Terrible Biman, beautiful Dhaka
I recently got yet another lesson in relativity, not the famous theory of Einstein by that name, but the fact that all opinions are relative. I avoid flying Pakistan International Airlines (PIA) for obvious reasons. But having tried Bangladesh Biman on two occasions recently, I would now go for PIA anytime. Relative to Biman, PIA is doing a pretty good job. One must give credit where it is due.
Pakistan’s much-criticized national carrier came to my rescue where Biman totally failed me. When the latter cancelled one of its thrice weekly Karachi-Dhaka flights without so much as informing me, PIA took me on board in its next flight to the Bangladeshi capital the following day.
Later, four attempts by me to reconfirm my flight out of Bangladesh by calling Biman’s enquiry number in Dhaka proved in vain. Three times the operator connected me to the “right” number, but no one answered. Getting nowhere, on the fourth attempt I tried to explain my ordeal to another operator, but she sighed: “Oof, Allah, do I have to answer so many questions!”.
In the event, I used an ex-Biman pilot, a brother of my friend, to have my flight reconfirmed. That done, with complete peace of mind I arrived at Dhaka’s Zia International Airport the next day only to be told that the flight was delayed by 6 hours. Again, I had not been contacted or informed.
But I was more fortunate than the young Bangladeshi woman I had met a few weeks earlier in Kuala Lumpur airport, who was stranded there because her connecting Biman flight to Dhaka was delayed by 17 hours. When she complained to the airline’s Bangladeshi representative at the airport, he had asked her: “Who told you to fly Biman?”
As I emerged from the terminal on arrival at Dhaka’s Zia InternationalAirport, I found myself under a porch without any light. Throngs of people waiting for arriving passengers were kept behind a grilled fence at some distance, and were trying desperately to locate their arriving relatives and friends. But touts were moving around freely, offering passengers such services as taxis and mobile phones to make calls.
Unable to locate my friend for half an hour or so in the semi-darkness and melee, I had no choice but to avail of the services of a tout to hire a taxi at four times the normal rate. My friend and his wife returned home from the airport after three hours to find that the roles of host and guest had been reversed, for I was the one who received them in their house. Biman and ZiaInternationalAirport may deserve each other but passengers deserve better.
If Bangladesh’s national carrier is in a shambles and the country’s main international airport a discredit, the road leading to the city is rather good and the city itself is charming. This was my second visit to Dhaka after 1971. The capital of Bangladesh has changed almost unrecognizably since independence. There are new roads crisscrossing the city and older ones have been vastly upgraded.
New buildings and shopping centres give Dhaka a fairly modern look, but for the cycle-rickshaws, which are banned from some major roads, including the one leading from the airport to the city. As numerous as ants after the rains, they clog up the streets at busy hours.
If one were asked to describe present-day Bangladesh in one word, the answer would have to be: overcrowded. On a bus journey of about six hours to the northern town of Gaibandha, we rarely passed through an uninhabited stretch of countryside. Local traffic merged with highway traffic throughout, but our bus sped along merrily, oblivious to the dangers, horn blaring, barely slowing down, twisting and swerving, forcing rickshaws off the road and pedestrians to run for their lives.
If there were any speed limits anywhere, they were not signposted, and the drivers certainly were unaware of them. Either it was because of man’s primordial instinct for survival, or the blessings of Allah, but there wasn’t a single casualty, although my journey should have sent at least a dozen people to their deaths.
While Dhaka has vastly improved as a city, Gaibandha has not changed at all, a fact that pleased me personally. Returning to the town after over four decades, I was happy to find the streets and houses as I had left them, more or less. Nothing seems to have changed there, except that it was more crowded and less clean.
A traditional water-well near the railway station and a pond nearby, both of which were popular with bathers in days gone by, are now used to dump garbage. The old village-like atmosphere has deserted the town without any of the benefits of modernity having arrived, with the exception of the mobile phone, of course.
Reasonably good roads now connect Dhaka with most cities and towns in the country. Hundreds of bridges have been constructed since independence over rivers, big and small, which now make travel not only faster but also much easier. By far the longest of them is the Japanese-built Jamuna Shetu (bridge), a rail-cum-road bridge that spans the once-mighty Jamuna river.
The Jamuna I now saw was a pale shadow of the river I remember. Then there used to be water as far as the eye could see, with large sail-boats, motor-launches and steamers slowly but majestically trudging along, carrying goods and passengers. Now there were merely rivulets of water dominated by islands of sand, with not a boat in sight – only the span of the banks a vague reminder that this once was a mighty river, a sea of water.
Thanks to the Jamuna bridge, however, gone are the days when people traveling from Dhaka to the northern cities had to disembark from trains, cross the river on steamships and board a waiting train on the opposite bank. It added an extra three to four hours to any trip. But those of us who have made the journey in that era gone by, remember it with a nostalgia, no matter the inconvenience.
There was something romantic about that journey. It was a train ride and a river cruise combined in one. The last ten or fifteen kilometers on either side of the river were negotiated slowly by the train, on rails temporarily laid out over the shifting sands, depending on the ebb and flow of the river, which varied with the seasons. The steam engines accelerated or decelerated, straining, puffing and whistling as only they could, and the train curved and turned as the mighty river alternately came into view and then disappeared from view.
Then there were the delicious beef and fish curries served with steaming hot boiled rice at the many thatched eateries on the ghat (river-bank). Their owners screamed and jostled to attract customers, advising passengers to make haste slowly, assuring them that there was plenty of time to enjoy a meal before catching the connecting train or steamboat. The sights and sounds, even the smell, belonged to another era.
(Published in Daily Times, 25 May 2006)
From Sonar Bangla to Bangladesh
In the euphoric early days following independence, the chant across East Bengal was “Sonar Bangla” (Golden Bengal). Some nationalists in both Bangladesh and the Indian state of West Bengal even dreamed of “one Bengal” and cried “epar Bangla, opar Bangla” (Bengal on this side, Bengal on that side).
Now, however, it is plain Bangladesh – Third World and Islamic, and very nearly as much Islamic as it is Bengali. While West Bengal has just elected a Leftist-Communist government for the seventh consecutive term, Bangladesh has been busily infusing Islam into its body-politic, not quite sure how much is enough.
If imitation is a form of flattery, then the Islamic Republic of Pakistan, the mother-country from which Bangladesh violently seceded in 1971, can take satisfaction from this Islamization. Pakistanis can also derive a perverse kind of pleasure from the fact that Bangladesh’s formative years resembled Pakistan’s own: ten presidents, nine prime ministers, two periods of Martial Law and the assassination of two presidents (including its founding father) in its first twenty years.
Born as a fiercely secular state in 1971, Bangladesh officially became an Islamic one in 1988. Gradually, as in Pakistan, state patronage of religion has virtually gone out of control with the usual deleterious results. Some fundamentalist groups are now attacking the minority Ahmadi sect and its places of worship and demanding that it be suppressed. As in Pakistan, Islamic political parties and fringe groups wield influence in the country far in excess of their votes or support base.
In another similarity with Pakistan, Bangladeshi politics is dominated by two deceased rulers, Sheikh Mujibur Rahman and General Ziaur Rahman, and their respective parties, the Awami League (AL) and the Bangladesh Nationalist Party (BNP). The Sheikh’s daughter, Hasina Wajed, has been prime minister (1996-2001) and is now leader of the opposition, while the general’s widow, Khaleda Zia, is now in her second stint as prime minister (1991-96 & since 2001).
Unlike Pakistan, however, Bangladesh has been free of military interference since 1990 and there is a constitutional provision for the holding of elections by interim, neutral, non-party governments. Martial law, a constant threat in Pakistan, seems to be a thing of the past in Bangladesh. The country has also done considerably better than Pakistan in education, health and population control.
But Bangladesh’s economic progress has been significantly hampered by the scourge of hartal (strike). Hardly a day passes without traffic in some part of Dhaka being disrupted by a hartal. A strike could be on the call of the main opposition party, but it could also be on account of, say, the death of a student from a road accident. A dozen or so Bengalis getting upset by anything under the sun are not merely inclined to, but also capable of disrupting traffic to vent their anger.
General Ziaur Rahman’s supporters who dominate the military and political establishments have built an imposing mausoleum for him. By clever design, it is so situated opposite the National Assembly buildings as to appear to be a part of the complex, although he remains a highly controversial figure.
Mujib’s personal residence in Dhaka, where he was killed in 1975 along with his wife and all three sons, has now been converted into a museum by his admirers. An inscription before the spot on the stairs where he fell from his killers’ bullets literally exhorts “Bengalis” (rather than Bangladeshis) to “weep” (kaand Bangali kaand). The AL government’s efforts to build a grand mausoleum to Mujibur Rahman in his native village have been less successful so far.
Mujib may not yet have got the monument that his supporters believe he deserves as the father of the nation, but his soul will be pleased with the spirit of defiance and nationalism which imbibes his people. Zia’s soul, on the other hand, will take satisfaction from the Islamic fervour, tinged with an anti-Indian strain, which permeates today’s Bangladesh.
Bangladeshis are fiercely nationalistic, a fact which Pakistanis learned at their own considerable expense and which Indians have subsequently discovered to their chagrin. I doubt that there is a country in the world whose citizens take more pride in their nationhood.
Ethnically, it’s one of the world’s most homogenous nations, with 98 per cent of the population being Bengalis. Unfortunately, the country’s treatment of its dwindling Hindu minority (now 16 percent of the population) leaves a lot to be desired. The small Chakma and other hill tribes of the southeast find their culture and economic livelihoods threatened by encroachments from Bengalis from other parts of the country.
On a previous trip to Bangladesh, I visited the National Martyrs’ Memorial at Savar wearing the typical Pakistani shalwar-kameez, curious to see the people’s reaction. Bangladeshis came and went but no-one batted an eyelid. For sometime after the 1971 war, the sight of a man in that dress would have attracted lynch mobs, even if the wearer spoke Bengali. How times change!
Then, Pakistan was the enemy and India a great friend. Now, the former is irrelevant, perhaps a distant friend, the latter an overwhelming presence, too big and too close for comfort. It’s a kind of love-hate relationship. Bangladeshis love to visit India, study there, trade with it, see Indian films and listen to Indian songs, both Bengali and Hindi/Urdu, but they are deeply suspicious of their powerful neighbour.
Also during my last visit, I wanted to see the spot in Dhaka’s race course ground, now turned into a park, where the Pakistan Army had formally surrendered. I was curious to see how this piece of history had been preserved.
With considerable difficulty my Bangladeshi friend and I were able to locate a small, neglected plaque overgrown with bush which recorded (in Bengali only): “This is where, on 16 December 1971, the aggressor Pakistan Army surrendered before the Mukti Bahini and allied forces”. For those not familiar with the history, the unnamed “allied forces” (an auxiliary to the Mukti Bahini, according to this account) could have been from Nepal, Bhutan, Burma, or India. National pride and Islamic resurgence probably prevent a direct admission of the crucial Indian military role.
Religious fervour now borders on the ludicrous. For example, many if not a majority of the auto-rickshaws in Dhaka proclaim at their back that “Allah is almighty”, while others announce that they are “Equipped with a 4-stroke engine.” I noted one that combined both statements, the first followed by the second.
Nevertheless, very few women wear the burqa or the full hijab. In fact, during my weeklong recent stay in Bangladesh I don’t recall seeing any. Women are conspicuous by their presence everywhere in the country. One doesn’t get “the feeling that you are in a Planet of the Males,” as a Malaysian who recently visited Pakistan wrote to me.
On Dhaka University campus as well as on the adjoining roads and alleys, I could see young men and women walking together, or sitting and chatting, or just enjoying each other’s company in silence, saying nothing but speaking in a thousand tongues. This, the most beautiful of sights in the world, may have vanished from Pakistan but it survives in Bangladesh. The keepers of the faith there are apparently not strong enough as yet to drive women out of public places or banish lovers out of sight.
(Published in Daily Times, 1 June 2006)