They seek the freedom to choose their own careers without disapproval; the freedom to be selfish about their own desires; the freedom to be free of the weight of family expectations. The inalienable right of your boro chacha to insist that you go into the family business and marry his best friend's daughter is being increasingly challenged. If decisions are to be made regarding their life, the new generation would like to make them themselves

Irum Ali Khan

Call them what you want: Generation Now, Gen Yo, the Me Generation, the Djuice Generation, or simply ‘those kids’; the truth is that urban university-educated middle-class youth are on the move. They are creating a new social order, one in which the values that underpinned their parent’s realities are no longer the most influential, and in which the horizon no longer stretches to the finite boundaries of the nation. This is the post-post-independence generation brought up in a culture that is free to define its own identity, no longer constrained by the dominance of another. This is the generation firmly placed within the urban middle class, their parents and grandparents having made the physical and conceptual leap to city life and professional careers. This is the generation that is connected instantaneously to the rest of the frenetically-paced world at the click of a remote control button or a tap of the ‘Enter’ key. This is the generation whose life choices have expanded exponentially in the past decade, even compared to that of their older siblings. This is the generation who is trying to forge an identity — caught between the traditional middle-class Bengali values of their families and the siren call of the increasingly globalised world they live in.

   While this urbane generation might have moved on, their surrounding society still lags behind them, insisting on obedience to the established norms — have a ‘stable’ career, marry a ‘suitable’ girl or boy, support your family, take care of elderly parents, fulfil familial obligations smilingly, be financially conservative, have the right number of children and, most importantly, maintain the desired status in society, or achieve a higher one. Yet, contrastingly the material culture all around them urges them towards a very different life — the advertisement billboards urge them to engage in ‘ajaira pechal’ or ‘jotil prem’, much against their parents’ wishes. The steady stream of serials, reality shows on satellite TV and movies they consume by the dozen on pirated DVDs show them a so-called better life overseas, replete with all the materialist trappings of globalised success.

   If not available abroad, this lifestyle is to be strived for here, complete with the job at an international bank, ad firm or multinational company and the latest mobile phone model and surround-sound home theatre system. The ‘internationalization’ of their reality daily removes them further and further from any sense of rootedness or investedness in a Bengali future. The failure of the society at large, and the education system in particular, to provide them with an analytical understanding of the wider world has resulted in an ideologically bereft generation, some of whom are turning to radical interpretations of Islam to find a sense of identity. They lack a political ideology to call their own, ideals to dream and fight for, unlike previous generations. They yearn for success, usually defined in materialistic and monetary terms, and are willing to fight for it with a determination previously unknown. So, where do they go from here?

   Conventional wisdom tells us that social change happens slowly, that it takes years and decades for ideals and values to change. Although each successive generation demonstrates a marked difference in thought and fashion to the one preceding it, the rapid emergence of the phenomenon that is the ‘private university educated urban middle class youth’ has been truly astonishing. Of course, one might argue that this is a limited and eventually statistically insignificant section of the population, given the vast numbers of young people this appellation does not cover. However, it is certain that given their access to myriad opportunities these young adults will one day have the opportunity to shape the nation’s economic future. While this fact is a testament to the class and region-based inequalities that plague our nation, when we consider that these are, to use an already overused cliché, the leaders of tomorrow, it gives us pause to consider their provenance and destination. Irate readers may leap to point out that their brothers, sisters, friends, children, or even they themselves are part of the group in question and do not share any of the characteristics described herein. The study of social groups by its very nature requires the analytical observation of general characteristics and behaviour that are perceived in the majority. Exceptions to the rule abound, and may acquit themselves accordingly.

   Generation Who?

   Sociologist Anthony Giddens argues that industrialisation has brought with it a culture that involves the accumulation of material wealth and the evolution of ‘world society’ where the individual is confronted by social institutions that are globally shaped. Bangladesh, in the throes of a highly scrutinised industrialisation process, is not exempt from the tentacles of globalisation. Globalisation is contemporary with modernisation and current capitalist development, directly allied to the manner in which modern societies are evolving. It is impossible to be a part of the world — economically, socially or politically — without opening the doors to the global juggernaut of transnational business and media. In Bangladesh, this has meant the availability of international consumer goods and technology in the local market, the indefatigable spread of the mobile telephone revolution, and the all-pervasive influence of satellite media. The appearance, assumptions, attitudes and aspirations of the new generation of urban youth are evidence of this.

   The first thing you notice are the way they look. These kids would be cool anywhere — anywhere being the operative word. The upper-middle-class youth of Santiago bear a strong resemblance to their counterparts in London, or Delhi, or Dhaka. Satellite media, having made its way into every middle class home, ceaselessly transmits a mass culture of standardised and dictated tastes, fashions and aspirations. Be it on the ubiquitous Hindi movies or film-based programming or the international music channels (lead by MTV), young people are exposed to an increasingly homogenised representation of what it is to be ‘cool’ or ‘trendy’. The rising importance of appearance, lifestyle-based gadgets and access to the latest technology is what sets this generation apart from its predecessors.

   For this generation, what you wear says a lot about who you are. And who you are seems to be an aspiring citizen of the world. Dhaka’s ‘Generation Now’ follows the same internationally hip style code. The guys, especially, nearly to the last man will have the hair in the regulation spikes, the necklace of wooden beads, a silver ring or two and the carefully composed uniform of fitted t-shirt and jeans or cargoes. The women, still governed by an adherence to the shalwar kameez, will improvise on this standard garment to the point that it is no longer recognizable as such. Those who have the nerve to be more ‘daring’ are seen to eschew any pretence of local flavour at all and head straight for the jeans and t-shirt combination. The defining fashion trend of the past few years, the fotua, is yet another step towards a more Western silhouette while still keeping within traditional boundaries of acceptable dress. The ever-diminishing proportions of the ‘ideal body’ suggest the internalisation of international standards of beauty and desirability. Sadly, the traditional Bangladeshi proportions aren’t exactly the same as a supermodel’s, but this doesn’t seem to deter legions of girls from aspiring to look like an impossible dream.

   And it doesn’t stop at the clothes. Look at any 18- to 23-year-old standing outside a private university and chances are that he or she will have a mobile phone attached to their ear and a look of intense concentration on their faces. If they aren’t actually talking on the phone, they’ll either be sending SMSs to each other, playing games/taking pictures/listening to music on their phones or showing off the latest model they’ve just purchased. This is a generation that is attached at the hip, or rather the ear, to their telephones. Phones have moved beyond a medium for basic communication to the basis of a whole lifestyle.

   This addiction to consumerism and technology goes beyond mobiles. This generation is defined by a techno-savviness and internationalism that often leaves their parents baffled. DVD players, MP3 players, computers and associated paraphernalia, musical instruments, cars and the ability to travel widely are standard objects of desire. Cool is having the latest music from the international charts downloaded via your broadband connection from your home computer onto a tiny MP3 player dangling around your neck; cool is the aspiration to own these international symbols of materialism and comfort.

   The cultural life of university students is yet another area where we see the relentless influence of globalisation. Yes, the campus bands still sing of broken hearts and forbidden romance in the grand tradition of the Bengali balladeer, but they also sing of teenage angst, disaffection with society, anger at limited opportunities and dissatisfaction with the status quo. The favoured bands on campus all seem to be purveyors of the alterna-metal genre of music, whether they be local or foreign. Music that speaks to the generational disconnect is what’s in, and what strikes a chord. Black t-shirts emblazoned with the name of some massively successful band that makes its money from moaning about how terrible life is seem to be adorning young men all over town.

   If it begins with what they wear and what they listen to, it ultimately ends in who they think they are and where they want to be.

   Who they think they are is simple — they are a generation who feel entitled to be able to fulfil any dream that they have, and believe in being go-getters. This sense of entitlement, this conviction that they deserve that job at a multinational or a foreign bank or an up-and-coming ad firm is new to this generation. Their parents were often surprised by their own successes, and grateful for them — holding onto them and sheltering them from misfortune. Not these kids. Brought up in lives of relative comfort built on the endeavours of their parents, to them success will be there for the taking, their attitude one of assured success. A financially secure future is the number one aspiration.

   Where they want to be, for many, is anywhere but here. Sad but true. The urbanite youngsters who have changed the way Dhaka thinks about youth dream of a better life far away from these shores. If they are ‘stuck’ in Dhaka then the universally middle class aspirations towards professional commercial jobs seems to be the norm. Banking and advertising seem to be glamour industries that are drawing young BBA graduates by the truckload. However, ask any number of students today and they will tell you that their plans include working for a few years, and then applying for immigration to Canada/Australia/USA, etc. Ask them why they want to leave, and they look at you as if you are crazy for even asking and cynically shrug, ‘What’s there to do here? What’s there to stay for?’ Not very much it would seem, even for those who have been given so much more than so many of their fellow country folk.

   Generation Why?

   Ay, there’s the rub. Even the prospect of better jobs, better pay and a brighter future than any generation before them do not seem to satisfy many of the young. Why would a generation who have lived a far better life than their parents be so ambivalent about their futures and reluctant to imagine a fulfilling life here? The answer is twofold: firstly, while there has been a sea-change in the values of the urban youth, the society around them has not kept pace. Secondly, this is a generation bereft of any guiding political ideology or social commitment that urges them to strive to improve their societies — that inspires them to dedicate themselves to build a better Bangladesh.

   A cursory look at the group of young people in question is enough to tell you that they are governed by their own norms and values that at times are in conflict with that of the world around them. ‘Bengali middle-class mentality’ — which in itself is a relatively new concept in sociological terms — has already been eclipsed by the urban youth who yearn to march to the beat of their own drummers. The pre-eminence of the family as the guiding concern in a person’s life is slowly, but surely being disputed. The divergence in norms is especially apparent in matters pertaining to gender, and to family obligation.

   Unlike the previous generation, the opposite sex is not a mystery to today’s young who are educated in co-educational schools followed by co-educational universities. Even if their schooling has been segregated, at university the complementary gender becomes an inalienable part of their daily lives, both as friends and more-than-friends. So what’s new about young love flowering in-between classes and during tea-addas? Well, what’s new is that these young lovers are not held back by middle-class norms that dictate only the briefest of contact with the object of their affections before the romance culminates in marriage. These days, marriage is not even on the horizon when love blooms. The freedom to get to know each other, to love each other and then to walk away if life goals, obligations and personalities do not match is increasingly being demanded by today’s young. Now, all of this is quite recent news to their parents, who are still stuck in the days when ‘a common friend’ brought news of ‘a good match’ with ‘a steady income’ and ‘from a suitable family’. Especially for young women, while the doors to personal interaction and freedom have opened in one direction, they are still closed in another — despite their CSc degrees and their 3.9 GPAs, they will still be expected to let ma-baba decide on their life partner. For the vast majority of these university graduates, it will be status and familial approval that will eventually decide their fate.

   This is not a situation that sits well with many of them. When asked what is the one thing they want more than any other, many people of both sexes will answer with one word: ‘freedom’. Freedom to do what, you ask? Aren’t they more free than any others before them? But they want something more. ‘Freedom to be me.’ Me is the important word in that sentence. The young don’t want to be defined by someone else’s story, they want to make their own. They seek the freedom to go out late without a million questions; the freedom to choose their own careers without disapproval; the freedom to be selfish about their own desires; the freedom to be free of the weight of family expectations. The inalienable right of your boro chacha to insist that you go into the family business and marry his best friend’s daughter is being increasingly challenged. If decisions are to be made regarding their life, the new generation would like to make them themselves. Traditionally, Bengali sons and daughters have borne the responsibility for fulfilling not only their dreams, but that of their parents; of gratifying not only their desires, but that of their parents. This is increasingly being seen as a burden, something to be rejected. Commentators would say this is the beginning of the end — it starts with an erosion of family values and ends God-knows-where. But really, it’s just evolution, yet another way in which the outside world is impinging on ours and bringing a different set of mores with it. Every generation has striven to push the boundaries of their world to see if they stretch. This one is no different.

   The second problem highlights a more pervasive problem in our nation’s social institutions. When you ask any of the group in question what they ‘believe’ in, most of them will be at a loss for words. This is a generation of cynics, not idealists. Their grandparents dreamt of a free India, their parents dreamt of a free Bangladesh, their older siblings dreamt of a government free from dictatorship. What do the current generation dream of? A better life, for sure, but a better life that concerns only them. This is not to accuse them of selfishness, but merely to highlight the absence of any guiding socio-political philosophy that would tether them to their society. The radical leftist and/or pro-independence political leanings of their parents’ generation seem a distant dream to a group of youth who are wary of politics. They see politics as destructive, and ultimately pointless. Look at their Dhaka University brethren, they say — caught in the mire of endless session jams due to the whims of the all powerful student wings of the major political parties. Nothing will change, and one party is as bad as the other, so why get involved? They see no marked ideological difference in the manifestoes of the reigning parties, and see elections as a merry-go-round where one party steps off to let the other on while the music and background remain the same. One party in practice is as bad as the other, so what’s the point in being engaged in the political process at all?

   Asking them about the possibility of social change through activism unallied to politics brings forth an equally indifferent response. What’s the use, they shrug? All the aid money gets pocketed or squandered, NGOs are a rip-roaring business, the poor will get poorer and according to the news and we will remain the most corrupt country in the world. All around them, they see the failure of civil institutions to serve the needs of the people. Many of the young do not demonstrate an iota of faith in the power of advocacy to change society. They exhibit a feeling of helplessness that eventually morphs into apathy and a desire to do what they can for themselves, rather than fight a losing battle for a lost cause. They do not see the power of small changes, of small steps forward. They see the process of degeneration as too far gone to halt. If people truly do define themselves through a sense of place, draw their identities from the cultures they live in, then the culture has failed our young — it might have given them material advantages, but it has failed to give them faith in their own abilities to make a difference.

   The education system that they have been exposed to might have given them the basics of algebra, expound formulae and know the law of demand and supply, but it has not given them the analytical tools with which to carve out a niche in society. The task of education is not merely to educate the young, but also to socialise them into the norms and values of the society. Education should both anchor the mind in an understanding of the social structure, yet free it to move beyond it. It is in this that they have been miserably failed by their previous generation. The fact that students today do not aspire to the civil service or to political life, and only see it as a last resort, is testament to the fact that the system has not imbued them with a sense of civic responsibility, or an understanding of society that goes beyond their immediate parameters. It has failed to give them a dream to be committed to what involves a vision for a better future for all.

   Generation Where?

   To give this generation an excuse for apathy would be defeatist. While there is much to be said for the fact that society cannot fulfil their dreams, looking back through time, there has never been an age where society has kept up with the demands of the young. Social change has occurred when those dreaming of a better future have pushed society’s boundaries, raced forward with these dreams and taken their culture to a new plane. This generation should be no different. The student revolutionaries of the 1950s, 60s and 70s fought against tremendous odds to create massive social change — they saved a language, inspired the dreams of a nation, and eventually freed it. They did not give in to the apathetic attitude that nothing would change. Subsequently, they carved out meaningful lives in a nation that was beset by poverty, and made huge strides towards improving that nation. Thirty-five years in the life of a nation is but a chapter, but Bangladesh has come a long way towards self-sufficiency and fulfilment during the interim. It is the task of this generation, armed with a better education, a better material existence and a strong link to the rest of the world to take us further.

   The struggle will be to inspire the young to take up this challenge, and ally their dreams of individual success to those of the nation. We must give them a sense of place and belonging, teach them that freedom is not to move away and start a new life, but to stay here and build a better life. We must give them the freedom to think freely, to define themselves, their aspirations and their future in a way that reshapes Bangladesh, and takes it to a better place. Those of us in a position to do so must think long and hard about how we can inculcate the youth with a sense of purpose, a sense of identity, a sense of tomorrow…

This write-up is about my transitional experience in Bangladesh over the last forty years of the century gone by. From the sixties on to this new millennium it is all about the icons that made me emotional, frustrated or sensitised, but for the most part kept me happy. I am sure many have shared similar transitions - bitter though they may have been in some cases, they never failed to have a silver lining of hope

Maqsoodul Haque

‘Ransition’ is a word loaded with uncertainties, and when we look back we are surprised at how much or how little we have managed to achieve. For instance, if we look at the transition in air transport, from the Wright brothers’ attempts to fly a ‘machine’ in 1903 to supersonic Concords, man on the moon in 1969, the space shuttles, Stealth bombers that elude radars, or the aerial predator drones that go into battle with no human on board, it is not strange to be surprised that all of it happened within the span of the last hundred years, a century that outdid the preceding century in man’s technological achievements.

   This write-up is about my transitional experience in Bangladesh over the last forty years of the century gone by. From the sixties on to this new millennium it is all about the icons that made me emotional, frustrated or sensitised, but for the most part kept me happy. I am sure many have shared similar transitions — bitter though they may have been in some cases, they never failed to have a silver lining of hope. Hope is the essence of man’s survival; no capital has to be expended other than expanding the spirit of a soul, that understands precious little but to move forward. Nature moves us on from a ‘cell’ to an embryo, a foetus, an infant, and child, pre-teen, post-teen. When we become ‘grey-haired forty something’ we take stock and say ‘life itself is a transition’ and ‘hope for a better world way beyond’ what our limited faculty of imagination affords us. Even in death man is programmed to remain hopeful.

   

   Growing up in the Sixties

   The first ‘step’ in transition for me was waking up to the pitter-patter sounds of my feet encased in paper shoes. The year was 1963, and I was less than 3 years old in Narayanganj where I was born. Next, I would be spending hours before the mirror trying to figure out what this ‘reflection’ is all about, a ‘name’ that I would respond to, and then the gift of speech, ‘hey world, I have arrived’, and then there was to be no looking back.

   The glorious sixties were exploding around me. Among the first icons was the large Murphy radio set that Dad had hooked up to a wire-mesh antennae inside the living room, which came up with strange voices, and even stranger human expressions, most of which I didn’t understand. I could conjure up a million images, and they were all patently mine. Music and songs filled my life; everything from Pakistani crooner Ahmed Rushdie’s Urdu song, ‘Co Co Coreena’ or ‘Hello, hello Mr Abdul Ghani’ was the rage.

   Sunday afternoon was Top of the Pop ‘Western music’ time, as Dad would explain. I was too young to understand the lyrics, but Elvis Presley’s ‘Aint nothin but a hound dog’ hounded me like nothing else did. I discovered I could dance (the twist it was called) ta da da! I was communicating telepathically with beings in another continent, another world, and the Morning News had Elvis’s photograph, and while I loved that puffed up, greased, slick back hairstyle, mine was a ‘crew cut’ coat brush-like style. The hero in my life was Cassius Marcellus Clay, aka Muhammad Ali the boxer, and I had a large scrapbook filled with his photographs!

   Morning News held the copyright to an icon of intellectual stimulation which my father, uncles and other elders would pore over for hours, the ‘Get A Word’, a word puzzle which would leave me…well, ‘puzzled’! There weren’t soap or mobile companies dishing out money as ‘sponsors’, nor was there any inducement to ‘buy one and get two free’. People were paid cash prizes by the daily for ‘brain power’…any takers today?

   And then came this very heavy black device that technicians took more than a day to hook up. The telephone it was called then, not ‘land line’ as it is called today. This was more fun than the radio, as it talked back to me, and I would run from wherever I was and stop whatever I was doing to sing a cheery ‘Hello’ whenever it tring-tringed! Amazing, because in so many years of transition nobody has managed to translate ‘Hello’ into Bangla — ‘ohey’?

   On Fridays Dad would drag me along to the mosque, and while I never understood a word of Arabic, things were scary. For reasons best known to God and Dad’s great annoyance, I would be pushed way, way back to the last row of the congregation, apparently an ‘appropriate place’ for an ‘naughty boy’ like me! The horror of saying prayers to the Almighty with complete strangers, and then crying out loud when I couldn’t trace Dad after it all ended, makes the hair in my arms rise to this day.

   The other BIG scare was the attack during khutbas on Hindus, who were the ‘lowest of the low’, as we were made to believe, in the eyes of Allah and not ‘worthy of the friendship of the faithful’. Yet I couldn’t figure out why my parents never stopped me from playing with Oomla Agarwal, my best friend and son of a rich Marwari jute merchant, in the building we lived in. When I asked Oomla the very innocent question of how we were ‘different’, he promptly dropped his shorts and asked me to do the same. Our difference was clear, only about a quarter centimeter of flesh taken off our respective ‘you know what’!

   In Narayanganj Preparatory School, where I had my earliest schooling, on Guy Fawke’s Day we burnt effigies of the traitor, and when I would narrate this with excitement to my stern Arabic teacher at home, he would chastise me for attending a ‘Christian ceremony’, making me a Muslim of lesser faith. With that began my revolt against ‘faith’, and I discovered quite early in life that ‘this’ was destined to be my new FAITH. I remained Arabic illiterate by choice.

   Then came television and all hell broke loose. It was a 6pm to 9pm thing and we were watching the world. Daytime would be spent talking endlessly about what we had seen in the grainy, sometimes half broken black-and-white transmissions. There was only one TV set in the building and something like fifty of us kids sat transfixed before it till it ended with the Persian national anthem of Pakistan, every night for months, except on Mondays — the TV station also had a weekly holiday!

   My suave elder brother and hero Mahmoodul Haque, on vacations from Faujderhat Cadet College, would sit with his hair immaculately combed in front of the TV set. When the oomphy Masuma Khatun made her announcements, we were convinced that she was only looking at Mahmood Bhai, NOT us! The girls would go gaga about Alam Rashid, the English news-reader, so we boys did our best to mimic the way he spoke.

   The 1968-1969 political upheavals leading on to the ‘70s saw Mahmood Bhai and another dear cousin, Sabu Bhai, then in the Dhaka University, in serious problems with the law. Sabu Bhai was exceptional, and when I caught up with him after his troubles ended, he had long hair and beard, the first real ‘Hippy’ that I had set my eyes upon, and that too in my own family. He introduced me to the finer things of life, like comic books, Reader’s Digest, Marx and Mao Tse Tung, and also a first taste of chewing gum. When I wanted to grow my hair long, Mum said, ‘Very well, be as good in your studies as Sabu, and you can have things your own way.’ But I knew I would be defying her soon, very soon.

   The late sixties’ revolt in the US and Europe continued up to the seventies; questioning parents’ and the establishment’s authority was the ‘in thing’. Scenes from Vietnam on TV hung like a painful burden in my little thudding heart. Anti-war student protestors being beaten up in the US to chants of ’the whole world is watching you’ before a global TV audience came together with the first deaths. When Crosby, Still, Nash and Young sang, ‘Tin soldiers and Nixon coming, we’re finally on our own, this summer I hear the drumming, four dead in Ohio’, I cried in unison with the world. We weren’t bothered that the word Hippy by then had became a derogatory term, and reading Che Guevara, especially his ‘Bolivian Diary’, only fanned the fire in me that was getting increasingly harder to control. He too had long hair and died with them, so what the heck!

   

   ‘Freedom’ comes

   in the Seventies

   In 1971 I witnessed at first hand the US-backed brutalities in this motherland of mine. Rape and torture victims, dead bodies and everything that went with them! I wish now to forget everything, as there is nothing personally heroic to report here of fighting the enemy other than contending with demons in my psyche and learning the hard way that there is no such thing as a ‘humane war’. Fearing my growing sensitivity Dad did his best to restore my psychological equilibrium. Who wouldn’t? I was only 13 then and an only son.

   Ironically it was Dad’s job in a Swiss company that saw us leave Dhaka in July of the same year and end up in Karachi, where on December 17 the newspapers ran a terse 24-word statement, that I can still recall from memory: ‘Following an agreement made between the local commanders of the Eastern Front, fighting has ceased in East Pakistan, and Indian troops have entered Dacca’, confirming what the BBC Radio had broadcast the previous evening: the bloody birth of Bangladesh.

   Joy Bangla! I hugged Dad and Mum amidst sobs and tears, and it was NO political slogan those days, neither did my head hang in shame as it does today.

   While in Karachi, Mum never asked me why I had stopped going to the barber which I had promised myself would be only in Bangladesh. In November 1972, following a failed attempt to escape via Quetta, then a second try in 1973, when we were locked up for over 12 hours by Pakistani border guards who looted our money, we managed to reach Kabul in Afghanistan via Kandahar, almost in a state of destitution. Snow, which I saw for the first time in my life, invigorated me. Free at last.

   On February 22, 1973 we reached Dacca (Dhaka today), and on March 7 off went my shoulder-length hair, as I started a new, regimented life at the Adamjee Cantonment College. I had lost three precious years of schooling and times were hard in this new Sonar Bangla of ours. With the new country broke and on the brink of famine, down to every man on the street, my family could be no exception. The TCB (Trading Corporation of Bangladesh, which I and friends re-named ‘Thog Chor O Batpaar’ for good reasons) offered us ‘fair price goods’ — and in a way it was nice, because all of us wore the same tetron fibre pants and pink polyester shirts! Socialism was working in a roundabout way — we had ‘very cheap’ mod Russian shoes to wear. The only problem was, we had to laboriously sieve through a whole pile in TCB shops to get a matching fit.

   We had an earful of The Concert For Bangladesh LPs at our friend Taimur’s in DOHS (old) where we almost tore his house down with the very loud ‘turntables’ (record players by then had a new term), together with months of Wood Stock ’69, 3 Days of Peace and Music and all our heroes from Santana, Rolling Stones, Sly & The Family Stones, The Who, CSNY, CCR, Jimi Hendrix, even Ravi Shankar, you name it, everybody was there — screaming for FREEDOM.

   In independent Bangladesh the global concept of freedom couldn’t have had a better time. Cannabis smoke hung like a ‘thick cloud’ from the floor to the roof of the Engineers Institute in 1974, and with chants of ‘Gausal Azam hoo hah’ in the psychedelic haze on stage would appear a Christ-like figure, bearded and hair flowing down his shoulders, a former Mukti Bahini guerrilla Commander, Azam Khan. He would proceed to blow our minds with music from his band Uccharon and shape our fearless attitude, much to the consternation of our parents.

   We wanted to form a band. We had names ready, and Disha, back from Russia with his European orientation, taught us ‘Rock attitude’. Even as we debated whether we should be playing Deep Purple and Uriah Heep or ‘khyat Bangla songs’, we had no instruments or equipment, and none of us knew how to play the ones we sometimes managed to beg for and borrow!

   My friend Nawshad had better ideas — ‘we gotta start somewhere man’, and so we ended up banging the table and raising hell at a neighborhood teashop every evening. That sort of gave us a tiny reputation that went pretty well with our ‘flared’ pants (they had to completely cover our 2 inch high-heeled shoes) and figure-hugging Batik T-shirts brought from Shade in Moghbazar. Somebody was at least thinking of dressing us up affordably, and doing a roaring business — in fact Shade in my reckoning was the first fashion and curio house in Bangladesh. We of course designed our own torn and patched up denim shirts, with the tongue-wagging logo of Rolling Stones and My Foot graffiti on the back. Jeans, which we all loved, were not available then.

   For us dudes in DOHS, we had a Timothy Leary-like visionary in Yamin Chowdhury, (now teacher in Agha Khan School), maverick extraordinary and Masters student of Physics in DU then. With an acid tongue of considerable notoriety (he made f*** the vogue in our vocabulary!) his twice weekly lectures at an under-construction house, on politics, philosophy and the way the world was going, made him an undisputed savant. In retrospect, how else am I to explain his prediction of ‘Yanks kicking Muslim asses soon’ and invading Iraq way back in 1973? To chastise us for our errant ways he would lovingly quote verses from Kahlil Gibran and the English Qur’an, which made sense, and we became more disciplined than the neighborhood mullah could to dare dream of.

   In 1974 I caught up with Popsy and Murad (musician friends who could actually play bass and drums) and begged them to come to our first practice session in Nawshad’s # 1 (now old) DOHS backroom. The place was 10 feet by 12 feet with a smelly toilet next door, and to cheer us on there would be a hundred friends in the garden, and something like a dozen wannabe rock stars lining up. I was ‘formally’ designated the ‘English vocalist’ by Nawshad, who was by then ‘manager’ of the FIASCO band, and one performance at the Dhaka Club after a Housie (Bingo) Game later, it all ended in a huge fiasco…his Dad threw us out!

   In January 1975, I joined Notre Dame College where the American Principal, Father AJ Wheeler, wouldn’t look down on our long hair, our smoking cigarettes in the canteen, or interfere in our freedom as long as we stayed OFF politics. The Famine of the same year left me a mental wreck. I was the only Muslim student who stayed back after class as a volunteer to work till late at night with the Christian Seminarians in the relief camp set up inside the campus. We looked after 2,000 destitute and dying children and cooked, fed, bathed and clothed them. Malnourishment meant most of them had hideous skin infections. The overpowering stench of rotting corpses would linger in my clothes and my parents couldn’t bear it. I had therefore to wash up in the garden, and change to new clothes before I would be permitted in. They silently tolerated my emotional trauma and let me continue for months what they thought I must do.

   And then came August 15, 1975, the murder of Sheikh Mujibur Rahman and family. Soldiers were policing the streets and the unspoken decree was that having ‘long hair’ was an act of hostility. After Nawshad was bashed up, all of us decided to ‘let it go’. Was freedom on the way out? Nah.

   My backbench buddy from Class IV in Shaheen School, Rizwan bin Farouq (the one who ‘honored’ me with the first peek at Playboy and Oui magazine), worked out therapeutic ways to relieve us of all that pent up pain and general state of depression.

   Saturday Afternoon Partying it was called, and at House 123, Road 4, Dhanmondi, Dhaka 5, (1,2,3,4,5 — how could anybody miss that?) was the first DO, and later the house became a regular hangout. Girls from Holy Cross College and Vicky (Viqarunnessa Noon School) would bunk classes, get to the venue by afternoon, change from their uniform into mind-blowing attires and facial make-ups, and we would dance until just after dusk, the tempo broken by an occasional ‘ssssh, keep it low man’ whenever an army patrol came to the neighborhood.

   No AC’s those days (officially a luxury item), so we ‘sweated into each other’ with Eagles ‘You can’t Hide your Lyin’ Eyes’ in the background when in came the time for the grand finale — ‘close dance’ to close the evening. They were usually KISS (Keep it Short and Simple) as the girls had to clamber back into their uniforms to go home. Smooches, and TTFN’s (Ta ta for Now) later, we looked forward to the next Saturday and the next and the next. All of us were reading Harold Robbins, and some of us were falling in and out of love, and there were occasional hushed whispers among the girls about ‘missing periods’ — but look at the flip side dudes — the Icing on the Cake?

   Our freedom-fighter ‘boro bhais and apas’ were joining in the fun, and we were giving them the mighty ‘chheel’ when we needed money. The generational divide, a remnant from our parents’ time, was essentially severed at that point for GOOD. But hang on…‘Sex, Drugs and Rock and Roll have arrived among children of the elite’ sermonised a leading Bangla newspaper, and ‘boro bhais and boro apas’ quite rightly pleaded ‘bondho koro eishob’. We were drawing too much attention from ‘party poopers’ — so everything kinda sadly melted.

   To soothe us with ‘alternative music’ came a whole bunch of ‘flower power’ American kids with acoustic guitars called Children of gOD, (COg) with messages from the reclusive Moses David in tiny beautifully packaged and illustrated books that we could hide in our wallets. Warning us about Freemasons, 666, the World Bank and CIA, they were passed on hand-to-hand and became pulp in no time. My friends Larry Barnaby, Tukon and Muna (read the later two as Hamin and Shafin Ahmed of today’s MILES) recorded a wonderfully harmonised, haunting ‘Shine Like the Sunlight’ at the USIS in Dhanmondi, which went on to feature big time on COg radios all across the US and on to the Philippines. The brother-sister duo, Zaid and Rizwana Kabir, who hosted the daily afternoon Radio Bangladesh’s special World Music, and the Sunday ‘must-listen’ interactive Your Choice gave our then ‘underground’ BIG airtime. The mysterious Moses David wrote a two-liner commending the song — and just as suddenly, COgs disappeared.

   An Army intelligence bloke who questioned me about them (why me?) gave a lecture that they were ‘loose characters’ from the US ‘Cultural Intelligence Agency’ (not the ‘evil’ CIA?) sent on a ‘mission to corrupt the morals of our youths’! The Cinema and TV Watchers Association (CATWA), who screened wonderful movies and rock concert footages, also met the same fate.

   1977 was a landmark year for me. I joined the English Department of DU in January, and by March of the same year passed an audition to become Feedback’s lead vocalist in the only 5-star hotel at the time, The Intercontinental (now Dhaka Sheraton). Thereafter it was no longer partying to others’ music with my dear friends, but music that I and my band would play, and only the richest in town would pay ‘to party’ — once a week. In the next 2 months’ time it became thrice a week. Our boss at The Chambeeli Supper Club was French, the general manager American, and there were also 3 Italian chefs. On Saturday nights we had to wear ties, and on other days frilled shirts, waistcoats with bow ties that made us look like bellhops — not musicians!

   Back at the DU, friends (especially the girls) would flock around me, taking in all the latest gossip I had ‘privileged access’ to as it was all unfolding before my eyes. Things like who was dating whom, who was

   cheating on whom, who was splitting, who puked publicly at the Cheshire Ball and got thrown out, or worse: what the hell were you doing after the show in the hotel room?

   They were not convinced that because of Martial Law being in force for years, a curfew would be imposed after 1am and rooms were thus allotted to the band to stay ‘overnight’ free. It was all the more difficult to explain this ‘foreign looking’ girl seen in my company in the first car I bought — a reconditioned Toyota Publica — ‘Oh that’s Iman, a Lebanese aircrew working for Saudia.’

   In fact at any given time the Intercontinental would have crew from at least five foreign airlines, and during the Hajj came Jumbo jets, so we are talking about more than a big bunch of beautiful ‘foreign girls’ to have as ‘friends’. We looked up to Kemal Mohiuddin, the drummer earlier for Windy Side of Care and later MILES, who had the looks and charm to represent the in-house musicians’ fraternities’ honour roll of a ‘ladies’ man’ and none of us were even meagrely qualified to be his ‘sidekick’…end of the story! Feedback had a ‘hard drinking’ reputation, other than that ‘not much as such’!

   On the more serious side, we had serious problems — NO NEW MUSIC. After Saturday Night Fever came Grease and a profusion of disco fever, with Village People and ugggh Boney-M (the Arab aircrew loved them), and we were starving for good quality music to do the cover versions, but there were none available in the local shops.

   Chambeeli goes with the Eighties

   It was the early ‘80s when my now departed friend, Sheikh Ishtiaque the singer, introduced me to Dora and Roummy of Cats Eye. They were Canadian and had opened shop at the Green Supermarket, and I felt blessed to have met them. They were not only selling cassettes that they would personally record for us from a collection of nearly 5,000 LP’s we could chose from, but also their customised ‘cool shirts’, the like of which we never set our eyes on until then, made me confident. Their Beef Burgers with real beef was like something I had never experienced to this day. When Feedback held its first concert in WAPDA Auditorium, Cats Eye was the only outlet for tickets and all 500 were sold out in 2 days. Roummy told me, ‘Mac, you guys are on the verge of doing something fascinating’! In the years to come new music was never ever a problem, since Dora and Roummy had regular loads coming from the US and Canada. So we are talking about the first Western music shop in town as well, aren’t we?

   In 1985 The Intercontinental was sold and became the Dhaka Sheraton. With it came renovation of the lobby and all the restaurants on the ground floor. The most painful day of my life was to witness the Chambeeli being dismantled piece by piece — the desecration of a music ‘temple’ second to none in South Asia. It was replaced by the grotesque Bikthika, which was neither a restaurant nor a supper club — it had the ambience of a pricey fast-food joint.

   By the time it was ready to welcome guests and the band, we found that the fine acoustics that saw musicians before us perform in its hallowed precincts from all over the world were totally destroyed. The new bandstand was next to the buffet table — and we began to feel like chicken shashlick for people to eat! Leave listening aside, people were not even looking at us. By July of 1987 Feedback quit, and LIVE music as such has never been heard there since. We nonetheless played for a full eleven years with unbroken regularity — from 1976 to 1987.

   I blame my snobbery for not being part of Feedback’s first self-titled album Volume 1 of 1985. I was unable to reconcile myself with the idea that I had to do Bangla songs and was mentally not all prepared to be part of a Souls-like soft rock band which was already big by that time.

   It was in 1986 that Azam Khan asked me over to his place and wanted to know why I wasn’t doing anything in Bangla. Typically I said that I found the language ‘khyat and not my cup of tea’, and he understandably lost his temper. ‘If you think singing in front of a few rich and drunk people at a hotel makes you a musician, boy, you are wrong, you are only a musical prostitute!’

   No greater shame overwhelmed me more in life, because what he said next was prophetic, ‘If educated guys like you with so many years of experience can rock in Bangla, the Liberation War I fought will lead us on to real independence, the independence from narrowness of our vision, of our mentalities, and there is not much more time that can be wasted — now got that?’

   He was stern and meant business, and I recall softly asking him to pray for me. After a big brotherly hug he said, ‘Cheshta kor, cheshta kor, Allah bhorsha.’ I drove home that rainy evening deep in thought. I had no way of knowing that my life was about to take a U-turn.

   By 1987 I wrote and composed Majhi, Chithi and Chokh in the Ullash album by Feedback. Foad Nasser Babu, the bandleader and my lifelong musical guru composed Mousumi Part 1, and Bangla to my surprise proved to be a more difficult and complex language than I had earlier thought!

   

   ‘Famous’ in the Nineties

   When 1990 arrived, by some strange dispensation of the Supreme Being, I ‘allegedly’ became FAMOUS! Melai Jairay from the Mela album of the same year was a monster and getting very hard to control.

   I didn’t realise then that what I had done was write an anthem that a whole new generation would lap up. Innocently I was only talking about partying and having great fun on the Bangla New Year’s Day, which was till then supposed to be a very dull, boring and ‘serious’ affair. The song came from an apprehension that the only ‘fashionable’ thing one could possibly do on the first day of Naba Barsha was to eat Ilish maach, panta bhaat and chilled Coke at the Ramna Batamul, while the fed-up entertainment-starved younger crowd by then was milling about to ‘see’ girls and create disorder! Confrontation was inevitable.

   To enliven the day, Rock concerts on Pohela Boishakh was my dream, till then considered a thought bordering on ‘insanity’ as a prominent culture vulture pointed out. ‘Real Bengalis will resist such adulteration of culture.’ In disgust I raised my middle finger and told him, ‘Neither will real Bengalis permit this funeral parlour music you call high culture for too long.’

   I detested this ‘kosherisation’ of what a real Bengali is, and questioned relentlessly the entire paradigm of the so-called ‘refined culture’. Most of my boro bhais and boro apas who had partied and revelled with us in the seventies were joining the puritanical and chauvinistic culture vultures at the expense of hugely disappointing the young.

   Melai Jairay was thus designed to move a generation away from these misplaced culture junkies and their very pathetic highbrow obsession to places where we could party. And what better place than the mela or the fair? You could buy, you could sell, you could socialise, you could play, and you could eat and drink and, most important, do your own thing without anybody dictating terms or looking down their noses. There weren’t any fast food shops or cool joints those days to hang out in, so what better choice did we have?

   Thankfully concerts today that go on till the wee hours of the morning are the ones that dominate Boishakh festivities each year. Sadly, programmes at Ramna Batamul, where the revolt against Pakistan-backed communalism and hate was confronted in the early ‘60s, has been reduced to a meaningless and token mass ritual.

   The Bangladesh Musical Bands Association (BAMBA) had the honour of holding the first ever open-air rock concert in this nation’s history on the DU campus on December 16, 1990. A new beginning had dawned on our fate as the hated dictator, General Ershad, was overthrown by a people’s revolt on December 10. It is a small matter that I was leading the charge of the Rockers as president of the association; more important was to send a clear message across to whoever the powers may be, that Rock is destined to have its feet firmly placed on the soil of this precious motherland of ours. There would be no messing about and I knew I didn’t have to try very hard.

   When Feedback finished its set the same evening with Melai Jairay, and a 30,000-plus audience of men, women and children of all ages, sexes and religions kicked up a dust storm just by dancing, the very ugly face of ‘cultural fascists’ had been slapped resoundingly and blackened for good, for ever. The BAMBA was not keen on leading by diktat, but by example, and bugles for the Rock Revolution to commence in full force were blowing triumphantly in the wind.

   There were good reasons to name the Feedback’s seminal 1994 album Bangabda 1400.

   Very rarely in life does a generation get to see a new century begin, and here we were approaching the end of a Bengali century in which the greatest cultural and literary figures of our history, from Kazi Nazrul Islam to Rabindranath Tagore, had composed their immortal works. In six years’ time there would be a new millennium in the Gregorian calendar, and I was absolutely sure that I would survive to see that as well.

   While in London work had feverishly begun to construct the Millennium Dome to commemorate the coming of a new century, in Dhaka our culture vultures were busy splitting hairs as to whether 1400 would begin on April 14, 1994 or 1995! The debate, as I had expected, ended inconclusively, yet little did anybody realise how much we were falling behind in leaving a footprint on this once in a lifetime historical event, or is it opportunity?

   Roummy and Dora of Cats Eye helped in designing our outfits for the cover and posters, and the album went on to become history. History just didn’t end with the album; the year later and the years since keep reminding me that to commemorate Bangabda 1400 in Bangladesh, there were no art works, no sculpture, no films, no books, no first-day cover or postage stamps. Zilch.

   What a shame that we ‘great Bengalis’ have NOTHING as a public testimony to remember a new century, so I am blissfully reassured that the Feedback album will perhaps be the ONLY public record on Bengalis doing something tangible for Bangabda 1500 to remember us by. I may be completely wrong but at the risk of sounding arrogant I must say that this was our humble stamp on history, a statement that Rock in Bangladesh didn’t just sit back and stay laid back.

   Amidst all the euphoria things were beginning to trouble me. A previously undiscovered spiritual fire was lit by my association with the Bauls in 1988. As I moved even closer to them, I was beginning to reject everything around me. It really wasn’t a ‘born again’ phase, but more a ‘look inward guilt trip’ and discovering my personal frailties and the fragility of my existence. My knowledge absorption capacity was rarely ever so taxed in the many years of school, college or university than by what this new ‘school’ was beginning to teach me, and the more I learnt, the more I began to think. I saw the emergence of a new trait in my character — HUMILITY.

   I went not just looking for songs that I could replicate — I had to understand their inherent meaning, and the process blew my mind. Men of wisdom guided me but never disapproved of what I believed in strongly. I told FEEDBACK that the next album, sadly my last with them, would be called Bauliana.

   Released in 1996, it was a shock to Dhaka’s urbanised fan base. Everything that goes around comes around and I was, for the first time in my life, labelled a ‘khyat’. What a compliment! That didn’t upset me, because delighting me were the thousands of letters pouring in from villages all over the country. The Rock Revolution was by now very silently becoming a mass phenomenon, no longer restricted to Dhaka. What a relief!

   It was Paul McCartney who once said, ‘Music is pleasure — once it quits being a pleasure, one must quit.’ And so in the winter of 1996 came the time to bid farewell to Feedback. After 20 years with the outfit, in my resolve to leave, there were no emotions, no tears, just a few curt handshakes and adios guys. ‘Many’ who thought we were competition were secretly delighted; others were shocked and I had to face a barrage of questions, and till today do not or WILL not give a specific answer.

   I could never explain to anyone that I had entered a phase in my life where money, fame or popularity were not the most important things to me. I valued my inner peace and the opportunity to work with a lot of young and very talented musicians — thus Maqsood O’ dHAKA was born. I have never been happier.

   The first dHAKA album ‘Prapto Boyeshker Nishiddho’ of 1997 was my ‘hell hath no fury’ condemnation of rotten politics and a polluted social structure that provides opportunity for criminalisation of all aspects of national life, sparing none — not even the youngest. I didn’t attempt to put square pegs into round holes in my lyrics; they had to be as true as my conscience would dictate, and they had to be brutally honest.

   My attack on the establishment through music made me predictably its only casualty. The petty politics that a handful of rock musicians were involved in meant I would not be permitted to appear in any concert, and in the earliest dHAKA shows I would be asked to get down even as I was in the midst of my second on third song. I remained defiant and never let that happen even as Dhaka concert-goers were getting rubbished by fake fakir wannabes and sometimes bald sometimes bandana-ed what else have we jokers. My mission and that of my band was and remains giving it our best — no short change.

   In 1999 the second dHAKA album ‘Ogo Bhalobasha’, the first jazz-rock fusion album from Bangladesh, was scuttled by my dear old friends, the culture vultures! My apparent blasphemy in daring to render a fusion version of a Tagore song made me the Public Cultural Renegade # 1, and I am happy with that! With friends such as these, do I really need enemies? The album is the least heard of my works, and it is a shame, because I thought this is the best work I had done in all my life. Bad luck!

   And now…

   My personal transitions have thus been stormy and never easy. I had to pass strenuous acid tests each step of my way. Suffer as I may have, my commitment is to the future of Bangladesh, especially the young to whom I have dedicated this one life, the only one I will ever have.

   It is nonetheless with joy that I note so many new developments around me, and wish to wrap up by listing them. Pardon me if this sounds like a ‘coded, hooded’ sermon.

   Most of my boro bhais own newspapers and ad agencies. Like it or not, they are ‘promoting’ and ‘patronising’ musicians and Rock bands, because there is a lot of money to be made from fizz and soap companies and cell phone operators through advertisements and television slot bookings. While I intend no disrespect, the truth remains that they have been idea constipated all along, but never failed to jump on one when they knew money could be made — great! Making money is no crime.

   The generation divide is the now more acute than it was in our times. We actually failed here as the ‘new generation’ is no more than any other commodity up for sale, with ‘perform or perish’ mantras of event managers or sponsors being the underlying reality of it all. Making money is no crime — everybody needs money?

   Dudes, don’t expect favours, do your own thing, and don’t bend — ever. Join the system to beat the system should be the new mantra — and hey, making money is no crime as long as you do it honestly, but do demand what is certainly yours. Don’t be taken for a ride with promises of a video shoot and night out in Mumbai! Again, making money is no crime but blowing foreign currency on idle Idol-like dreams is.

   Country (folk) music is no longer khyat, and Baul is chic. Good. I appreciate the fact that so many are latching on to my dream of a huge revival of our more than 2000-year-old tradition, and whether they are doing it right or wrong is debatable — I am happy that they are doing it after all — so clap clap. Make no mistake, however; providence will deal us a very cruel blow if what we steal is intellectual property and somebody is staking a claim. Making money is no crime — but make sure the sick, starving and dying Baul Abdul Karim of Sylhet gets paid for YOUR use of HIS songs.

   If only one could figure out ways to reach out to people down in the villages — whose music it is anyway — and find out more about their lives, their daily struggle and what the lyrics really mean. This will contribute to fine tuning our socio-cultural activism. Making money is no crime, but surely we shouldn’t mind that villagers make as much for they hold the proprietorship to dreams that can never pass your mind!

   I know most of you down in the ‘new underground’ and I know things suck. You are only as good as your last album, your last video or your last concert, and the underlying tragedy is the way the word last is brandished like a sword over your heads. I wish things were easier, and I wish you had boro bhais whose priorities were different from piggybacking on your success and thinking about upping or dumping you. Some of you had the courage to say things that must be said. And heck, who the hell are they to ask you to ‘behave yourself’ when they are behaving this bad? Imagine third grade bands like Junoon and Strings from Pakistan flying in and out of a concert in helicopters, while Azam Khan who fought their fathers for your freedom takes a rickshaw ride back home in independent Bangladesh? From March 1971 to March 2005 we have marched into dangerous territory, dudes. Making money is no crime, but tell them not to borrow somebody else’s watch to tell us the time.

   I am a lousy advisor and actually hate that term, but here is my suggestion on what must be done. First, hang in there and do what you are doing, and give it your best shot at all times. Second, go cross-section — while we all love your metal riffs and head banging, 99.9% out there don’t — so do something that reaches out to an audience of all classes and all backgrounds, and there will be no turning back. You will have widespread appeal and it will be time to dump that ‘underground’ tag, for you deserve to be more than mainstream — you deserve to go global. You are pretty much kissing the skies. Making money is no crime — and don’t ever forget that’s the last word I said.

   Transitions, like life itself, are not smooth. One can never make it from A to Z, but if there is such a thing called conviction, and if one can glide over and have the ability to make the best out of any situation, the task, hard though it may be, usually gets done. Enjoy what you are doing but never forget to keep notes of your millstones and milestones. I look forward to Notes from Dhaka’s ‘New Underground’ in about 40 years from now — if I live to be 88.

   A life without a fight is a life not worth living. Remember Bob Marley? ‘Stand up for your right, Never give up the fight.’