In Sylheti Bengali, there’s a sweet dish called “ফিদা (phida)” and it sounds like the word for “punch/hit” which is also “ফিদা (fida)”. So as a joke, cousins and siblings would ask “ফিদা খাইটা নি ? (Fidā khā'iṭā ni ?)” which means “Do you want ‘fida’ ?” and if you say yes they might punch you playfully because after all you agreed to a punch (fida), not a sweet dish (phida).
she said: don’t forget! milk, oil, flowers our offerings, our worship. my hands are broken but still you kiss each finger. I remember milk for kheer, oil for the lamp, flowers for Shiva. to me these are nothing. in your eyes the world sleeps can I sleep in them, too?
-worship, Kelsey Ray Banerjee
Hindi:
वह कही: मत भूलना! दूध, तेल, फूल हमारा प्रसाद, हमारी पूजा मेरे हाथ टूट गए हैं लेकिन अभी भी तुम एक एक उंगली चुंबन। मुझे याद है खीर के लिए दूध, दीपक के लिए तेल, शिव के लिए फूल। मेरे लिए ये कुछ भी नहीं हैं। तुम्हारी आँखों में दुनिया सो रही मैं उन में सो सकते हैं भी ? -पूजा, Kelsey Ray Banerjee
Bangla:
ও বলল: ভুলে যাবেন না! দুধ, তেল, ফুল আমাদের নৈবেদ্য, আমাদের পূজা। আমার হাত ভেঙে গেছে তবুও আপনি প্রতিটি আঙুল চুমু। মনে আছে খিরের জন্য দুধ, বাতি জন্য তেল, শিবের জন্য ফুল। আমার কাছে এগুলি কিছুই নয়। তোমার চোখে পৃথিবী ঘুমায় আমি কি তাদের মধ্যে ঘুমাতে পারি? -পূজা, Kelsey Ray Banerjee
More language learning with poems. It’s been a while, so I wrote one in Hindi, then translated into Bangla and back into English (my native lang). Not sure if the Bangla is completely right tbh…some new vocab and honestly most dictionaries are not always reliable? I’m learning West Bengal variant, for those interested.
“I don’t think that would be a good idea, Sabila.”
“Areh jaan! You want her to grow up without any idea about her background, her history, who she is?”
“Backgrounds and history - that’s for the past! You have to see the future. See what is best for her now.”
"What is so wrong about speaking to her in our language? Teaching her what we learnt? You think all those years at the Cadet College were a waste?”
“Even the Cadet College is no more, Sabila. It was all destroyed in the war - there’s nothing left!”
“The war for our culture and language! And we won!”
"With everything destroyed - all our infrastructure, our leaders, our intellectuals, dead and gone! Our kind, gone!”
"They cannot be all gone. I know it. I know our kind are still around. It’s not like all Bangladeshis were killed off in the war.”
"Our kind? Our kind either escapedor died! No two ways about it! And let me tell you - those that escaped? I know for sure that they don’t follow the old ways anymore.”
“‘Old ways’? OLD WAYS!? You think all those years of jadu that we learnt are “old ways”?! Cheech! Maybe maa was right…”
"Right about what?”
“Right about you thinking we are just stupid casi. No respect for our heritage. Maybe I should have listened to her.”
"Sabila! Don’t be ridiculous. I have a lot of respect for our heritage. I just don’t think that trying to teach it to Ayesha now would be useful for her. I mean - firstly, who is she going to speak Bangla to?”
“There are other Bangalis here too, you know. You moved here specifically because of them. And I’m sure there’s at least one jadukara in there.”
"Ya, they move here, with their big names and big jobs and big degrees, and what happens? They become cooks! or taxi drivers!”
"Is there something wrong with being a cook or a taxi driver?”
“NO! It’s just…they also learnt so much about their culture and what not, but look, the Bilatis, they do not care. I don’t want our Ayesha to suffer because the Bilatis don’t care.”
“Then why not just move back to Bidesh then?”
“Did you forget already? Everything is destroyed. What can we return to? We would suffer. Ayesha would suffer. You want Ayesha to suffer? I got us here for a good life, you know. Lucky for us she is born here, makes things so much easier I think.”
"So you want her to grow up like a Bilati? No concept of her culture at all, is it? Pagol na ki tui?”
"No no no! Sabila, shuno na? It’s not that I want her to not know where she comes from, at all. Na na. I’m just saying, I don’t think it’s a good idea for her to learn Bangla right now.”
"Then how is she supposed to learn our literature, our stories, our songs? How is she supposed to be a good jadukara?”
"There are magical people here in Britain you know. With that one school…Hogwarts, I think? Some top people from there. It’s not like she will never know how to perform jadu.”
“But she won’t know how to do it like us! How is she supposed to cast a good tantramantra if she can’t even speak Bangla properly? How is she supposed to make good potions if she doesn’t even know the names of the ingredients? How, Faizal, how?”
"She will learn Bilati magic! It’s not hard, look - Lumos - see, there is light.”
"Where did you get that wand from?”
“Oh, one of my friends took me to Diagon Alley the other day. Said all the Bilati magicians have wands. We should get one for Ayesha. Oh, and you too.”
“And why should I have to learn Bilati wand magic? We didn’t need this faltu wand business back in Bidesh!”
“Things are different, Sabila. When in Rome, do as the Romans do, ha na?”
"Oh, so if the Romans all jump off a bridge I have to jump also? Chagol!”
"If I am a chagol then you are a goru - so stubborn.”
"DON’T YOU DARE FAIZAL…”
“Hey hey, I am only kidding, areh. Sabila. Look. I’m not banning Bangla from the house. You want to tell her all our stories and literature and what not, you can. What I am saying is, for her sake, I think we should talk to her in English. And teach her English. Do everything in English.”
"And what happens if I put ek Bangla khota in my sentence? What, it will be all ulta palta hai hai ki hoisei?”
"One or two things, ok. But we have to be careful not to mix up so much. One of my cousins, he is a child psychologist, he says that sometimes the children get confused when they hear more than one language, so they keep quiet. They don’t know how to say anything! But if you pick one, then they learn easier.”
"Your cousin, ah? You Shafiqs, you think you know everything.”
"You wanted to be a Shafiq. Couldn’t stop talking about it even before we got married. Thought we had the good life.”
"I didn’t think having the good life means we have to forget ourselves!”
“We don’t have to forget ANYTHING! We can teach her Bangla later, when she’s older and can master one language. Then she won’t be so confused. But Sabila, look - even if she knows Bangla now, who is she going to practice with?”
“Us…”
“Yeah, and that’s it. You think the neighbours can talk to her in Bangla? Her school teachers? Her classmates? They will only make fun of her.”
"Oh, you think Bangla is funny?”
"No, I think the Bilatis are stupid. But I don’t want their stupidity to cause my children trouble. So we have to adapt.”
“Then what about the jadu?”
"Again, where is she supposed to cast tantramantra or find ayurveda ingredients? Where is she going to find the sahitya books we loved so much? For all we know, it’s probably banned here. One strange word and whoosh - off to Azkaban. The Bilati Ministry did ban flying carpets after all.”
"Faizal, I don’t think the Bilatis will send a child to Azkaban.”
"Oh you don’t know. I’ve heard them punishing children very strictly for doing magic in front of Muggles. Just small things, but oh - Statute of Secrecy!”
“Listen to you! You sound like a Bilati already. ‘Muggle’, what a lousy word. As if they are like a pig or something.”
“That’s how the Bilatis see jadunai, really.”
"WHAT? Are the Bilatis really that backwards? Are you sure you want to raise Ayesha in this place?”
"It’s better than our other option, Sabila. At least here she still gets a chance to learn some jadu, even if it’s different than ours. Maybe she can be a magical scientist and put our jadu and their magic together. I don’t know. But back in Bidesh? She will be nothing. Worse than here.”
"I’m still not sure about this.”
“I know you’re scared, Sabila. You loved sahitya so much. I do too. That is why I loved you! Your passion for the language, so evident in your eyes! But it will have to wait, jaan…just wait a few years. Just wait till she is old enough to be able to appreciate it. You try to tell her now, she will forget.”
"And you’re sure talking to her in English only and giving her only English books is okay.”
“It will prepare her for a bright future. We don’t want her to suffer because she doesn’t know the language. People are already going to criticise her because she is not White like the Bilatis. Even though she is born and raised here. The less hurdles she has to jump through, the better.”
“So we have to hide ourselves because the Bilatis are close-minded?”
“I know, I hate it too. But that is how the world works. Not everyone can fight fight fight. That is why we did not go to the war. Sometimes we have to take care of ourselves first.”
“Spoken like a true Bilati.”
“I’m just saying the facts.”
“sigh…”
“Sabila, I promise you, if she wants to learn Bangla, once she’s ready, you can teach her. You don’t have to hide anything. You can tell her about the old days if you want. All I’m asking is, just do it in English. Until she’s old enough. OK?”
"…ok, jaan. I hope you’re right.”
[[source:Rajiv Ashrafi OOPS WRONG BLOG LET ME TRY THIS INSTEAD written to commemorate International Mother Language Day, which in turn commemorates the Bengali Language Movement. It’s a pretty huge deal in Bangladesh. thanks to serkestic for the reminder! a lot of this is based on a true story: I was primarily raised in English because my family figured I would not have any avenues to practice Bangla while being raised in Malaysia. English is my first and primary language. I speak rather broken Bengali and can’t read the language. This project is as much about me trying to reclaim what I’ve lost as it is me having fun with fandom.]]
Yess, this is the number of songs he had written. But just to follow the trend people repeatedly cover the same Tagore songs again and again. I am afraid of the fact that our next generation may lose the amazing songs of him amazing composition of Rabindranath Thakur. His books and music gave me the thought of life meaning of life. Nowadays relationships are toxic where one forces other to do something. But in one of his books I learned “ভালোবাসা খোলা আকাশের মত।” Independent doesn’t hold you back. We live in a generation that doesn’t have the beauty of talking, the beauty of appreciation. We live in a generation where people show more than needed, where people present themselves like talking in Bangla is a crime. Yes I am writing all these in English so that those who have problem to read and understand Bangla appreciate the fact they are Bangali and has a beautiful culture which has so many songs and thoughts. 2233 is the total songs of Rabindranath tagore and people hardly listen 22 songs. 80 years of his life which is full of arts and culture is being wasted just because of fools like us. We appreciate the singer Sanam’s cover of Tagore songs which is not even properly spoken. I hope modern musicians focus and fix this. If it is fusion then should be done in a proper way. Also Lalon didn’t only write খাঁচার ভিতর অচিন পাখি। Just because a band covered that we listen and sing the only Lalon song is that..
where fathers ask children to not come to his funeral
as he pummels them into the ground
with each venomous insult that grows
seeds in their minds
we come from homes where
mothers are left to take care of the entire family,
when the father returns to their homeland
to remarry a girl thrice younger than
his own age,
where teenage years and our early 20s,
are wasted working 12-hour shifts,
where we accept lovers
who are unavailable and unemotional
because that is all we have seen,
where we witness some of the people
we have shared our childhood with
take refuge in religion
as though it could ever be an answer,
where brokenness is not defined or spoken about
because for so long,
so long,
we thought the way we live
is the way everyone lives
Was there ever any better to be had?
It was not until
the paradigm shifted,
in a new environment,
did we discover the way we were raised,
loveless and cold,
was never the real answer to how
living,
breathing,
functional,
human beings
are brought up in this world.
When we faced confusion
in making the smallest of decisions,
when we began to take on actions
without any contemplation,
when we became machines
who operate in swift movements,
when we could not turn to anyone
to discuss what the next move should be
in terms of our education,
or career,
or realizing one’s potential,
did we recognize
the ones who strive
and do make it,
are able to do so
because they stand
on the shoulders of many
who navigated them to
those waterways.
We see we have been deceived.
We were not raised the same.
The neighborhoods we grew up in
are concrete,
and filled with trash bins,
broken pavements,
and a lurking danger
as the socio-economic class struggle
of the lower-income folks,
living in destitute and dirt,
is as much internalized
as it is an externalized issue.
We take one of two routes—
we either cower in fear
of the inevitable problem that may arise,
from our protest,
or we walk boastfully
as though we can take on any hurdles
that may come on by.
The stoic nature we must carry
with us on the streets
resonates with the stoniness
of our personalities
that we must take on
while inside our homes.
Years go by, but
We don’t just forget
that one time
we had to find
our mother hiding in the closet
of a neighbor’s house as she was
bawling her eyes out
due to the acidic way
he screamed and
threatened to kill her,
or sell her to the streets
words ‘naughty’er baccha’ ‘khankir maagi’
prostitute, and other ruthless possibilities;
and then there are other times
when we were
to be on standby,
as he continued to kick her,
again and again,
on her injured leg,
and although,
she too is
a human,
she is expected to operate,
as a well-oiled machine,
as a puppet,
answering to his demands,
and how can we erase
the way we have to relive
the vivid accounts of friends,
who had been molested,
time and time again,
by these same men,
uncles,
neighbors,
cousins,
fathers.
Where will these memories go?
We cannot undo
the coils of clutter
that causes us
to hurl
within our insides.
We keep seeking escapes
in many ways
to leave these selves we have become—behind.
these unsealed memories,
we did not choose,
this childhood that remains tainted,
relations that offer the very minimum,
and yet we clench onto them;
the avoidance that comes from
realizing there was never any room for love.
Tell me,
Where will these memories go?
~~~~~
Thahitun Mariam is a Bangladeshi-American writer and activist from New York City. She has been wistfully writing poetry and prose since her teenage years. Through her words, she explores deeper questions of self, identity, places, relationships, and belonging. She divides her time between New York, Dhaka, and the Middle East. She studied International Relations at St. Lawrence University. Thahitun publishes her work atthahitunmariam.wordpress.com.
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