The dying of the “Immortal” Book Fair

STALLS upon stalls filled with thousands of books. A festival crowd perusing the works --their fingers cracking open pages. The air full of discussion on diverse genres made the premises of Bangla Academy come alive, in a celebration of the confluence of printing agents, readers of all spheres and the ultimate connection between them — books and the silently loyal companionship of human beings. This atmosphere heralded by arrival of 400 new books -- the central attraction among thousands of existing books at the 2014 Ekushey Book Fair.
It has been over fourteen years since I was at this cultural pilgrimage of language. I was soaked in nostalgic emotion, stirred by the discovery of the differences over years, and spurred on by the urge to resuscitate possible cultural disconnect. Accompanied by hesitation, I was gradually inundated into that human flood of Amar Ekushey audiences.
Each book became a deeper demonstration of life and living in ink and paper beyond its canon. The beauty of phrases expressing the thousands of ways of life we dwell in. Each holding a fragment of time, space, context, and population, dispersed like a puzzle. As I was wandering from stall to stall and browsing book to book, the overwhelming feeling was declining; I started to resolve those puzzles, connecting dots to craft the complete portrait of my aboriginal cultural heritage. The arrival of numerous authors as well as the number of their publications was both stunning and admirable. My return after a decade-plus was imbued by acquaintance with new authors and sense of reorientation.
However, I couldn't hide the void of two powerful presences --- Humayun Ahmed and Sunil Gangopadhyay. These two authors were part of my literary upbringing. Humayun Ahmed's words attributed the laughter we crave in our hectic life. His satiric words make face the cruel truth of reality without admonishment; his words attempt to show us the unaffected everyday life full of joy and sorrow. Those were not mere novels and movies but part of our real life, where we all play a character of our own. If it was a life stage that he set up for us, as we grew up, we continued playing our part and he documented them without looking at us. The same feelings arise through the works of Sunil, but quite in a different style—from the character of “Kakababu” to “Nil Lohit” to the poetry of “Nira.”
More than anything else, my escape to explore the unknown land in early young age was highly influenced by these two writers. Nil Lohit always brewed the bohemian temptation of a carefree traveler, while Humayun Ahmed's uniquely interesting student life in the midst of snow-land, Fargo, North Dakota, fascinated me. My young mind used to relate those characters, struggled to seek a compromise between them, and left for abroad abruptly.
Without them, the book fair was unthinkable, but the number of new authors—their works begging for me to discover, was a source of comfort. Many of their words were deep. Their poems and narrations indeed attested to their inner aspiration. Yet, incompleteness was instilling inside. Suddenly, I heard the touching chorus of “Amar Bhaiyer Rokte Rangano Ekushey February” for the first time, and my reorientation became complete. It was reminiscent of those brave martyrs who sacrificed their lives to save the language. No other nation in the world had ever shed blood to protect their mother tongue. An unconscious pride was permeating as I continued walking around.
The pride didn't last long. Those lines of Abdul Gaffar Choudhury were a heartfelt outburst to remember the sacrifice and saddening moments of the language warriors. It served as a sharp reminder of true significance of this assimilation on the sacred ground nurturing and enriching Bangla. The poor presence of rich history that was looming very distantly in this homecoming ceremony was pitiful. As if it hosted all the attributes of festival upon the burial of true significance of this occasion. The fair leveraged all the etiquette of making it feel ceremonial, but lacked the true sensitivity which made it unique in the universe.
The increased number of books on the Liberation War elated me. Such writings are extremely helpful in getting to know the roots. However, similar initiatives on the history of “Ekushey” (1952) and “Bangla Academy” for future generations are in dire need. I left the fair, catching pieces of foreign music–played by the city restaurants for their customers. The irony of this was not unnoticed. In this sacred month, they can certainly consider playing Bangla music, if only to revive awareness among the new generation.
I'm not sure whether my reactions are based on my over-expectation after my long absence from this event, or the squeeze we are experiencing to preserve our cultural unity and shared sensitivity. In any case, the consequence is scary. The precious Ekushey will lose the essence very soon and there will be no voice to sing the praises of the language warriors any longer.

Rasheed Rabbi is a Washington-based Bangladeshi academic and columnist