Writing the Wrong
One Year On
When I was 21 I travelled to Gaborone, Botswana to visit my uncle, who was dying of lung cancer. He had lived there for over a decade and was raising his two daughters there. We all knew he was dying and my mother and her immediate younger brother, my uncle Muntoo or Mejho Mama, went with us.
Mejho Mama (medium uncle, as I thought of him because he was in the middle) and my uncle in Botswana were, for want of a better term, soul mates. In fact, in Chittagong, where my wacky family is from, they were known as one entity, “Muntoophintoo”. Pintoo was the younger uncle's nickname but Chatgayas add a “phhh” sound to almost anything that can support it.
“Muntoophintoo” were well known in their neighbourhood growing up, as they would often sit on their parents' front porch and, tease anyone who was walking by. Their targets were usually the particularly earnest, self important, plump or generally annoying. Were they offensive? Absolutely! I wish I could translate some of what they said to people from the Chatgaya to the English, but I am not at all adept. Their insults were usually ironic, however. For instance if someone was plump, and their name was Latif, say, they would call out to him as he innocently walked by, “Hey, skinny Latif! How are you?” stuff like that. They also made it their business to know everyone's matriculation scores or grades and heaven help anyone who was not, as Mejho Mama would say, “academically sound.”
I was not an exemplary student for most of my life, but Mejho Mama spared me. Well, there was the occasional helpful reassurance that if I did not get into a reputable college in the US then I always had the family fallback, Shaath Kaniya College in our ancestral village in Chittagong where my grandfather had been headmaster.
He was, however, my number one fan, though he never praised me to my face. He read every single one of my columns and would foist them on any hapless person who happened to walk in while he was reading them. “This is my Awbazzi's writing! You have to read it. It doesn't matter if you don't understand it.” Awbazzi is the affectionate Chatgaya term for nieces and nephews.
Qayyum Chowdhury, Quest for Self 23, acrylic on canvas, 2010.
Our visit to Botswana many years ago was a painful one but he and I made the best of it. My uncle Phintoo had a beautiful garden and in it a kidney shaped pool. We went in the winter so we could not swim but Mejho Mama and I would lounge by the pool most of the day, drinking gin and tonics and trying to avoid one especially annoying character by the name of Mrs. Mukherjee. Mrs. Mukherjee lived nearby and always wore a pink cardigan that was two sizes too small and would waddle up to us and start talking about her beloved daughter Rinky, who was, from what we could make out, a virtuoso at practically everything, and a paragon of beauty, brains, and manners. Mrs. Mukherjee would stroke my hair and say things like, “oh, you have nice hair. So does Rinky. Her hair is long and thick, whereas yours is long, yes, but wispy.” Mehjo Mama would wink at me, and chuckle while she went on and on.
It was annoying to be sure and one day Mejho Mama said, “Awbazzi, don't worry, I have a plan for Mrs. Mukherjee's inevitable visit this afternoon.”
One day we arranged ourselves by the pool as usual, our G and Ts at the ready. He had suggested I read Tropic Of Cancer or Sartre and I could not decide and he explained the pros and cons of both. Mrs. Mukherjee arrived on time and began to waddle purposefully up to us, ready, I am sure, to regale us with yet another Rinky the Great story. Just as she was within about ten feet of us, my uncle stood up. He was wearing a lungi over a pair of shorts, and it was loosely tied so when he stood up it fell to his feet. He did not bat an eyelash and greeted Mrs. Mukherjee with great warmth and joviality. “Mrs. Mukherjee!” he said. “How are you?” The moment his lungi dropped, even though he was fully dressed, Mrs. Mukherjee froze in her tracks and then did an abrupt about face and waddled poste haste into the house.
My uncle calmly sat back down and took a sip of G and T. “There you go,” he said. It was one of those moments for me that I will remember as “the time I laughed so hard, I nearly got a hernia.” Somehow he knew, this fussy, puffed up woman would be scandalized by even the illusion of impropriety and would, to be sure, tell everyone within earshot of how improper we were, but hopefully would never venture near us again. An aside: the fabulous Rinky Mukherjee eventually apparently eloped with someone who her mother would most assuredly not deem worthy of her beloved progeny.
The last time I saw my uncle was one year ago, November. I was in Dhaka attending the Hay Literary Festival. He had not been feeling well, and lost so much weight. I went down to say goodbye to him before I headed out for the evening. He gently teased me about my miniscule celebrity status (read non-existent) amongst such heavy weights like Vikram Seth and the beautiful actress Nandita Das who thought I was an errand girl for the organisers, so was a bit shocked when I was on a panel with her (he had a field day with that one). When I say that was the last time, I mean it was the very last time, because he was gone by the next morning. He had been admitted to the hospital and died there. I cannot even begin to articulate how relieved I am that I went down and spent those last five minutes with him and got to say goodbye. My sister or someone insisted that I do. I was late and in a hurry and almost didn't. I don't know what made me decide to but I am so glad I did.
I started writing this piece last December and was not ready to finish it. I have only just processed that Mejho Mama, who was my fan, will not see my first book being published. He believed in me, thought I was talented, even before I did. And I think it is very safe to say, that it is from him I get my sense of humor and the natural inclination to try and make others smile, even by making fun of myself. I am funnier now than I was when I was 21, because life has batted me about a bit. I am also much more willing to poke fun at my own foibles. I had so much more to tell him.
Qayyum Chowdhury, Quest for Self 23, acrylic on canvas, 2010.
Our visit to Botswana many years ago was a painful one but he and I made the best of it. My uncle Phintoo had a beautiful garden and in it a kidney shaped pool. We went in the winter so we could not swim but Mejho Mama and I would lounge by the pool most of the day, drinking gin and tonics and trying to avoid one especially annoying character by the name of Mrs. Mukherjee. Mrs. Mukherjee lived nearby and always wore a pink cardigan that was two sizes too small and would waddle up to us and start talking about her beloved daughter Rinky, who was, from what we could make out, a virtuoso at practically everything, and a paragon of beauty, brains, and manners. Mrs. Mukherjee would stroke my hair and say things like, “oh, you have nice hair. So does Rinky. Her hair is long and thick, whereas yours is long, yes, but wispy.” Mehjo Mama would wink at me, and chuckle while she went on and on.
It was annoying to be sure and one day Mejho Mama said, “Awbazzi, don't worry, I have a plan for Mrs. Mukherjee's inevitable visit this afternoon.”
One day we arranged ourselves by the pool as usual, our G and Ts at the ready. He had suggested I read Tropic Of Cancer or Sartre and I could not decide and he explained the pros and cons of both. Mrs. Mukherjee arrived on time and began to waddle purposefully up to us, ready, I am sure, to regale us with yet another Rinky the Great story. Just as she was within about ten feet of us, my uncle stood up. He was wearing a lungi over a pair of shorts, and it was loosely tied so when he stood up it fell to his feet. He did not bat an eyelash and greeted Mrs. Mukherjee with great warmth and joviality. “Mrs. Mukherjee!” he said. “How are you?” The moment his lungi dropped, even though he was fully dressed, Mrs. Mukherjee froze in her tracks and then did an abrupt about face and waddled poste haste into the house.
My uncle calmly sat back down and took a sip of G and T. “There you go,” he said. It was one of those moments for me that I will remember as “the time I laughed so hard, I nearly got a hernia.” Somehow he knew, this fussy, puffed up woman would be scandalized by even the illusion of impropriety and would, to be sure, tell everyone within earshot of how improper we were, but hopefully would never venture near us again. An aside: the fabulous Rinky Mukherjee eventually apparently eloped with someone who her mother would most assuredly not deem worthy of her beloved progeny.
The last time I saw my uncle was one year ago, November. I was in Dhaka attending the Hay Literary Festival. He had not been feeling well, and lost so much weight. I went down to say goodbye to him before I headed out for the evening. He gently teased me about my miniscule celebrity status (read non-existent) amongst such heavy weights like Vikram Seth and the beautiful actress Nandita Das who thought I was an errand girl for the organisers, so was a bit shocked when I was on a panel with her (he had a field day with that one). When I say that was the last time, I mean it was the very last time, because he was gone by the next morning. He had been admitted to the hospital and died there. I cannot even begin to articulate how relieved I am that I went down and spent those last five minutes with him and got to say goodbye. My sister or someone insisted that I do. I was late and in a hurry and almost didn't. I don't know what made me decide to but I am so glad I did.
I started writing this piece last December and was not ready to finish it. I have only just processed that Mejho Mama, who was my fan, will not see my first book being published. He believed in me, thought I was talented, even before I did. And I think it is very safe to say, that it is from him I get my sense of humor and the natural inclination to try and make others smile, even by making fun of myself. I am funnier now than I was when I was 21, because life has batted me about a bit. I am also much more willing to poke fun at my own foibles. I had so much more to tell him.
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