The Lives and Loves of Moheshkhali's Betel Vines

Beyond the paddy, a paan barouj. Moheshkhali's paan is famous for its sweet flavour.

“Man's dearest possession is life. It is given to him but once, and he must live it so as to feel no torturing regrets for wasted years, never know the burning shame of a mean and petty past; so live that, dying he might say: all my life, all my strength was given to the finest cause in all the world—the fight for the Liberation of Mankind.”

Paddy and paan on the Shaplapur Road.

Life: one could spend time contemplating the above clunky quote of early twentieth century Soviet socialist realist writer Nikolai Alexeevich Ostrovsky, doubtless finding in it some worthwhile intent. Alternatively, one could let go and chew on a Moheshkhali betel leaf, a Moheshkhali paan.

Hear the harmonium start to turn its churning phrase? Is that the dotara that’s plucking out the first beats of rhythm? Don’t worry: the folk song voice of the late Shefali Ghosh isn’t far off; on the subject of Moheshkhali’s paan she’s got something to say…

But before we hand over to Shefali’s recording, let’s meet Jamal Hossein, 25, the betel seller at the front of his family’s tea shop in Gorakghata. Watch him set to work! Clearly he could go elaborate on us: cardamom, anise, cloves, shredded coconut, chewing tobacco, a mukhwa digestive mouth-freshening mix and sugar coated fennel seeds; but as well he keeps it simple.

Tending paddy below, paan barouj above.

A few shreds of areca nut, fresh or dried, and a dollop of builder’s lime, chun, on the side. Be sure the areca in either form is from Teknaf, that the leaf is Moheshkhali’s own… though with Jamal the expert for five taka there’s nothing to worry about, so don’t give it a second’s thought.

Watch how with adept fingers he folds the paan khili into its usual conical package shape; watch how… Hey presto! It’s ready…

A tea shop in Gorakghata

But wait… Abu Taher’s beaten us to it. At the first tea shop bench in from the street he’s already chewing. The 40-year-old truck driver from Chittagong carts cement to Moheshkhali, six-hours each way, up and down every day. When work is done, he knows to savour an island paan before climbing back into his rig.

A map of Moheshkhali Island.

“You can’t get paan like this elsewhere,” he says, “The soil is honey; Moheshkhali’s paan is sweet.”

I’m not sure Taher’s face as it chews is beautiful in any usual sense though his wife probably likes it. Yet for Moheshkhali his face is new, even if it’s a new face that re-arrives daily. Jodi shondor akkhan mukh paitam, Jodi notun akkhan mukh paitam… Shefali’s begun: “If I come across a beautiful face; if I come across a new face…”

Moheshkailla paaner khili tare bhanai khaoaitam! “I’ll make for him a Moheshkhali paan-khili, for him to chew,” sings the queen of Chittagonian folk music, who started her music career at age seven and was famed for the dramatic on-stage presentation of her songs.

Yet if for Shefali our island paan means love, let’s not forget 28-year-old Rokshana Aktar. She’s not with us at the tea shop right now. She’s at home in Choto Moheshkhali Union, and if not sewing with the eldest of her three daughters then she might be mixing fertilizer or organising accounts, her contribution to the family’s paan garden business, the tasks she can complete without leaving the house.

Paan / Betel leaf, ready for sale.

For Aktar, Moheshkhali paan is less about love and more about livelihood. Her family have taken up the task of the barui, the paan cultivator. “Harvest begins after one month,” she knows; after two it’s even better.

First the stick and straw barouj, the paan’s shade house is constructed, often in tight valleys or on slopes of Moheshkhali’s otherwise-difficult-to-farm hills. Twenty days after cuttings are planted fertilizer is applied, cow dung, potassium, magnesium… Two weeks later stakes are affixed to hold the burgeoning vines.

“Insects are the biggest risk,” Aktar says, “If they attack the whole plant dies.”

Betel vines growing in a barouj.

Ek dinelai rakhi tare, Housher pirit shikhaitam… sings Shefali. “I will keep him for a day. I will teach him sweet love.” And for Shefali’s one day of Moheshkhali paan fostered love, Aktar’s husband and one of her two sons attend to the barouj daily. They only hire outside help at peak times.

Rokshana Aktar.

As vines lengthen they are pulled down with the low stem portions curled and covered in soil to promote further growth. Leaves are harvested from the top of the vine and, insects aside, a betel vine produces for several years.

“Poush to Falgun are the most profitable months,” says Aktar the accountant, referring to the December – March days of winter to early spring. During this period the supply of betel leaf is less and prices rise. During the monsoon months the opposite applies. Yet in all twelve months there is paan to be harvested.

Noya mukher noya kotha, Sunite shondor…

Mazemaze paan cibaito, Hashiro bhitor.

“A new face’s new words sound beautiful,

Sometimes he will chew paan while laughing inside.”

“We used to grow tomatoes, brinjal and chilli on rented land,” says Aktar, “My husband did carpentry or any odd job.” But for the last three years it’s paan’s words that have them laughing. “The income is good,” she says, “To invest 1 lakh taka is to get 2 lakhs in sales.”

Paddy and paan, leading up a valley.

As for its taste, Aktar says, “If you try it, you’ll like it. Other betel is tart.”

Four leaves make one gonta and 80 gontas make one birra; and one birra sells for between 150 – 300 taka depending on quality: the sums one needs to know in the betel game. Every Tuesday and Friday the largest betel market on the island is held at Boro Moheshkhali’s Notun Bazar. Aktar’s husband goes fortnightly, returning with about 20,000 taka.

Paan for sale in Notun Bazar, Big Moheshkhali.

And while he’s at the market he might meet Mohammed Zakaria, 35, just as easily as we’ve met him on the second bench from the street, back in Jamal’s tea shop. He’s chewing paan while Shefali takes rest for a short instrumental break.

It's a busy scene at Notun Bazar paan market on Tues, Fri.

Zakaria has a barouj of his own. He’s a Notun Bazar regular. “My garden is the size of this shop,” he explains.

But he doesn’t only go to Notun Bazar to sell; he also speculates. “I feel the weight,” he says of how he chooses betel to buy that he thinks he can resell minutes later at a higher rate. “One birra can weigh as much as a kilogram, though it’s usually only 300 to 400 grams.”

Shefali’s accompanying him now… Premer mala dono hate, Tare golai poraitam… “With two hands I place love’s lei onto his neck.” It’s probably how Zakaria feels when he’s gambled well and re-sold paan at a healthy profit.

Negotiations underway at Notun Bazar.

“Moheshkhali paan tastes good because of the soils,” the connoisseur says.

Meanwhile at the third bench in from the street is 37-year-old Sultan Mohammed Khan. A more local than this local would be hard to find. His family has been in Moheshkhali for generations; an ancestor was chairman of half the island in the eighteenth century, according to Khan, when Hiram Cox was the running governor.

His grandfather once exported salt by sampan to Kolkata. His father established shrimp farms while Khan is a landholder who leases out family land on a fifty-fifty share basis to both salt producers and shrimp farmers. And Khan enjoys his paan. “Moheshkhali’s paan has heavy taste!”

Rosher kotha, Rosher pirit, Jodi na jane… Duyan ekhan kotam tare, Premer karoner, Shefali continues.

Areca nut / Shupari. The best comes from Teknaf.

“Romantic talk, romantic love, if he doesn’t know… A little sweet talk to him, for the sake of love…” Ah, the little tea shop talk of Moheshkhali’s paan might not be romantic, but it’s likewise sweet!

Khan’s lifestyle allows him to travel. He’s been to all but 17 districts of Bangladesh, he claims, and in 1994 ventured as far as a Kolkata book fair in search of a tome by one of his favourite authors: Nikolai Ostrovsky. Yes, he’s a landlord who appreciates a staunchly communist writer; apparently he can contemplate Ostrovsky’s heavy phrases and chew heavy-tasty paan at the same time.

Paan growing at the foot of Adinath Hill in Little Moheshkhali.

Paan is one of the main crops on Moheshkhali.

“Nutrition and taste are different things,” Khan opines, “The paan here is both more nutritious and tastier than in other districts, where paan tastes bitter.” A mention of Bhola’s betel leaf provokes him to screw his face with displeasure. No words are needed.

As for Indian betel he’s still less impressed. “It looks nice,” he recalls, “and it’s grown with more scientific methods; but the taste isn’t so good.”

Noronarir housher pirit, Ki moza tare bujaitam… she sings. “Sweet human love, how nice it is he will know.”

Let the final spoken words be from Jamal the betel seller. He’s explaining that not all Moheshkhali paan is the same. “The paan from older, hillside gardens is the best,” he says, “Paan from newer gardens is a little less tasty and softer.” And it can’t be certain even Shefali knew that.

Paan, sold by the birra.

It really does taste sweeter. I tried one before I'd even heard of Moheshkhali paan and I thought "Wow! That was a tasty paan."

Moheshkhali paan. Immortalised in folk song.

Moheshkailla paaner khili tare bhanai khaoaitam! “I’ll make for him a Moheshkhali paan-khili, for him to chew!” Shefali’s fading now, her song’s almost done. But of course the singer who died before her time, of a brain haemorrhage in 2006, always lives on in her music.

So whether it’s for livelihood or speculation, as a truck stop treat or while considering the wisdom of a Soviet writer, whether its hillside or new garden variety, while chewing Moheshkhali’s paan and imbibing its distinctively sweet, easy recognisable flavour, you might just find thrown into the bargain a hint of Shefali’s immortal tones, of love’s serenade.

Had he known of it, even Ostrovsky could not have objected to that. 

A paan barouj in Moheshkhali will often be located in a valley or on a hillside.

An abridged version is published in The Daily Star, here: Lovers of Moheshkhali Betel

An aside: after visiting the paan market one hot morning in Big Moheshkhali, it was time for breakfast. I found a local hotel and before long two local paan traders joined me at the table. Of course we got to talking and they said they'd just sold - their pockets were full of cash. Partly from feeling flush and partly from general hospitality, when I finished (before them) they insisted on paying for my breakfast too. Knowing there was no way to get around that I agreed and walked to the front counter where, talking to the manager, I secretly paid theirs instead! The manager was so impressed he gave a discount. Meanwhile those two just understood what I'd done as I left... too late to stop me! 

Our Moheshkhali

The future Moheshkhali, as imagined by Tanzina, Jahanara and Shaheda of Ghotibanga Govt. Primary School.

The British-era cemetery with primary school behind.

In the dry spring months Moheshkhali Island’s Ghotibanga Bazar takes on the appearance of a desert outpost, like a film set from a western genre movie – think John Wayne. It mightn’t have the tumbleweed but the dusty, sandy strip of tin shops adjacent to a windswept British-era cemetery is vaguely reminiscent of Hollywood’s American Wild West. You wouldn’t think the coast is nearby.

Overlooking the scene like a clichéd movie director instructing from his director’s chair is Ghotibanga Government Primary School, housed in a cyclone shelter. Surely nobody can introduce Moheshkhali to the newcomer as well as the island’s students can.

The year 8 students took to the task of drawing Moheshkhali with relish.

The school of one thousand students, nine teachers and two assistant teachers is in the process of making local history – it’s the island’s first primary school to adopt the government initiative of teaching up to class eight.

“The students are very eager to learn,” says English teacher Md Shohidullah. “They are productive, have lots of potential and too much curiosity.”

Armed with crayons and felt-tip pens I hope to ask the 48 class-eight students to draw their island: as it was, as it is and as it will be.

Tajmahal and Tahamina, both 13, have each included their house on either side of a tidal channel.

There's no lack of sharing skills in Ghotibanga

Art is included in the syllabus from class six but at remote Ghotibanga there’s no permanent art teacher so the students hardly ever draw. Nonetheless they prove more than willing to take up the challenge.

Students Tajmahal and Tahamina, both 13, at the nearest bench, set to work depicting contemporary Moheshkhali. Onto paper they outline the figures of banana and banyan trees, and a jubjar bush.

With southern Moheshkhali criss-crossed by tidal watercourses there’s a small river added and on each side of it they’re colouring a house for each of them, with the addition of a small nouka boat with which they might ferry the channel to visit each other.

I admire how easily they work together on the one picture. But to some degree Ghotibanga’s students are accustomed to making do.

Just as there are hardly enough pens and crayons to go around, according to Class 8 teacher Md. Jahedul Islam, 26, who has taught there for the last two years, the school suffers a shortage of low and high benches for students to sit at and the classrooms need new blackboards.

“We need ceiling fans too,” adds one student. It’s not difficult to imagine how true that must be when summer arrives.

Inside the classroom.

Pleased with artistic results.

I ask the girls what’s the best thing in Moheshkhali. “The betel leaf,” Tajmahal answers. Although sweet Moheshkhali betel leaf is famous to the degree that it’s the subject of songs, I’m surprised. “How do you know?” I ask. “Do you chew paan?”

“Our mothers and aunts chew it,” says Tahmina. “We live here, so we know.”

Meanwhile the boys are clustered around a bench to the right, beside the window. Md Sharif, 15, seems to naturally assume the position of group captain, confidently sketching a design in lead pencil, with colour added later. The boys are working on Moheshkhali’s past.

With the ubiquitous salt fields, bean vines and a nouka boat, the scenes of yesteryear are remarkably similar to the current day. There’s a farmer tilling soil, a hay bail and a cow. Perhaps the only feature that is really nearing its end is the foot-powered rice crusher, once familiar to villages across the country.

There are only 12 boys to 36 girls in class 8. 

“I like the shutki [dried fish] best,” Sharif says of his island, “We send it everywhere. It’s really tasty.”

Curious, I ask their teacher Islam why there are only twelve boys in the class, to thirty-six girls. “Many boys drop out after class 5 or 6,” he says, “Their families need them to work.” Sometimes this reality arises from poverty, but Moheshkhali is an island with a business focus – salt, fish and betel leaf. Education doesn’t always get its deserved priority.

The boys work together with Md. Sharif (2nd row, right) taking the lead.

Like many Bangladeshi primary schools, this one doubles as cyclone shelter.

In the classroom’s back corner, Sagorika, Ruposhi, Samira and Lovely, all 14 years old, are working on a drawing of the island’s icon: Adinath Temple. Their artwork features the nearby jetty, built by the Nepalese government for the temple that country also honours, the mangrove forests and a tiger – there may once have been a tiger kept on the temple grounds. There’s even a priest to attend the temple with the signature singular strands of hair coming from the top of his otherwise bald head.

The novelty of drawing.

“It’s a beautiful area,” the girls tell me. “We were there the day before yesterday – and we saw you there!”

Nearby, Tanzina, Jahanara and Shaheda have been working on Moheshkhali’s future, demonstrating no lack of imagination. On one side of the page they’ve put a village – not much change – but on the other is a large town with a train service – something of an imagined Moheshkhali City.

The train seems far-fetched, I guess, but if the enthusiasm and dedication the Ghotibanga students have given to the task at hand are any indication, the possibilities for Moheshkhali’s future are bright.

Life as it used to be: Ghotibanga's class 8 boys illustrate.

Eucalyptus trees in the school yard.

This article is published in The Daily Star, here: Discovering Moheshkhali through Students' Art

Where Mystery Meets History

Under the earth there's a story to tell. Sitakot in Nawabganj of Dinajpur.

Sitakot detail.

Sun-bright, heat-baked, sweat-dripping, glare-straining: is this the scene that greeted Sita when she followed husband Rama into exile in the wilderness? She would’ve needed a glass of water.

Wall with chambers, Sitakot.

Divine daughter of the earth-goddess Bhūmi; found in a furrow and adopted by King Janaka of Nepal; married to Rama; avatar of Lakshmi and wife of Vishnu: Sita’s life story takes pride of place in Valmiki’s epic Ramayana.

First she followed her husband and they made a home in the forest. Later, abandoned by him and pregnant, she wandered the forest again, taking final refuge in the hermitage of Valmiki. He was the author of the Ramayana revered as Ādi Kavi, the First Poet. He is credited with inventing śloka, the epic meter that defined Sanskrit poetry.

A brilliant grass rectangle.

As a single mother she raised her sons and once they had reunited with their father, she sought refuge once more in the arms of her divine mother Bhūmi. Hearing her pleas, the Earth split open. Bhūmi appeared and took Sita from an unjust world.

Brickwork at Sitakot.

Brilliant grassy stretch over hillock and rectangular ruin: Sitakot in Nawabganj of Dinajpur. The place is as shimmering as its legend.

“I heard the name Sitakot from long before, from my grandfather,” says one villager. “I heard Sita was here.”

At the main-road tea shop, noise has come. Any visitor will attract attention and enthusiastic chatter. In the local psyche, a part of neighbourhood identity, Sitakot is like a relative. So, you’ve come to visit the ancient site? Then you’ve come to visit all of us.

The carved hillock of Sitakot.

Enthusiasm in the local tea shop.

Delighted mention follows of a sal forest further in, the last remnants of Sita’s forest so locals say. There’s the waterhole, Ashurer Beel, within it; and arrangements are quickly made for a cycle van to take you. Meanwhile a shopkeeper gives free betel leaf to chew.

When advised you may never see him again, he says: “That’s just why I want to give it.” Friendlier people have become difficult to imagine.

Farmhouse gateway.

Neat mud farmhouse and chicken yard lie along the bright dirt track. Sitakot occupies its sundrenched hillock to the right. Rice field and plough: it’s quintessential rural Bangladesh and not hard to imagine one Sita found there somewhere, as a baby in a furrow. If only it had happened that way…

The road to Sitakot.

Despite the legend that has long mingled in the locality the site has no relation to the Ramayana.

Mudbrick houses nearby.

For one thing, Sita’s actual forest, the Dandaka, the Panchavati, is near Nashik, beside the Godavari River in Maharashtra. It’s not Nawabganj National Park. For another, Valmiki’s hermitage is on the bank of the Tamasa in Uttar Pradesh; not beside Ashurer Beel. So what is Sitakot, then?

From the central courtyard of the complex.

A wall nice in a cell. For a Buddha image?

Historically, Sitakot is not born of Hinduism. It’s a Pala-dynasty Mahayana Buddhist monastery from the 7^th – 8^th centuries. Roughly sixty-five by sixty-five metres, the site features 40 cells around a large courtyard. Its broad entrance measures 1.8 metres. Unlike many monasteries of its vintage there is no evidence of a central temple. Rather, on three sides are larger cells with pedestals that might have housed divine figures.

Beyond that not much is known; two bronze images of Bodhisattva Padmapani and Boddhisattva Manjushri were recovered, helping to give an approximate date to the site. Ink pots, terracotta toys and ornamental bricks were found.

Sitakot: actually an ancient Buddhist monastery.

Local Morfidul Islam, 30, of Golabganj village, speaks of the discovery of an axe. “When a cowherd pushed his koti (the stick to which cows are tied) into the ground he heard a clang. When they dug they found the axe.”

“Foreigners come once or twice a year,” he says, “Sometimes Hindus perform puja.”

There is further excavation work to do at Sitakot. Islam thinks he knows why the archaeologists keep their distance. “The earlier diggers had a dream that if they keep digging they will die.”

The start of Nawabganj sal forest.

It might not be that Sita was there – and the Buddhist history is impressive enough. But to think of it in another way, Bhūmi surely dwells wherever there is soil; in a landscape as idyllic as that, Valmiki’s poetic meter must find its home. In capturing village imagination Sita has nonetheless staked some claim to the place. Sitakot is of her memory, at least, if not her slated geography.

The cycle van.

 
Perhaps it’s generally true that shade follows sun. Beyond, the sal trees start and the cycle van winds into a darker, not less beautiful world. Suddenly, in the forest are faces… curious, different-looking, non-Bengali faces…

Nawabganj National Park keeps yet another history. Under the canopy at its edges the culture and wisdom of the Santhals shelters… 

Suddenly a new history... the surprise of Santhal faces.

Me on the cycle van, Nawabganj National Park.