The sun god in distant Rome
Syed Badrul Ahsan rediscovers a writer in a bunch of letters
Shamsuddin Abul Kalam died lonely and forlorn in Rome on a January day eleven years ago. As this very appreciable compilation of his letters demonstrates amply, there was in him, ever since he left what once was East Pakistan and took up residence in the West, a defining degree of nostalgia that often comes to men who think. And Kalam was a thinking man, steeped as he was in literature and the making of it. The problem, as he saw it and not without reason, was the big hurdle that was always there when it came to an appreciation of his literary talents back home in Bangladesh. And the hurdle was geography. As the war for Bangladesh's liberation went on in 1971, Kalam was enthused by the prospect of freedom for a country he did not quite plan on going back to. He kept in touch with Justice Abu Sayeed Chowdhury and with others he knew were directly involved in the cause. Once Bangladesh became a de jure state, Kalam travelled to the new country, met its important men, including Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, and came away with the belief that the future appeared bright despite the travails that yet dotted the path. The future, as we know it, was of course derailed and the country lurched from one crisis to another, from secular democracy to rightwing dictatorship. In these letters, where Kalam speaks of politics in Bangladesh, one gets a sense of the sense of loss he feels in distant Rome. His missives to Abdul Matin, a distinguished London-based Bengali intellectual who has over the years made memorable contributions to the field of historical research in Bangladesh through his many works, speak of his anguish at the world he is part of away from the home he is not likely ever to return to for good. There are other letters, to Deviprasad Das and Fazila Rahman, with whom Kalam discourses on literature and aesthetics. With Matin, apart from general conversations, Kalam is forever engaged in debate about the state of the arts in Bangladesh and the evolution that he has observed taking place in poetry and fiction over the years. The author of Kanchangram lives, for all his disappointment, in a world of idealism. It is idealism that first stirred in his soul in his days as a student in the early 1940s and embraced a world of reality through the publication of the short stories titled Shaherbanu. Not even a recognised literary figure like Somnath Lahiri could resist the temptation of penning a positive review of the work in the Communist Party mouthpiece Shwadhinota. In 1946, having appeared for his Bachelor in Arts examination, Kalam contributed three poems to a collection of poetry, Shaat-Shotero, edited by Shamsuddin Abul Kalam and Professor Shudhangshu Chowdhury, the latter an academic at Barisal BM College. When Partition came in 1947, Kalam stayed back in Calcutta and was not to arrive in Dhaka till 1950. It was a move, as one of the letters in this collection makes it clear, that caused depression in him. Obviously, for any individual who has discovered himself in as historically rich a place in Calcutta will always feel a trifle diminished, perhaps even bitter, in Dhaka. For Kalam, it was a leap from the cosmopolitan to the provincial. He was never to be happy in his new surroundings, though that did not deter him from plunging into writing. But, then again, many individuals disillusioned with conditions around them find refuge in pen and paper. Shamsuddin Abul Kalam was one such man. In 1953 appeared a new collection of stories he called Poth Jana Nai. In the same year came another, though unpublished work Dheu. Then, in 1955, appeared eight stories in the collection Dui Hridoyer Teer. A collection of twelve new short stories, Puin Dalimer Kabya, appeared in 1957. The acclaimed novel Kashboner Konya, which Kalam finished writing in 1948, saw the light of day in 1954. There are all the other novels which underpin Kalam's cerebral qualities, his contribution to the growth of modern Bengali literature. And within this group comes the Liberation War-based Kanchangram, which was published a year after Kalam's death and was to earn the Bangladesh National Archives and Library award. A list of Kalam's remaining works testifies to the prodigious energy that worked in him, the frenzy with which he lost himself in the world of letters even as he eked out a living working for various organisations in Rome. In Jibon Kotha, Alamnagarer Upokotha, Kanchanmala, Jaijongol, Nobanno, Shamudra Bashor, Jar Shaathe Jar, Moner Moto Thain and Moja Ganger Gaan, Kalam's understanding of what literature ought to be becomes transparent. And yet, as he notes in his letters, a writer should be careful that he does not impose his own personality on the reader. Could it be that he had Keats' negative capability in mind here? Quite a few of Kalam's works, including the English language novel The Garden of Cane Fruits, have remained unpublished. In 1964, the Bangla Academy conferred its literary award on Kalam. The writer, residing in Rome since the mid-1950s when he left the country on a Unesco fellowship, was thenceforth to lapse into a state of near obscurity he was not (who will be?) comfortable with. In a letter, he writes, "I only get lonelier. I have nothing. There is no scope for a return to the country." In the 1980s, threatened with unemployment and rather in a state of panic, Kalam notes, "I remain busy in trying to finding work of any kind. It seems eventually I will have to leave Rome." And then a flicker of hope: "Perhaps in a year or so I will come by Italian citizenship." But for all his travails, Kalam remains acutely conscious of how literary trends are shaping up back home in Bangladesh. "Taslima Nasreen's personal frustration," he writes, "voices the frustrations of many others. But can simple martyrdom truly aid the progress of this society?" Kalam is harsh on Abul Fazl and makes studious note of the hypocrisy he notes in the late academic. In a 1987 missive he writes, "Abul Fazl has been projected (as a literary figure). From one of his works I have found thus: 'Sheikh Mujib has misused power and there is no confusion about that'. Interestingly, though, the same Abul Fazl was to obtain a newspaper dealership through Sheikh Mujib for his son." Kalam's heart, as these letters show, remained consistent in its comprehension of Bengal's ethos. Rivers fascinated him. He writes to Matin, "If you come across in any bookshop dealing in old books works on the Volga, Danube, Euphrates, Amazon, Yangtze, et cetera, please let me know." Fazila Rahman, the recipient of many of his letters and the repository of his trust, sums up Shamsuddin Abul Kalam: "He looked like a sun god."
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