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It was one of those days. Farha sat by the window, watching the raindrops splatter the narrow street below. She didn’t feel like leaving the room. It wasn’t her room, though. Her aunt and uncle were staying in this guest room, sharing this bed with the blue and white printed bedcover. The cover that her mother had picked to match the curtains. And the guest towels in the bathroom, that were white with a bar of the same blue along the bottom. She liked the harmony sometimes. She liked it better when her aunt’s bright clothes were spread against the calming bedcover, and her battered hairbrush and slim white gold watch were left carelessly on the bedside table. She thought that when she grew up, she’d like to have a leather case with a zip to carry red lipsticks and black eye pencils. And maybe wear a blue and pink sari with a white gold watch that her husband gave her. That puzzled her a little. She’d have to have a husband who’d remember to buy a nice watch with an oval dial for her birthday. She looked out the window again and saw some ramshackle empty rickshaws twist around the bend. There was a small tin shack where they sold tea at the corner of the road. What did they talk about on a rainy day when they had tea? And would they talk to her if she went and asked them?
   Soon somebody would send the maid to search for her and tell her to join the rest of the family for lunch. Farha pulled her legs out from underneath her and dangled them towards the beige floor tiles. There was only one man in the road now. He moved easily, as though he wasn’t aware of the rain. He stopped in the middle of the road and began examining something in his hand. She couldn’t quite see what it was. Perhaps a cigarette lighter that didn’t work. Her grandfather fiddled with his sometimes. In that case, the man would probably throw it into the drain in frustration and go buy a box of matches from the teashop at the other end of the road. But she couldn’t see a cigarette in his mouth, so he couldn’t be holding a lighter. She leaned closer to the windowpane to see better, but her breath frosted up the glass. Annoyed, she pulled at the end of her sleeve and wiped the glass to peer at him. He was looking up at the sky. That was odd. The gray porridge clouds were pasted all around and you couldn’t see the tiniest patch of blue. Rain fell steadily in sharp needles. The wind made them slanting in direction. There was a faint whining sound, and the leaves and branches bowed in unison. Small cracks of lightening broke the Quaker Oats clouds spread all over the sky and then disappeared again. She wasn’t quite sure what color lightening was. Once when she and her father were at the car workshop she’d seen the lightening come out in angry red scars. But then the lightening at night was bright enough to light up the room like a tube light. Only for a moment though.
   The man was still standing there, looking searchingly at the sky. His hands were forming a cup, his body tilting backwards. She thought he might fall. She opened the window and leaned her head out. There was a sudden flash of light. Something glittered in his hands before making a mercurial leap at his throat and then, like quicksilver, slipping into the second biggest crack in the wall. Farha pressed her forehead against the iron bars, trying to see through the raindrops. Was it a slim silver snake darting away? It was too dazzling bright to know what shape it was. She looked at the man. He was kneeling. His head was drooping; his chin was on his breast. He looked upward and there was a strange expression of great elation or despair on his face.
   ‘Farha!’ She jerked away; the window banged shut. Her uncle was standing at the door disapprovingly. ‘What are you doing?’ He began shutting the window properly.
   ‘There’s a man in the road with a star in his hands…’ She peered and saw that the road was empty. ‘But he’s gone now.’ She blinked and tried to check the corner near the teashop.
   ‘What’s all this about stars?’
   ‘Can’t stars move very quickly?’
   ‘Well, I – listen, we’ll talk about it later. Do you know where your aunt left my watch?’ He began rummaging the drawers in the small chest near the door.
   ‘But what about the man in the road? He was on his knees and it jumped into the wall –’ She’d seen him and now he was gone. She wasn’t dreaming; her face still had traces of rain water.
   ‘Farha, there are lots of people in the street and we really don’t have time to pay attention to every one of them right now. Ah, here it is.’ He fumbled with the strap and looked down at her. ‘Come on, we have to leave now or we’ll be late.’
   ‘Leave?’ She’d hardly ever gone out during the holidays before lunch. But her uncle and aunt only visited for a few weeks every year, so exceptions could be made for them.
   Her uncle gave her an amused look. ‘Yes, don’t you remember, you wanted to come with me when I went to see Tanvir? I thought you and his daughter were in the same school.’
   ‘Isn’t Mami coming?’ Were you allowed to go places without your wife after you were married? She didn’t know. If she had a father, she could have been sure.
   ‘Oh, no, not today. Today it’s just me, you and your mother. And she’s waiting downstairs, by the way. You are ready to go, aren’t you?’
   She was confused. She was wearing clothes that her mother let her wear to other people’s houses, but she hadn’t combed her hair at all since she woke up. ‘Um…I don’t know, Ammu usually tells me…’
   Her uncle laughed. ‘Go ask her then, and quickly! I’ll be waiting in the car.’
   ‘Well, I just need my shoes…’ They went down the stairs together and he jangled the car keys as he stepped out. Farha began pulling on her usual tan sandals before her mother came out of the living room and told her to wear the uncomfortable black shoes, because it was a rainy day. As her uncle slowly backed the car into the street, Farha peered closely at the opposite wall. There didn’t seem to be anything. It was the same cracked, dirty wall with remnants of whitewash from months ago. There were vigorous weeds growing in patches at the bottom. She liked weeds. No matter how much people tried getting rid of them, they always grew back, or found new places to grow. Those little flowers were like pale gems studding the bright green blades.
   She tried explaining it to Sabrina. ‘He didn’t notice the rain at all,’ she said. ‘He came for it to come.’ That didn’t sound right.
   ‘But I don’t understand. How could a star fall into his hands? Stars are a lot bigger than that—’ Sabrina made a cupping gesture with both hands. ‘And he couldn’t possibly disappear, he must have gone round the corner or something when you weren’t looking…’
   Farha remained silent. She decided not to tell any more people, even if they treated her like a rational human being.
   When they reached the gate of the house no one came to open it. Muttering under his breath, her uncle stepped out of the driver’s seat and reached over to unbolt it. Farha stepped out as well—she usually got off here and walked up to the house. This time, though, she crossed to the opposite pavement. Her mother turned in the car. ‘Farha? What are you doing?’ Her uncle was still struggling to open the gate. Farha peered at the wall, looking for something, any signs that she hadn’t dreamed it all. The maid came running to the gate, clutching a key in one hand.
   There were very tiny dots in one grubby spot. Small silver beads in a circle hardly bigger than her thumbnail. The gate swung open, with its nasty creak, and her uncle was calling her name. Quickly, without thinking, she touched them.
   A dizzying jolt—like lightening, a heated, painful flash, and then nothing. She turned and walked to the house without looking at her mother or uncle. She was very calm, cool. Her aunt was inside reading the paper. She looked up. ‘Oh, are you back already?’ Farha nodded. She felt giddy, intoxicated. Her mother came in and pressed Farha’s forehead with her palm.
   ‘Not feverish, are you?’ said her uncle. ‘You were very quiet today.’
   Farha shook her head and left the room. She still felt very aware of their voices, their presence from upstairs. She looked out of the window again and felt strangely elated at the sight of the sapphire sky and the first few flowering stars.
   When her birthday came and she opened the bulky package from her uncle and aunt, she remained silent. The Atlas of the Universe, it was called. It had large colored pictures of the planets and galaxies.
   It was only late at night, when she was in bed watching flimsy clouds flutter over the silvery moon, that she laughed. They had no idea, none of them. Stars were nothing like that. Nothing at all.
   Marisa Anaman is a teacher of English Literature and writer of several short stories. She has a passion for contemporary art and shoes, both of which she collects. She lives with her husband in Dhaka.

Henrik Ibsen’s hundredth death anniversary this year will be commemorated with numerous projects and events around the world. The opening of the year-round programmes will take place in Oslo, Norway on 14 January and conclude in a concert Edvard Grieg: Peer Gynt in Washington in December.
   Other programmes in different countries include plays, festivals, exhibitions (museums, libraries, art galleries), book launches, book projects and new translations, conferences, seminars, lectures, film projects, Ibsen for children and young people, decorative projects, concerts, musical works etc. The countries that are hosting different Ibsen events are Denmark, Belgium, Germany, India, Italy, Mexico, Norway, Sweden, the UK, Canada, China, Finland, France, Hungary, Portugal, the USA, Argentina, Australia, Egypt, Greece, Japan, Lithuania, Romania, Slovenia, Israel, Netherlands, Spain and Bangladesh.
   The Ibsen Commemoration 2006 in Bangladesh will consist of a six-month-long programme which includes an international conference and theatre festival, an exhibition, and film shows in Dhaka along with seminars and staging of Ibsen plays at six universities in Bangladesh.
   Centre for Asian Theatre (CAT), Dhaka, is the Secretariat of Ibsen Commemoration which has been organised in collaboration with the Embassy of Norway in Bangladesh and with financial support from the Norwegian Ministry of Foreign Affairs.
   The main part of the Ibsen Commemoration in Bangladesh is the International Ibsen Conference and Theatre Festival which will take place in Dhaka during 11-18 May 2006. The theme of the conference is Socio-political Aspects of Ibsen´s Plays. It is expected that the conference will encourage cross-cultural perspectives on Henrik Ibsen´s works as well as encourage discourse between academicians and theatre practitioners. The Department of English, University of Dhaka is also organising a two-day Ibsen conference on 13 and 14 May.
   Theatre companies from Bangladesh, India (two companies), Japan, Nepal, Pakistan, Sri Lanka and Taiwan are expected to participate in the Theatre Festival festival, Staging Ibsen in Asia. Besides this main theatre festival, there will be a Student Theatre Festival on the theme Perception of Ibsen among the Youths of Bangladesh.
   The exhibition, which will take place during the conference and festival period, will contain images of Henrik Ibsen´s plays created by major painters and sculptors of Bangladesh and Nepal as well as photographs and other documentary material provided by the Ibsen Museum in Oslo. During the same period, a film programme with documentaries as well as feature films based on Ibsen´s plays will be organised in collaboration with the Goethe Institut, Dhaka. Besides, Space and Acting Research Centre (SARC) will produce two Ibsen plays: The Lady from the Sea, Bangla translation by Anisur Rahman and The Enemy of the People, translated by Abdul Huq, Director of SARC, Ashish Khondker will design and direct both the plays on the basis of his environmental theatre experimentation and open air settings.
   Young poet, journalist and playwright Anisur Rahman is translating some fifty poems of Henrik Ibsen in Bengali. Ibsener Kavita (Ibsen’s poems), with a brief introduction on Ibsen as a poet, is scheduled for publication in May.
   Information on the Ibsen-Year 2006 is also available at http: //www. ibsen2006.no and the Royal Norwegian Embassy Dhaka Web site
   http: www. norway.org.bd

Before we even try to assess the book, there must be a line praising this effort because, despite the fact that many women write in Bangladesh, their works are seldom compiled in English. Hence, women writers can only reach out to local readers. But not anymore. This compilation of short stories in English by women writers in Bangladesh will not only fill a literary lacuna but also work to project the situation of women in the country to the outside world. The stories revolve around the social plight of the fairer sex and though this has become a regular formula for most women writers, at times the sad endings are a bit too much to digest. The book begins with Roquiah Sakhawat Hossein’s ‘Sultana’s Dream’ in which a girl in the first part of the last century dreams of a kingdom ruled by women. Here, women are not repressed and it’s the men who are kept within four walls. Obviously, this is a look at how women were treated only a hundred years ago. However, it’s the caustic remarks of the writer on men that are the potent force here. Surely, to have written such lines one had to have guts.
   Anyway, the works of other writers mostly focus on the social trauma of women except ‘The Immersion’ by Dilara Hashem and ‘On the Road’ by Makbula Manzoor. The former is about a young man overtaken by flames of youth and is a very off-beat piece whereas the latter, though not too novel, is about a man cheated by life and its unfair ways.
   Niaz Zaman’s ‘The Daily Woman’ is a piece that has a very contemporary touch to it with the protagonist being played by a domestic maid. As the writer describes the working atmosphere of the woman, the present society with its faults, obsessions and priorities emerge. But watch out for the ending. It is nothing too spectacular but one that the reader would not have expected.
   Selina Hossain’s’ Motijaan’s Daughters’ can be deemed as a piece which does not end with the woman suffering away silently. Here, the character lashes back at her unjust mother-in-law and adulterous husband by being unfaithful. The core theme is, if you can then why can’t I? A very realistic portrayal of a woman enraged.
   Now, it often appears that many of the works are trying to make martyrs out of women; at the same time we do not get the picture of the modern woman, who is free, educated and a lot more assertive. What about the women of this era who suffer a different trauma while racing through life, experiencing divorces, stress at the workplace and sexual harassment? And, what about those who take up the profession of prostitution willingly and happily and the ones who do not have any scruples manipulating others for their own interests? Women are sufferers but in the present context they also cause a lot of suffering too, and this aspect is missing in this compilation. The present-day woman is sexually liberated and for her, pre-marital sex or even several relationships before marriage are not uncommon. Though men have always wanted to keep women a step behind them, the greatest truth of all is that a woman is a woman’s worst enemy. A look at the world will only make that clear. Perhaps, we will get writers who will stop dealing with age-old themes and concentrate on the present-day situation where existential angst is the biggest enemy for women.
   
   Galpa: Short Stories by Women from Bangladesh
   Edited by Niaz Zaman &
   Firdous Azim
   SAQI, London
   £ 9.99; pages 280
   (The Bangladesh edition will be available in book stores in February)

Sir! My name is Abdul Hafiz.
   I ply a rickshaw in the city of Dhaka,
   From Sadarghat to Nawabpur, Banshal Road, Chawkbazaar –
   Mostly on the streets of old Dhaka –
   At times in New Market.
   The wheels of the rickshaw revolve along with the wheel of time.
   Time passes, but I still remain in one place,
   Hounded by grief and pain.
   
   Sir! This afternoon I heard from two passengers
   That a poet called by my name
   Died six hundred years ago in Persia.
   He was called by my name, Hafiz, Poet Hafiz.
   It seems to me that in this world
   Some people are born
   Before whom Death bows.
   Death can touch only their bodies, but not their deeds,
   Among them some are prophets, some are poets.
   
   Sir! What is a poet? Who is a poet? I don't know.
   I was born in Dhaka, grew up like a parasite,
   Ate when there was food, didn't eat when there was none.
   No one asked if I ate or not.
   My mother went to heaven right after my birth.
   I had no father either; I was my own mother and father.
   I am uneducated;
   Since fourteen I have been plying rickshaws.
   How should I know what is poetry, what is a poet,
   Where is Persia? I don't even know if it's like Dhaka.
   I was so surprised when I heard
   For six hundred years the whole world has known him, has known him as a poet.
   What a wonder! Can you imagine
   Everyone reads his poems at home and abroad!
   
   Sir! His name is Hafiz. I am Abdul Hafiz.
   If I die today no one will remember me tomorrow.
   Six hundred years? No, for just six days my wife and children
   Will mourn and then forget this wretch.
   But tell me, tell me, sirs,
   How can a man be remembered for six hundred years?
   
   What book did he write, every word of which is like an Arab camel
   That passes across the desert of time
   Knowing no hunger, no thirst, just going on and on,
   One century after another, then another century, even after that. . . ?
   And people like me
   Die like animals, totally obliterated from this world,
   Washed away by the cruel waves of time.
   
   Sir! I am not lucky enough to join your soiree.
   I am nobody, I am one among the ninety thousand rickshawpullers of Dhaka.
   Ignorance is my greatest misery.
   He is truly wealthy who doesn't enjoy his own wealth, but whose wealth helps others.
   But I have nothing, neither wealth, nor knowledge.
   I am Abdul Hafiz. Today at this moment I feel
   I am not a nobody like others.
   I am named after a poet, somehow I am related to him.
   I will live through him even after my death,
   This name of mine will live with his year after year,
   Rickshawpuller Hafiz with Poet Hafiz.
   
   Sir! What is a poet? What is poetry? I don't know.
   Still, I salute him. Poet Hafiz is his name,
   He is called by my name, he has written poems,
   I salute him, a thousand times.
   
   Translated by Israt Jahan Baki
   
   Mahbub Talukdar's Bangla original, 'Hafiz 0 Abdul Hafiz,' is anthologized in Kyaya Seen Hyay (Dhaka: Shilpataru, 1994). Israt Jahan Baki is a student of the Department of English, University of Dhaka

‘Winning accolades in Kolkata’ (December 10) was an excellent interview, rich in content and in-depth in quality, on a Bangladeshi woman writer who is writing and publishing her work from another country and is well known outside of Bangladesh.
   It is quite common these days when writers by choice find it more suitable to work from outside of their country of origin. And many writers have become famous by doing so.
   The choice for working may be on account of several reasons, and one of these could be, as happened with Jahan Ara Siddiqui, the politics of publishers and distributors. Needless to say that this happens in countries close to and far away from Bangladesh.
   The admirable section of the interview was that Jahan Ara Siddiqui calls herself a writer. She upholds that women should realize their own worthiness rather than depend on protective laws for self development. The laws for the women do go against them as in the western countries.
   In the novel Anya Jibon Jahan Ara Siddiqui portrays an estranged husband, and not an estranged wife in a matrimonial matrix. The estrangement is viewed not as an act of omission and matter of forgiveness; rather it was a wake-up call for the wife and to seize the opportunity to establish her own value. She was grateful for this privilege.
   Portrayal of the male protagonist in Pradoshkal definitely extends the horizon of the writer. The girl realized that financial security of a man is no qualification to be a life partner. A girl must stand on her own feet in order to have the freedom to live a dignified life of her own.
   However, the thought that a writer must have the freedom to write whatever he or she feels like is definitely ‘fast forward’ in the context of Bangladesh, irrespective of being or not a government servant, for it was not too long ago a writer of distinction and his work was so much politicized that it resulted in his total annihilation.
   Finally if we are to decide who or what are our enemies, then like asthma and earthquakes, ego in human beings is to be included in the list!