Syed Mujtaba Ali HOME AND ABROAD
DESHEY BIDHESHEY
Translated and Edited by Siddique Mahmudur Rahman
A Few Words from the Translator
I first read ‘Deshey Bideshey’ at the age of twelve, in 1958. The book instantaneously devoured me like a whale with one gulp! I always found it a new one whenever I read it next time. For the next fifty years, I have read it more than a hundred times. All the times I find new flavor, new taste and new intoxication.
Only recently, I decided to translate it into English. I knew this outstanding book have not been translated before. Nobody dared to do it. Only because of its language.
Syed Mujtaba Ali’s language is unique of its kind. His vocabulary is quite different from other litterateurs. He coined words from Persian, Pushtu, Urdu, Hindi and many more languages, he used puns, and added terminologies from Hindu, Buddhist, Islam and Christian religions and used mythologies from innumerable sources and origins so dexterously, that if one wants to explore through the lines of his book, he has to consult theologians and linguists, know world history and geography, and keep a full volumes encyclopedia with him.
The first sentence of Ali’s ‘Deshey Bideshey’ is ‘Chandni thekey naw’shike diye ekta short kine niyechhilum’ (I bought a short from Chandni for five quarters). The reader should have to know what ‘short’ meant in those days, during 1920’s in Calcutta (Kolkata), where is Chandni and why it is famous for and what means by the word ‘five quarters’. Thus the readers have to stumble on the words after words like these, while going through almost each paragraph of the book.
Through his book, be it ‘Deshey Bideshey’ or ‘Chacha Kahini’ or ‘Shabnam’, Syed Mujtaba Ali not only enthralled his readers with his unique style of story telling, but also enchanted them with his coinage of words, terms, sayings, quotes, gradually making them more versatile in the world of literature, like an efficient maestro, who teaches his disciples, without making them aware that he is dictating the readers to the world of knowledge. To gain knowledge is a bitter experience and toilsome job, but one becomes knowledgeable without much ado, if one reads Mujtaba Ali’s writings regularly.
Syed Mujtaba Ali was an activist against the British Raj, when he was still a school student. Though he got his Bachelor Degree from Nobel Laureate Tagore’s Shantiniketan, his certificate was not valid in all over British India. So he have to go to Kabul (Afghanistan) in 1927, as he could not find any suitable job inside India. He perceived one of the great upheaval of Afghan history – the uprising of Bacha-i Saqqao. He faced great ordeal during all those days, very little people on Earth could think of. He lost all his money and belongings in that disturbance and had to leave the country like a pauper. But his love for Afghanistan never waned. Thus ‘Deshey Bideshey’ was born and also ‘Shabnam’ was born, that enthralled thousands of readers during the last fifty years and will keep on enchanting millions of readers in the years to come.
I have dared to translate this piece of art, one of the best travelogue-cum-historical account in Bangla literature, because I wanted to make non-Bangla speaking readers aware of the magnificence, illustrious taste and permeating flavour of Bangla literature and also pay my homage to Syed Mujtaba Ali, one of the greatest litterateur and a great lover of Bangla language, only after Rabindranath Tagore.
While translating this piece of literature I added as much footnotes as I can, to make the readers aware of the terminology and language form of Syed Mujtaba Ali. I had to pass endless hours to find out the meaning of some of these words. I didn’t want to make my readers at a loss. I know, some devout readers of Bangla language, don’t even know meaning some of these words.
I shall only be too happy if I find my toil is successful— the readers are fascinated with the essence of Bangla literature, the flavour and aroma of Syed Mujtaba Ali’s writings. (Please see Syed Mujtaba Ali’s short biography at the end of the Chapter One).
Until then . . . .
Siddique Mahmudur Rahman
Chapter One
I bought a short from Chandni[1] for five quarters. During those days, a very useful institution, called ‘European Third[2]’ moved around all over India for the intelligent Bangalees[3].
When I went to board that Third class, an Anglo-Indian blurted out, ‘This is for the Europeans.’
I too yelled, ‘There’s no European around, why don’t we two share this empty compartment?’
I have read in a book of comparative language, that when an onuswar[4] is suffixed with a Bangla[5] word, it turns into Sanskrit and if one puts accent in the first syllable of an English word it turns into British English. So, putting accent on the first syllable of the word, is putting much pepper on an ill-cooked food, it conceals all errors. In common terms, it is called ‘yelling English’.
The Anglo-Indian, a native of Taltala[6], became very pleased hearing my yelling and helped me arranging my luggage. I let him scold and bargain with the porter. His parents and relatives work in the Railway- they know how to handle them.
But, where am I? I started to deflate, my energy of travelling started to weaken.
During all these days, I was busy in making arrangements for the journey, collecting passport, clothes, etc., I had no time to think otherwise. As soon as the carriage started to move, the first reflection focused into my mind is a cowardice one, I thought, I am alone in this world!
The Anglo-Indian was a very good man. When he saw me lying miserably, he only uttered, ‘Why are you so dejected, going far?’
I found he knew mannerism, he didn’t say, ‘Where are you going?’
Most of the etiquette I learned, were from a priest. He explained me, there’s no harm, if one speaks out, ‘going far?’, if you don’t want to reply, you can just utter, ‘yes’ or ‘no’, either of the two is sufficient for the question, and if you want to be clear, there is also no harm in speaking out. But if anybody asks, ‘where are you going?’, it is the question of Elysium Rowe[7]- you cannot avoid it. You have to reply, if you don’t, you ‘disobey Bible!’.
In this case, we started to talk. It turned out to be fruitful. As soon as it is evening, he took out a giant bucket, and said his fiancé has made an excellent dinner, with which he can entertain ‘a full platoon of army’.
I disagreed and said I also brought something to eat, but those are a bit native recipe, may be a bit much spicier.
After a few dispute, it was decided, we will share the foods, as we like, in a brotherly division, a la carte.
When the Sahib stared to bring out his items, my eyes stared to freeze. The same shish kebab, the same dhakai paratha, murg-musallam and mutton with potato[8]. The same foodstuffs I bought from Zakaria Street[9].
And now my friend started to become dumbfounded. The same materials started to come out. Not even shami-kebab, instead of shish kebab and mutton with gobi, instead of mutton with potato[10].
I said, ‘Dear friend, I don’t have a fiancé, I bought these from Zakaria Street.’
And incidentally, both of these tasted exactly the same!
The Sahib ate unmindful staring outside.
I vaguely remembered, when I was buying things, may be one plump and chubby Anglo-Indian lady came in and went on buying whatever dainty food the restaurant had.
I was about to ask the Anglo-Indian man to tell about his fiancé, but held back. It’s useless to make him more suspicious. Moreover, I saw he was pouring strong scented liquid time and again through his throat. Descendant of an European- can change his colour any time.
Night started to grow. I didn’t have appetite, so I didn’t eat much, so I couldn’t sleep. I looked out and saw the environment is bathed with dull moonlight. I found out that the surroundings have changed a lot. It is no more Bangla. There is no betel tree, villages are not closely knit and not filled up with mango and black-berry trees, the area now is strewn with scattered huts, here and there.
Water is fetched out from high-bordered wells, even at that hour of the night, there are no sign of ponds or water bodies. Smells of damp wind of Bengal no longer exists. Gusty winds scorched dust slaps on the face. The region is so parched and dry at this hour of night that I could not make out, what it will look like at daytime. This West, can it be watery and bountiful India? When Bankim Chandra14 termed it ‘seven crore[11] voice’, then it might be for Bengal only! When jokingly it is commented ‘thirty crore[12]’, then it is obviously of this dry West.
Suddenly, it seemed to me that Haren Ghose of my locality is standing beside me. Is it? Oh, yes! It’s obviously Haren. What he is doing here? Singing! Singing ‘Thirty crore, Thirty Crore! . . . thirty Crore, Thirty, ti. . tik.. ticket. . ticket, please.’
‘Oh, no, it’s the Checker! He has come to check the tickets. It’s not the ‘thirty crore’ he is shouting . . it’s ticket, he is speaking out. Third class, whether European or not. If he does not check tickets at middle of the night, he himself will be sleeping.
I woke up with a start and saw the environment around me inside the carriage has changed totally. ‘European third’ turned out to be a native one— boxes-trunks are strewn over all the floor. I didn’t tell when the Anglo-Indian left. But he left behind his packet of food beside me, with a slip ‘Good Luck for long journey’ written on it.
Though he is an Anglo-Indian and a Sahib, still he belongs to Calcutta- resides at Taltala. So many days, I dined at the Iranian hotel at Taltala, taught Hindu friends how to taste Mughlai dishes, enjoyed swimming competitions in the pool of the Square, also experienced rivalry between Europeans and Anglo-Indian for white damsels and clapped at them.
I don’t want to go far. In this Taltala, one of my friends told me that, if somebody takes an ’emetine injection’, he becomes very emotional, it is called ‘maudlin’. At this stage, he weeps at the death of a cat in the neighbourhood. Going abroad, is like taking ’emetine’. But let’s stop making research on this subject- there’s no doubt that I am going to have many experiences of it in future.
I could not tell how night turned into a bright day. Morning of June does not come timidly in the West. As soon as it is seven in the morning, the sun entered into the carriage slanting and told us how the entire day will pass. I was told, Western singers do not sing in a slow single-tone melody for a long and moves quickly to faster and multiple-toned melody. That evening, I presumed that sun’s rays of the Western morning is only slow single-tone and rest of the day, it is fast and multiple-toned melody.
The train is a maestro, running fast to defeat the drummer of sun-rays in the musical beat and take rest somewhere in the shade. Whereas, the scorching sun-rays, too, are moving fast along with the train. Within this combat, the lives of the passengers become at a stake. Each station is a completeness of a cycle of the melody. But from my carriage, I could see the rays of the sun waits patiently outside the shade of the platform and stares at the carriage- as the drummer strikes his instrument slowly at the recess and waits for the next move from the maestro to perform.
When I took my food, I could not recollect, which stations we passed, I could not tell, who alighted and boarded the train, too I could not remember. There was an intoxicating effect in that temperature, if it wasn’t, how could I write a poem at that time? Just think over it-
I saw scorched field. As far as the sight could travel-
Burned up, distressed and bewildered. There’s no peace in the heart
Of the Earth anywhere. Irritated fiery stare of the Sun
Falls down at a tremendous pace. All the nature whimper,
In the forest, hills and the locality. Dried bosom of Yamuna
From one bank to other – Is sucked up, by some scrooge,
All its flowing motherly juice. Lamentation are heard
From the ghastly surroundings. It seems, there is no hope, optimism left,
To saturate this barren Sahara with milky-drenching greenery
Murderous instinct today devours all the strength
And makes the dear earth bloodless, lifeless. Dehydrated nipples
Of the Earth lie exhausted, worn out calves are tired up sucking it
What a poem! More scorched up than the parched fields of the West. As long as Kabiguru[13] was alive, this poem could not be published. Curse of the Preceptor is the Curse of the Absolute.
[1] Chandni – A low-cost market place at Calcutta, India
[2] During the British rule in India, which lasted for nearly two hundred years, the railways had a separate coach, where non-white persons were not allowed to travel. One can recollect what the British people behaved with the Black people in South Africa and with the Red Indians in America during the colonial rule.
[3] Bangalee – Bengali people
[4] Onushwar (s) – a letter of Sanskrit and also Bengali language sounding ‘ng’
[5] Bangla – Bengali language
[6] Taltala – A low-cost residential area at Calcutta, India
[7] I have foud no reference whatsoever about Elysium Rowe- Translator.
[8] shish kebab, dhakai paratha, murg-musallam and mutton with potato – some of the most popular dishes of the Muslim community of India, introduced by the Mughal Emperors
[9] Zakaria Street – A Muslim-predominant low-cost area of Calcutta, most popular for Mughal dishes.
[10] shami-kebab, mutton with gobi – some of the popular dishes introduced by the Mughal Emperors; gobi – Cauliflower.
[11] seven crore – 700,000,000 – the then population of Bengal Province of India
[12] thirty crore – 3,000,000,000 – the then population of India as a whole
[13] Kabiguru – ‘Poet-maestro’, referred to Rabindranath Tagore.
Syed Muztaba Ali (1904-1974) a renowned Bangali literateur, author, academician, scholar and linguist, was born on 13 September 1904 at his father’s workplace in Karimganj, Sylhet, a district of the then greater Assam. His ancestral residence was in the village of Uttarsur. His father, Syed Sikandar Ali, was a Sub-Registrar. Muztaba Ali studied at various educational institutions because of his father’s frequent transfers from one place to another.
In 1919, Syed Mujtaba Ali was inspired by Rabindranath Tagore and started writing to the poet. In 1921, Mujtaba joined the Indian freedom struggle and left his school in Sylhet. He was finally admitted to Santiniketan where he obtained his BA degree in 1926. He learned several languages at Visva-Bharati, like, Sanskrit, English, French, German, Persian, Arabic, Italian, Hindi, and Gujrati. He had learned Urdu at home. Apart from these languages, he also studied Sangkhya and Vedanta at Visva-Bharati. Since a diploma from Visva-Bharati was then not recognised by any other universities, Muztaba Ali proceeded to sit for the Entrance Examination from Calcutta University as a private candidate in 1926. He then went to Kabul, Afghaninstan in 1927, as he couldn’t get any employment in India. Due to Revolution in Afghanistan, he had to return from Afghanistan pennyless. He then studied Intermediate of Arts at Aligarh University before leaving for Germany on a scholarship to study Philosophy. In 1932, he was awarded a DPhil for his research on Comparative Religion. He also studied at Al-Azhar University in Cairo from 1934 to 1935.
During 1927-1929, Syed Muztaba Ali taught French and English at Agricultural College, Kabul. From 1929 to 1932 he studied at the universities in Berlin, London, Paris and Bonn, earning a PhD in comparative religious studies from the latter with a dissertation on the Khojas. In 1935, at the invitation of the Maharaja of Baroda, he joined Baroda College as a professor of Comparative Religion. After the Partition of India in 1947, Syed Mujtaba Ali went from India to the then East Pakistan, his motherland. He was a language activist and a supporter of Bengali language as the national language of East Pakistan. In 1948, being the principal of Azizul Huq College, Bogra, he wrote an essay, ‘The State Language of East Pakistan’, which was printed in Chaturanga of Kolkata, India.
During that time, the West Pakistan Rulers tried to impose Urdu as the only state language of East Pakistan while Bengali was spoken by most of the people. The government of Pakistan wanted an explanation. Mujtaba Ali resigned and went to India.He was also a part-time lecturer in the Department of Islamic Studies, Calcutta University. He was Secretary of the Indian Council for Cultural Relations and editor of its Arabic journal Thaqafatul Hind. He also worked for some time on All India Radio, at New Delhi, Cuttack and Patna. He returned to teaching in 1961, joining the Islamic Studies Department of Visva-Bharati as Reader. He retired in 1965.
While Muztaba Ali was studying at Santiniketan, some of his writings were published in the Visva-Bharati, a handwritten magazine. He wrote columns in different journals such as the Ananda Bazar, Desh, Satyayug, Shanibarer Chithi, Basumati, Hindustan Standard, etc. under different pseudonyms such as ‘Satyapir’, ‘Rai Pithora’, ‘Omar Khaiyam’, ‘Tekchand’, ‘Priyadarshi’. He was also a regular contributor to the Chaturanga, Matrbhumi, Kalantar, Al-Islah, etc.
Syed Mujtaba Ali knew many languages and several dialects of Bengali language. He is the greatest contributor for a variety of bright colours to the Bengali language through his writings. He imparted the best of Perso-Arabic to Bengali, and showed the path of synthesis better than all his predecessors and successors. North India had been the grounds for the most bitter fight between Hindus and Muslims in the medieval times. But the same North India produced the highest synthesis of culture through secular architecture of the Mughals and the Rajputs, the miniature paintings of Kangra, Guler, Rajasthan, etc., the Urdu language, and above all through Hindustani Classical Music.
Syed Mujtaba Ali was a great critic of the British. His writings are profuse in sarcastic remarks about the colonial rulers of India. At times, he could even go beyond all his contemporaries in his contempt for the rulers of British India.
Extracts from Syed Mujtaba Ali’s literary works are included in the Curriculum of school level, secondary, higher secondary and graduation level Bengali Literature in both Bangladesh and India, particularly in the states of West Bengal and Tripura.
Syed Mujtaba Ali has thirty books to his credit, in a variety of genres: novels, short stories, essays and travelogues, etc. His travelogues, Deshe-Bideshe (1949) and Jale-Dangay (1960) were particularly well received. His novels include Abishvasya (1954), Shabnam (1960) and Shahar-Iyar (1969). Panchatantra (1952) and Mayurkanthi (1952) are humorous writings. His short stories have been compiled in Chacha Kahini (1952) and Tuni Mem (1964). Bonn University published his DPhil. dissertation The Origin of Khojahs and Their Religious Life Today (1936). He also wrote about the language issue in East Pakistan in Purba-Pakistaner Rastrabhasa.
As an intellectual, Muztaba Ali was highly esteemed in both India and Bangladesh. His international exposure gave him a broadness of vision, which, together with his style of writing, brought him considerable renown. His short humorous writings have always been popular with readers. However, under the guise of humour, he expressed deeply felt truths. He died on 11 February 1974.
Syed Mujtaba Ali was married to Rabeya Khatun. Syed Mujtaba Ali has two sons namely Syed Musharraf Ali, Firoz and Syed Zaghlul Ali, Kabir.