A tribute to the poet
Syed Manzoorul Islam
When a friend told me that Shamsur Rahman had been admitted to the ICU of BSMMU hospital with multiple disabilities of his vital organs, my first instinct was to go and see him, if only to reassure myself that he was there, and would make a quick come back. I remember, some years ago, after an extremist outfit had made an attempt on his life, I went to see him in his Shyamoli residence. And sure enough, there was the poet, sitting in his study, poring over a book; his white, tousled hair dancing in the afternoon breeze. He welcomed me with a broad smile, whose sweetness still remains in my memory, and asked me to sit down. Over a cup of tea, we talked about great many things, except the attack. 'Let's forget it,' he said, 'let's not talk about death. Let's talk about life.' Not many poets of his generation, here and elsewhere, have celebrated life the way he has. Not many poets knew the secret of turning a near-tragedy into a cause for celebration. In a poem written shortly after, he referred to the incident as 'a hyena's last ditch attempt to avenge a bitter defeat'. He felt that he always belonged to the victors: Bengalees could never lose a war. This time around I couldn't muster enough courage to go see him. The poet was sinking fast, his smile was gone, his usual liveliness stilled by the weight of suffering. The eyes I would see won't be flashing out even a sign of recognition. I decided not to go. I would prefer to remember him as he always has been full of life and laughter. I remember many an adda in which I had the privilege to sit by him and listen to him talk about his poetry, or share the mirth of the moment. While the 'lonely Sherpa' climbed new heights, he reached out a hand to everyone to join him. For, he was untouched by the common vices that turn many a sherpa into simple plain dwellers. There will be many occasions to talk about Rahman's poetry, but tonight I can only think of the man, the gifts he brought to Bangla poetry, the strength he has been to the progressive forces of the country, and the symbol he has become of Bangaliana --for today and tomorrow. As I struggle to find words to describe the feeling of emptiness Shamsur Rahman's death has left behind, I take the help of W.H Auden whose elegy on W.B.Yeats perhaps sums up our deep feeling of regret: The provinces of his body revolted,
The squares of his mind were empty,
Silence invaded the suburbs,
The current of his feeling failed; he became his admirers.
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