My Islam

Hatiya, Noakhali. The village that made my Bangladesh.

It used to be that of a village Eid morning in Hatiya I’d get ready along with my Bengali brothers. After bathing in the pond we’d dress and walk the short distance to the mosque. What I wore varied. In later years I had fashionable Dhanmondi-style panjabis to choose from. Earlier I used to wear the greenish kabliwala set that my friend and brother Situ gave me. It was the only design readily understood by the local tailors.

The mosque is small and not old, and those who attend are family, friends and neighbours. There’d be a few personal prayers for Abba, who I never met but whose grave is there. We’d wash our hands and feet and I confess I often got a bit of stabilisation assistance from the others while dipping toes into the mosque pond so as not to fall over... Then we’d go inside.

Kids playing in the monsoon wonderland. Eid arrives in the monsoon months this year.

I like that mosque. The weekday Imam is youthful and friendly, and there’s no denying the distinctive qualities of his adhan call to prayer. It may not be of the sort that’s striking for its mystical, high beauty – such as an adhan I once heard while passing through Seremban, Malaysia, which seemed so intrinsic and harmonious that it may as well have been welded into the dawn.

No, our Imam’s adhan has a, shall-we-say, personal quality. When his voice wavers and the notes take on a more creative fluctuation – he’s doing his best, he’s really doing his best... When there’s the added flare of a high-pitched squeal from the PA system – being as it is... With the general muffled ambience familiar to current village-mosque technology... we love it all the more.

He is our Imam. It is his adhan – the one which by tradition at the Fajr dawn hour comes as finale to all the adhans in the area. It’s well-understood that not everybody can be a morning person. Although on Fridays and at Eid he bows to experience our Imam is always there.

My Eid mosque-going tradition arose naturally. Nobody told or encouraged me. Hatiyalas are too polite. It simply seemed strange that on a special day like Eid I would not share in the customs of the neighbourhood – in the same way we sometimes attend kirtan with our Hindu friends. It was my heart that took me to the mosque.

Hatiya's monsoon sky.

Inside, I used to find a place at the back so as not to get in anybody’s way. While we were sitting my legs would descend into pins and needles, eventually falling asleep such that at the end of the service I’d have trouble standing. While they were actually performing the namaz prayer I’d – rightly or wrongly, I could never decide which – add a little silent Christian-style prayer of my own. It was what I knew how to do – a way of showing respect for their beliefs and for them.

Afterwards there’d be the usual congregating on the road with those heart-to-heart salaams reserved for special days, a tradition in which I was entirely included. I was more than included because while I would have wished to say, “Thank you so much for not minding my attendance,” it was rather them who said, “We are so honoured that you shared our Eid.”

It’s a far cry from common perceptions of Islam in Australia, unfortunately.

The main road in Hatiya that became so overflowing with respectful greetings...

But I suppose the first meaningful contact I had with Islam was in Rajasthan, before Bangladesh. What I recall from those initial curious visits to various desert and semi-desert mosques was the strong sense of peace to be imbibed within, while sitting on the floor inside. It was easy to find a spiritual quality in that space. Incidentally I’ve known Iranian Muslims to admit as much about Sydney’s cathedrals.

Then there was the hospitality tradition. I came to expect it whenever visiting any Muslim majority country, and while culture also plays a role I have never been disappointed. Probably more than any other religion, Islam respects the stranger, the traveller, the guest...

A third early impression arose when it came to be that moving along the road in Hatiya meant encountering numerous salaams from villagers. It was quite a while before I genuinely appreciated it was not simply a ‘hello, hi’ but respect they were giving – the islanders are sincere in it. When it was explained, when it sunk in that it was more than a ‘hello’, I was really touched. Later – I was a little slow in adapting – I became better at salaam-giving also.

Meanwhile in Sydney where I used to speak of such experiences freely I don’t think I ever came to grips with the overwhelming but thankfully not entirely universal response to my chat: the sense of fear. It was so easy to underestimate and overlook the prejudices that characterise that society’s view of Islam, since the true complexity and diversity of Muslim communities was so blatantly clear to me. My Islam had become as our Imam’s adhan – original and personalised.

Monsoon road. Hatiya, Noakhali.

But I suppose not accepting that differences must divide us runs in my Australian family. My father’s clan were Presbyterian while mother was raised as a Catholic. One Catholic grandmother married a Lutheran grandfather and in those days due to denominational differences he was not allowed to walk in the front door of the Catholic Church – when they eloped he came in via the unceremonious side door. Sometimes in response to the protestant-catholic question I used to say I was Cathlotestant... and it’s surprising that some otherwise educated Australians had difficulty in accepting even that answer. Sometimes people are like buildings. They take their structure from walls. But I don’t believe God cares for petty categories.

And on 11 September 2001 after I knew that my Australian brother in New York was okay, my main concern was for the inevitable anti-Muslim backlash. I made a personal vow: whatever happens, nothing will come between me and the Hatiyalas. That tiny but rather wonderful history we made together was more important than ever.

And yet it is sadly true that Australians can have no confidence in mature, moderate governance, especially in the country’s security sector. It is sadly true that hysteria reigned and division still does. Somehow I kept my Hatiyan Islam anyway...

Monsoon landscape. Hatiya, Noakhali.

The church in Aizawl, Mizoram.

On the other side of the coin, a few years ago came the first convenient opportunity for Situ to experience a church service – just to see how it is. We were in Aizawl, Mizoram and the Presbyterian evening service was in Mizo. We sat up the back so as not to get in anybody’s way. While one lady down the front became so moved when the music played that she started an animated dance and sang a loud lively solo, we did our best to simply follow the song book, singing in unknown Mizo language which is written with familiar European script, without knowing the tune. It must’ve made our Imam’s adhan seem as traditionally beautiful as that Malaysian adhan I once heard.

With the difficulties of transport to Hatiya I will share Eid in Dhaka this time. For the past eighteen years Islam has been a part of the mix of religious influences that make me. It’s something for which I am grateful. I’ve always felt it was life-enriching. But perhaps it’s simply Bengali: differences shall not divide us! So from a non-Muslim to Muslims and non-Muslims all, I wish you a happy and joyous Eid!

After the rain comes the sun.

Me in modern Dhaka panjabi.

This article published in Star Magazine, here: My Islam.

An Islamic Legacy of Harmony

Madrassa students outside the Nesarabadi Islamic Complex in Jhalokati.

The small eatery, Sumon Chotpoti, has no space for a kitchen. The establishment on Kalibari Road in Jhalokati occupies a ground floor room barely big enough for its few tables and chairs. That leaves proprietor Shonkor Chandra, 67, standing on the roadside of an afternoon, surrounded by his ingredients.

Chandra, a Hindu, makes up for the lack of space by being organised. Various chotpoti elements are neatly arranged in plastic bowls and baskets of purple, red and blue – chillies, boiled egg, onions. He knows the value of combination. He’s expert in entertaining his fellow townsfolk.

Unlike chotpoti, society is made of people and flavoured by ideas rather than tamarind and spices. While Chandra might not find room for a kitchen he is lucky. In Jhalokati’s society there is no shortage of space. Contemporary Jhalokati District is one of the most communally harmonious in the country – and local people deservedly take pride from that.

Shonkor Chandra, of Sumon Chotpoti on Kalibari Road, Jhalokati

“We just took tea together,” says Muslim Anisur Rahman, proprietor of Siam Motors, referring to a Hindu friend. “We are neighbours. We live in one place. We are often guests at Hindu weddings. There’s no disturbance in Jhalokati.”

“There are no problems here,” agrees Hindu Nirmal Mandal, 50, who’s been running the Sun Studio photography store for 25 years.

“We are not Hindus and Muslims,” says Chandra, “but people. You do your religion and I do mine. What does it matter? Jhalokati is a bit good in this way.”

While a connoisseur might detect the various elements in Chandra’s chotpoti, the factors which produce an enlightened Jhalokati are not so obvious. Yet on the wall of Sumon Chotpoti are a number of small stickers that hold a clue to at least part of the reason.

On them is written, “Oh Muslim boys, in which hadith have you found that your prestige will decline if you work?” It is to be assumed that for Chandra the mantra for constructive activity applies in equal measure to those of other faiths – yet more telling is that those are the words of the late Islamic theologian Maulana Md. Azizur Rahman Nesarabadi.

Regarded as a saint and commonly referred to as Quaid Saheb Hujur, his shrine is at the expansive Nesarabadi Islamic Complex by the Bashanda River not far from town. His son Md Khalilur Rahman Nesarabadi is the current Principal of the large madrassa there and responsible for the more than forty organisations under the Nesarabadi umbrella.

The Nesarabadi Islamic Complex in Jhalokati.

“He was the mirror of Islam,” says his son, “He believed Islam was not only for Muslims but for everybody.” Indeed, Quaid Saheb Hujur’s contribution to Jhalokati is well-regarded by all religious communities. Both Mandal and Chandra have visited his shrine – Chandra is a regular.

Born in 1911, by all accounts Quaid Saheb Hujur lived a simple life. According to his son, he believed it sinful to save money and never had a bank account or his own home. Khalilur remembers on one occasion when his family was in a particularly bad financial state, his father received cheques for substantial amounts from the Islamic Foundation of Bangladesh as proceeds from books he had written. The son took the cheques to his father hoping it could alleviate the family’s difficulties.

“My life is for Allah,” Quaid Saheb Hujur told him, “My writing is not for earning money. This money is for the welfare of the people.”

Quaid Saheb Hujur believed in an Islam of leading by example and constructive engagement. In 1960 he founded an institution to provide mediation for villagers when the nearest court was in Barisal. He pursued an interest in allopathic treatment, encouraging locals to understand the properties of plants and cultivate those with health benefits. Even today at the madrassa complex the tea served is sourced from joshanda, the mehendi plant, which is thought to be healthy.

Returning from class at the madrassa.

True Muslims serve humanity..

Madrassa students also need technical education.

He founded numerous educational institutions and was instrumental in introducing technical education alongside religious instruction at madrassas. After all, practical skills could only enhance religious knowledge in providing the student with a better opportunity to engage with society on its own terms. He also believed in the rights of women to be educated, and the Nesarabadi complex includes a women’s madrassa.

“We Muslims have forgotten that serving fellow humans is one of the cardinal principles of our religion,” Quaid Sahed Hujur is reported to have said, “In order to become true Muslims we must serve humanity.”

The madrassa grounds

Believing it to be Islam’s work, Quaid Saheb Hujur organised an anti-corruption committee and participated in many anti-corruption processions over the years. According to his son, he was once detained for his efforts. At a rally he had called out dishonest officials by name, which had forced them through shame to return ill-gotten sums.

A great admirer of Rabindranath Tagore and a reader of Swami Vivekananda, Quaid Saheb Hujur was not averse to visiting Hindu religious ceremonies. After all, how could one hope to be of assistance to broader humanity if one does not engage with it? It is documented that he once went to listen to kirtan chanting in the bhakti tradition, performed by a group of kirtankars. After that experience Quaid Saheb Hujur said, “All religions say the same things.”

Visiting a kirtan was not a challenge to his Islamic faith but rather an expression of it.

Md Khalilur Rahman Nesarabadi, son of the late Qayed Saheb Hujur.

During the 1971 Liberation War it is recorded that some Hindus approached Quaid Saheb Hujur seeking to convert to Islam. Their decision was driven by fear, thinking they might be saved from the Pakistani Army. He discouraged them, saying, “The Pakistani Army is killing Muslims as well. Life and death are in God’s hands.” For Quaid Saheb Hujur, conversion motivated by fear was not a proper endeavour.

He believed that for the betterment of Bangladesh good people of all religions should stand united against dictatorship and corruption, and rise above religious difference for peace and unity. That is the legacy he left for Jhalokati.

Unsurprisingly for a saint, there are miracles ascribed to his life, which are naturally difficult to verify. Similarly it reads as somewhat out of character that he took a stand against atheists – though it might do to remember that until the most recent years the term was not politicized in Bangladesh in the way it is today, and to him, it might’ve been more of a synonym for immorality and lack of principle.

The madrassa grounds.

In any case, one does not need to be a Muslim or agree with all aspects of his beliefs to find within his teachings compassion and understanding. The Islam that Quaid Saheb Hujur taught is a faith of the ‘middle path’ with no place for either slackness or extremism.

In Jhalokati, the legacy of Quaid Saheb Hujur continues to be both significant and significantly positive. While a society is made of people, ideas create the flavour. And leadership matters.

Asked what his father would have done if he had lived to see these troubling recent days of Hindu homes being burnt and temples desecrated in several other districts of the country, his son says, “He would have gone to those districts straight away and tried to convince the Muslim communities that it is wrong. Islam does not believe in destruction but in good behaviour and harmony.”

For Shonkor Chandra it might be even simpler. He knows the value of combination. He knows that anyone favouring communalism could never enjoy the diversity of chotpoti. They’d be left, perhaps, to chew on onions. And he could certainly contemplate such things of an afternoon by the roadside, before the customers arrive, in a peaceful district like Jhalokati, in a society that’s not lacking in space.

Quaid Saheb Hujur's shrine is simple and decorated with plants.

This article published in Star Magazine, here: An Islamic Legacy of Harmony

*information sourced from interview and various Nesarabadi Islamic Complex publications.

The Leisure Club

Even in the rain, Feni town is busy.

Beyond the Sonagazi Weir in Feni district three unused windmills add feature to the landscape of the tidal zone. There, the wild lawn served easily as football pitch for town dwellers. Meanwhile, at the lake on the nearer side was swimming and boating.

The 2011 winter picnic of Feni’s Oboshor or Leisure Club, was a lucky day. I won second prize in the raffle – dinner plates. It was the best result since first prize was a live goat!

Stretching back to the British era, the culture of clubs is well-established in South Asia. Clubs can be status-oriented and expensive; Oboshor is different.

“Our society suffers from a cancer,” Oboshor’s Vice-President Mominul Hoque wrote in the club’s publication, “We never learnt to admit our faults. People like to boast. We wanted Oboshor members to believe in taking responsibility for mistakes.” Oboshor is non-political, committed to Feni and a belief that all are equal.

Oboshor members relaxing on the rooftop beside the clubhouse.

The club originated several years ago in a broken, straw house, a kupri ghar, in Feni bazaar. Initially friends used to gather for adda. In the course of daily conversations, horizons grew.

With the decision to formalise into a club, larger premises were sought and current president, Alal Uddin Alal, offered the rooftop of his unfinished commercial building. To this day reaching the clubhouse involves negotiating a construction site’s dark stairwell. It’s can’t be imagined Oboshor is up there.

Meanwhile, the club’s aspirations took shape. “We wanted to make a better society,” Mominul Hoque explained. To this end, Oboshor created the Nobin Chandra Sen education scholarship, with the hope that if even one of its recipients should succeed the project will have been worthwhile.

Each winter the club donates warm clothes to the needy and has presented sewing machines and rickshaws to struggling families. But the club is also about having fun.

I didn’t know much of this when I was offered the chance to join. “How much does it cost?” I asked.

“It’s free,” the club president said.

“What are the criteria?” 

“Just one: good character.”

Spice alley, Feni bazaar.

A shop selling shutki dried fish, Feni Bazaar.

Shops in Feni Bazaar.

Village Flute Behind the Scenes: Monpura

Photos from Monpura:

With the adda circle, the conversationalists, in the Ibrahim Store, Badher Bazaar, Monpura.

With Salman Hossein Saju to my left, adda in full swing at the Ibrahim Store.

Taking a dip at the College Pond is a good remedy for the heat of the day.

Notes:

Directly after Durga Puja this year, only a day or two later, came the Muslim holiday of Eid al-Adha. In Bangladesh most people like to retire to the village home for Eid. The city of Dhaka is half empty of people during these days. With Monpura just one hour by ship from the village that became my home over the last 18 years, on the island of Hatiya, it was a great opportunity to spend the holiday in the village rather than back in Dhaka.

After four days it was already so that while walking in the main bazaar of Hazirhat random people would greet me. Perhaps they were customers of the Ibrahim Store or had seen me at one of the Durga Puja pandals? The barbers at one of the barber shops were relatives of a good friend of mine from Hatiya and there were one or two other Hatiyala connections there.

All transport around the island was by motorcycle since there is no public bus, and it was easily arranged at the Ibrahim Store. Thus I arrived at the ghat at 5:30 a.m. to meet the ship to Hatiya. At the ghat were no less than three greetings from Monpurans who must've been meeting other friends or relatives, and no less than three invitations to return and visit again!

Meanwhile, on reaching Hatiya I discovered my friend who was supposed to pick me up by Honda from the ghat had accidentally fallen asleep again and would be late. There was time for tea with Emran, from my village, who was picking up his sister-in-law and who I've known for most of twenty years. 

Then on heading into Tomoruddin Bazaar, where the ghat is, a Honda stops to offer a lift. I'm not sure who the rider and passenger are but they know me. So we head, three on one bike, to the main town of Ochkhali, and along the way the rider explains that he is the son of an Imam who used to work at the mosque at local Bota Market, not far from my village home. His father works at another mosque these days but that is how they know me.

All was as usual in Hatiya - meetings, greetings, the Bengali family and friends. 

Except that the villagers in Azizia Bazaar had decided I needed an office, a tin roof bazaar office that usually belongs to the Bazaar Committee there. Electricity in Hatiya only runs for a few hours of an evening, and only in the bazaar - so when the sun set I'd be 'off to work', at my office! The villagers used to keep the public out most of the time, so I could concentrate on writing - and then there were times for adda. Strangely, on one occasion a marriage contract was drawn up in front of me, and unexpectedly I was asked to be a witness to it. The bride and groom weren't there, only their fathers who both seemed to be decent people.

'How old is the bride?' I asked.

'Eighteen,' they said - but they know that is the correct answer. 'What kind of eighteen? Does eighteen mean eighteen?' They said it did.

'Well go easily with the new couple,' I said, not that I should be giving advice, 'No in-law problems, no dowry, and all will be well!' Unlike in most of Bangladesh in Hatiya dowries for Muslims are not common anyway, but can occur.

Thus I witnessed the agreement.

On Eid Day I didn't go to the mosque this year, though in the past I have, sitting quietly up the back. All the friends and neighbours are there, so it always seemed a shame I couldn't go simply due to my Christian background.

Meanwhile there were daily calls - just as we rehearsed but without climbing a tree for reception - from Monpura, from Saju, Bimal, Hasan and others. I definitely needed to go back to Monpura, Saju said, because when I visited his house, his mother was away in Bhola and she wanted to see what I looked like, observe how I was. Well, there's really no saying no to Saju's mother - at some point in the future I just need to find the time!

But there was a bit of administration to do in Dhaka... before setting out for a new district.


Photos from Hatiya:

In 'my office' at Azizia Bazaar in Hatiya.

Adda at the office: Rofiq, Salim and the gang.

Another moment of office adda: Soleiman, Nobir (boss), Ashraf and Situ are there.

In Azizia, everybody is 'wellcome' - so welcome that a double 'l' is needed to describe just how welcome they are!

After about the hottest day in Hatiya ever, this strange swirling cloud formation formed over the house. Tornadoes are not unheard of in Bangladesh, or even in Hatiya, and I don't know if this was the start of one but fortunately the spout didn't drop and nothing came of it.

Khair Kaka (Uncle) holds the scales while our householders divide the beef . It's an Eid al-Adha tradition.

Amma - my Bengali adopted mother - with her youngest grandson, currently called Plabon. In Bangladesh there is a naming ceremony that takes place when the child eats its first rice - until then various names may be tried out!

The Ibrahim Store

Government Dighee, Monpura.

“How will we stay in contact?” asked 29-year-old Salman Hossein Saju, who said he was a fish businessman – which sometimes means politics. He has 125 coconut palms and twice took me for refreshing green coconut water, for daber pani at his place.

Others preferred the “Will we ever see you again?” version. I’d known them for four days. I suggested we could stay in contact by phone but Saju needed a demonstration. He snatched somebody’s mobile from the tea shop table and gave it, before putting his phone to his ear to commence the skit by way of example of the real calls that would occur.

Think quickly! You’re in the company of islanders now.

“Hello,” he said into his phone.

“Hello,” I said into the one he’d given me.

“How are you?”

“I can’t hear you – network disturb.”

“Climb a tree,” he said. I did that.

“Can you hear me now?”

The crowd at the Ibrahim Store, a tea shop in Badher Bazaar on the small island of Monpura, Bhola District, in the Bay of Bengal, were delighted with the ad lib performance.

Keora forest in Hazirhat town.

There were a few trial runs – Feni, Kurigram, Jamalpur – I’ll tell you about those later; but in Monpura I really considered I’d begun a new journey, to the 64 corners of Bangladesh. Monpura was the first easy notes of this flute song.

It seemed as well to consider a Monpuran beginning. Any journey starts with small steps within sight of home. From Monpura one can see Hatiya, where lies the village that adopted me years ago. Monpura is the final stop before Hatiya on the Dhaka launch. I’ve passed by many times, taken tea at the ghat at dawn. I’ve always wanted to visit.

By motorcycle the island can be covered in two minutes, west to east. North to south it’s about 20 kilometres. Life is a struggle for most of the probably 120,000 islanders, farmers and fishermen – yet, as is small-island inevitable, everybody knows everybody and in Monpura goats are left roadside during the night. There’s no anticipation of thieves.

I’d arrived for Durga Puja, thinking it would add festivity to my setting out. There would be Ma Durga’s company in the first four days and it befits: ultimately all journeys start with mother.

Yet to be a truly Bangladeshi journey… well, starting out without completing tea doesn’t have much Bangladeshi sense to it – that’s what led to the Ibrahim Store.

The keora forests make Hazirhat unique.

After I sat, the crowd of ready-to-meet well-wishers gathered. They watched me jotting notes – taking to pen and paper because electricity only runs from 6 p.m. until after midnight. I heard one villager on his mobile telling the caller, who must’ve enquired of his whereabouts, “There’s a foreigner here. I’m watching him.” He said it so matter-of-factly, as obvious an activity as watching TV.

By tea shop account it’s rare to find a foreigner – apart from the Nigerian who’d arrived three months earlier for a football tournament, a bideshi might arrive every five years – and usually only stay for a day.

Observations were made I didn’t hold my pen properly – I never mastered that in childhood. Observations were made I had good health since I could drink several cups of tea without relieving myself. “When we drink two glasses of water,” said Saju, “we must leave at least one behind.”

There were many questions – do I speak Bangla? How old am I? What is my salary? Do I know Ricky Ponting?

Word spread of my Hatiyan history and it proved easy to relate to. After the 1970 cyclone – the most devastating to hit Monpura, the most devastating ever recorded worldwide – only those with the strength to cling to trees survived. There weren’t any cyclone shelters. “There were no women left,” said Mohammed Hasan, 34, sitting to my left. He’s a high school teacher: social science. “They brought new wives from Hatiya by boat.”

It’s another reason for Monpura to be a good start – the regions affected by the 1970 cyclone have a special relationship with the birth of Bangladesh. The failure of the Pakistani government to properly respond was an immediate factor that combined with longstanding issues to push the independence movement.  In a way, Bangladesh itself once took tea at the Ibrahim Store, on its journey. 

Keora tree roots in the mangrove forests of Hazirhat.

The Hatiyan wives in turn brought their language, which mingled with the Barisal-Bhola based Monpuran Bangla version. There was discussion – of the Hatiyan penchant for pronouncing ‘p’ as ‘h’ and light-hearted criticism of the unusual, Noakhali-style sentences that the wind blew into their heritage. Bujjenni? Do you follow?

Monpura was affected by the 1991 cyclone and Cyclone Sidr, but the sea didn’t rise like in 1970. Water is more dangerous than wind. In 1970 one woman was found floating at sea, unconscious, seven days later. She survived.

I asked how many Monpurans go to shelters these days. Hasan suggested about 40%. People don’t readily leave their homes in times of peril.

As we chatted there was a signal 3 in place for the Bay; but Cyclone Phailin chose to take the introduction of Odisha. In Monpura it brought a welcome breeze.

I discovered another commonality with Hatiya: most betel leaf and nut is ship-delivered from the gardens of Bhola. The man opposite helpfully suggested it wasn’t wise to drink tea soon after chewing betel since the limestone paste, the chun used on betel, when it mixes with the tea’s sugar, forms stones in the stomach.

I was curious about Monpura’s main town, Hazirhat, which might be the most attractive hardly-a-town I’ve seen in Bangladesh. Hazirhat features large tanks and, more uniquely, stands of keora mangrove forest in the middle of town. At night the forest stretches are pitch black; in the daytime buffaloes wallow – before and after is the settlement.

Badher Bazaar used to be a small islet, Hasan said. People used to cross by boat to Hazirhat. In 1978 then Barisal District Commissioner Nasir Uddin Khan commenced work to close the river. The result is really praiseworthy. It’s in the name – Badher Bazaar means Dam Market.

An old man contributed his story of giving Pakistani soldiers, in 1971, fruit mixed with unbearably hot spices; and there was a strange tale of a Bengali called Kissinger who went to Australia and took two litres of ‘milk’ from a bullock.

There was discussion of marriage: in Monpura almost all are married by age 16. “We are lucky if we live to be 50,” said one villager, forlornly, “so we have to start early.” “But the government says it’s better if we marry at 20,” said another.

Hasan said Monpura’s dogs are descended from a large variety introduced by the Portuguese in the sixteenth century – though the dogs looked no larger than usual. I have doubts Monpura can match the 3,000 years of distant Sandwip; more likely it is a younger landmass like the 150-year-old nearby Hatiya.

“The Portuguese found such abundance – fish, milk, rice – they were astonished,” Hasan said. From it came the name Monpura – because their mon or heart was touched.

Yet the mon in Monpura isn’t difficult to find. It’s everywhere, even in the Ibrahim Store. Philosophy, humour, history and wit – I’m contemplating a new theory – controversial – that the best adda or chatting in Bangladesh is on the islands.

But Durga Puja is not in the Ibrahim Store. Even a journey that starts with tea must inevitably progress to the first step…

Monpura, Bhola, Bangladesh.

This article published in Star Magazine, here: The Ibrahim Store