Dhaka . . . in the prism of nostalgia

 

Dhaka is difficult terrain for many of us. Over the last three decades and more it has mutated into an unhappy manifestation of its former self. A beautiful town that once cradled nature in its warmth has dwindled into being a sprawling urban slum where insensitivities have the upper hand, where the soul has been silenced by ersatz modernity.

And yet for those among us who have been part of Dhaka, have seen the way it has aged, there are yet the spots we love trekking through, for the beauty they yet hold, for the memories which come associated with them. Wari is no more the tranquil, aristocratic residential area it used to be. Homes have vanished in the onslaught of high-rise apartment complexes. Supermarkets have sprouted where homes used to be. Despite it all, we love walking down Rankin Street, to remind ourselves of the glamour once associated with Dr. Nandi's residence. Baldha Garden is yet unmatched in its appeal and you can truly enjoy its undefiled charm as you walk though its soggy paths in monsoon rain.

The old Gulistan cinema house is no more there. Neither do we have the old cannon which once was a landmark, facing what once was known as Dhaka Improvement Trust, today's Rajdhani Unnayan Kartripakkha. But for those of us who as teenagers walked along the pavements leading from the bus stoppage all the way up to the open compound, as it then was, of Baitul Mukarram mosque, there is still the unmistakable thrill of re-enacting the experience. Many of the old shops dealing in shoes and sports goods and optics have survived the assault of time. The crowds are thicker, of course. The bigger happiness is in realizing that in your sixties you are part of it.

One of the most alluring, indeed poetry-drenched spots in Dhaka is Hare Road beside Ramna Park. The old Ganobhaban, the ancient trees beside it and, yes, the canopy of trees and lush leaves contrived by nature on both sides of the road are for us the perennials which have consistently added to our sensuousness. One would, in the old days before rickshaws were ordered off it, go through sheer thrill taking a ride on the three-wheeler in the rain. Today, a walk along the road is a trek down memory lane and yet an expression of gratitude that it has remained the way it has for ages. Some other roads, or more properly alleys, have not changed.

A walk all the way from Mouchak Market up to the Malibagh rail crossing is a reminder that some of the Dhaka you remember has somewhat survived gross modernity. The Faruk-Iqbal graves, resting places of two of our earliest liberation warriors, is your landmark in terms of history. You walk all the way down to the kitchen market where the old organized chaos, the old accumulation of fish, meat, vegetables, rice and what not brings your youth back to you. At Bijoynagar, as you walk down the road, you recall the small shops which once sold precious old books, where in the small tea stalls you shared tea and shingaras and energizing conversations with your friends. One of them is now in distant America; the other has been in his grave for years.

The walk to The Bookworm outside the old Tejgaon airport is long and refreshing, laden with thoughts of times gone by. It was the airport one arrived at and departed from when circumstances brought one home on holidays from other lands. It is the same spot where people landed on a rainy evenings in 1971 and comprehended first hand, through the fearsome presence of Pakistan's soldiers, the brutal nature of foreign occupation even as Bangladesh waged war for freedom. It is the airport where one hung precariously on the truck taking Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, Father of the Nation, to the Race Course, today's Suhrawardy Udyan, through the deafening cheers of the million-plus crowd welcoming him back home on a January day in 1972.

Those walks through the lanes and alleys and streets of Dhaka are a measure of one's love for the city. They are also a re-creation of the times that have flown. In one's solitary walk along Ramna Lake, one relives the times, ages ago, when with parents keeping watch, happy children ran around, screamed in unmitigated delight, munched peanuts and licked ice cream to its last dripping dregs.