Munayem Mayenin
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Autobiography
A MAYENIN LIFE
My Autobiography
1. The Beginning: The Yellow Bird
2. The War: The Fighter Jets
3. Schooling: The Wonder Days
4. College: The New World
5. University Days: The Beautiful Mad Existence
6. The World Opening the Doors
7. The Communistic Days
8. The Writer
9. Discovering My Mother
10. Fundamentalist Attack
11. Coming to England
12. Begin Again the Lost Soul
13. The Desh Bikash
14. The Bangladesh Mela
15. The Bishshobangla Academy
16. The Bangaali Education Centre
17. The Mayenins Bangla School
18. Getting Married
19. The Journalism
20. Civil Service
21. Poetry
22. Philosophy
23. Family
24. A Mayenin in the World
25. A Mayenin in the Universe
The Beginning: The Yellow Bird
Chapter One
Most autobiographies start with where someone was born, their background and their family composition. Being a Mayenin I would rather try to begin with something else! I always treated myself to be a poet, although I have, so far, never managed to earn a penny writing poetry, albeit the fact remains that I tried to live poetry. In another word, poetry and philosophy helped me keep my sanity by offering the pathways to, at least, try and earn, a meaning in or of life. This is about the life I tried to live, the life I was able to live, the life I aspired to live and the life I could not live. This is about how I went about it and along the way what I was able to do and the pathways and roads I walked on, the crossroads I faced, the people I met and made friends with and not made friends with, the music I felt hearing, the hurt, pain, agony and anger I felt, absorbed and overcome and how still went on to hang onto what I believed in. This is about the story, in which the character gets to suffer really badly, however, still manages to get to be fortunate enough to be able to manage to maintain, hang onto and even enhance the very principles, ideals and utopia he believes in. This is an autobiography of a human being, who refused to live, spend and waste a life earning money and, stood against the whole system and tried to work for earning a meaning. This is about how I have become whatever I have become, what made me what I was, who I was and how I was and, most importantly, why I was. Why am I writing this autobiography at all, being a man of no significance, prominence, power, fame or position? This is a huge question that needs to be answered before I could proceed. Well, I am writing it, firstly for my children, grandchildren and their children as a means to communicate with them so that they could feel a sense of a relationship with me even though I am not there anymore, secondly, for my friends who had been my friends and somehow loved me and supported me and still had not been able to know or understand me, thirdly, for the people who would read my works and would have some sort of interest on me as to how I had developed the ideas of the works that I had done, and finally for the fact that this is part of my project of trying and earning a meaning so that all my work are to be linked together by this work. So to me, this is not an autobiography, rather it is another work of mine that will try and establish a link between all my works. This sounds rather grand and makes me sound like someone with a huge big head and who thinks of himself, as somewhat a big guy in writing world! This is the last thing I want. If I had a choice I would rather live a life unknown, unseen and undisturbed in deep living of life! In terms of the huge infinite universe and the infinite number of things in or on it, about which we need to acquire knowledge and understanding in order for us to be able to form or begin to form some sort of elementary wisdom, I genuinely feel I am a humble little insignificant being, who was fortunate enough to be blessed and gifted with a tiny brilliance that I call life, and who cannot afford to be arrogant in any ways, shapes, colours or forms. This statement is the core belief that I hold deep inside my being: and, thus should never be taken as proofs of my being polite, it is not that definitely.
Having attempted and tried to justify writing this autobiography, now is the time to begin the first chapter, that needs to be spent with the beginning, where the journey of this little human being started and begin to explore the character and the story that he lived on this planet in this infinite universe, in which he is nothing but a tiny, trifle and mundane little being and who, without humanity, is simply nothing but exactly that.
I was born on April the 6th 1964 in a family of 4 sisters and 7 brothers as the last child! Indeed it was a huge family, which had its advantages and disadvantages; however, that was what helped shaped me the way I grew up in my childhood! However, somehow somewhere somebody sometime put my year of birth two years later. Hereby, I am officially two years younger than my real age! One other issue should be dealt with hear! Recording date of birth was not as important as it seems now. I have so far taken the view that 6th of April to be my birthday, if memories of people to be correct. This does not and should not create any problem, as this is a piece of information alone!
My father was a very well built tall and strong man. He was very fair and one could see his blood through his soft skin! He was, still now I feel him, a very principled man with strong and clear convictions and high degree of knowledge and understanding of the world! I still wonder how he had managed to acquire that degree of knowledge, understanding and wisdom while he never went to academic universities!
I heard when he was in his late teens he had a conflict with his father and left home for Assam, India. He told his father before living home that he would not return home and would never take anything from his legacies! He had been able to maintain his words and managed not to take anything from his father’s properties!
My father and mother were two poles of a magnet! My father was like the sunlight-bright, sharp, dazzling and hot while my mother was the moonlight-gentle, soft, soothing and comforting! I was fortunate enough to have experienced and been gifted by these two different minds, both of which enabled me to acquire a personality that could resemble both of theirs.
My father, having gone to India, tried his hands on things and made his fortunes, as it were, had come back to Bangladesh and settled down, not anywhere near his father, in Ulalmohol, Khalermukh bazaar, Sylhet central, but in Barhlekha, (in Sylhet district). He had bought the lands, on which we were born and brought up.
He worked for many organisations and continued a personal quest for knowledge and study. I remember him telling us stories of his days in the wild Assamese mountains! I remember him telling us about his work for the British Oil Company in Assam. Briefly he was involved with independence movement and took part in Assamese Peasants movement. However, soon he realised politics was not cut out for him. So quietly he disappeared from the theatre of politics.
I remember him telling us this story. He was living in an Assamese village in the mountain, where lived a wise man, who could tell the future. He was from the Naga people. My father did not believe in those things, however, being youthful and thus sceptical but naughty, he decided to go and try the wise man. People were queuing to see the wise man. When my father’s time had come he went in. The wise man asked how he could help my father.
Being cheeky my father said, “Could you tell me how my children and family are in Bangladesh?” while he was a fully-fledged bachelor and we were not even in his imagination!
The wise man burst out at him with huge anger, “Liar, get out of my sight!” My father just about managed to run out! Trust me he had never gone back there to enquire about his made up children and wife!
During his time in Assam, although I heard all this, he got involved and interested in Homeopathy medicine and studied it really well. He had all the books that were to be found in those days India! He had studied and mastered the knowledge so well that when he came to Bangladesh he decided to practice Homeopathy. He practised for many years while not only managed to earn his living and raised us but also became widely known, regarded and respected. People called him doctor and our house was called ‘doctor’s house and our identity was doctor’s sons or daughters or doctor’s this or the other.
Coming back to where it started, my father married in Chandgram in Barhlekha. Our first mother died in her teens leaving two children: our eldest brother and sister, who were very young in their toddlerhood. My father was left with these two little things to look after, which than gave his father in law, my maternal grandfather to come up with a rescue plan. He thought, his niece (brother’s daughter) died leaving two little kids! They come with the idea to get my teenage mother married to my father so that the little kids would have a mother in their aunty and could avoid the fate of getting a horrible stepmother! That was how my mother came to be my father’s wife!
We never knew that fact until almost becoming adults. It did not make any difference either way! My mother never made any difference between us and our eldest brother and sister always called mother as the rest of us.
My father continued his practice until he became quite old and became ill himself. He was suffering from some form of Arthritis. I remember him saying sciatica! He had to close his practice dispensary. Although people would continue to come to him at home and he would still carry on helping them. I saw how miraculously those people got better. I do not know what it is but there is something with homeopathy that science is failing to understand. The fact that I am here and writing this autobiography is a testimony to the success of my father’s knowledge and skills as a homeopathic doctor! I was to die. Homeopathy saved me and I was saved!
Having given up his practice put a lot of strain in his ability to manage the family. However, we had huge property and on it hundreds of fruits trees: mangoes, grapefruits, oranges, lemons, bananas and pineapples! They would bring in enough income to help father manage us well.
There were no school nearby. Still all our brothers were sent to school and had some education. My father was a strong person in his mental ability; however, I do not think he ever believed in forcing people. So the brothers whose minds were not in education he did not force them to continue their studies. He was sad to see one stopped or failed and gave up. But always he would say if you fail and do not want to go on, it’s your life and your fate!
My four sisters could not go to school because there were no school around miles for girls! However, my father ensured that they learnt how to read and write Bangla! They learnt Arabic as well at the mosque like anybody else. My eldest brother did not find school interesting and gave up quite early. The second brother was in completely in education and managed to go up to university and ended up being the principal of our local government Religious College. He died very young!
Then all the other brothers went at different stages, but none reached any further than secondary school, except me!
Coming back to me, begin again about the little baby, who was at his deathbed. I heard this story, which still seemed to me unbelievable, though I was assured that it was true. I was few days old and was seriously ill. Nothing worked. Father tried everything that he knew and still nothing was working. Everybody has given up and I was trusted to God and everyone was saying Kalima (that is the ritual to perform before a dying person) to me. It was dusk and the sun was setting sadly, I would think for my mother and father and the rest of the family. At that moment a beggar came to our house, who was a very old lady in her very last lap of life! My father, being desperate went to her and asked whether she knew anything that could help! Apparently she said that she had, however, she further said that she could not see properly, particularly at that time of the day when there were not much light. Sparkles of hopes flashed through everybody’s eyes. The lady then told my father to pick up a certain plant’s leaves, which he had done. She then asked my mother to grind them and make a paste. Then she put that paste at the middle of my little head. The lady left with her servings and lot of good will from my desperate parents and still here I am writing about her! Every now and than I do think of that lady and pray for her soul!
As I am writing about death, I better tell a few other stories relating to death. Our second brother was really a respectable and popular young man in our area. He wanted to establish a school in our village. He had asked my father and got the land from him to start his school. Soon work began in earnest. All the villagers, who worked tirelessly and with a great deal of enthusiasm, built the schoolhouse in no time and everyone had given something for the school. The school was up and teachers were recruited and we were ready to be installed as its first batch of pupils. However, getting the land from my father was easy but maintaining the school and paying for the running costs and the salaries of teachers were not. My brother started running around the country so that he could get the school taken by the government. Sylhet, Dhaka Chittagong that had become his routine. And he did finally managed to get the school becoming a government primary school.
The school survived the time but my brother did not. He caught pneumonia. My father tried his best and there was no sign of improvement. I did not understand all this, but heard that my elder brothers put up a rebellion against my father in that they were saying that they wanted to bring in a modern doctor to save their brother! My father said okay to that demand. A doctor came in from Barhlekha and did his best, however, my brother died few days later.
I did not understand what it was that happened. I saw everything, heard everything but did not understand. Everyone was crying but I did not understand why and I did not cry at all. I still remember the Mayna bird that was standing on the ground near the path by which they had taken my brother’s dead body for burial and it was crying like human beings and calling my brother’s name! It was his mayna bird! Now I feel like crying but than I did not understand!
Everything in our house went dead with my brother, as he was not only a perfect son but also a lot of other perfect things! He was a perfect brother, perfect principal, perfect teacher and most importantly, a perfect neighbour! He was the star of our family.
I was his best-loved brother. Although I did not understand death but he was not there anymore and nobody could or did see me existed in their mourning, I was left to be on my own. I was looking for my brother who loved me so much! He would not come home without bringing me something or other! He was not there anymore! I must have been thinking where he had gone and when he was to come back! So there I was on my own and I took that opportunity to spend in the water- in the pond! All day I would be in the pond, swimming away for hours! I would be hot and my eyes were popping out red! One day I came home shivering with cold and I was obviously all wet. Somebody noticed me than! I had a horrible fever. I went to bed and did not get up for a very long time! I had typhoid! This time even though all the brothers wanted to bring in a doctor my father stood his ground so fiercely that everybody had given up even trying to persuade him to agree. He carried on with his homeopathy. After a month or so I got up again, although I could not stand up! All I was, were a tummy and a head. All my hair had fallen out and I was a bone sculpture that could not stand up. Gradually I was nursed back by my mother and my eldest sister in law, for which I had developed a very special bond with her. I remember she taught me how to walk again! She played with me like a sister.
As the youngest of all children in the family I had hardly any playmates! Most of my brothers were adults and three sisters were already married with children! Our youngest sister was my second mother! She was my friend and playmate! But I beat her up so many times. She would tease me by saying, “I will get you married to a lady like this” and show me a red chilli and then I would chase her up. Sometimes she would call me a Londoner, which would make me particularly mad. I do not know why and I would chase her around the house!
Where did this Londoner title come from! Again I heard this story. One day a pious man came to our house. He told everybody that the youngest of the family would go to London and everybody, since than, believed that was going to happen to me! What do I care! I was a little kid! Did I know what London was or where it was! However, I remember this is the second thing that would make me really angry.
Once we had some sort of immunisation given on our upper arms. We got quite swollen arms. My sister said something to me, which I did not like and I hit her with whatever I was holding and it hit her on the immunisation spot! Blood was coming out like anything! My sister could not look at blood! Show her anything red and she would faint! I started crying and began to run as fast as I could! Oh dear sister! Since than I have always felt a very special bond with her that I never felt for any of my other sisters.
My special friend in my sister was about to be lost and I was to be lonely very lonely when she had been married away! I felt really sad and could not understand why she had to go away! After the wedding I would walk miles just to go and see my sister! I missed her so much!
Coming back to how I grew up. This poem would give some indication:
I Remember
I remember the dawn and the little boy
One like the other opening up
Both wrapped in silk of wonder
At dawn the boy would go under the Sheeulie Tree
To pick flowers-white and yellow
Held on the palms wrapped heaven in scent
The boy like the young dawn would stand
Intoxicated or magic-strung under the Sheeulie Tree
I remember the days and the little boy
Getting up in the morning and he could
He could feel he was not alone
The earth was there alive and its scent coming up
The birds were singing and the sun was opening up
A sunflower with golden birds of wonder rays
The cheeky winds playing with the branches of the trees
The sky a young lady in love
Wearing a turquoise shawl being gently blown away
By the mischievous easterly winds
And the wedding singers cream clouds
The earth was part of him as he was hers
I still could remember the days and the little boy!
I can still remember those days and the little boy
Whose first love on this planet was a yellow bird
Oh the yellow bird! Oh her melancholy melody!
In all these springs that followed nothing sounded
So genuinely true and so soothingly beautiful!
The boy would follow the bird around
Opening his ears and all the doors of his heart
The most beautiful yellow colour
With the most beautiful silky soft feathers
The little boy would follow the bird all morning long
Oh! The boy would walk on a path of heavenly silk
And his heart pounding with joy!
I could still remember those days and the little boy!
I could remember those days and the little boy
He had lot of friends and relationships
With men and mice with the wind and the sky
He had friends that were humans
He had friends in the cows and bulls
In goats and sheep, in chickens and ducks
He had friends in little robins and rabbits
He had friends in the springs and the wind
The banana trees, the mango and jackfruit trees
He was a friend of everything around him
As they were friends to him
Both men and animals-both matter and nature
All were in a living connected web of love
They were complete in the boy and in them
Those days and the little boy I can still remember
The nights that were drunk in silver moonlit night
Or the ones intoxicated by the thunder and storms
Or the dry ones in autumn or the ones wet in rains
I could remember those days and the little boy
The green paddy fields blown in rhythm by the winds
The fruitful trees or flower blown bounty of plants
Or the golden paddy field complete with height
The wonder and the joy in people’s hearts and eyes
Things were not just things
Men were not like machines
They were part of the mother and the mother was theirs
Those days that are gone and the little boy that is lost
I still remember and wonder with tearful eyes
The empty space and the space of memories
In this mechanic time and being of purposeless manoeuvrings
All this hurts so much that it aches the mind
It aches the mind so deep that I feel a storm of rage
A storm of rage being waged deep inside
I just keep still and carry on with the purposeless manoeuvrings!
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