Jahangir's Elephants

A bridge at the start of the trail, Teknaf Wildlife Reserve.

The Teknaf Peninsula is ruggedly beautiful. With the rise of the rocky range that divides the land strip between the Naf River and the Bay of Bengal it’s impossible not to feel elated, to know that Teknaf is quite the destination.

It’s an environment unique in coastal Bangladesh for hosting wild elephants. It’s really something to consider how the bulky beasts negotiate such uneven terrain. A significant section of the range has been declared a game reserve.

Jahangir Alam, 18, has been working as a guide for 10 years.

To search for the elephants, one could do worse than enlist the assistance of 18-year-old Jahangir Alam, a local and the youngest of eleven siblings, who works as a guide at the Teknaf Wildlife Sanctuary.

Although Jahangir has no training, the sanctuary is his backyard. He’s been guiding tourists since he was 8 years old. Along with income from a brother who went to Malaysia by trawler some years ago, income from guiding helps the family.

“People arrive nearly every day,” he says, “Many ask for me.”

View of the Teknaf Range.

Into the woods...

By Jahangir's estimate there are 30 elephants in the reserve and he commonly sees a family of ten, though pachyderms offer no guarantee of being cooperative for tourists. The best season to see them is winter when they are more active of a daytime.

I ask if the animals are dangerous and he mentions three villagers were trampled to death a few months earlier while defending their paddy. “Elephants are ‘heavy’ dangerous!” he says.

Yet Jahangir insists there’s no risk: elephants are by temperament gentle and he’s often been within five metres without incident. “They don’t harm us if we don’t disturb them.”

It’s quite a trek that follows, into scrubby parched forest initially following valley contours where small bridges ford thirsty streams.

The day is hot, the humidity burdensome and I’m wishing I’d brought water. Even before the climbing begins I’m ignoring discomfort and breathing heavily.

Visitor Centre, Teknaf Wildlife Sanctuary.

Hot. Humid. Sweaty.

Of course we’re hardly the first to set off in search of elephants. Just as nowadays in village and town government tenders, for bridge building, school outfitting or some other task are an appreciable element of local economies, once there were also tenders for elephant catching, in order to domesticate them.

Offering royalties of up to 750 rupees per elephant, according to the Chittagong District Gazetteer, the so-called “kheda” operations, named after the corral in which wild elephants were trapped, were commonly slated for the Hill Tracts and Teknaf in the months of winter.

“Elephants are not like cattle that they can be goaded down to a desired place,” states the Gazetteer, “No force can be applied; they move on their track at their own whims and pleasure.”

A kheda operation would involve up to 100 people, including 50 skilled labourers able to build a camouflaged stockade in the forest in 8 – 12 days. The best sites were at junctions of two or more established elephant tracks, even better if situated in a valley between two peaks. They might wait weeks for elephants to appear.

Boats, fishing nets, low tide on the Naf River... view to the mountains of Myanmar.

The Teknaf Range

Fire lines and loud sounds like gunshots were used to make the elephants “blindly and senselessly” proceed into the trap. Care had to be taken however, because “once scared no earthly force can control the herd.”

Once trapped the elephants would routinely turn on and kill their leader, blamed by the rest of the herd for their fate. However if the herd leader was strong others might die in the course of fighting back. In the panic of the trap baby elephants could be trampled to death.

The trapped elephants would then be starved and given no water for 24 hours to make them “weak, tired and calm.” Then, using mahouts on trained female elephants called “kunkis” one by one the wild elephants would be noosed, legs tied.

“The leader of the trained brigade is always a strong, healthy, powerful and skilled tusker,” reads the Gazetteer; and this male elephant would fight the captured individuals, eventually establishing his claim as the new group leader.

Elephant evidence on hilltop.

A kheda operation in 1965 in nearby Ukhia Upazila netted ten elephants; in the 19^th century up to 150 elephants were caught for domestication annually.

As we climb steps of rock and dirt and negotiate uncarved slopes slippery with leaf litter, from heat exhaustion I’m ready to collapse.

Perhaps with greater knowledge of the climate, Bangladeshis, according to Jahangir, rarely seek to reach the hilltops. “Bengalis can’t climb,” he says, “They walk a short distance. But when foreigners come they always go to the top. I take them.”

The lower hills of Teknaf Wildlife Sanctuary.

Yet our situation is reversed. Gasping for air, I’m struggling to look composed while Jahangir climbs the hills as readily as if he was on an escalator at a shopping mall in Dhaka. He is yet to raise a sweat. “We are forest people,” says Jahangir, “We live here.”

Jahangir's one regret is that when foreigners come he has difficulty communicating. “I want to speak more to them but I can’t.” He only had the opportunity to complete study to class 2.

From the first summit the view is impressive. In front the Teknaf range continues with higher, more artistically shaped rocky peaks. There’s little evidence the Bay of Bengal is just beyond them. On the Naf side are sweeping views across the salt fields of the plains to Myanmar’s mountains on the horizon.

Mangroves on the Naf. View to Myanmar.

Along the ridgeline the path is narrow. I wonder if I actually want to meet an elephant up there; and I’m set to ask Jahangir if the animals climb so high when we sight elephant droppings.

But being a hot day the elephants are not so foolish to climb the hills. “They’ll be at the waterfall,” says Jahangir, who’s ready to continue some distance beyond the next hill. Yet without drinking water I decide it’s best to be satisfied with the views for now. We head back.

When I ask Jahangir how much he wants for his guiding, he suggests a rather paltry sum. Greed is certainly not among his faults.

“It’s fun to see the elephants,” he says, describing how when they take dust baths and are lying on the ground it’s sometimes hard to imagine the elephant is even there.

Teknaf Wildlife Sanctuary scenery.

Teknaf Range.

This article is published in The Daily Star, here: In Search of Teknaf's Elephants

Naf River.

The Miraculous Dog

A boat on the Brahmaputra River.

An old well, Ghoraghat.

It was after evening when we sat in the living room ready for adda, a chat that could foreseeably last half the night. Zaharul Islam, 50, had just arrived in the city from his home in Dinajpur’s Ghoraghat. He found his way to my place from Gabtoli Bus Stand.

It’s ironic we spoke of it then – it was hardly the first topic – because well-after-evening is probably the time of day when people most readily consider those Islamic spirits called jinns. And yet, from Zaharul Bhai I was about to hear that a jinn can also arrive of an afternoon.

Before we go further… Of course I cannot attest to the veracity of what he described. It occurred when he was twelve years old. What I can say is that he was entirely serious in the telling.

It happened on a day in Falgun or Choitro month – the season of spring. The sun was hot enough for his uncle, with whom the young Zaharul was to travel to his maternal grandmother’s house, to carry an umbrella.

And the late Hafez Abdur Rahman was no ordinary uncle. Blind from birth, he was renowned for being spiritually gifted – he was considered a pir or a dervish. “In Ghoraghat we use the word aulia,” says Zaharul Bhai.

Early morning, Ghoraghat.

From childhood Zaharul’s uncle had been educated by a Maulavi from Noakhali. The parents hoped their blind son could memorise the holy Quran to become a Hafez, which village wisdom says assures one a place in heaven. Zaharul’s uncle studied for seventeen years. He was a good student.

“He didn’t only know the Quran,” says Zaharul, “He knew all the hadiths. Not only did he know the hadiths but he understood their meaning.”

“Planes, volcanoes, science…” says Zaharul, “How big is the world? Without the hadiths, who could understand?”

There are many stories about his uncle. “He could read palms,” says Zaharul, “telling people about a serious disease they’d suffered ten years before. He’d tell their futures, including when they’d die.”

Once, Zaharul’s uncle is said to have arrived home with his wife and after going inside, he told her they’d been robbed. The blind man described what was missing and where it had been placed; and he identified the thieves.

Another day, Zaharul remembers, the large stand of bamboo outside the house was behaving strangely. It was as though a large wind was passing, except there was no wind. Yet the large stalks were bending profusely until with a tap-tap-tap they hit and hit again the tin roof of the house. “The bamboo will be ruined!” said Zaharul’s father.

Ghoraghat, Dinajpur.

His uncle then called out, “Lalu… Kalu… Stop!” Suddenly the bamboo stood straight. There was no more tapping. The air was still. “He often called those names,” says Zaharul, “Nobody knew what they meant. But he said he could control jinns. On that day it seemed his jinns were making mischief.”

“My uncle had many followers. There was a retired major from Dhaka Cantonment – when my uncle died ten years ago the major offered a water buffalo for his chollisha,” says Zaharul, referring to the tradition of a deceased’s family providing food to the poor forty days after their relative’s demise. “The major gave many goats too.”

In the morning of the day when he was twelve, Zaharul set off, leading the blind man towards the house of Zaharul’s maternal grandparents – a house that sat on a shoal across a wide stretch of the Brahmaputra River, some 30 kilometres away in Gaibandha District.

They had reason to go. Zaharul had another uncle there, and that uncle’s wife was having trouble conceiving. She’d had three to four unsuccessful pregnancies and despite previous efforts by the late Hafez Abdur Rahman to help her, nothing worked.

“My aunt was very beautiful,” says Zaharul. “After we arrived, my blind uncle did some treatment.” He performed an exorcism. “Suddenly I heard my aunt shouting, ‘I will go! I will not stay here any longer! I will never come again!’” The jinn inside her, was pleading for mercy.

Zaharul’s uncle was serious. “No! You stayed here for long. You will not go.”

“When the jinn emerged, my uncle caught it and put it into a bottle,” says Zaharul. “I saw that! He buried the bottle. After that my aunt had a son followed by three daughters. One of them lives in Italy.”

Boat on a channel of the Brahmaputra.

By early afternoon it was time to leave, so uncle and nephew made their way back to the riverbank. In the morning it had been no problem but by afternoon the riverbank was deserted. There was not a single boatman waiting to ferry them across. “We could go to Phuphu’s house?” suggested the young Zaharul, knowing his paternal aunt’s house was nearby.

“No,” said his uncle. “We’ll cross the river, you’ll see!”

“After some time,” says Zaharul, “I heard a snorting sound. I saw a large dog come out of the bushes. The dog went to the water’s edge.”

“Did Kaloo come?” asked his uncle. “Don’t you see him?” The dog was in the river. He was very broad in the back and jet black. Only its head and back were above water.

His uncle told Zaharul to climb onto the dog’s back. “You must only look forward,” he told his nephew, “Don’t look around. Focus on the river’s far bank.” After Zaharul climbed aboard his uncle did the same.

“My uncle was speaking without sound,” says Zaharul. “It looked like he was reciting something.”

What happened next was remarkable. “At most,” Zaharul says, “within forty seconds we were on the other side. I hardly knew what happened. I was in ankle-deep water – it was clear, you could see everything – just beside the far bank.” The dog had vanished.

The twelve-year-old was terrified. He ran as fast as he could up the bank.

“Where are you, nephew?” his uncle was calling. “Come here! Come here!” After running some distance Zaharul stopped, and returned to his uncle. How else would the blind man find his way home? “Now, don’t tell your grandparents,” the late Hafez Abdur Rahman said.



This article published in Star Magazine, here: The Miraculous Dog

At the bank of a sand shoal in the Brahmaputra River.

Manu

The advantage of the Manu station ticket counter is it's very unlikely you'll have to queue.

I

The trucks are loaded and overloaded these days, heaped high, rice grain, cement sacks, bananas or livestock. It’s a lily. It’s a lotus painted pink on the yellow cabin door – or a serene mosque in ghostly green with attendant crescent moon. There’s an eagle landed on a branch. There’s a magpie robin. Every truck is a canvas.

Non-specific flowers trail along the metal panels above the wheels. There’s the driver. There’s the attendant shouting out things. Every truck is an optimist ready to tempt its fate and ours. These are spiritual, personalised, grumpy machines. There are deadlines. There’s no time to lose. In the diesel stench they rumble, shoot like bullets along the highway kicking up dust and nerves all across the country.

Those trucks carry more than goods of course. They’ve loaded up that history and carted it away. Who will think of Manu now?

The Manu station timetable.

II

Shanti Lal Robidas, Manu platform.

There’s lethargy to the heat by the Manu River in rural Moulvibazar. The shiny singular line of railway tracks from Sreemangal to the south reaches Manu station on a long curve through fields, with a little box bridge over a culvert up the line. Beside the larger bridge in red-brown iron that crosses the Manu grand trees line the rustic platform. The trees are the best hope for conversation.

It’s not that the Manu platform is entirely empty. The stationmaster has gone home for lunch but Shanti Lal Robidas, 60 plus, is there. He doesn’t much wish to speak though. He’s brought his shoe shining kit from home – over the tracks among the collection of tin shed stores they call Manu Bazar. He’s waiting for any passing shoes that might need polishing or cobbling. It’s an effort that seems futile. The Mail, the Jalalabad and the local Kushiara... three trains per day deign to stop. Perhaps his is more a psychological business, something to get him out of the house. It’s a ritual.

Robidas lacks that engaging effervescence it’s so easy to take for granted. He’s really not a conversationalist – shy and reluctant. It stands out. He’s not Bengali for sure. “Five to six years ago all the trains stopped here,” he says, coaxed out of him, “Business was good.”

It's not certain he knows where his family come from.

Perhaps his heritage came via the tea plantations. Those workers’ families were lured and tricked from all over India by the British – many are no longer sure where their roots lie. They brought cultures and now half-forgotten languages; from his demeanour one can sense that anachronistic binding sense of caste, most often out of place in Bangladesh. It seems as if he doesn’t wish to speak because he’s ‘only’ a cobbler and cobblers can’t have anything useful to say. Perhaps that’s not it – nothing is sure. If he said a little more we’d know. But it feels oh so rural India.

Later, two of his friends arrive. They’ve noticed the sight of strangers on the platform. Cautiously Robidas confesses he’s been the Manu platform cobbler since the East Pakistan days but otherwise his friends take over, verbally encroaching to speak for him.

“Manu was more developed than Kulaura Junction,” one says, “All sorts of goods passed through – rice grain, timber, fish.”

“There’s no excitement like there once was – no business, no people,” says the other.

There's talk of a flood maybe fifteen years ago when the rail line was closed for seven days. “Sometimes passengers slept and ate at the station.”

The guy in the orange shirt was very keen to be in the photos.

Suddenly there’s the long bellow of a horn. A train is approaching from the Sreemangal side, acknowledging Manu station with the sound as if sending a little “hello, hi” to a friend from a bygone era. Or perhaps it’s a greeting for the cobbler? For the few on the platform there’s some interest in it: the strangeness of change!

I watch the train close in; the others watch me watching. But there’s no slowing down for Manu, no pairs of shoes to comfortably alight to be polished or cobbled. With a rush of wind; with passengers sticking heads out train windows, waving, watching rural Bangladesh rush by; with platform tree branches momentarily waving back; with kids train surfing on the roof... change is as suddenly gone – over the river, across the bridge, into the future. That change is bound for the bustling bazaar of Kulaura Junction and the modernised skyline of Sylhet City – express.

Stillness easily returns to Manu. Stillness has made itself comfortable there.

Express train passing by Manu station.

III

Manu was once a busy, commercial station.

In Kulaura there’s talk of a Manu River lined with godowns. Especially it was a port for fish and chingri shrimp sent by rail from Chandpur, Chittagong and Noakhali. Those goods got down at Manu to board barges on their way to market. In its heyday Manu was a commercial station with three rail lines, five station buildings and twelve staff working eight-hour shifts such that always a minimum of three were on duty.

Upstream is India, the Tripuran town of Kailashahar and beyond, oddly enough, another little train station called Manu. Indian Manu is on the Lumding – Agartala rail line opened in 2008.

Downstream is Moulvibazar town. But while these days there are river barrages on both sides, not to mention the border, in all likelihood it’s primarily the trucks that did the damage. With the ease of highway transport they packed up that history and carted it away.

Manu platform and the Manu River.

IV

Md Badal Rana, stationmaster.

In the evening Manu is deserted. Only stationmaster Md Badal Rana, 35, sits in his office, several ledgers in front of him. There are six columns he needs to complete each day with the amount of whatever meagre takings he’s collected. There’s no need for signalling work.

“I’m alone,” he says, “The station is only here for the bridge. The river is here. I have twenty-four hour duty.” His manner is gregarious, clearly pleased for the company. It’s the sort of thing to take for granted – there’s no doubt he’s Bengali.

“The trains, including the expresses, are many,” he says, “but the line is only one. Often trains have to wait at Sreemangal or Kulaura Junction. Today the 6 a.m. train came at 11 a.m. and the 11 a.m. train came at 2 p.m.” It’s his personal phone he uses to find out where a train is when passengers come. “The worst thing is when people have to wait a long time.”

“It’s a poor area,” he says, “People work as rickshaw drivers and such. They don’t buy tickets much; and the Kushiara comes first – it’s a local service where you buy the ticket onboard.” It costs ten taka to travel 24 kilometres, 12 taka for 31 km and 15 taka for 41 km.*

The tracks towards Kulaura Junction.

Rana likes the locals. “Hindu or Muslim, they are good, simple people. We have nice adda, chatting, together. Everybody knows me. I’m invited to all the pujas and weddings. They all have my mobile number and I spend too much money returning calls to sell tickets. Sometimes I sell long-distance tickets to Chandpur or Dhaka.”

It took Rana some adjustment to get used to his Manu posting, which he took up in 2011. “There is no food system here. No rice. And I don’t like coming at night. After 10 p.m. there aren’t people around but if a train is arriving at 1 or 2 a.m. I am here. What will I do if people come?” At the least, with the help of a local councillor he managed to have the tube well fixed. It was broken for thirty years but now he has drinking water.

He points to the broken ceiling above us. “What if a woman was sitting there and it falls?”

*US$1=80 Bangladeshi taka.

Manu station, Moulvibazar District, Bangladesh.

Manu was once a station of 5 buildings and 12 staff.

The station. Manu. Moulvibazar.

This article is published in Star Magazine, here: Manu

Stillness makes itself comfortable in Manu.

The trucks have carted away the history.

A River to Get Lost In

Sunset on the Chitra.

The ceiling is sagging. In thatch, painted silver, it’s a ceiling of ripples and waves. There are holes in it, possibly gnawed into the design by an artisan mouse, possibly the one I disturbed earlier as it ran up the electric cord beside the bed. I’m on haunches, typing, trying to understand how to write a river. I wonder how to find myself in it – contemplating the Chitra.

Water hyacinth in the Chitra.

On the afternoon I spent with her, she’d painted trees in the water in grey silhouette. There were long and longer canopies of various species, and the high and higher palm crowns among them had their randomness replicated in the reflection, frond by frond. Despite the undeniable beauty of the water forest it looked an awkward arrangement. It was as a poorly planned team photograph with tall and short players posing wherever they wished.

The Chitra River, Narail.

Was the Chitra drawn to the lack of symmetry to be found in reflected trees and, equally, in human lives? Patterns of neat squares and lines – they are not more than a foolhardy attempt to order ourselves as we might like to think we are. In the Chitra was the randomness in the template of humanity in actuality.

As once I moved about the nouka boat taking photographs of every aspect of that river I now move about the room driven by thoughts and words: sitting spread out on the polished concrete floor and typing, then standing, then pausing to consider where that mouse went. It was brown and looked clean. But it’s not without cause that I’m thinking to find myself in the Chitra. It’s what the people of Narail have done.

The Chitra: river of culture and identity.

It’s a river that’s been written about, admired and longed for. The Chitra is culture. The Chitra is identity. Merely to speak Chitra’s name is to invoke nostalgia in Narail, to see arise in the local listener that warm, quiet feeling of belonging. Among the myriad influences that make the human, for Narailis the Chitra is one. It doesn’t take long for them to mention her.

 

Chitra scenery.

Chitra reflections.

East bank of the Chitra

“The Chitra is polluted now,” said the advocate, “but ten years back it was a pristine river. The water was colourful and pure. I love Narail – it is in my heart and I can’t imagine living anywhere else. The Chitra is important.”

“Chitra water is clean and tasty,” it is written in S.M. Royis Uddin Ahmed’s 2009 book, Laraku Narail. “It was famous across the country.... The Chitra’s banks were like paintings and people’s houses looked like features in a great work of art.” True: on that afternoon the east bank was glowing. The sun was bold, boasting in painting it that way. It was a Baul song, spiritual and uplifting.

Meanwhile a monitor lizard on Chitra’s bank up and scuffled away into the bushes, not wishing to be observed. The bright and the hidden: parts of the river and the human. It can’t be hard for Narailis to find themselves when contradiction is there.

Monitor lizard on the bank of the Chitra.

Md. Litu Sheikh.

Yet for Md. Litu Sheikh the Chitra is a practical affair: he’s spent ten of his twenty-eight years ferrying passengers the short distance into Roopganj Bazar and home again. They arrive at the eastern bank with empty artificial-hessian sacks and carry bags. They return from the western bank burdened with groceries: rice grain, vegetables, clothes, eggs, books. They stand as a floating crowd, with one or two finding a sitting place; some hold umbrellas to protect from the sun – all are as mannequins on a street parade float. The stationary crowd moves smoothly eastwards at the pace of Sheikh’s oar.

From the Chitra’s waters comes the ferryman’s modest income that supports his son and daughter but despite the day to day nature of his river-relation he will admit to the river’s beauty. The Chitra is the human is Narail – at many levels.

The water of the Chitra was once renowned for its purity.

But on that afternoon Sheikh’s nouka wandered up and down instead – with a group of local journalists I journeyed there. They had taken the opportunity to retire from the usual chatting and strategising spot under the bokul tree. They were joking and discussing matters of journalist interest. Video and still cameras were busy for no real purpose, other than to keep their stock images ready in case a Chitra-related story came along – illegal dredging or land-filling or pollution.

We saw people gathered at the stately ghat which the zamindar landlords built many years ago, some socialising, others pondering and casting thoughts into the water like skimming stones. We saw the bridge in the south that not everyone chooses to use: it’s as easy to take Sheikh’s ferry and join a bus service originating on the eastern side. Many Narailis must seek to keep a little more Chitra in their lives.

Boat on the Chitra.

In the kochuripana, the water hyacinth, the path of the mainstream was clear. As a great Serengeti herd it moved in unison. There’s the human in that too I suppose. And for the few who choose to do things differently, they can as easily detect the current to move against.

Taro plants meanwhile grew in rows along the shoreline in places, planted by some innovative thinker. They were orderly and out of place of course. They might represent mankind’s interference with the natural world, a kind of deterioration brought about by the need for sustenance.

But it being Narail, taro rows might better be described as symbols of the strength from the earth, the gift of God in providing nourishment. That’s how the town’s premiere artist S.M. Sultan would have described it. He held affection for farmers.

Bridge to the south of Roopganj Bazar.

And it was along Chitra’s banks that the man, affectionately known as Lal Miah, often walked. On the west bank before the bridge is his boat in yellow and sky blue, displayed for the Chitra’s viewing, under an awning, outside the museum.

And on the Chitra children still get about by arranged boat on special days, in mimicry of one of Sultan’s endeavours. He wanted them to experience the intersection between nature, art and the human. He wanted they should be inspired and find their better selves.

Let's take a nouka out on the Chitra.

Given the indivisibility of Chitra and Narail it’s initially surprising to notice that the huddle of buildings that is Roopganj Bazar follow the curious Bangladeshi tradition of facing away from the river. Yet in Chitra’s case perhaps there’s an element of shame in it. The buildings must recognise their preference for bustle more than beauty. Facing the past renown of the clear water Chitra – it’s understandable if they don’t feel up to it.

Ferry passengers on the Chitra.

As the sunset painted a finale, a bright orange streak across the water; and the nouka turned at last for the Roopganj ghat, the Chitra contemplation was almost done.

And yet, for a river of a town-and-district identity, a river in which one may seek to find oneself, the Chitra’s realm is as easy to get lost in. Anyway, perhaps it’s rather simpler to find the human in the moving about in a room with a mouse somewhere and a sagging ceiling overhead, typing into a laptop.

Md. Litu Sheikh has been a boatman for ten years.

Sheikh's nouka and the bridge.

The Chitra is Narail.

Water hyacinth and Roopganj Bazar.

This article is published in Star Magazine, here: A River to Get Lost In