Launch of 'April' by Andrew Eagle and Tulip Chowdhury, March 2016.

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'April' by Andrew Eagle and Tulip Chowdhury

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April book launch.

Teknaf Police Station, A Love Story

Cotton trees, paan gardens and the mountains, on a road east of Teknaf.

“It’s difficult to say what decision I would make,” says Ataur Rahman, officer-in-charge of Teknaf police station and a man clearly used to making decisions. “I’ve never had to face such a situation. Only if I did could I tell you what the decision would be.”

Cotton tree pods.

Rahman, from Sirajganj, is speaking of the conundrum of having to choose between an ailing father in Kolkata and a pending wedding to a betrothed Rakhine princess in Teknaf. While Rahman has never experienced such a dilemma, his early twentieth century colleague, Diraj Bhattacharya, famously did.

When police officer Bhattacharya was first posted to Teknaf to the south of Cox’s Bazar it’s unlikely he was thrilled. He was a town-man, born in Jessore, while Teknaf at the time was beyond-remote, barely accessible by road. For a young man like Bhattacharya, Teknaf must’ve seemed the end of the Earth.

Teknaf was once remote, barely accessible by road.

History says after settling into the residence in the police compound Bhattacharya found there was little to do. He idled away hours roaming aimlessly. He routinely sat in his rocking chair on the veranda, relaxing.

There wasn't much to do but roam and see.

Such an excess of leisure time is a circumstance Rahman could only dream of. “Teknaf was an outpost and Bhattacharya was alone,” he says. “These days it’s a police station with upwards of twenty officers and forty constables, all working hard.”

Besides, he could hardly sit in a rocking chair on the veranda even if he found the time. “There is no veranda,” explains Rahman. “That building was long-ago replaced. And anyway, I don’t have a rocking chair.”

What does remain is an old, preserved well in one corner of the police compound. It’s the well that Bhattacharya could see from his rocking chair, then the only well in the area.

Ma Thin's well, in the police compound, used to be the only well in the area.

In the course of each day the local Rakhine women would arrive to fetch water. It’s fair to say that in their colourful blouses and thami skirts they were pleasing to a police officer’s eye. Their lively chitchat brought cheerful enthusiasm to the compound, to resonate as far as the veranda.

Ma Thin's well. Preserved as a symbol of love.

Then one day Bhattacharya noticed Ma Thin, the daughter of a wealthy Teknaf landlord. She was particularly attractive and nicely dressed, such that there was little for a police officer to do but fall in love.

“In my experience, Teknaf police compound is no more or less romantic than any other,” says Rahman, contemplating how such love could have blossomed, “But the area is very beautiful. Teknaf is surrounded by the sea and mountains, with the historic Naf River nearby.” It’s geography in which Rahman believes love could understandably have flourished.

Fortunately for Bhattacharya, Ma Thin took similar note of the handsome officer, and there developed a habit for Ma Thin to arrive at the well before dawn where Bhattacharya would be waiting, on the veranda. The two enjoyed exchanging adoring glances.

Over time their relationship intensified and a wedding date was set. In the meantime, however, Bhattacharya’s family had come to know of the affair and one day he received a letter saying his father was sick and he should return home urgently.

Boats moored in the Bay of Bengal south of Teknaf. The coastline is Myanmar.

According to his family’s wishes Bhattacharya left for Kolkata, where they then lived. Although he promised to return, Ma Thin was devastated.

“The decision was up to him,” says Rahman, not one to judge, “It’s his business.”

The Naf River, to the north of Teknaf.

The affair didn’t end well. Bhattacharya never returned to Teknaf. Eventually he left the police service to become a movie star; and he wrote a book called “When I Was a Police Officer,” which includes an account of his love for Ma Thin.

Ma Thin was so heartbroken that she confined herself to bed, refusing all food and water until, prematurely, she died.

Unlike Bhattacharya, Rahman says he has never considered leaving his policing career in favour of becoming a movie star. “Diraj was handsome and it helped him a lot,” says Rahman, who points out he is already around 40 and has three children. “I am not like him. I don’t have such opportunities.”

A chilli field, east of Teknaf.

In any case, Rahman is uncertain that being a movie star would be a better job than a police officer. “The two careers are like sweet and sour, both good but entirely different.”

Among the current staff members of Teknaf police station, Rahman is unaware of any officer having to choose as Bhattacharya did, between a sick father and a Rakhine princess. While he is unsure if perhaps the police service has become less romantic than it used to be, he does state that times have changed and police are busy with all sorts of work related activities these days.

Nonetheless, Rahman is unwilling to conclude that a love story similar to Bhattacharya and Ma Thin’s could never recur at Teknaf police station. “Love happens naturally,” he says, “How could anyone say it couldn’t happen now? There’s always a possibility.”

This article is published in The Daily Star, here: Teknaf Police Station, A Love Story

Love. Who's to say it couldn't happen again?

Sree Jamlal's Book

Sree Jamlal's book is treasured by him and his family.

Village police officer and secretary of the local indigenous association in Dinajpur’s Ghoraghat, Sree Jamlal Robidas, 60, is proud to show a copy of a manuscript he has. The simple book which is not grander than a basic exercise book, has well-decorated but worn and faded pages. Nonetheless, in his modest family home, it’s treasured. It’s a religious text.

He says the Robidas community in Bangladesh, whose ancestors inhabited a stretch of territory from Bhojpur in India’s Bihar to Gorakhpur in Uttar Pradesh, speak Nagri language. “We Robidas can be found in many districts. Around 200 families live in Ghoraghat.”

Nagri or Nagari is a term used to describe an ancient writing script of northern India and collectively its descendant languages and scripts, which include Bengali. The historical script of Sylheti is called Syloti-Nagri.

But the term Nagri is also a commonly used synonym for the Devanagari script of Hindi; and it is Hindi or perhaps Bhojpuri, another Devanagari-script-based language native to the region of Sree Jamlal’s ancestors, which would appear to adorn the tired pages. He suggests both Hindi and Bhojpuri are alternative names for their language.

While the Devanagari script may be common in South Asia, the religion that is the subject of Sree Jamlal’s book is more unique. 

Sree Jamlal with his family at their home in Ghoraghat.

“We are not Hindu,” says Baduram Robidas, the 47-year-old religious secretary of the national Robidas Development Association. “We don’t believe in protima (the religious statues common to Hindu temples) and we don’t observe their pujas. We have two gurus, Sheo Narayan Swami and Ravidas.”

Baduram similarly estimates that about 200 Robidas families, whose men by custom take the name Robidas while the title Robi is included in many women’s names, live in his home town of Gaibandha.

Their principle guru Ravidas was a radical mystic of the fourteenth (or fifteenth) century who challenged the caste system and idea of untouchability. Born into the dalit Chamar caste in a village near Varanasi, Ravidas taught that one is not distinguished by caste but personal action.

“If you have an honest heart you have no need to go to the holy Ganges,” Baduram quotes of Ravidas, “The water in your little pot: that will be your Ganges water.”

“If you are born a Brahmin but don’t have the true spirit or knowledge then Ravidas says you are not Brahmin,” he explains. “If you are born a Robidas and your heart is good it does not matter.”

Ravidas believed everybody had a right to read sacred texts and worship God, in contrast to traditional Brahminical belief. He also emphasised the value of honest labour – another challenge to the established hierarchy. He was something of a rebel theologian.

According to Baduram, the motto of Ravidas’s teachings is shohong sotho nomo, which means “To live with truth.”

Early morning in Ghoraghat.

Ravidas is also followed by Sikhs, with 41 verses of his poetry included in the Sikh holy book, the Guru Granth Sahib. “Even Guru Nanak studied Ravidas,” says Baduram with pride.

However, theological differences in Punjab over whether Ravidas was a guru, although he was born before the first Sikh guru, or merely a holy man, brought about a schism resulting in the Ravidassia religion. Punjab’s Ravidassias call their house of worship a bhawan or gurughar.

Though in essence the same religion, how much this subsequent Punjabi history is reflected in the localised traditions of the Robidas in Bangladesh is uncertain, especially given Baduram’s inclusion of the second guru, Sheo Narayan Swami.

More commonly known as Swaminarayan, this later guru born in 1781 founded the Swaminarayan Hindu sect in Gujarat – but he was born in Chhapaiya village near Ayodhya in Uttar Pradesh, about 170 kilometres from Gorakhpur. The proximity of his birthplace to the ancestral home of the Robidas may explain, in part, his influence.

However, according to Baduram there is another reason for venerating Swaminarayan, a guru who had followers from several religions. “Sheo Narayan Swami observed the position of dalits and how Brahmins mistreated them. He saw how easily a Chamar could be killed and that their bodies were left in the street to be eaten by dogs and foxes,” Baduram says, “Sheo Narayan Swami named the religion of Ravidas as the true religion.”

Swaminarayan is indeed famous for considering and helping the poor and vulnerable, but while some say he worked towards ending the caste system he was not entirely against it like Ravidas. A bigger difference might be that while Swaminarayan protested animal sacrifice and preached lacto vegetarianism, Ravidas’s family were tanners, an occupation often associated with Chamars.

The Robidas of Bangladesh, like the family of their guru Ravidas, traditionally work with leather. “Leather and shoe-making are our custom,” says Sree Jamlal, whose yard features a pile of drying goatskins. “But most Robidas are poor, living hand-to-mouth, and they take day labour or rickshaw driving jobs.” He estimates only 2% of Ghoraghat’s Robidas families are solvent and that the literacy rate is “almost zero.”

His own son studied up to class 8. “It’s difficult for our children to complete their education,” says Sree Jamlal, “due to our financial condition.”

Goatskins in Sree Jamlal's yard.

Similarly, Baduram’s father was a cobbler, and from adolescence he used to help with the family trade. But Baduram was more fortunate, being able to complete his BA. Subsequently, he landed a job with famous footwear manufacturer Bata, where he still works as the Lab and Quality Assurance Officer at their Savar factory.

In his spare time Baduram hopes to contribute to his community, which is not officially recognised as either an ethnic or religious minority in Bangladesh. Baduram’s primary concern, however, is that knowledge of their unique religious traditions is being lost.

“The new generation has mostly been converted to Hinduism,” he laments, “because they can’t read the script of Nagri.” Baduram is writing a book to address the issue. His book, “Guru Grontha” – “The Book of the Guru” – written in Bangla, aims to make accessible to a Bangla-reading Robidas youth their true religious heritage.

It can be that before too many days have gone by there’ll be a volume of new pages at Sree Jamlal’s house – a new book that is equally treasured but this time written in everyday, familiar, Bangla letters. 





This article is published in Star Magazine, here: Sree Jamlal's Book