Village Flute Behind the Scenes: Kurigram

Photos from Kurigram Town:

The Kurigram College Vice Principal and head of the English Department introduces me, to speak to a joint class of all the English students at the college.

What do people eat in Australia?

Why do you live in Bangladesh?

What do you think of Kurigram?

Are there any jobs going at the newspaper?

Notes: "Kuri" is an old-fashioned word in Bengali meaning "twenty" - though the word is still used in the Paschimbangan (Indian) version of Bangla. "Gram" means "village". Kurigram - twenty villages! Of course there are far more than twenty villages in the district.

Kurigram is one of the poorest districts in Bangladesh, potentially the poorest of all. Perhaps the main reason for this is that it is crossed by numerous rivers including the enormous Brahmaputra which has always hampered communication and development. It is also far from Dhaka. 

Also, the rivers cause extensive erosion so that people living anywhere near a river (basically everyone) is at risk of losing their homes and land. Most of Kurigram town was swallowed by the Brahmaputra and has been relocated. The new town is leafy, spread out and quiet.

Like some other northern districts in Bangladesh, Kurigram has traditionally suffered from "monga" which is an annual, seasonal famine that lasts for a few months. In those months there is no food to be had from farming - although it was suggested to me that the actual problem is the number of landless people, that ownership of Kurigram's land resources is too much concentrated in the hands of a few. The landless normally rely on day wage labour but this is unavailable during the monga season when agriculture has no need of it. NGOs and successive Bangladeshi governments have been working to overcome monga throughout the north, with some success.

The government has also paid special attention to training for young people in practical skills like better farming techniques and different crops. It has helped.

Nonetheless, Kurigramers often migrate in search of employment and it was said that every Kurigram family, just about, has at least one daughter or son (mostly daughters) working in the garments sector in or around Dhaka. Garments workers' salaries are not usually very high but to an extent the industry keeps Kurigram afloat.

In Dhaka, the majority of rickshaw drivers come from North Bengal, including Kurigram. Rickshaw riding is hard work but the profession employs about one million people. 

Street scene in Dhaka. Most rickshaw drivers are from North Bengal.

As with other northern districts, the people of Kurigram are famous for being forthright, sincere and honest. It is common when dealing with a rickshaw driver from the north for them to respond to a "how much" before you start out or after arriving at the destination with a shrug and a "give!" which means, give as you wish to. It is traditional Bengali manners!

One major crop that alters the Kurigram scenery somewhat is the golden fibre: jute. Bangladesh is the world's largest producer of jute and Bangladeshi scientists in recent years have decoded the genome for jute, with hopes to bring benefit to the industry.

Anecdotal evidence for the relative poverty in Kurigram is a lack of mid-range restaurants in the town - for example, there are no kebab houses. It would seem that there is not much disposable income around for "luxuries". Another noticeable difference is the lack of a decent internet service - speeds are very slow - unusual in tech-savvy Bangladesh.

Foreigners being rare in Kurigram it was an easy matter to be invited to speak to the English students at Kurigram College. They were very polite and enthusiastic, and seemingly pleased with my answers. In particular I remember explaining to them that one significant difference between Australia / the west and Bangladesh was the strength of human relations - in particular because western culture is built on the individual while in Bangladesh its relations with others that traditionally defined people. Bangladeshis from birth are usually surrounded and supported by an extended family network that is very close - and each particular relationship from maternal older uncle to paternal younger aunt has cultural meaning. Some relationships are 'serious', for mentoring or support, while others are 'joking' relationships with a larger element of fun in them. 

The difference is even there in the language. In Bangla, as in other South Asian languages, the question is not "How many brothers and sisters do you have?" but "How many brothers and sisters are you?" And the answer is not "I have 2 brothers and a sister" for example, but "We are 3 brothers and a sister." It is something an English speaker needs to get used to. Yet it is rather nice that the emphasis is not on the possessing, the "having" but on the being, "we are" - and that the sum, the "we", is the total not excluding the person being asked, rather than in English where the centre of the answer is the "I". 

Families and communities are tight in Bangladesh.

The interesting thing for me was in explaining this, the college students understood it very easily - in part they were intrigued to think of the different emphasis in the English language they were learning; but more than that, it reminded me of a hugely pleasing developing consciousness in Bangladesh that things previously taken for granted are actually both unique and very special. Twenty years ago I had trouble making Bangladeshis really appreciate the above point - because their strong relationships they took for granted. Now they know - things are different elsewhere. And the college students were very much happy and a little proud when I mentioned that point - although each system has its advantages and disadvantages.

Kurigram is also rich in traditional Bengali culture - I was lucky enough to witness this at a concert at the local Shilpakala Academy where young students of singing and music were able to perform... on again, off again through a few electricity cuts... Their skills were impressive. There is a local form of folk music in the north called bhawaiya - famous from nearby Rangpur and also to be found across the border in places like Jalpaiguri, India; but the Kurigramers assured me that bhawaiya from Kurigram was "the best in the world."

Students from Shilpakala Academy in Burungamari perform in Kurigram Town.

With the skills shown that evening, it was easy to imagine a few future stars were among us!

Photos from Char Parbhotipur:

Setting out: from the boat to Char Parbhotipur

Abdul Wahed, our local correspondent who looked after me in Kurigram.

On the Char Parbhotipur boat.

With Md Abu Taleb and his family in Char Parbhotipur.

Notes: There are many "chars" or sand shoals in the Brahmaputra River - maybe one hundred? Living conditions are very basic on the shoals. We visited the nearest (and presumably most developed) one, Char Parbhotipur. 

It was interesting for me because my Bengali village is in Hatiya, Noakhali in the south of the country but ultimately Hatiya is also a "char", albeit a much larger island that has been around for a few hundred years. Nonetheless around Hatiya too are newer chars, some of which are inhabited / newly settled.

But Char Parbhotipur was significantly poorer than is usual these days in Hatiya - more like how Hatiyan families used to live twenty years ago. As Hatiya has not had a major cyclone since 1991 and has the benefit of sea as well as river fishing it has become significantly richer and more developed.

The family we visited in Char Parbhotipur, meanwhile, could not even offer tea - which is basically unthinkable in Hatiya, even if visiting the poorest families.

It was incredibly hot with sun glare such that you had to squint on the day we visited - it only took a few hours but I was tired soon enough. Nonetheless, I wished I'd had more time, had gone their alone and stayed the night - or even on a more remote shoal. The local people would easily look after you with somewhere to sleep, and safety is a non-issue - one would only need to bring food supplies as there was no shop there. Maybe next time...


Photos from Ulipur:

Hanging out at the Ulipur fire station.

Trying kheer mahan at one of the competitors to Pabna Sweets, with Makbel.

Pithas of a local variety made by Makbel's wife.

Discussing Kurigram's food with Md Shohidur Rahman at the Al Shad Hotel. It was the start of the shutkani adventure!

Notes: I've already written much about Ulipur! One thing I did not mention is I had a friend, Hari Pada there - I know him from Dhaka. He works as a police sub-inspector and has worked his way up from constable, which isn't easy. He was posted in Ulipur and helped me a great deal even though his duty seemed to run almost 24 /7. 

Although he is also from North Bengal he is not from Kurigram. As he was not an Ulipurian he could not help directly with my quest to find Kurigram food in a village; nor could he call upon local friends for the task since he has only been newly posted to Ulipur. Indeed, just quietly he reckons the Kurigram food is to salty for his palate - though I suspect he hasn't tried the genuine traditional shidal and shutkani fare such as I managed to - his is possibly more of a reaction to the canteen arrangements at the police station. "I keep telling the cook to put less salt in," he said, "but no result..."

We did, however, go just about everywhere on his Honda... a great help, transport was easy!

And in the words of his boss, the Officer in Charge at Ulipur: "There is basically no crime in Ulipur apart from domestic and land disputes."

Proof that I did help with the cooking (slightly).

Crushing jute leaves... like an expert?

With Shohidur Bhai and Bipul Bhai in their house yard.

Notes: I am laughing at the Kurigram photographs of me for two features: first is the "Honda hair" and second, for the really observant, is a slight redness to the lips! It is from chewing betel leaf - a habit I have grown to enjoy now and then (while... ahem... Hari Pada barely stops chewing betel!) The photograph below is a typical "betel photo" in that you want to keep your lips closed a little tightly to prevent the "red lip" phenomenon in the photo. Cameras are yet to be designed with a red lip reduction feature...

With my friend from Dhaka Hari Pada, at a tea shop in Hatia Union.

Sub-inspector Hari Pada buys betel from Rana Bhai!

Betel leaf and nut (paan and shupari).

Photos from Chilmari:

The Chilmari ghat, where boats leave for the other side of the Brahmaputra.

Captain's chair!

Motorbikes and roof-riding!

The other passengers in the boat, before the remaining twenty of them arrived.

Notes: To the south of Ulipur is Chilmari. It is possible to take ferry boats from the constantly eroding basic ghat there, across the Brahmaputra River to the two isolated Upazilas of Kurigram that lay on the far side... Raumari and Char Rajibpur. 

These Upazilas are sandwiched between the Brahmaputra, which takes over an hour to cross by boat, and the black fenced border with the Indian state of Meghalaya. The scenery is beautiful because nearby Meghalaya offers a hilly addition to the horizon, while nearer Bangladesh is flat. 

To travel this way is an alternative route back to Dhaka, since buses head south to Jamalpur District where the main northern highway runs south through Mymensingh and Gazipur to the capital. The road from Kurigram to Dhaka is a much longer route in distance (not time) due to the need to use the Banghabandu Bridge far to the south - the only bridge across the Brahmaputra (which is called the Jamuna River further south).

Compass Points

Coloured stuffing for sale in Ulipur.

Who am I? Well, originally I come from 9,272 kilometres away, give or take some kilometres, almost precisely in the southeast direction.

I’m assuming for the moment that the centre of the universe is at geographic coordinates 25°39′30.05″N, 89°37′08.52″ E, give or take a second or two, at the precise spot known as the Al Shad Hotel on College Road in Ulipur, Kurigam. While the needle might always gravitate northwards the compass has to sit somewhere. It’s not much of an assumption – for both management and regular customers the centre of the universe the Al Shad just about is.

Centre of the universe: the Al Shad Hotel on College Road.

I come from coordinates 33°51′35.9″S, 151°12′40″ E, a place that’s referred to as Sydney, Australia - but at the Al Shad it’s called ‘bidesh’ – the foreign zone.

A convenient geographic descriptor, bidesh covers all areas beyond the borders of Bangladesh absolutely and may also find application to Bangladeshi areas outside Kurigram District depending on how humorous the conversation has become. Sydney is ‘deep bidesh’ – one hundred percent exactly.

There was time to eat breakfast at the universe’s centre before finding my bearings.

Who is he? Bideshis are guests at the Al Shad. They’ve travelled far – they might need three napkins during the course of their lentil, egg and roti-bread breakfast, while for customers from nearer coordinates one will do. The water glass should be refilled or replaced after even a sip is removed – it’s important they feel welcome. And they certainly do!

The small town of Ulipur, Kurigram, Bangladesh.

Side view of the munshibari in Ulipur.

What’s his story? It’s impossible to communicate with bideshis since they don’t speak Bangla – to be assumed – but the bideshi’s life story can be gleaned from tiny details. For example, if the bideshi is wearing a t-shirt with a miniscule “Feni Leisure Club” logo on its sleeve, it’s certain enough to tell others he works for the Leisure Club in Feni and is on Leisure Club business in Ulipur.

If however, by way of some miracle he does speak some Bangla then it’s all the more enjoyable. The Al Shad manager can ask what he’d like for lunch since they could make something special – and the stool beside the counter may be offered for chatting.

What does the compass say? To the north northeast on the Dharanibari Road, roughly at coordinates 25°40′12.68″N, 89°37′49.17″ E is the decorative munshibari, the gentrified manor dating from the mid-1700s that was home to the local ruling family, by title - Munshis.

The munshibari estate in Ulipur.

The original 34-acre combined estate was first granted by the sixth Nawab of Bengal, Bihar and Orissa, of the Afshar Dynasty, Nawab Shirajuddaula – to Bonwari Munshi who came to the area for hunting initially, so it is said.

Sri Brojendra Lal Munshi

As Bonwari Munshi had no child, a son, Binod, was adopted for inheritance. Binod in turn was without an heir so adopted probably the most renowned Munshi, Brojendra Lal - a dusty portrait of him is to be found inside. Brojendra Lal also fathered no son and his younger daughter followed that fate – adopting a son to inherit.

After 1971 the property was ultimately taken over by the government. From 1987 the local Revenue Office has been situated inside. A single officer sits in a large room at a weathered desk.

The home is in a state of disrepair, but its charm plants in one bideshi’s mind the foolish notion that it would make a nice boutique hotel – that there could be a string of such hotels at historical homes across Bangladesh. The unique tourism experience could be marketed internationally. Of course, there is little organised activity for the bideshi in the villages but the scenery, culture and friendliness are untapped major drawcards.

Jute truck, Ulipur.

How do bideshis eat? Being from so far away nothing can be assumed. It’s considered that bideshis don’t eat in the normal way, with hands. He requires cutlery – and there being no full set available, at the least a small aluminium fork can be brought on a plate and placed in front of him. On second thought – do they even have forks in bidesh? It might be worthwhile to mime putting the fork into the roti and then into the mouth to ensure he is exactly certain of the utensil’s utility. He’s sure to enjoy the meal!

Eroded road in Hatia Union, Ulipur.

And then? To the east northeast on Anantapur Road I find the serene walled garden of the Sri Sri Kali Siddheshwari Hindu Temple complex, a good place to pause. The ruins of the original temple dating from around 1700 are nearby. Beyond in Hatia Union one meets the majestic Brahmaputra at approximately 25°40′39.97″N, 89°41′23.62″ E. But it’s not so regal a river when it is explained that the half-remaining riverside road was just a week earlier a full road, since devoured by erosion.

Meanwhile at the Anantapur tea shop is a dispute: one villager is arguing that all people can speak Bangla. The other says, “Not all people speak Bangla! If he speaks English, will you understand it?”

And when local Mohammed Nazi Hossein speaks of the severe erosion there should be no humour in it: yet he doesn’t speak grimly. “The river used to be five kilometres away, four or five years ago” he says, “and now my kids can take their bath in front of the house!” I am left to wonder if there isn’t a poet inside every Bangladeshi villager.

How does he take his after-meal tea? It’s an important consideration at the Al Shad. It should probably be double-size, in the glass with no chip in it, with extra milk and any flavoursome tea spices that may be around – he will certainly be unable to say afterwards that Ulipurians didn’t do their best. He will admire the kindness!

Street scene in Ulipur.

Where to now? To the west at some seconds away is the bustle of Ulipur, with coloured stuffing in sacks for sale, the lively buzz of traffic and the crowd and jute being loaded onto a truck up a long ramp. See the modest pond, the dighee behind the mosque that the congestion doesn’t reach!

The tank behind the mosque, Ulipur.

Alomgir at his betel and cigarette stall.

Do they chew paan in Australia? Alomgir the betel seller on the street outside the Al Shad has curiosity. When the answer is no, he suggets it would be no trouble to take a bunch of betel leaves to Australia since they are easily packed together and tied with string – a convenient knotted carry-handle can be included. When it is explained that plant and animal material can’t be taken into Australia – that it would be confiscated at the airport – well, it’s frankly puzzling. It may be the general rule but “What could they care if it’s only betel?”

Doesn’t the compass needle ultimately point north? Yes, and to the north at coordinates 25°44′52.18″N, 89°38′00.12″ E, quite some distance from Ulipur is the Zia Pond, a large dighee surrounded by trees that must for the townsfolk be an enjoyable picnic spot.

Zia Pond, north of Ulipur.

But the forces of the universe are many and even at its centre unthinkable things can happen. The Al Shad is without chatter! All faces are frozen – without exception pointing in one direction. Has the universe collapsed? Has time ended? No, it’s the TV that has them engrossed, without exception, to a man, to a face – they’re watching the BBC series “Walking with Dinosaurs”, one hundred percent absorbed in considering things Jurassic.

Because, from the centre of the universe it’s fascinating to look outwards – and dinosaurs are not less interesting than learning about bidesh from the bideshi who’s just walked in again.

Zia Pond must make for an ideal picnic spot.

Yet it’s Alomgir who has the final say. “Of all the places you’ve been,” he asks, “Isn’t Ulipur just the best place of all?” And right then – for that singular moment – the bideshi wonders if Alomgir isn’t one hundred percent accurate.

View of the Brahmaputra from a tea shop in Hatia Union.

Boat on the Brahmaputra.

This article published in Star Magazine, here: Compass Points

Loading jute in Ulipur town.

In the Brahmaputra's Realm

The view across the Brahmaputra to Char Parbhotipur, Kurigram.

Boat to Char Parbhotipur, Kurigram.

In the city, with the toys and trappings of building and car it’s easy to misperceive a gap between humankind and nature. It’s easy to don the twin myths of security and control. But in the Brahmaputra’s realm a day is still a day.

In the promise of new land the perennial kans grass, the kashphul, congregates. It’s beauty. See the thin, hearty reed stems in dusty green? Along the banks of the shifting sand shoals including Char Parbhotipur in Kurigram, the kashphul makes the most of opportunity and establishes its camp. It is at home in its burgeoning river-island colonies. See the long spike of the kashphul leaf?

Kashphul and rooftops, Char Parbhotipur, Kurigram.

Shining, soft and velvety is the kashphul wildflower. It beckons to be snuggled like a puffy pillow on a winter bed, the blossom field a lamb’s wool blanket, seemingly ready to challenge with a show of enthusiastic coolness the harsh sun of autumn’s midday. It’s to tickle the cheek; to set the heart dancing. The kashphul invites with its seasonal charms.

Mohammed Abu Taleb hardly considers the kashphul as he strides up, in bare chest and blue lungee, from the shoreline. The spring in his step has arrived with the unexpected sight of visitors. His hair and beard are white. Has he been catching fish?

Mohammed Abu Taleb with family members.

Into the earthen compound he’s scratched out of the landscape he steps, into the yard made for a family of more than ten individuals. With a broad kashphul smile, abba, father, is returned home.

Society is not diverse in Char Parbhotipur. There isn’t an established bazaar and just one small primary school; similarly it is for the kashphul which has no intertwine companionship of the sort familiar to jungle mahogany and vine. They are frontier dwellers, unlikely denizens of unsure land, both strong and somehow accustomed in their vulnerability to the river’s mood swings. 

Wind wanderer, current rider, with not the width of paper between the kashphul and nature’s choices: from the poverty of sand they rise.

Like the kashphul, the households are rising from the sand.

Char Pabhotipur has been in the world for about seven years, Mohammed Abu Taleb says. He was among the first to set his family there, three years earlier after their former place of residence on another shoal was returned to the Brahmaputra. It is not his land and he pays no rent; yet it’s known he lives there. His is one of the two hundred families that call Char Parbhotipur home.

See the strength and vulnerability in his body? He’s thin but has the muscles of day labour. Cheerfully he tells of his striving, to the fields of Feni to plant rice, to megacity Dhaka for day labour, to the fields of Dinajpur for harvest. Wherever there is work he will go and I suspect he enjoys travelling, even while carrying his day by day thoughts of family and shoal – surely the weightiest item in his luggage.

There’s not the width of paper between his family’s future and nature’s choices, he knows.

Kashphul makes wild sugar in the summer months.

In the summer months of Boishakh and Jyoistho the finest secret of the kashphul arrives. Of course the reeds are harvested for fences, for thatch. The kashphul can make paper too. But in summer it’s the promise of wild sugar that drives the harvest, with the new stems chosen, the horizontal earth-aligned stems that are best for the task. The vertical stems which grow later aren’t sweet, Mohammed Abu Taleb says.

Back at the house the stems are crushed by hand, covered with cloth and squeezed, boiled, squeezed. The syrup is black and a little less sweet than cane sugar. All the same the kashphul gift is an essence of sweet, sweet river-life.

Rofiqul and Jolku with goat and sheep.

Meanwhile Rofiqul walks with Jolku, who is bringing home his one black goat and one white sheep from grazing. They’re passing through a white kashphul short-cut, quite usual, unremarkable, and they’re holding one black umbrella to shield from the Brahmaputran sun.

Meanwhile Nasib Uddin who has already reached seventy finds no time for his retirement. With a basket of the gourd vegetable that’s called kadoa in Kurigram he is crossing the char by foot, basket on head, in the hope of a boat. Char Parbhotipur has perhaps as its singular advantage proximity to the mainland bazaar of Jatrapur. It’s only twenty minutes across the water and his vegetables will sell there.

Nasib Uddin is taking his gourds to market.

Nasib Uddin tended his kadoa crop for two months before the first harvest, he says, and for the two following months it will yield, he will collect the gourds as they mature. It’s innovation to grow vegetables on Char Parbhotipur – the next small step of settlement. With the proceeds in Jatrapur he will buy the daily food for his family, rice in particular. He has 15 kilograms to sell on that day, at a rate of ten taka per kilogram. It means survival.

Meanwhile Ambya is waiting for her husband. Part of her thatched home is on stilts, where they can retreat with their belongings when the water comes in. The mud floor, inside, is rough and still wet from rain or river flow.

Ambya is waiting for her husband.

Winnowing and pounding.

Storage area on stilts.

Ambya's kitchen.

Mohammed Abu Taleb’s family has gathered to speak with the visitors – women, young men, children – all ages, colourful clothes – they share in common one kashphul smile, open-hearted and curious. They show a kula, a rice winnowing tray filled with the dried young jute leaves that will make a dish, give meaning to rice, partly because it is all they have to show. And they offer a glass of water because it is all there is they have to offer. There isn’t even tea.

And it’s funny, you know, the kashful smiles – of a brilliance barely known in the city. When asked if his family faces any problems Mohammed Abu Taleb says automatically, surrounded by his full-of-love family and driven by the excitement of visitors, “No, we are fine.” And it’s funny because they are fine, more than fine – in that one singular moment, except… to ask a little more…

Kashphul beyond the fence.

“Well yes, the tube well for drinking water is far….”

“Well yes, there are no sanitary latrines…”

“Well yes, there’s no medical centre…”

And he shows us the mud line half-way up the fence beside his house: “Oh and the house floods, but only about three times per year.”

The kashphul have no city hang-ups. They need no manicured garden or balcony pot; there’s no service charge and they pay no rent. The kashphul has no reason to deny that their existence is simply a fragile, passing phase – it’s about sharing ground in this day and the next – to, in congregation, enjoy the sun and feel the rain.

The waterline, three times a year, at Mohammed Abu Taleb's house.

There’s not the width of paper between the kashphul and nature’s choices – yet from the poverty of sand, just above the Brahmaputran waterline, they rise.

Aminul Islam the boatman is waiting. The river is waiting. Hurry up! It’s time to go.

Aminul Islam is waiting. It's time to go.

This article published in Star Magazine, here: In the Brahmaputra's Realm