Termites and a Dream of Prosperity

 

An old banyan tree at Bazar Para in Sabrang. Once this was the centre of town.

Who is it that would live in a house full of termites?

Termite mound under veranda roof.

Away from the beach in Sabrang south of Teknaf town, shady country laneways meander between household flower garden and heavenly stand of areca palm. Adding a meditative symmetry of vertical lines to the landscape, the areca plantations bring renowned to Teknaf, contributing to the district’s areca nut fame. A few hundred metres short of the Naf River, local conditions favour areca nut flavour and everybody knows.

Country laneway, Sabrang, Teknaf.

In the calm, subtropical greenery, that neighbourhood of rustic households built not only on areca but quite often on remittance from labour migration as well, it’s easy to imagine that nature’s quiet is humankind’s ultimate prosperity.

Areca palms.

Yet it’s a locality that’s undergone significant change, evidence of which can be found at the old pond in Bazar Para. Flanked by two banyan trees, reminiscent of the fig under which Gautama Buddha achieved enlightenment in India’s Bodh Gaya, Sabrang was once inhabited by Buddhist Rakhines and the pond during the British era was the centre of town. Nowadays its ghat is crumbled; the pond’s significance has faded into the rural landscape. With just a few groceries stores Bazar Para is a market in name only.

Areca palm plantation, Sabrang.

“There used to be a Buddhist temple,” says local Saifuddin Khaled, 41, “But when the Rakhines left for Myanmar the land was eventually sold.” Where once Sabrang was ruled by Rakhine landlords, today there are only two Rakhine families remaining.

The home of Mong Pru, 57, is of weathered timber, raised on stilts as in Rakhine tradition. Pru has four daughters, two married to jewellery technicians and his daughters sit upstairs on the old balcony that slopes from age, passing a relaxing afternoon with household tailoring work.

Pru says most of Sabrang’s Rakhines left for Myanmar in the 1990s. “We had no land there,” he explains of his decision to stay, “There was nothing to go to. We were very poor then.”

An old well in the yard of the termite house.

Yet it’s not his house but that of his neighbour, in a similar architectural style, which is unique in featuring a termite mound in the middle of its veranda. Its current owner is also a jewellery technician and his shy wife Lamia, who is originally from Royasanka in Myanmar, has been in Bangladesh with her husband for fifteen years but is not confident to speak Bangla.

The termite house, waiting for prosperity.

The termite house.

She does say that the termites don’t eat the wooden house.

“The house is about 50 years old,” recalls Pru, “And the termite mound was even taller when it was built.” They had to cut the mound slightly to fit it under the veranda roof.

The yard of the termite house.

At the time a Buddhist monk advised the family not to break the termite mound. “If you let it grow it will bring you prosperity,” the monk foretold. The termite mound is regarded as a blessing and a place to offer prayer.

A Rakhine alphabet chart.

“It’s always been there,” says one of Pru’s daughters. “Now it’s mainly for beauty.”

The termite mound in the veranda area.

And when it comes to prosperity it seems that Pru’s neighbour is still waiting, although it’s not certain that they weren’t poorer when the house was built. Or perhaps it’s a lesson that nature’s quiet more than money is humankind’s ultimate prosperity.

Mong Pru, 57, with his grandson Owen Twey.

Standing in the garden with his young grandson Owen Twey in his arms, Pru is pleased his family didn’t follow the other Rakhines across the Naf River. “In Myanmar there are too many problems,” he says, “Life is better here.” His family like that of his neighbour is counting on a peaceful and bright Bangladeshi future.

Two of Pru's daughters.

Bazar Para pond. In the British period it was the centre of town.

Bazar Para pond.

This article is published in The Daily Star, here: Sabrang's Termite House and a Dream of Prosperity

Carving a traditional weight, for exercise.

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! 

Tea Reconsidered

A Hindu temple in Chatlapore tea garden.

I’m invited to the home of Mintu Deshwara, the Daily Star correspondent for Moulvibazar. He’s the proud son of tea labourers.

It’s not every day the chance arises to stay in a tea worker’s cottage; but with the afternoon heat and the walking, when we arrive I’m tired. I wonder where on Earth I am.

The realities of Moulvibazar’s Chatlapore Tea Estate are complex. There’s a gruesome history. There’s a multicultural community all too ready to smile. People want a better future in spite of the pressures of the international tea trade. I don’t know what to think.

It’s usual for it to take time. The brain has to process, to meld some sort of sense into new experience. Precisely what part of the result arises from the raw and what part is constructed as memories arranged through the brain’s filter of personal values, life experience and culture I couldn’t say. But there’s no such thing as objectivity.

The village has a sweet, pungent smell. Is it incense or a range of native cooking styles from various Indian places? It doesn’t smell like regular Bangladesh. The faces that stop to ask who I am – they aren’t Bengali faces.

The welcoming introductions are easy enough but when that is done I give in. For a couple of hours I sleep.

Meanwhile, word travels. Eight women from nearby houses want to see what the foreigner looks like. They don’t just arrive: they’ve spent time dressing up in best saris, with bangles and make-up.

Mintu offers to wake me. They don’t let him. So they wait for one and a half hours...

The tea garden ladies waited for one and a half hours...

As I take in their excited faces gathered along the edge of the bed and in the hastily arranged chairs I feel overwhelmingly honoured. It’s that blessing that only a traveller knows – quite a welcome!

But I feel other things. There’s minor guilt at having kept them waiting. There’s some uneasiness. I know enough of the history. I’m not British but most Australians are at least in part descended from those same colonisers. You can’t get away from that.

Those ladies’ ancestors were shuffled about, lured by lies in order to build a tea industry. It’s hardly history – they still live in poverty. Part of me wants to be invisible so as not to be in any way a Sahib.

Better to focus on their welcoming friendliness...

We chat away in Bengali, mother tongue to none of us. They aren’t shy. We drink tea.

In the evening with Mintu I set off through the village. It leads to the courtyard of the Bauris’ home. They speak Bauria language.

Hari Kamal Bauri, 70, with his wife Ahila Bauri, 60.

Retired worker Hari Kamal Bauri, 70, heard his maternal grandparents came from one Bakuria District. “We have no connection with that place,” he says, “Maybe it’s near Dhaka?”

Bakuria is a place name in Jharkhand state of India but it’s likely his ancestors came from Bankura District of Paschimbanga which, along with Birbhum and other districts along that state’s western edge, is home to the Bauri people.

Basic research says Bauris revere their tribal emblem the red-backed heron and hold dogs to be sacred. They eat beef, pork, fowls, fish and rats, but not snakes or lizards – and they like a drink. It’s unlikely the Bauris of the tea garden know much of this.

His wife Ahila Bauri, 60, says her paternal grandparents never said where they came from but her parents said they came from Sreemangal.

How much do we lose of ourselves if we don’t know our true origins?

The Bauris at home.

“On the first day my mother gave birth to me,” Ahila Bauri says, describing her life. “Later they married me off and sent me to my husband’s house. He sent me to the garden for work.”

Before their wedding day they’d never met. I ask how she felt. She says, “What did I think? Everybody was sitting there! What could I think?”

With many days behind them, they seem relaxed and content. Five children later – and they couldn’t quite manage to send them through school – they have an allocated cottage to live in and a family to enjoy as they age. They seem quite fond of each other.

“Smith Sahib used to drive a car and give salaams,” he says of the British management.

“Memsahib was beautiful,” she says, “She gave the children biscuits.”

I’m considering the cottage behind them. While there can be no doubt the British entertained their own interests, a brick cottage is far from nothing. I remember rural Bangladesh even most of twenty years ago. It wasn’t just anybody who had a brick house then.

When the Bauris’ ancestors were first deposited in the garden, after the jungles were cleared, it likely would’ve been a more materialistically comfortable life than the way locals lived. It was long before the mansions of Londoni ex-pats rose in the quiet streets around Kulaura. Things have changed, except in the garden.

By another villager I’m shown a slip of paper: it’s a Charge Sheet from management. The charge is stealing a shade tree. The charged worker is required to provide an explanation – in writing or, if they are illiterate, verbally, why they should not be dismissed or otherwise punished. They may cross-examine witnesses.

There are no police in the gardens. Where is the court? It’s as though the laws of Bangladesh don’t properly apply there. Those are anachronistic privatised communities run by the tea companies.

A nurse walking home from the dispensary.

I’m told that in September 2012 the Tea Worker’s Union negotiated a wage increase, settled by the government’s Wage Commission, from 48 to 69 taka per day – for an A-grade garden. In addition workers receive housing, promises of health care and education.

At the same time workers needed to increase productivity. Before, they’d needed to collect 16 kilograms of tea leaves per day to avail full salary. It was raised to 23 kilograms – in other words, they would still be paid 3 taka per kilogram – a pro rata increase of zero.

The last elections for the Tea Worker’s Union were in August this year. With bargaining soon to commence for a new salary agreement to last the next two years, the Union’s hoping for a new salary of 200 taka per day.

Rehearsals for Durga Puja in the tea garden.

I wonder why we often hear ambassadors from the United States and Europe making public comment on the rights of garments workers but not tea workers. Western countries don’t, in general, produce tea – western companies do, in developing countries. Unlike with the garment sector where the west still has some local production and jobs to protect – and besides, dramatic events like the Rana Plaza collapse embarrass western consumers – perhaps for the tea industry profit margins are all that matter?

It’s not that there aren’t alternatives to champion. New ownership and production systems have been introduced in parts of Sri Lanka, India and also in Panchagarh, to better compensate labourers.

The colonialism cycle can be broken. It’s time to reconsider tea – because the Bauris may live quietly in an old allocated brick cottage, but at what human price? Okay, so, maybe I do know what to think...

Tea workers busy with gardening.

This article is published in Star Magazine, here: Tea Reconsidered

Me with the tea ladies.