Beat the drums, welcome the Baishakh

Abdul Mannan

As Baishakh, the first month of Bangla New Year approaches my mother, in her late eighties, prepares a list of household items she wants me to buy from the Boshaki Mela. Her list is long. On the top of the list inevitably is the bamboo artifacts made by the village artisans, the 'kula' followed by 'dala' and ' chaloin.' Then the list continues with 'mora' 'beloin' 'tokta' 'phuler jharu' and 'shitol pati' 'boruna' and 'matir hari.' I tell my mother that most of these things are either no more in use and hence their availability is very limited or they have been replaced with more modern machine made stuff. She is surprised and expresses her displeasure over the fact that our traditional hand made household items are giving way to machine made ones. Unsuccessfully I try to explain to her we live in a digital age, where children go to sleep listening to Hindi songs using their mom's MP3s. Gone are the days when she would sing the melodious lullaby to my younger sister before she went to sleep. Society is changing, changing fast and ageing mothers can hardly keep pace with the changes. They still want the sons bring the traditional artifacts and household items from the Baishakhi Mela.

Back in the mid seventies I had the good fortune of spending few years in a place called Paradise on Earth-Honolulu, Hawaii. Hawaii the 50th, State of US is distinctively different from the rest of US. It is an Island State in the Pacific, about six hours' flight from the nearest airport Los Angeles or San Francisco. Before the Whites and the settlers came to Hawaii, the Islands were inhabited by the native Hawaiians. They had their own distinctive culture, language and heritage and even a King. They made their own household utensils, grew their own food, went surfing in the deep blue waters of the Pacific and spent the evenings playing their own musical instruments made of gourd and bamboo and the enchanting Hawaiian girls doing the 'Hula' dance in the moonlight while the wives and mothers prepared 'taro' dinner in the nearby fire.

In the fifties came the Whites and settlers in greater numbers, brought with them an alien culture, the cigarette, the booze, shoes, ice cream and cockroaches. Before they arrived the only visible Whites were the US Military , mostly confined to Pearl Harbour and the Bellows Air Force Base. Along with the Whites came the venereal disease and few years later came the MacDonald's and telephone, the shopping centres, the big cars. By the sixties the traditional culture of Hawaii was on the wane and by the Seventies they found their place in the local Bishop Museum and Polynesian Culture Center. Today the native Hawaiians can only feel sorry for themselves, takes their children to the museums to relive their rich past and returns home after having a good meal in a Chinese Restaurant of the Ala-Moana Shopping Center. On their way back home they pass by the State Judiciary Building, points towards the big statue of King Kamehameha and says once he was our king. Every year in the month of September and October the State and many private organizations organizes the Aloha Festival to bring back the lost culture and heritage, though now mostly for the crowding tourists from all over the world.

Bangladesh is not Honolulu, we neither had a King nor our mothers and wives sat under the serene moonlit evenings to make our dinner. But we had our rich culture and heritage, made our own everyday household items and utensils from 'kula' to 'shitol pati.' The best and the cheapest of these were available in the Baishakhi Melas held around the country during the month of Baishakh. The artisans worked throughout the year making them, put in extra hours as the month of Baishakh neared. There is a saying that says Bangladesh is a land of 'Baro Mashey Tero Parvon' (Thirteen festivals in twelve months) and every 'parvon' has its colour and charm, the 'Baishakhi' festivals enjoying the status of being the 'parvon' of the 'parvons' especially in South Bangladesh. Of all the Boshaki mela's of the Bangladesh, perhaps the one held in Chittagong city's Laldighi Maidan on the 12th. of Baishakh stands out in terms of size and diversity. Known as 'Jabbarer Boli Khela' perhaps it is the only Boshaki Mela in Bangladesh where one could enjoy a free style wrestling in a sand pit. As the home grown wrestlers (known as bolis) grapple with their opponents in a 'death' grip the frenzy of the crowds drowns in the beating of the drums. Abdul Malek, the self styled referee desperately tries to blow his whistle to stop a bout. The tired wrestlers spits blood and promises to fight till the last. A real 'kushti' not the choreographed version one gets to see on the TV. I talk to Deedar boli, the Champion of the Champions for last few years and want to know the secret of his success. He just divulges one. He has been on 'anda' (egg) meal for the previous six months. A dozen for lunch and two for dinner washed down with a big jug full of black goat's milk. This year it will be a centenary mela. People of the city wait for the entire year for the mela and make preparations for buying lots of household items like my mother. When she was younger and we were entering school her list would also include toys for us. The 'tomtomi gari' featured on the top of the list. It was quite innovative and the two sticks attached to the baked clay wheels beat the small drum made of clay and the stretched thin sheep skin. The day following the mela suddenly made the local 'mohalla' very musical as the children of the 'mohalla' made all those noise with these home made toys, the 'tomitomi gari' 'the think bamboo flute' and the small drum. Small sisters played with 'joonjuni' made of bamboo reeds and 'bengbaza' which made lots of noise like a croaking frog in the monsoon night. I still treasure the 'talpatar shipahi' which my grandfather bought me some half a century back! Perhaps the centre of attraction in the mela was the bio-scope. The old man put his bio-scope on a stand. The contraption, made of wood or tin was something like a box with three or four peeping holes covered with thick magnifying glass. You paid him 'one anna' and had a peep to see the Tajmahal or the Holy Mecca, all cut out from calendar pages. While he changed the scenes inside, the old man danced with the 'goongru' tied around his ankle and sang 'aakar deko baakar deko, Shahjahaner Tajmahal deko.' Today's children to some extent are unfortunate lot as they miss all theses childhood extravaganza. Of course these days children have their MP3s and computer games and the mobile phone to keep them busy. The girls do not need to play with small clay made kitchen wares as my little sisters did. The senseless trash Hindi TV serials and the coaching centres leaves them no time for more innovative activities.

I tell my ageing mother that her shopping list has to be shortened as many of the things that she wants from the Baishakhi mela is no more available. Plastic and ceramic has replaced most and some has lost its utility. Most of the artisans who made all those lovely households items have already changed their profession. Some pulls rickshaw and some have gone to work in a garments factory. Some still hangs on to the 'bap dadar' profession but finds the plastic and paper materials more economical for making their wares. 'Modern' age has arrived and one day our next generation will have to go a museum like the Hawaiians did to see what rich heritage their ancestors created that we collectively lost. Still Baishakh is the beginning of our Bangla New Year. We still wait for all the those melas or the rallies brought out from different parts of the big cities and towns. Still we wait for the drums to beat and see the 'kushtigirs' battling it out in the sand pit of Laldighi Maidan in Chittagong. Still my mother expects her son will bring home as many household items from the mela as possible. Long live our Baishakh.

Photo: Amirul Rajiv

The writer teaches at ULAB, Dhaka. He is the former Vice-chancellor, Chittagong University.

Bangla Proverb: Karo Poush mash, karo shôrbonash
One's harvest month is another's complete devastation.