Pavel Rahman’s celebrated picture of Bangabandhu in his lungi and genji at home, with his pipe in hand, is the perfect image of the Bengali that was the Father of the Nation. Every bit of him, every pore in his being, spoke of the proud Bengali he always was, right till the end of his life.
As we celebrate Pahela Baishakh, as we welcome once again the advent of the Bangla New Year, it is the Bangaliana – to use that purposeful term – which we spot in the life of Sheikh Mujibur Rahman. Images of him on a boat, looking out at the river and beyond in deep contemplation, are redolent of the lives his people – and we are his people – have associated with our riverine Bangladesh. For Bangabandhu, this country was everything to him.
In Bangladesh, in his imagination of it, it was the landscape underpinned by rivers and verdant fields and thriving villages which constituted heritage. That his Bengali roots, roots which he was forever deepening through his assertive politics, defined his attitude to life was not a sudden discovery for him. His links with the soil went back to his rural upbringing, to the friends with whom he played football, to the picturesque quality of Bengal’s nature which were deeply embedded in his soul. In his eyes burned the light of Bengal.
Language, Colloquialism and a Father Figure
In the Pakistan constituent assembly in the mid-1950s, his statements in defence of the rights of the Bengali language were a mirror of his soul. At the height of the Agartala Case in the late 1960s, in the presence of judges, lawyers, journalists and military intelligence in court, he made it clear that anyone who wished to be in Bangladesh would need to talk to Sheikh Mujibur Rahman. He spoke of himself in the third person, and in that statement let everyone know that he was Bangladesh, that Bangladesh was in him.
Journey back to his language, his diction, as he applied it in his quotidian dealings with people. While addressing formal meetings and conferences, he used Bangla in its proper form, its shuddho form, as he did at the United Nations in September 1974. But in conversing with his party men and indeed with the common man, he cheerfully employed the colloquial. Not for him a use of patrician language with his people. It was always the plebeian, in the sense of strengthening his bonds with common men and women, which was so much a part of his personality. The old peasant upset at his neighbour’s behaviour felt free to let Bangabandhu know of his predicament. And Bangabandhu listened.
His voice was reverberated across the room, and all across the open spaces of his surroundings, a mark of the father figure he was to the nation. It was in the same tone in which spoke to his fellow statesmen when they came calling or when he travelled overseas. In his kurta-panjabi, at home and in his office, it was the image of a revered elder, one we associated with our fathers and uncles, that pointed out the path to his children, his people.
Again, his Bangaliana was often a depiction of his role as a son. He was Father of the Nation and yet in the company of his parents he was the little boy, the son who knew that in their warmth rose the prayers and blessings they endlessly had in store for him. His mother held him close, kissed him on his cheeks and he relished it all. It was the quintessential Bengali child who knew that his greatness could be no larger or higher than the child in him before his parents.
The Bengal Melody
The Bengali in Bangabandhu shone through in his appreciation of Rabindranath’s songs. He hummed the Bard’s songs not only as an engine to promote his politics but also as one who remembered that Bengal was what its melody made it into. It was his Bangaliana which worked in him regarding Nazrul. The Rebel Poet was given a new home in a newly independent Bangladesh by Bangabandhu, for the poet’s songs of revolution had regularly been his inspiration as he built the edifice of his politics.
Bangaliana in Bangabandhu was reflected in the food he loved. It was maachh-bhaat-dal he enjoyed, a trait he shared with his countrymen. And like his countrymen again, he ate in the traditional form. No formality was there. Even as the founder of Bangladesh, as Prime Minister and as President, he headed a family which was as devoted to Bengali roots as he was. Begum Fazilatunnessa Mujib carried on with life as she always had, cooking and feeding guests at 32 Dhanmondi. The children of the couple, inspired by their parents, would not let protocol be an impediment to their dealings with people.
By their very nature, middle class Bengalis always feel comfortable in the company of people. Bangabandhu enjoyed a good conversation, had a remarkable sense of humour and often employed jokes to spice up his interaction with people. There was too the raconteur in him, recounting stories he had gathered in the course of his career. When men and women older than him, individuals such as academics, went to see him at his office, he made it a point to rise from his chair and greet them. That was again the Bengali in him. Abiding respect for people, a particularly significant Bengali trait, was rooted in him. And yet he could be stern when he spotted transgressions in behaviour.
All through his career, in the build-up to his campaign for a free Bangladesh, Bangabandhu trekked through the villages and hamlets of this land, linking up with his people, listening to their tales of sorrow and deprivation. He exuded hope. He held them close, in his tactility. His politics was of the sort that made people speak freely to him. He was their Sheikh Shaheb, their Mujib Bhai, their Neta destined to become their Jatir Pita. He shared the savouries prepared by humble Bengali women in the villages he passed through. And the women knew he was one of their own. Decades later, coming across the offspring of his humble hosts, he reminded them of his experience, causing tears to well up in the eyes of the children.
A Full-blooded Bengali
Bangabandhu was a full-blooded Bengali, to the roots of his hair. A phenomenal memory was a particular attribute in him. He never forgot faces and always remembered names, along with the circumstances in which he had met people years earlier. His identity was entwined with the seasons, with Chaitra and Baishakh and Srabon and Magh. He could never stay away from Bangladesh for long. Whether it was the 1950s or 1960s or post-liberation circumstances, he quickly came back home from wherever he happened to be outside the country.
It was Bengal’s soul, Bengal’s grass, Bengal’s expansive fields of rice and jute which framed his patriotism. In his repeated spells of incarceration, even in distant Pakistan in the darkness of 1971, he remained a Bengali for whom a plate of rice was symbolic of life and political belief. On the streets of Rawalpindi, having arrived there for the 1969 round table conference, he quipped that he could smell his jute and tea there, a reminder to the powers that were of the proceeds which had gone into building the west through the exploitation of his Bengali peasant and his Bengali worker.
Bangladesh was the music endlessly playing on the lyre that was his soul. In his being flowed the river which sang of the heritage of his homeland. In his heart were heard the melody of the monsoon and the riotous sounds of the kalbaishakhi as they passed over the huts and homesteads of his country.
Thus Bangabandhu in his Bangaliana. Thus the founding father in whom leadership was an epic tale of the roots of history and social norms explored increasingly deeper in his sensibilities, in the mud paths he traversed through in his search for his people’s destiny.
About the Author
Syed Badrul Ahsan is the Chief Editorial Adviser of The Confluence; a journalist and author. He previously served as the Press Minister at the High Commission of Bangladesh, London and authored a biography on the Founder of Bangladesh, Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman entitled From Rebel to Founding Father: Sheikh Mujibur Rahman.