The funeral has taken place in Dhaka of the country’s most famous poet, Shamsur Rahman, who died on Thursday of kidney failure after several days in a coma. A large number of Bangladeshi government ministers, politicians of both major parties (BNP and Awami), and cultural figures attended the funeral, although there were also questions why Rahman was not given official state honors.
Described in today’s New York Times obituary as the “unofficial poet laureate” of Bangladesh, Shamsur Rahman was the author of sixty collections of poetry in Bangla, of which only a small fractions appears to have been translated in English. I barely speak any Bangla, let alone read it, and I imagine many Sepia readers have like me only heard of Rahman without ever reading him. It would be great to hear commentary and criticism from anyone versed in Bangla poetry or who has some of this work in translation that they might share with us.
Rahman was the victim of an extremist attack in 1999:
An outspoken opponent of religious fundamentalism, Mr. Rahman was attacked in January 1999 by a group of young men who talked their way into his house and tried to behead him with an ax. Mr. Rahman was unharmed, but his wife, who came to his aid, was seriously wounded.
Hearing screams, neighbors rushed in and caught the attackers, who were members of Harkat-ul-Jihad-al-Islami, a militant Islamic group. The attack led to the arrest of 44 members of the group.
There is an homage by Syed Manzoorul Islam in the Bangladesh Daily Star:
I remember, some years ago, after an extremist outfit had made an attempt on his life, I went to see him in his Shyamoli residence. And sure enough, there was the poet, sitting in his study, poring over a book; his white, tousled hair dancing in the afternoon breeze. He welcomed me with a broad smile, whose sweetness still remains in my memory, and asked me to sit down. Over a cup of tea, we talked about great many things, except the attack. ‘Let’s forget it,’ he said, ‘let’s not talk about death. Let’s talk about life.’
Not many poets of his generation, here and elsewhere, have celebrated life the way he has. Not many poets knew the secret of turning a near-tragedy into a cause for celebration. In a poem written shortly after, he referred to the incident as ‘a hyena’s last ditch attempt to avenge a bitter defeat’. He felt that he always belonged to the victors: Bengalees could never lose a war.
A commenter at the Bangladeshi diaspora site Drishtipat says Shamsur Rahman was deeply connected to the city of Dhaka:
Our beloved Dhaka gave birth to Shamsur Rahman as a gift to our very own Bangla language and literature. Since the time when Tagore brought greatest glory to Bangla literature, poet Shamsur Rahman stands high above many that carried the beacon of our beloved language. Being one of the most successful poets, if not the only, of modern times of Bangla literature that was born and raised in Dhaka he was the poet of Dhaka in essence. Being away from my beloved Dhaka city, I can feel an invisible bond with the poet whom I have seen in person but never met as he also loved Dhaka very much. The versatile poet even documented his fond memories of the city in his classic book Smritir Shahar.
Somewhat less elegantly, a tribute editorial in the Bangladesh New Nation says Shamsur Rahman symbolized the ascendancy of Dhaka over Calcutta in Bengali letters (let’s see what Saurav, Dipanjan et al have to say about that):
THE demise of poet Shamsur Rahman has come as a shock to the nation because he is among the frontline poets of Bangladesh who have taken the Bangla poetry to new heights and have established clear superiority of Dhaka over Kolkata in this sphere. The late National Professor Abdur Razzak had in the late seventies, in one of his famous lectures, pointed at this trend in Dhakas triumphant march towards great achievements in poetry, art and literature as the liberation of Bangladesh with Dhaka as its capital made the people to think big.
At any rate, the passing of Shamsur Rahman is clearly a major event in Bangladeshi cultural life, and the abundance of politicians at his funeral makes clear that no matter what feathers he may have ruffled in his lifetime, everyone wants to be associated with his legacy — something that often happens when prominent, politically active writers pass away.
I found very little of Rahman’s work in translation online, but this poem can help us imagine what he would have thought of the public tamasha surrounding his death:
Mask
Shower me with petals,
heap bouquets around me,
I won’t complain. Unable to move,
I won’t ask you to stop
nor, if butterflies or swarms of flies
settle on my nose, can I brush them away.
Indifferent to the scent of jasmine and benjamin,
to rose-water and loud lament,
I lie supine with sightless eyes
while the man who will wash me
scratches his ample behind.
The youthfulness of the lissome maiden,
her firm breasts untouched by grief,
no longer inspires me to chant
nonsense rhymes in praise of life.
You can cover me head to foot with flowers,
my finger won’t rise in admonishment.
I will shortly board a truck
for a visit to Banani.
A light breeze will touch my lifeless bones.
I am the broken nest of a weaver-bird,
dreamless and terribly lonely on the long verandah.
If you wish to deck me up like a bridegroom
go ahead, I won’t say no
Do as you please, only don’t
alter my face too much with collyrium
or any enbalming cosmetic. Just see that I am
just as I am; don’t let another face
emerge through the lineaments of mine.
Look! The old mask
under whose pressure
I passed my whole life,
a wearisome handmaiden of anxiety,
has peeled off at last.
For God’s sake don’t
fix on me another oppressive mask.
