Srimongaling

Sometimes, there are moments when you just want to escape.... from what, who, or where.. you often don't know. You just want to leave.

I've been having those moments a bit too often lately. So, with less than an hour's planning and with two good friends on each side, we hopped on a bus to Srimongal ... the tea capital of Bangladesh. We didn't know much about it... neither did the locals... and embarrassingly indeed, Lonely Planet said little about it. While driving up there, we noticed how dry and barren the tea fields looked due to it being the dry season. Though slightly discouraged at first, we soon realized there were some hills that were still covered lush green tea plants!!

We found a nice shallow stream - only ankle high at some points- with clear, cool water. After walking for a while in this stream - surrounded by tea and holy trees - we laid on the grass and stared at the cloudless (chemicalless) sky. The next day, we ventured off into the Lowachhara Rainforest Reserve. Wild ginger plants greeted us with their fragrant white flowers as butterflies and birds flew about. Lemon groves, tribal hospitality, and hours of botanists' dream-come-true ... we slept well that night. Next-cum-final day, we rented three bikes - first one lacked a pedal and a bell, second one's seat and pedal kept falling, and and the third one was just plain wrong. Either way, we biked our way through the tea-covered hills, local villages until our bums can take no more. So what to do next? Ah of course - lay a la nude in our favorite stream. As the water flowed around us, I just couldn't stop smiling. From what was I trying to escape? The water knew.

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Cat got your mother tongue?

February 21st (Ekushi February) was International Mother Language Day. And I was in the city that started this whole movement.

In 1952, the then West Pakistani government was forcing the predominantly-Bengali East Pakistan to adopt Urdu as the sole official language of united Pakistan. The East Pakistanis were already getting the left-overs of West Pakistan's meals, and now they were going to be stripped of the one thing that was truly theirs - their mother tongue. On February 21st of that year, people from various walks of life - students, academics, doctors, farmers - all united and rallied against the Urdu decree. Five were martyred.

Since then, Bengalis on both sides of the border celebrated this as Language Martyr's Day, with poetry recitation, traditional music and dances, and wearing somber clothes.

Nowadays however, 'Ekushi February' became the commercialized holiday we all love to fear in the West. On this day, the martyrs' memorial becomes a huge county festival scene, with people buying flowers and selling kabobs. Girls decked out in the latest "Ekushi fashion" giggle with their hubbies on the steps leading to the memorial, while politicians release hot gas everywhere they go.

I felt a bit detached from this holiday for a couple of reasons. First of all, my previous paragraph depicts my disgust for the holiday-making on this somber day. Secondly, I felt detached maybe because I, along with like-minded Chittagonians, am still fighting to get our language recognized. Bengalis and Bangladesh declare with pride how they fought for their language, but they don't acknowledge the other languages they are suppressing within their borders. It's also a pity how Chittagonians nowadays are opting to only speak in Bengali and trying to fade their Chittagonian cultural identity. As Bangladesh celebrated this day with black saris and bright orange flowers, I sat in my room dreaming of Azad Chittagong.

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An Ode to Jamuna

The Jamuna Cries

They talk of knowing why
the Mississippi cries
Of unheard shrills and unknown woes.
Yet ask why the Jamuna cries.
Silence ... for only I am to know.

The Earth sang Her lullabies
When the Nile was still in the womb.
The Monsoons quenched Her thirst
When the Rhone trickled unassumed.
She battled a legion of tempests.
She labored under Surya's rage.
She breastfed thousand villages.
She withstood Durga's rampage.
And yet, no one saw Her eyes.
... Heard Her cries.
... Felt Her cries.
But I.
After Her long journey,
With me She sleeps.
Deep into my body,
She lays. She cries.

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Swimming with Brahma's Son

Another reason why I was eager to visit Tangail was to see the expansive Brahmaputra River. The Brahmaputra (Sanskrit for Brahma's Son) is one of the longest rivers of Asia, and when it joins with the Ganges and Meghna in Bangladesh, the three form the largest delta in the world. Colloquially, the Brahmaputra is known as the Jamuna in Bangladesh. My expectation of an unfathomable river was not met since it was the dry season, and the river was running only 40% of its full flow. Nonetheless, it was a breathtaking vista - blue water, cloudless sky, pure white sand... add that with some great friends... you got yourself an unforgettable experience.

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Tango in Tangail

Sweets and Strings

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Tangail: Land of Sarees and Saccharine

Upon hearing that I would be going to Tangail for the weekend, friends and colleagues painted a clear picture of what Tangail was going to be like... a town full of sweets and sarees. And due to my still Barney-induced imagination, I started envisioning saree-clad damsels in distress serving me sweets. Regardless, I was uber-excited for this venture into the heartland of Bengal.


Tangail was everything I expected - and a bit more. We visited saree weavers carrying out a centuries-old tradition. It was a sight to see - dozens of nimble, busy hands pulling and tugging exuberantly colorful threads home more to an artist's palette than in these loud loom houses. These Tangailah sarees are famous throughout Bangladesh for their fine weaving and beautiful designs.


My next stop... Sweets. I was never a big fan of sweets - whether Bengali or American. I preferred the occasion rice pudding or ras malai, but never a whole ChamCham. Yes, the dreaded Chamcham. For me, it is synonymous with diabetic overdose. After one spoonful, I put my sweet-dependent manhood to shame, while my local Tangailah friends gobbled 5 whole chamchams in one sitting... yeeesh!


Enjoy les pics!

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Meeting the Caliph

"Don't be a Qadiani," I often heard my mom yell back at me to shut my sass mouthiness. Qadiani? I always wondered what that meant ... what, or rather who, was Qadiani?

It took me a while to have the "ah ha" moment... but when I did find out, it was more of "hmmm?" moment. Por qoui? Basically, the Ahmaddiya movement started in the late 1800's when an Indian Muslim named Mirza Ghulam Ahmad of Qadian, Punjab started teaching a syncretic, 'reformed' version of Islam. It could be compared to the Baha'i movement in Iran, also taking place around the same time. Mirza basically proclaimed he was the promised Messiah, the Mahdi, and the Mujaddid - all rolled in one. He tried spreading his message in the Islamic world, as well as to other faiths in distant lands. Unfortunately, his message of being the Messiah - the last prophet - did not appeal to the world's established faiths, particularly to the majority Muslims who saw him as a heretic (Prophet Muhammed was deemed the Last Messenger).

Last week, there was a three day Ahmaddiya congregation in Dhaka ... the 86th Jalsa Salana. I was invited by one of my colleagues - though I would've found myself there regardless since the mosque is two blocks away from my apartment. The religion junkie that I am, I threw myself in the crowd for two of the days. It was interesting to say the least - a largely Bengali-speaking population was lectured by Bengalis, Pakistanis, Arabs, and even a Bosnian. I was amazed to see the dispersal of the sect, and also their ability to use a multilingual approach, technological advances, and modern issues to address the needs of their community. They called for tolerance and unity - something Bangladesh can offer if it follows its constitution wholeheartedly. The Ahamaddiya Caliph concluded the Jalsa Salana calling for nothing more than world peace. Amen.

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A Farewell, Untold

Exactly a year ago, over 6000 mourners gathered along the Bay of Bengal to say their final farewell to a man. Across three continents, his relatives and friends alike held week-long vigils, reading the Holy books and endless prayers. Seven seamless cotton garbs layered his body as the Sun last kissed him and returned him to Earth's womb from which he came.

He was born to a family of Rangooni traders, whose lives were split between two lands. Losing his father at age 14, he became the sole breadwinner of his father's family of many. His education ground to a halt as he sought odd jobs to make ends meet. After spending 2 decades sailing the seas, he decided to call US home, where 6 long years of solitude, prejudice, and longing awaited him.

Alas came the day he brought his own family to the States. But this too was not without its woes. A family of nine in a foreign land, without a proper education, without a community, and in ailing health - he was better off left to the vultures. But Life always knew he was a worthy opponent, even at the trickiest of its games. He tried his hardest to provide the best for his family, and left the rest up to God. He gave his children a home, education, and an identity. Eventually, his children had children, and they had children of theirs as well. He saw his children make homes in the promising land, and his children showed him the House of God in the Promised Land. Then came the day when he presented his wife the most beautiful gift a woman can ever wish for - 50 years of fidelity, friendship, and love. Overjoyed with what he had, he refused to get disheartened even when Angel Azrail sat beside his bed and whispered the hymns of death.

Often, men become legends after they die. But this man was a walking, living, breathing legend. He was born an intellectual, but fate forced it chains upon him - war, famine, poverty, rivalry, etc - all countered his ambitions and potentials. The Alchemist that he was, he turned the chains to garlands and helped others weave the same. This man left many things to his family, his city, his world. This man was known by many names and titles to many people... a lover, a brother, a son, a mentor ... and to me, a father.

May Khoda grant him Fana'a.

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How I envy that cloud. That Thief!

Stealing His warmth 'way from my face.

Surely Maulana feels this Grief.

His Sun too disappeared for days.

~ Mir Mehr

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Lakshmi Farted...

Chittagonian (language of Chittagong region) is a medley of sarcasm and straightforwardness. Elitist lexicon and ghetto slang. Pure Sanskirt and far-flung Spanish. Thus, it’s no surprise that Chittagonian gave me my new obsession-inducing phrase “Lokkhi Fa’ad diye” … or Lakshmi Farted!!

So … what does it really mean? Well, Lakshmi is the Hindu goddess of prosperity, courage, wealth, generosity. Umm, basically anything Good. And farting means flatulence, which is the release of bodily gas.


When to use this phrase: When someone or something with negative tendencies unexpectedly does something extraordinarily good.

In a country full of unexpected people and events, this phrase is quite ubiquitous.

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Anthropo Logos. III.

I am fascinated by human cultural stubbornness. There are some cultures which battle geography, genocide, and time itself. In my view, one of these cultures is the Kodagu, also known as the Coorgs of India.

Their culture is quite distinct from other South Indian ethnic groups. Most are Hindus of a warrior caste, yet as Hindus they do not abstain from meat (except beef). They have very distinct jewelry and attires, and their language is also separate from other Dravidian languages (though of the same language family). Physically, they look quite different as well, having features that would fit in with North Indians. These could be evidence to the theory that the Coorgs are indeed an invading group of Iranic Central Asians (perhaps Kurds?) who settled deep into Dravidian country almost two millennia ago. Considering its India, this theory does not seem farfetched at all.

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Anthropo Logos. II.

Though Dravidian in nature, South India is very multicultural in closer inspection. Hindus of various sects and castes, Muslims, Christians, and Jews all call this region home. Due to its importance in the spice trade, people from all over the world set foot in South India.

However for me, the interest laid in the hills of South India. I call these ‘hills’ only in comparison to India’s other giants – the Himalayas. These highlands would be aptly called mountains in many other parts of the world, with peaks rising higher than 7000 feet. The highest peaks are collectively called the Nilgiris (The Blue Mountains), located along the border of three India states – Tamil Nadu, Kerala, and Karnataka.

When the Dravidians moved further south into the subcontinent, they misplaced people that were previously living here. There were pockets of Negritos, Austro-Asiatics, and perhaps now-extinct ethnic groups living here before the arrival of the Dravidians. Over time, these various groups were absorbed into the greater Dravidian community. However, some remained untouched in one way or another – either through various customs or religion – in the remote Nilgiri Hills.

It was in these hills that I had the privilege of meeting members of the Toda tribe, a group of people as ancient as the mountains themselves. They number only 4000, and their fate does not seem to bright considering the younger generation is moving into the cities and assimilating with the Tamils. They looked quite different from the Tamils of the lowlands, and their language – according to them – was Proto-Dravidian mixed with words of unknown origin. They have very unusual homesteads – almost like American Indian wampum. They are goatherds and shepherds traditionally, and their shawls are simply beautiful.

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Anthropo Logos. I.

Being the anthropoHo that I am, I like to seek out the similarities and differences amongst cultures in any given locale. When I was in India, there was of course an Anthro overdose. A country with 22 official languages, almost all of the world’s faiths and then some, and where the world’s ethnicities collided – this was India.

Traveling in South India was particularly interesting because I was walking amongst some of the world’s most ancient peoples. The northern regions of the Indian Subcontinent (much of India, Pakistan, and Bangladesh) are Aryan or Aryanised in their languages, cultures, customs, etc. In South India however, Dravidians are the dominant group – demographically, culturally, and linguistically. Many scholars believe the Dravidians were the ones that built the ancient Indus Valley civilization. It was considered the most advanced and urbanized of the four ancient civilizations (considering China, Egypt, and Mesopotamia). According to one theory, they were displaced by the invading Aryans who came from Central Asia and pushed the Dravidians deep into the south of the continent.

Amongst the Dravidians, there are four major languages and many other smaller languages and dialects. Of the four – Tamil, Malayalam, Telugu, and Kannada – Tamil is considered to be the ‘purest’ of Dravidian languages, unmarred by the Brahmins and their Sanskrit. It is truly an ancient language, with sounds and pitches that can transport you thousands of years in the past. I only wish I could’ve understood a single word!!

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Burj Khalifa ..

This week, they inaugurated the tallest building – or structure – built by mankind. And where else would this be other than Dubai, UAE.
For many, especially in the Western nations, Dubai conjures up an image of a wealthy, tolerant oasis in an otherwise hostile region of the world. Those with a business mentality see this as their Mecca, while others marvel at its structures. Meanwhile, there are some of us that think it is the Las Vegas of the East, a mere show of tasteless, oil-fed gaudiness.

I was recently watching a BBC special on this new addition to its soaring skyscrapers. The journalist asked one of the investors whether this building would change Dubai’s image of a soulless city. His answer was typical – it would provide the population with a new place to live, shop, eat, and stare at. So yes, it would provide a heart to this city, thus a soul. Hmmmm. And what population was he speaking of? The Uber-elite Khaleeji Sheikhs or the senseless Western spenders? Of course. Why would he talking about the nonexistent migrant workers, who make up about 75% of the city’s population and serve as the brain and sweat of the emirate’s development? The millions of South Asians, Southeast Asians, and Africans that form the populace are often absent from any advertisement or discussion of Dubai.

So yes, they have built another massive building which can only be visited by the super-wealthy and privileged. And yes, it is a milestone for humankind to build the highest known structure. But at the expense of what? Creating more and more tower of Babels are only making apparent the enlarging gaps amongst humans. The new Burj may provide Dubai with a heart, but it has a long while to secure itself a soul.

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A Belated Islamic New Years Resolution

The Islamic New Year begins with the month of Muharram. However, this is no merry-making holiday. Muharram is considered one of the holiest months, second only to Ramadan. Muslim communities across the world experience Muharram differently, though Shias tend to emphasize the martyrdom of Husayn during this month.

In Chittagong, Sunni and Shia customs mixed together to form a unique Muharram celebration. Most people fast the first ten days of Muharram, called the Nights of Ashura. Throughout these ten days, stories of Ali and Husayn are told by the elderly and special prayers are held for their departed souls. On the tenth day, tazia processions are held in the city center, while 'manzils' are held in different localities. On the tenth night, family and friends gather for a large family dinner and more stories about the martyrdom at Karbala.


Above: I was in Kolkata for Muharram this year. I lived near a largely Muslim locality, where drums and chants were heard everywhere. Here, the guys are playing with fire ... I still don't know what his has to do with Muharram.

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The City of Joy

My last few days in India were spent in Kolkata, where I started my journey. After a month of South Indianization, I was surprisingly very happy to be back to a city where my Benglo-Urdu identity was right at home. Kolkata is not a city that'll win you over at first impression... it takes time to admire this ex-colonial metropolis. Kolkata was once called the City of Joy. There are many reasons why it was given such an appraising name... but for me, it was because of its thriving art scene. I ended my India rendezvous with a play that dealt with themes like India and Bengal's identity, gender preferences, and one's orientation in life. No ethnocentrism involved when I say only Bengalis can create such art. :p


Below: The famous Nandan Theatres where I saw this play.

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Lunch Time in India

Above: A Coorghi dish, made of lamb and coconut gravy. Unlike most South Indian Hindu communities, the Coorgs are non-vegetarians ... though they refrain from eating beef.

Above: A very typical Indian meal... well, if you are a Banglamerican who was starved of these glorious morsels of processed transfats for four months... i relished every bit of it.

Above: A typical South India "thali" meal... rice, papads, vegies, served with various condiments and desserts. This was a thali from Ana's wedding.

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Tropical Icicles!

I guess you all know about the cold spell in Europe, since BBC won’t shut up about it. However, there is a severe cold spell occurring in China and South Asia as well. All three seem to be interconnected. The massive cold front from the Arctic is to blame. Though many people won’t double think about freezing temperatures in Europe and China, a tropical country like Bangladesh doesn’t conjure up earmuffs and hot chocolate.

However, it has been bone-numbing cold these past couple of weeks. The freezing Himalayas and Tibetan Plateau are at the footsteps of Bangladesh; the high pressure system over the region creates extremely dry and cold temperatures during the winter months here. Yet, the worst culprit is the fog. This is the densest fog I’ve ever seen – sometimes you can’t even see your hands and feet in the morning. Bengal is noted for its thick fog due to its geographic location: warm air from the Bay of Bengal clashes with the cold, dry air of the Tibetan plateau, creating a dense layer of fog that remains in the plains of Bengal due to the lofty Himalayas surrounding it. This fog creates numerous problems. According to a local doctor, I now have asthma due to Dhaka’s smog. Ayi dios mio indeed.

Aside from showering in near-frozen water and breathing like an old grandma, it’s not all that bad. I can actually wear my scarves, Russian hat, and my earmuffs. Thank you global warming!

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Coorging it up!

I did end up going to Coorg after all. Though I lowered my expectations drastically after my excursion to Kanyakumari. I stayed in Medikeri, the capital of Coorg district. It was a quiet little town perched on several ridges. The whole are had a pleasant climate, surrounded by coffee and spice plantations. It was a relaxing two-day venture… and best of all, I got to see the Coorgs! (Who are the Coorgs? Check my Anthrowhore post coming soon).

Above: A beautiful mosque in Medikeri. There Muslims in every state of India, and this remote hilly region was no exception. There were many Muslim institutions and businesses in town.

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More of Mysore

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My o my! So Sore...

I’ll eventually stop with the senseless titles for my posts. Anywho, I was expecting to cover Mysore (in Karnataka) in one day. But no. I ended up staying in Mysore the longest – four friggin days! But no complaints. These were days well spent – good food, historical mansions, and most importantly – my Singaling amigos!! It was a great way to finish South India; Mysore was a meeting point of South and North India through trade and warfare. Whether it’s the royal Wodeyar mansions, Tipu Sultan’s mosques, or simply the finest silk in the South – Mysore had its charms. (However, the taxi drivers and the hostel managers were probably the worst …).
Above and below: Tipu Sultan's mosques.

Who was Tipu Sultan? Wikipedia it dammit!

Below: Dungeon where the Brits kept Tipu captive.

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God's Own Country

They call Kerala “God’s Own Country”. I didn’t fully understand this nickname until I visited the Backwaters. Few words can describe it. Beautiful. Serene. Heavenly. I made up my mind on buying one of those houseboats and spending my retired life there.

I want this man to be my bodyguard.

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Chanukah in Cochin

Where are the Jews??? And the Portuguese? And the Arabs????? History and travel books alike try to paint a much romanticized picture of Cochin … spice warehouses lined along with perfume shops and a cosmopolitan populace speaking to you in farflung tongues. Paaleeeeeez!
Cochin was indeed a very cosmopolitan town in its heyday, mostly for its thriving spice trade. It was the center of Judaism in South Asia, with a population dating back to the fall of the Second Temple. I admit that it was a pretty little town, but it had nothing to enchant me with. I visited all the sites in three hours, and then sat next to the Chinese fishing nets for another five hours. Yes, it was interesting to see the synagogue and Dutch palace, but it would’ve been pretty awesome if an old babushka-clad Jewish nana served me some curry-flavored matzo balls.

Above and Below: The famous Kathakali performances of Kerala ... it takes hours for them to do the makeup.

Below: The famous Chinese fishing nets, introduced to South Asia during admiral Zheng He's voyages in the 15th century.

Below: The Synagogue in Jew Town (seriously, that's the place's name). Now a museum. No cameras allowed inside.

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