided that it receives proper care. No other flower except the tulip has claimed so much human attention. It is impossible to name all the colors, all the shapes of roses that people have attributed to them. There is such a closeness between humans and roses that the rose has become somewhat dependent on man. It is difficult for roses to bloom without human intervention. For this reason, when roses have fully bloomed, their stems need to be trimmed. When the plant becomes tired of continually producing flowers, its whole stem must be cut short.
Every new twig of a rose plant gives the promise of a tiny bud. When it blooms into a flower with color and fragrance, you will feel that the splendor of Ishwar is gradually expanding within it. Ishwar, it seemed to me, dwells more or less in the heart of every flower. How did he do this, I really could not tell. If it should be the case that no god existed anywhere in this whole universe, I’d have to manufacture one so that I could offer floral wreaths to him as homage.
The roses gave me a troublesome question. This graceful flower, I thought, is not used in rituals for the gods. I did not know whether this was due to a chance misfortune of the gods or the jealous conspiracy of priests. I’d begun to understand a little lately why flowers were needed in the worship of gods. A flower is the connecting link between the tree and its fruit. Both tree and fruit are contained in the flower. In the same way, day and night reside together in the glow of twilight. Likewise, present and future hold each other’s hands and rest peacefully inside a flower. I gave much thought to this. I cannot imagine any better use of flowers than to offer them to gods as homage. The God whom I cannot embrace, whom I cannot touch, whom I cannot see—if I offer flowers to Him—perhaps He will feel inclined to look at me.
Ahmed Sofa was one of Bangladesh’s acclaimed novelists, essayists and literary critics. Salimullah Khan is a scholar and Director, Center for Advanced Theory, University of Liberal Arts.
Mary Frances Dunham is a lifelong student, teacher, scholar and bicycle activist. She holds degrees from Harvard in teaching classical languages, from Columbia University in Indic studies and ethnomusicology and has authored a number of publications regarding her Bangladesh interests. She developed a passion for the music, literature and culture of Bengal when living in Dhaka during the 1960s. Since then she has been an avid supporter for the Bangladesh Liberation movement, has published her scholarly research on Jarigan, and has collaborated on book projects to introduce the works of South Asian artists such as Ravi Shankar and Ahmed Sofa to a western audience.
