Tribute
And gladly did he teach!
I had the privilege of being taught by Professor Khan Sarwar Murshid (1924-2012) when I studied for an MA in the Department of English at Dhaka University back in 1997. By then, he had retired from full-time teaching at Dhaka but still continued to teach a class or two as a supernumerary professor. I was not taught by him during my undergraduate years and don't remember seeing him very often at the department. My first encounter with Professor Murshid was, in fact, at a conference on women's studies at the British Council which was also incidentally attended by Taslima Nasrin, the controversial Bangladeshi writer. During my student years, I was quite active in the cultural and literary circuit of Dhaka University. I directed a drama on the Liberation War and appeared in it at the TSC, presented departmental programmes at the British Council, recited poems from English, French and Bangladeshi writers in various forums, and even headed the departmental debating team to victory. In those days, the British Council was yet to decimate its excellent library for profit; and for anyone seriously studying English literature, it was a safe haven for good books, bearable company, and occasional good addas. The English Department at Dhaka regularly hosted many of its seminars in liaison with the British Council; and at one such seminar, Professor Murshid stood up to give his blistering analysis of an academic paper just delivered. On first sight, I found Professor Murshid charismatic. He was a tall, slim, handsomely dressed, fair looking 70-year old professor who spoke in an inflected English accent. He chose his words carefully as if he were a gems collector looking for the perfect diamonds of immaculate shine to present to the world. The purpose of his intervention seemed to be to both teach and delight. At a time when we were a bit fatigued having survived some academic papers that were mostly sound and fury signifying nothing, Professor Murshid's critique being energetically delivered, as he paced up and down the aisle, made quite an impression on the audience. He was duly greeted with a spontaneous round of applause, and I decided to be on the lookout for a class with the professor who appeared to be a celebrity academic. I did not have to wait long as I found out that Professor Murshid would be teaching us the French poet Charles Baudelaire and the Anglo-American poet W.H. Auden. His classes were scheduled for 8 in the morning, at an hour when some students stayed back in bed instead of attending what turned out to be a rewarding learning experience. We took his classes without having any idea of his past accomplishments. He was not only a mere professor at Dhaka, but during his long career, he researched at Nottingham and Harvard universities, served as the Vice-Chancellor of Rajshahi University and established its much acclaimed Institute of Bangladesh Studies. He was also Assistant Secretary General of the Commonwealth Commission in the UK, and Bangladesh's ambassador to Poland, Hungary and Czechoslovakia. During the 1950s and '60s, for 17 long years, he edited New Values, a journal vociferously promoting free thinking. Most importantly, he was a muktijoddha, being actively involved with the Mujibnagar government of Bangladesh. But then, of course, we knew nothing of his achievements. In this regard, he was unlike some of the teachers I've met both at Dhaka and other academic institutions. Professor Murshid was in a class of his own, one who rose confidently above the petty drumbeats of self-promotion. Although he never boasted of his remarkable career, his genius did shine through each and every time he opened his mouth and uttered a sentence that was crafted, in the signature Murshid style, meticulously, thoughtfully, wisely. Less is more, like many a great writer, was Professor Murshid's motto. Not surprisingly, to hear him was a delight, and to be taught by him, as Professor Serajul Islam Choudhury recently said, was a privilege. In class, we found Professor Murshid to be an exceptionally gifted teacher of literature. He had a real love for writers and their world, and his passion for understanding their lives and presenting them to his students, with all its filth and glory, was a task that he took on board with much enthusiasm. Through his teaching, he seemed to tell his impressionable young students to accept life and all its diversity. I remember his detailed lecture on Charles Baudelaire where he candidly spoke about the French poet's time spent in various brothels and how that enriched Baudelaire's experience as a writer. Professor Murshid also touched very sensitively upon Auden's love affair with another writer, Christopher Isherwood. And dramatically again, he offered to us Isherwood's lamentations over Auden's death as if only to prove his point that “it is possible for a man to love another manâ€. We were young, open to new ideas, and willing to learn, and Professor Murshid was one of the few teachers willing to teach, to share, and to enlighten, in equal measure. On my recent return to Bangladesh, I met Professor Murshid twice, once at a programme arranged in his honour, and then at his birthday celebration at the Gulshan Club where I had the privilege to speak and to wish him Happy Birthday. However, I did discover, much to my sorrow, that the last year's stroke had left a veil over his mind, and he had problems recognising his one-time favourite student. His face did lighten up as I mentioned my research on Bangladesh at Oxford University, but that was it. It was also difficult for the once always articulate Professor Murshid to speak, and I understood that no detailed conversation from then on would be possible. I did expect that we would have a good adda after all these years, but I left both the meetings with a hint of abhiman that nearly untranslatable Bengali emotion. I experienced abhiman because Murshid sir, a revered father figure, could not recognise his student well. I knew it was not his fault, but I kept on asking myself why we couldn't have that galpa shalpa he once promised when I called him to get directions to his place in Dhaka. I have little faith in afterlife, but I still like to think that we would meet again, probably for a hearty adda on Baudelaire or Bangladesh over a cup of tea. Not today, not tomorrow, but maybe in some good sixty years' time. Until then, goodbye Sir, and rest in peace.
For all latest news, follow The Daily Star's Google News channel.
Comments